Why would any self-respecting mugger use a knife that could so easily be turned against him? Guns were a dime a dozen on Savannah’s rougher streets. And much more reliable if a victim decided to fight.
Also, “Too slow, bitch”?
That sounded like something from a TV show.
And yet, if Anderson was taken to the hospital then someone must have stabbed him.
But who? And why was he lying about it?
She was stuck. Anderson had his alibi. And with the hospital refusing to cooperate, there was no way to disprove it.
She needed advice. And there was one person whom she’d trust to give it.
She grabbed her phone and scrolled until she found the name she wanted.
“Tell me there’s a murder somewhere,” Miles said, by way of hello.
“Nope,” Harper said. “All of Savannah’s criminals have expired from the heat.”
“I guess it’s the unemployment line for you then,” he replied.
It wasn’t a good joke, given what was going on at the paper.
“Hey, I need some advice,” she said. “You busy?”
Fifteen minutes later, Harper pulled into the sheltered parking lot behind a bank on Congress Street.
They often met here, late at night, when things got quiet. It was shielded on all sides by a high hedge, which blocked them from prying eyes. But it was right in the middle of downtown, very handy if trouble kicked off.
Miles drove in about two minutes later, pulling up so his car was next to hers, parked toe-to-tail, so the driver-side windows faced each other.
Harper rolled her window down. Warm night air flooded in, chasing the air-conditioning to the corners.
“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for doing this.”
“I’m thrilled by the distraction,” he told her, his smile a flash of white in the shadows. “What’s happening?”
“It’s the Peyton Anderson story,” she told him.
“Ah.” He didn’t look surprised.
Talking slowly at first, but then faster, she told him where her investigation had reached. When she got to the part about Dells’s involvement, and Baxter’s warnings that she should be careful, Miles blew out a breath between pursed lips.
“Ah dammit,” he said. “This is not good.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What did Baxter mean about me getting caught in Dells’s war?”
“It sounds to me like Dells is taking on MaryAnne Charlton and the board, and he’s using your story to do it,” he said. “Peyton Anderson’s father has been on the newspaper board of directors for years, so I can almost see his logic. Almost.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
He gave a bitter smile. “You’re the one writing the story.”
“Writing the story is my job.”
“Be that as it may, a fight’s brewing and you are smack dab in the middle of it,” he said. “Charlton wants layoffs and Dells doesn’t. Your article could bring down one of Charlton’s buddies on the board of directors. Getting rid of Anderson would leave Charlton weaker, and Dells might be able to work some sort of a deal with the other board members to get what he wants.”
The pieces fell into place.
Now Harper understood why Baxter had been so angry.
“And Charlton could stop all this by getting rid of Dells. Or getting rid of me.”
“You’ve got it,” Miles said.
“Well, Charlton might as well save her energy. At the moment, I can’t break Peyton Anderson’s alibi.”
“If he was really in the hospital when Scott got herself shot?” Miles shook his head. “It’s hard to argue with that.”
“I know,” she said. “But I’ve read the report and it doesn’t jell for me. Feels off.”
“Feels off how?”
She described the stabbing. What Anderson told the police his attacker had said.
Miles made a face.
“Well, I’ll admit it sounds a little unlikely.”
“How do I prove it?” she asked. “The hospital spokesperson won’t even confirm that Savannah Memorial Hospital exists.”
He snorted a laugh.
“Yeah. Hospitals aren’t big talkers.” He thought for a second. “Have you talked to Toby? He might know someone with access.”
At the mention of the paramedic, Harper sat up straighter. “Why didn’t I think of Toby? His wife works there one day a week. She might know someone who could help.”
“There you go. Hospitals won’t talk.” He reached for his thermos of coffee. “But doctors gossip like teenagers.”
From somewhere in the distance she heard raised voices. The sound of someone honking angrily. Leaning on the horn.
It was a hot night. Tempers were rising.
“What do you think I should do about Dells?” She turned back to Miles. “I don’t want to get dragged into anything.”
“You need to mind your p’s and q’s,” he told her. “Keep Baxter involved—sounds like she wants to protect you if she can.”
All signs of humor were gone now from his long, lean face. He looked deadly serious.
“Dells is playing a dangerous game right now. If he’s not careful, he’ll run out of road. Charlton is not someone you want to mess with. My advice? Do what you would do if you were writing about anyone else. Work through that alibi. If the Anderson kid lied, write it the way you see it. Don’t worry about the games the bosses are playing. But be right.
“Or they will hang you out to dry.”
32
The next morning, Harper stood on her front steps, looking up and down East Jones Street.
The tree-lined block, with its sturdy nineteenth-century houses, was quiet. In the bright sun, oak branches sent skeletal shadows stretching out across the lane.
There was no sign of Peyton Anderson, or anyone else, for that matter. But he could be there, she knew, watching her. He could be anywhere.
After talking to Miles last night, she’d given Toby a call. He’d been working a late shift and couldn’t talk, but he’d made a promising suggestion.
“Let’s meet at the hospital tomorrow. See what we can dig up.”
She walked to the Camaro, feeling unseen eyes on her and knowing it was probably her imagination. Nevertheless, her skin felt raw from it.
The car started with a powerful, low rumble, and Harper glanced back at the tall house.
She was less worried about leaving the apartment empty than she might have been, though. Late last night, she’d heard Mia come home. As she climbed the side stairs, it became clear she wasn’t alone. In the rumble of conversation, Harper recognized Riley’s distinctive baritone. She’d never heard him leave, so he was probably still upstairs.
There’s no better security than a cop in your house.
Now, she just had to worry about herself.
She pulled out from the curb keeping her eyes on the rearview mirror.
No one pulled out behind her.
She took a long, circuitous route through the city, heading first to the dark green edges of the marshes, where there was no traffic at all, before turning back.
A Volkswagen stayed behind her for about five minutes, setting her nerves on edge until it turned off as she approached the graceful fountains at Forsyth Park.
By the time she pulled into the visitor lot at Savannah Memorial Hospital, she was convinced she wasn’t being followed.
Leaving her scanner in the car, she hurried through the midday heat to the main entrance.
The automatic double doors swung open as she approached, sending a wave of cool air with a slight antiseptic edge into the summer heat.
Following the directions Toby had given her the night before, she made her way down a wide corridor to a row of elevators marked “B,” and got on with an elderly man with a cane, who positioned himself by the floor buttons.
“Where’re you headed?” he asked, glancing at her from beneath silver eyebrows as thick as bird wings.
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“Fifth floor, please,” she said.
His hand hovered above the numbers.
“You sure? No one’s up there. It’s Saturday.” He peered at her, owlishly. “It’s dental surgery on five. They’re too rich to work on weekends. Who’re you seeing?”
Harper was thrown. He was like some sort of ancient hospital savant. She scrambled to think of a good explanation.
“I … I’m visiting a friend who works here,” she explained, after a beat.
“Oh.” He punched the button, his expression condemning. “Personal visit.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence. The old man got off on the third floor without saying good-bye, grumbling to himself as he limped out into the hallway.
On the fifth floor, she stepped out into a quiet corridor. The old man was right—it was empty. To one side was a silent waiting room, where rows of empty chairs sat in front of a darkened television.
She could hear voices from down the corridor, and the sound of doors opening and closing. But nobody was in view.
Following Toby’s directions, she turned in to the first hallway she passed and knocked on a door marked number 572.
It was flung open by Toby, in rumpled green scrubs that looked like he’d slept in them.
“Harper!” He grinned at her from beneath a disheveled thatch of blond hair. “You found us.” Stepping back, he held the door open. “Welcome to our hiding place.”
Harper stepped into a small examining room. Painted the same white as a doctor’s coat, it held little furniture—an examining bed, a small desk, and two chairs. In one of the chairs sat Toby’s wife, Dr. Elaine O’Neil.
She was tiny, her neat figure dressed in dark slacks and a turquoise sweater. A laptop was open in front of her, and an overstuffed burgundy briefcase lay at her feet.
“Hi, Harper,” she said, smiling as if they were meeting for drinks and dinner instead of illicitly sharing information on a closed floor of a hospital.
Harper had known the two of them for years—since Toby was a rookie paramedic, and Elaine was an intern in the emergency room.
“Are you sure we’re okay to be up here? I don’t want to get you guys in any trouble.”
Elaine’s shrug was serene.
“Toby sleeps up here when he pulls overnight shifts—everyone’s used to seeing us skulking around. Now have a seat, and tell us what’s going on.”
Toby had taken the chair next to his wife, so Harper perched on the edge of the examining table, her feet dangling. She felt like a patient.
“I hate to drag you into this,” she told them. “But I’m stuck. And you’re the only people I can think of who might be able to help.”
She’d given Toby the barest details the night before. Now she filled them in on Peyton Anderson.
“All my instincts tell me it was him,” she said, at the end. “But the police say he was here. What I want to know is—are they missing something? Maybe he was released earlier than they thought. Or maybe there’s something in the hospital records that could explain what happened.”
She’d expected a discussion—even an argument—about hospital rules. But to her surprise, Elaine gave a crisp nod.
“Give me a second.” She swung around to the desk and opened the laptop. As soon as the screen lit up, she began typing. “Peyton is spelled P-E-Y-T-O-N, right?”
Jumping to her feet, Harper moved closer.
“Yes,” Harper said, eagerly. “What do you see?”
“The system’s slow,” Elaine warned her, “this’ll take a second.”
Sitting backward on the chair with his elbows on the back plastic chair back, Toby glanced at Harper.
“You’re really going after Randall Anderson’s kid? His daddy’s not going to like that.”
“Yeah,” she said, dryly. “He’s already made his feelings pretty clear.”
“Here we go.” Elaine pointed at the laptop screen. “I hate to burst your bubble but hospital records back Anderson’s story. He was treated here that night.” She pointed at a code. “This says he was kept overnight for monitoring, although it doesn’t look to me like his wound was that severe. He had ten stitches, lost a bit of blood. Went home first thing in the morning.”
This was as expected.
Harper leaned over the computer. “Now what I want to know is, was he here the whole time? And is it possible his wound was self-inflicted?”
The two of them stared at her.
“You’re kidding,” Elaine said, not typing.
“You think he stabbed himself to give himself an alibi?” Toby let out a puff of air. “Man, that would be a special kind of crazy.”
“That’s what I’m wondering.” Harper looked from him to Elaine. “Is that even possible? His story about the mugging doesn’t wash with me. Would a doctor notice if he cut his own arm? Are there signs?”
Toby and Elaine exchanged a look.
“Not if the cut was clean,” Elaine said.
Seeing Harper’s blank expression, Toby explained.
“Usually if someone tries to stab himself, there are telltale signs. Hesitation wounds, we call them. Little shallow marks where they tried to cut but chickened out. If we see those, we call the psych ward.”
“But if it was a clean cut?” Harper asked.
“If it was a clean cut and he came here in an ambulance we wouldn’t even think about it,” Elaine told her. “We’d stitch him up and send him home.”
“Is it possible to cut yourself clean like that?” Harper asked.
“I’ve seen it a few times,” Toby said, “with mental illness cases. Some of them are so far gone they don’t even seem to feel the pain.”
“I don’t see how that matters,” Elaine interjected, pointing at the laptop screen. “The records say he was here all night. Even if he did cut himself, he was in this building when that girl was shot.”
“As far as we know,” Toby corrected her.
Elaine made an impatient sound.
“There are bed checks all night for inpatients. Nothing in his record says the nurses checked on him and found him gone.” She glanced at Harper. “I’m afraid your theory’s a little far-fetched.”
“Wait a minute. I still think it could be done,” Toby argued. “It wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to know the hospital well. But if he did, he could swing it.”
“Oh, come on,” Elaine wasn’t convinced. “There are too many chances to get caught. Patients are checked every two hours. That’s not enough time for him to get out, kill someone, and come back again.”
“Really?” Toby cocked his head. “I can get to downtown from here at one in the morning in about twelve minutes.”
Elaine opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it again.
“Dammit,” she muttered, turning to the computer and typing something. “Now you’ve got me thinking he could do it.”
“It would be risky.” Toby turned back to Harper. “He’d need to have a handle on the nurses’ schedule. If one thing went wrong he’d be busted.”
Her hands on the keys, Elaine glanced up at them.
“What time did the murder happen, Harper?”
“Around two in the morning.”
Elaine typed something. A grid appeared on the screen. She traced it with her finger, staring at the numbers. Muttering something to herself, she typed some more. The grid changed again.
“See?” she pointed. “There’s just…”
Her voice trailed off. She leaned forward, peering at the screen.
“What?” Harper stared at the yellow and white squares.
“Hold on.” Turning to her husband, Elaine pointed at the screen. “Tell me I’m not crazy. Do you see what I see?”
Looking where Elaine indicated, Toby gave a low whistle.
“You’re not crazy.”
“What is it?” Harper asked, crowding in next to them to see.
“It’s probably nothing,” Elaine cautioned. “It’s just—there’s a gap in the sched
ule. All the nurses take their dinner breaks between one A.M. and three A.M.”
“I don’t understand,” Harper said, looking from her to Toby. “What does that mean?”
“For those two hours, one nurse handles an entire floor,” Toby explained. “That means no bed checks. They only check on patients during that time if an alarm goes off.”
Harper took a step back as what he was saying sank in.
“You’re telling me that from one A.M. to three A.M. on the night Naomi Scott was murdered, nobody checked on Peyton Anderson?”
Elaine nodded.
“That’s what the chart shows.”
Harper turned to Toby. “That gives him plenty of time to get to River Street, kill her, and get back here without being seen.”
“He could have killed her twice in that time,” he agreed.
Harper was so excited she had to force herself to take the time to think it through.
The hospital was big, but at that hour, it would have been very quiet. Even on a busy day, she’d worried about being noticed and asked what she was doing here.
A patient walking the floors in the middle of the night would be easy to spot.
“How did he get out without being noticed?” she asked.
“That’s the million-dollar question,” Elaine said. “Security is very good here. Especially at night. There are security guards and CCTV cameras at every main entrance.”
“Yeah, but there are ways.” Toby looked over Elaine’s shoulder at Anderson’s record. “What room was he in?”
His wife tapped a square on the grid.
“Two nineteen?” He glanced at her. “Where is that? The Wilson wing?”
Elaine nodded. “They brought him up from Emergency, so that makes sense.”
For a second, he stood next to her, deep in thought. Then, he moved toward the door, motioning for them to follow.
“Come on, y’all. Let’s go take a look at that room.”
Harper jumped up to follow him, but Elaine glanced at her watch. “You two go, I’ve got to check in with work.”
Folding the laptop, she slipped it into the briefcase at her feet and got up.
At the door, she paused.
“I hope you get your guy.” She gave Harper a critical look. “You should come to dinner soon. You look hungry.”
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 25
