by Laurel Dewey
Harlan leaned forward, intrigued. “Okay. What else?”
“Maybe he was a…” The minute she said it, she wished she could take it back.
“A what?”
“An assassin.”
Harlan regarded Jane with a scowl. “Nah! This heart of mine doesn’t feel dirty. It’s pure and rehabilitated.”
“Rehabilitated? That’s an odd word to use.”
“That’s exactly the way I feel about him. Transformed. Yep, that’s it right there. Baptized into his new life. That’s who this is. There ain’t no way I’m carryin’ the heart of an assassin.”
Jane knew if she was going to get to the bottom of any of this, she and Harlan couldn’t be continually retreating to the wilderness. If she was going to help this lost soul, she had to start mixing it up with whomever might have some answers. Right now, she had one solid name and Jane was determined to check it out. They drove down the mountain road, stopping occasionally to check for wireless access. She found a pocket and stopped the car. Logging onto her computer, Jane went to a website that had never failed her when she was interested in profiling and getting background information about a witness or possible suspect. Typing in the individual’s name, she easily found her, confirmed her photo ID with Harlan and discovered that the woman would most likely be at a specific Starbucks around 2:30 that day. Checking the time, Jane factored it would take about an hour to drive to the coffee house.
With Harlan ensconced in his usual spot on the backseat and hidden away, Jane gunned the Mustang down the gravel and dirt road. Curving around a bend, she came up on a large, colorful billboard that sported a smiling sun with the words, “Sunny & Son Farms—Spud-Tastic Potatoes Since 1937.” Odd, she thought. This was such a remote stretch of road, why bother advertising with such a large billboard. Turning on the radio, she quickly found a news station and more information about the shooting of Dora Weller. The Congresswoman was shot in the attack and the shooter was still at large.
“How’d you know he missed his target?” Jane asked Harlan.
“What do you mean?” Harlan asked, peeking out from the blanket.
Jane realized he had no memory of that eerie comment. “Never mind.” She knew that since the rogue shooter was still at large, roadblocks could be set up anywhere at any time. Add one more complication to their jagged journey.
“In other news,” the radio announcer said, “authorities are still going through the rubble at the site of yesterday’s horrific bus explosion one hour south of Denver. Nobody is believed to have survived the fiery accident which is thought to have been caused by a leaking fuel line…”
Jane turned off the radio. There’s no way in hell anyone could already know what caused that explosion. A leaking fuel line? That was a tidy explanation, Jane pondered. But as inaccurate as it was, Jane knew that people would hear that, feel badly for the passengers, maybe say a little prayer for their souls and move forward. Nobody would question it or consider any other options. Critical thinking, Jane believed, was a skill that was quickly becoming superseded by random acceptance of other people’s inaccurate perceptions.
They rolled into the small strip mall and parked on the opposite side from the Starbucks. Jane rummaged through her glove compartment and brought out a pair of handcuffs. “Give me your wrist.”
Harlan held out his right arm to Jane. She clamped the cuffs on his wrist and tightly secured the other end to the gearshift.
“Hey! What the hell—?”
“Like my grandfather used to say, “Run off on me once, fuck you. Run off on me twice, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
“Damn, Jane. Your grandfather was a gangster?”
“No. He sold life insurance. But he knew where all the bodies were buried,” she said with a droll tenor.
“What happens if I gotta pee?”
She felt underneath the driver’s seat and handed him a stainless steel travel mug. “Just like those old instamatic cameras. Point and shoot.” She pulled out her fake ID from the leather satchel, cracked the window and opened the door.
“An instamatic?”
Jane leaned back into the car. “Just point and shoot, Harlan. And stay down.”
“Hey! You pickin’ up food? I’ll eat Italian. I love Italian food now.”
Donning her jacket, ball cap and sunglasses, Jane made her way across the parking lot. Walking into the crowded Starbucks, she took a stealthy look around. The problem with rooting out a person based on their photo is that they usually look vastly different face-to-face. After studying everybody in the joint, she concluded that the woman wasn’t there. It was a leap of faith, she silently agreed, but it was worth a shot. Jane was just about to leave when the fifty-four-year-old woman matching the photo walked up to the front door. She watched her carefully, knowing she had the right person because of her drab green scrubs. It didn’t hurt that she also had a nametag that verified the I.D. Jane waited until the woman got her coffee and sat down at a small table tucked in the rear of the place.
“Stella Riche?”
Stella looked up from her Frappuccino and Kindle. Her short and no-nonsense hairstyle suited her profession. “Yes,” she replied warily.
Jane pulled out the empty chair and sat down. “You and I need to talk.”
Stella leaned back, clearly uncomfortable with the intrusion. “Who are you?”
“Who am I? Well, how about I say my name is…Julie Scott?”
Stella stared at Jane. “What’s going on here? How do you know that name?”
“It’s your daughter’s name. The daughter who loves softball and plays in a pick up league? She hates polyester so her uniform has to be all cotton.”
Stella swept up her Kindle, grabbed her Frappuccino and started to stand up. “I don’t know who you—”
“Sit down, Stella,” Jane said succinctly.
She looked around the Starbucks, seemingly for assistance, but everybody was too entrenched with their phones and computers.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jane quietly said. “Please? Would you sit down?”
She lowered herself back into the chair, regarding Jane with distance. “How’d you find me?”
“I used my favorite magic website. It’s called Facebook. The name ‘Stella Riche’ is spelled just oddly enough that you stand out from the pack. You’re an ICU nurse for the small hospital right across the street.” Jane pointed to the building. “Your eighteen month anniversary working there is coming up and you hope they celebrate the occasion with chocolate cupcakes from your favorite French bakery. You don’t drive your car anymore but that’s okay, because your husband, Marty, had to take early retirement so he drives you to work and picks you up. You love standard poodles, free downloads on Kindle, computer Blackjack and, of course, attending Julie’s softball games.” Jane smiled. “Go Tigers!”
“Oh, my God…”
“And your guilty pleasure is coming to this Starbucks at 2:30 every day for a Frappuccino…with extra caramel on the whipped cream. You even had the GPS coordinates embedded in the link to this place. A deaf monkey with one leg and a brain tumor could have tracked you down.”
Stella looked at Jane in shock. “Shit…I’ve got to get off Facebook.”
“So, here’s the deal, Stella,” Jane stated, shoving her chair closer to the table. “I need you to go back in time nineteen months ago and remember a certain patient in the ICU that you helped after his heart transplant surgery.”
Jane watched as Stella’s mind drifted back in time and then, something shifted. She licked her lips nervously and regarded Jane with a grave expression. “Who in the hell are you?”
“I’m part of an investigative team looking into a specific patient’s history—”
“Give me a name.”
She asked for a name so Jane tossed one out. “Anne.”
“Anne?” she asked, full of doubt.
“Yeah. Anne.” Jane pulled out her fake ID from her ja
cket pocket and laid it on the café table. “Last name is LeRóy. Accent on the ‘o.’ Gives it a little flair.” She slid the ID off the table and back into her pocket. “So, now you have a name. As I said, I’m not going to hurt you. And I think I know why you’re scared.”
“Do you?” She was trying to be strong and brave but she was falling short.
“Well, you left that hospital about a month after his transplant surgery.”
“I got a better job.”
“Right. That little clinic masquerading as a hospital is probably paying you a third less than where you worked before and you’re so busy there that you can pen in a daily 2:30 meet and greet with a Frappuccino. So, I’ll ask you again, do you remember the patient’s name?”
She let out a sigh. “Harlan Kipple. But I only knew him for three days before he was transferred out of the ICU and taken to the cardiac rehab unit.”
“Have you been watching the news lately?”
Stella eyed her cautiously. “Yes.”
“So, you’re aware of the charges levied against Mr. Kipple?”
“Yeah,” she said with a self-conscious shrug.
“That’s it?” Jane said, mirroring the shrug. “Somebody you took care of—somebody who received a precious gift of life—is accused of such a heinous crime?”
She leaned forward, speaking quietly. “Nothing good will come of this.”
Jane also leaned forward, parroting Stella’s tenor. “This? You mean, you and I right here? Oh, I disagree. I think you’re going to tell me everything you know. And that is a very good thing.”
“Do you have a gun on me right now?”
“No, but I can arrange it if that compels you to talk.”
Stella sat back, quietly contemplating her next move. “Dr. Keener’s brakes went out on his Mercedes.”
“Dr. Keener? He was the surgeon who stepped in when Harlan’s primary surgeon was unavailable?”
She nodded. “I was the night nurse.” Her mind traveled back to that day. “There was a lot of confusion.”
“What kind of confusion?”
Dr. Keener was quite upset by the way the whole process unfolded. He was a very ‘take charge’ type of man. I heard about a conversation between Dr. Keener and other parties who were demanding he agree to do something he did not feel was right.”
“And what was that?”
Her voice was so quiet, it was almost impossible to hear. “Mr. Kipple wasn’t scheduled to have the heart transplant that night. There was another patient who apparently was supposed to get the donor heart. But Dr. Keener had misgivings about that patient.”
“What kind of misgivings?”
“I wasn’t there when the conversation took place. I heard all this second hand.”
“From who?”
“Graham. The anesthesiologist. We went to the same church.” Her lower lip trembled.
“Go on.”
“Graham said that Dr. Keener was outraged—that’s the term he used—that the patient scheduled for the transplant was not…in his expert opinion…in dire shape. Mr. Kipple was Status 1A.”
“What’s that?”
“He had less than one week to live. He was confined to the hospital on IVs and monitored constantly. When they determined he was a perfect blood and tissue match for the donor heart, they proceeded with the surgery and Mr. Kipple got the heart.” Her body shook.
“Why are you shaking?”
She scanned the crowd nervously. “Because I don’t want to get involved in this case. I don’t want to go on record with any testimony.”
“That’s not going to happen. You’re scared and it’s not because you think Harlan Kipple is going to come after you and split your head open. In fact,” Jane leaned closer, “you’re positive he’s not guilty.”
“So? What if I believe that? What does it matter?”
“It matters because bad things seem to keep happening to people, and every single one of them started after that heart went into Harlan’s chest.” Jane sat back. “How about this. Give me Graham’s information. I won’t tell him I got it from you—”
“He’s dead.” Tears filled her eyes. “He died…in a freak accident.”
Jane’s mouth went dry. “What type of freak accident?”
“He drowned in his backyard pool. Did I mention he was also an Olympic swimmer?” Her tone was biting.
“Was that before or after the brakes went out on Dr. Keener’s car?”
Sheer terror mapped her face. “After. What’s your name again?”
“Anne LeRóy. But it doesn’t really matter. You’re not going to tell your friends about this meeting because you never told your friends anything about this mess to begin with.”
Stella looked shocked at Jane’s ability to read her so well. “Why would I purposely put anyone I love in danger? First I stopped driving and then I stopped swimming. Does that answer your question? Should I stop drinking coffee now? Should I worry about what’s in this cup right here?” She stared at Jane with false bravado.
“These ‘parties’ you said were arguing with Dr. Keener? Did Graham ever mention what they looked like or who they were?”
“No. He never got any names. He just said one man had flaming red hair with some kind of red mark, like a burn, on his hand.”
Jane cocked her head. “Like a burn, eh?” She felt her gut go queasy.
“And there was another man with gray, reddish hair. He was the one that Graham said was more forceful.”
Jane factored the second guy had to be “Mr. Ramos.” She leaned forward. “Does any of this make sense to you?”
She shook her head. “No.” She took a careful look around. “Maybe somebody didn’t get what they wanted.” Stella eyed Jane cautiously.
Jane considered it. “So, they throw a psychotic temper tantrum?”
“You see? That’s what makes all of it so easy to dismiss. The crazier it sounds, the more people will ignore it. I’ve said too much already.”
“You haven’t said anything—”
“My husband isn’t well. If anything were to happen to me—
“Nothing is going to happen to you—”
She threw an uneasy smile toward Jane. “Yeah, Dr. Keener and Graham thought the same thing.” She got up, steadying herself on the table. “I’m leaving now.”
Jane quickly slid the point of her cowboy boot out, blocking Stella’s step. “Do you know who the donor was?”
Stella pursed her lips as she stared down at Jane. “No.”
It took Jane only a few seconds to see the lie. “Yes. You do know. Who was it?”
“I have to go now.” Stella strode around the café tables toward the front door.
Jane followed her out the door and onto the sidewalk. “Stella, come on!” She walked in front of her, halting her progress. “You have to tell me what you know!”
She came to a squeaking stop on her sensible track shoes. “What has this got to do with Mr. Kipple’s murder charge?”
“I don’t have a damn clue. I’m just a bottom-rung investigator. They never give me much info when they ask me to check into cases. It’s very compartmentalized. We’re like the CIA but without the dark suits and stony expressions. Stella, if I could just find out who the donor was—”
Stella quickly moved off the sidewalk and walked across to a grassy island in the middle of the parking lot. Jane followed close behind. “Are you wearing a wire?”
Jane opened her jacket and lifted her shirt. “No wire.”
Stella took another furtive look around the busy parking lot. “He was in his early thirties. Extremely vital. Dr. Keener called him ‘the most superior specimen’ he’d ever seen. There were no signs of age-related decay that you often see even with people in their thirties.”
“And how did our superior specimen die?”
“He was brought to the hospital by two men who said they found him alongside the road. He was bra
in dead but his heart was still beating. They put him on life support and you know the rest.”
“They said they found him alongside a road?”
“He was shot. Apparently, it was what Graham called a ‘miracle shot.’ The single bullet lodged in the perfect spot so that he was still able to be a heart donor.”
“A miracle shot, huh?” Jane thought for a moment. “How soon do you have to get the donor’s body to the hospital?”
“Time is always of the essence. Seconds count. The longer they bleed out, the more chances the vital organs are going to weaken and possibly not be viable. Once we get the donor on life support, we can stabilize them.”
“You have any idea how fast that donor was brought in after he was shot?”
“Graham said he heard Dr. Keener comment that the donor’s injuries were ‘horribly fresh.’”
Jane attempted to work out the scenario. Some guy in his early-thirties, who is the poster boy for fitness and health, is gunned down with one bullet that amazingly lodges in the best position that guarantees death while simultaneously protecting the ‘superior’ heart. He is then found within seconds of this tragic crime and driven at lightening speed to a hospital where his body is dropped off by these “heroes” who flee the scene. “Did you ever see any security tape of the two guys that dropped off the victim?”
“Of course, not. All of that happened down on the lobby entrance. We were up on the seventeenth floor.”
“Seventeenth? Right.”
“My break’s almost over. I’ve got to go.”
She touched Stella’s arm. “Hang on.” Jane looked her straight in the eye. “The donor had to have some ID on him. Come on…You had to hear some kind of name.”
Stella tried valiantly to appear in control, but she was losing the battle rapidly. “It was some sort of Italian sounding last name. And it had an accent mark over one of the letters. I think it was over the ‘o.’ Like ‘o-n-i’ or ‘o-n-e.’ But…” She faltered.
“But what?”
“He had another ID on him as well. I thought that was odd.”
“Do you remember that name?”
“I do. Werner Haas.”
