by Lisa Black
Only a few of the patients even glanced up as they entered.
The receptionist, a young man with his hair cut so short he may as well have shaved it, gave them a polite look but waited for them to speak. The office didn’t stand on pomposity—files sat around in haphazard heaps, at least three used coffee cups had been scattered at irregular intervals, a (hopefully clean) pint milk carton had been cut off to make a pen holder, and a small animal sat in a cage to the receptionist’s left, close enough for patients to get a look at the thing but too far for them to stick germy fingers through the wires for it to nibble on. A questionable precaution since the cage door sat open and the thing toddled out and climbed up the receptionist’s arm to curl up on his shoulder. Jack had never seen a doctor’s office with a resident pet. It looked like a cross between a rat and a squirrel to him, with short gray fur patterned with dark brown and white in spots, twitching ears, creepy pink feet, and eyes so oversized that it resembled an anime character. A tag on the cage read SUGAR GLIDER. Cute enough that the sight of it must lower a patient’s blood pressure a couple millimeters of mercury . . . but it made Jack think of hantavirus.
Riley asked if there were a Dr. Castleman working in that office. No, the guy said, only Dr. Jeffers. Or perhaps on the same floor? The guy said he didn’t recognize the name, and waited for the next question. How long had Dr. Jeffers’s office been at this location? The guy—his name badge read WAYNE—had only been working there for about a year and a half. Could they talk to Dr. Jeffers? He was with a patient. They understood that. They’d wait.
Wayne said he’d let the doc know. True to his word he stood up and grabbed a crutch from the wall at his side, tucking it under his right arm and limping away, toward a door at the back. Perhaps not only an employee, but a patient as well.
Jack quietly turned one of the chairs so that he could sit with his back against the wall, able to see the TV, the door, and the receptionist window. Riley did the same. After a series of wary glances, the other patients uniformly ignored them, no doubt wondering if these interlopers might cut in line. Few things were more cutthroat than the waiting order at a doctor’s office.
As it turned out, they were right to worry. Wayne reappeared shortly and asked the detectives to follow him. The door to the waiting room locked automatically behind them.
The examination rooms they passed didn’t seem any more luxurious than the waiting room, but floors were clean and the counters uncluttered. Dr. Sidney Jeffers turned out to be a fortyish man with already-thinning brown hair, an already-paunching midsection, a stethoscope around his neck, and a few stains on his lab coat that hadn’t quite washed out. “What can I do for you gentlemen? Is something wrong?”
Jack said, “We’re trying to locate a doctor who is supposed to be at this address. A Dr. Castleman.” He didn’t add that by address, he meant the building and not the suite.
To his surprise, Jeffers said, “Yes, but he’s not here anymore. He actually had the room across the hall, though we had a joint practice. He left—oh, I don’t know, at least two years ago.”
“But he was here?”
“Oh yeah. Phil was my partner.”
“Where is he now?” Riley sounded buoyed by this bread crumb of progress.
“Ooo, I don’t know. We haven’t spoken since—well, since he left. Not that we had a falling-out or anything. Only a difference in views.”
“Can you explain that?”
The man paused, leaning against the exam table. It formed the only seating in the room, and if he had an office, he didn’t ask them to it. He had patients to get to, after all. “We met each other in med school, ran into each other after residencies . . . we both felt it important not to become another cog in the big healthcare chains, forced to put profit over patients. I didn’t want to get sucked into that insurance payment morass. So we hung out our shingle, but, eventually, Phil needed a little bit of profit. I get it—he had a wife, kids, a mortgage. We parted ways.”
“When was that?”
“Like I said, about two years ago . . . I think.”
Riley said, “Are you aware that he’s still writing prescriptions using this address?”
The doctor’s eyebrows tilted upward. “Uh, no, I was not. He could be using old pads . . . but the thing is, I don’t think he’s even in Cleveland anymore. When he left our practice he said he’d accepted a position with Columbia in New Mexico.”
“Did you have a problem with him overprescribing meds?”
“Antibiotics. He handed those out like aspirin—hardly unusual, that’s why we’re seeing so many antibiotic-resistant strains of—”
“Do you know where he is now? Where he lives? Phone number?”
“Um . . . no.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Number, let’s see. Yes, still got him in Contacts—” He read off a series of digits, which Riley wrote down. “But that’s our area code, so he’s probably changed it by now. He used to live somewhere in Lakewood. I was only there once, for a barbecue or something.”
“He didn’t leave a forwarding?”
“Oh, honestly . . . he probably did. I think I sent his mail on for the first month or two, but I’m sure I’ve lost any address he gave me by now.” He glanced around as if the worn surroundings would bear him out. “I’m not very good at staying in touch. This place keeps me in a constant state of ‘slightly overwhelmed.’ ”
Jack asked, “Are there any professional organizations that would have his current status on record?”
Dr. Jeffers screwed up his face in contemplation. “Probably the New Mexico state licensing board.”
Jack thought of something. “Maybe the scripts aren’t coming from him. Is it possible a patient or employee might have stolen his old prescription pads?”
More thought. “Sure, I guess so. I try to keep mine in my pocket, not lying out in the open, but I don’t know how strictly Phil ran things.”
Or Phil could have found another way to pay the mortgage, Jack thought, one that didn’t require a move to New Mexico. He held out the photo of Marlon Toner. “Do you know this man?”
The doctor gave the photo his full attention. “I don’t believe so.”
“What about this one?” He showed him the mug shot of Raymond Winchester—the other “Marlon Toner.”
“Nope.”
“Do you have a patient by the name of Marlon Toner?”
“Ah, sorry. I can’t discuss patients. You know—”
“Yes, we know that. But we mention it because he’s the suspect in a murder. So if he does show up here, you might want to give us a call. For your own safety, and that of your patients.”
Jeffers appeared somber. A professional dilemma—call the cops and violate patient confidentiality, or don’t call them and risk Toner harming someone else.
But he would have to work that one out for himself, should the situation arise. The hobbling Wayne showed them out. The patients in the waiting room bothered to turn this time, most of them, so their faces could express the deep disdain they felt for those who jumped the line. Jack and Riley slunk out the door with hasty feet and didn’t even consider the elevator this time.
Descending the stairwell, Riley said, “At least we know our Dr. Castleman isn’t a complete fiction.”
“A real person, who may or may not be in New Mexico.”
“And if he is, who’s using his name?”
In the lobby Jack zipped up his coat before exiting. The snowfall hadn’t abated during their time indoors, and a half-inch already covered the windshield of their car. He didn’t see the attraction of snow, never had. He didn’t ski, and hadn’t done a lot of sledding as a child in a city where the average winter temperatures never dipped below forty. But he did appreciate the quiet, the way the snow muffled sound in the early morning hours, made the whole world feel blanketed and waiting, its voice temporarily lowered. A man could think in that quiet.
Now he said, “There’s one person who might know.”
Riley z
ipped his parka up to the nose. “Marlon Toner.”
Chapter 19
Sunday, 10: 15 a.m.
Sunday passed without progress on any front. Maggie mailed the Christmas gifts to her brother’s family from the automated machines in an empty post office lobby, and fretted. Either Rick was in another state investigating Jack’s past and didn’t answer his phone because he didn’t want anyone to talk him out of his mission—or because he had forgotten to charge it, something he often did—or he had, for some inexplicable reason, murdered Jennifer Toner and was now on the run from his former colleagues, including her.
She didn’t know which scenario worried her more.
She tried to walk off her frustration, having bundled up for the trip. The icy blast from the river swept through her parka as soon as she left the protection of her apartment building, muffler and gloves and boots in place until only her eyes were visible—and, after a block or two she wondered if she should invest in ski goggles as frostbite nipped at her eyeballs. She thought of window-shopping—the store windows of the Higbee’s and May Company used to be famous for their Christmastime displays. Those stores’ traditions were now lost to time and she didn’t think anything the casino might do would have the same joyous vibe. The city did its best to compensate, turning Public Square into a winter wonderland of lights and music, complete with an ice-skating rink.
Instead, she found herself back in front of the Justice Center, which had no music and very little joy. She could go inside to her office, try to find something useful to do, but knew there was nothing she could do, and that was the worst to bear. What the hell was Rick up to? Was he in Chicago, finding out stuff about Jack that she didn’t want to know? Did he kill Jennifer Toner in a botched attempt to frame Jack for it?
Did Jack kill Jennifer Toner in a successful attempt to frame Rick for it? That seemed even crazier—how would he get Rick’s fingerprint, unless Rick was dead, and if Rick was dead then what was the point of framing him for a murder? That made no sense at all. But if Rick wasn’t dead, where was he?
And round and round.
She didn’t push through the glass doors, knowing that she had gravitated there because she had no place else to go and to give in to that seemed too depressing to contemplate. She turned away, determined to go to the Chocolate Bar and have a hot chocolate martini instead.
But she didn’t. She just went home.
And fretted.
* * *
Shanaya Thomas went to work with dark circles under her eyes and continued to convince unsuspecting citizens that she worked for the IRS—phones never slept and no one wanted to risk arrest with the holiday looming around the corner—while her gaze constantly swept her surroundings to see if The Guy might be coming for her. Or possibly her boss.
She didn’t know which possibility scared her more.
* * *
Jack and Riley monitored the BOLOs for Marlon Toner, Philip Castleman, and Detective Richard Gardiner, but all three continued to exist only as whispers on the arctic wind. Riley spent the afternoon at his daughters’ school’s Christmas pageant, and Jack at least attended the autopsy of Jennifer Toner. It did not reveal anything particularly helpful: she had been killed by a single stab wound that penetrated the heart and nicked her aorta. The weapon was sharp and thin and round and at least eight inches long, approximately, and yes, once the pathologist reviewed the other pathologist’s notes from the previous autopsy, did seem quite similar to whatever instrument had killed Evan Harding.
One of the ME specialists taped the clothing for him. Technically Rick was now a suspect, so technically Maggie should not interact with any of the case evidence. This strict adherence to conflict of interest protocol would eventually fall apart, however, since Maggie was the only hair and fiber expert in the city. But he could cross that unstable, shuddering bridge when he got to it. Much better, anyway, that he investigate Rick for the murder of Jennifer Toner than Rick investigating him for any number of events in other cities. That part of current events had righted for him, once again.
Jack then went home and drank coffee with Greta curled on his lap. He knew she sat there more for the source of warmth than any great affection—he and his cat did not see eye to eye on proper thermostat settings—but appreciated the company all the same. He told himself he was recharging, but knew the reality: he was stuck.
Then Monday came.
Monday, 8:36 a.m.
Denny greeted her with “Any news?” He knew better than to waste time in small talk. It would neither distract nor comfort her.
“No. No one can get hold of him, no one’s seen his car, and they can’t find the victim’s brother either.”
“And he hasn’t called you?”
“Of course not!”
“Sorry,” he said, divesting himself of coat and gloves and not quite meeting her gaze. “It’s . . . I mean, he’s your ex-husband. No one would expect you to . . .”
“I wouldn’t protect him.” But she couldn’t be entirely sure of that. She had been married to him. She was sure as hell protecting Jack, and decided not to examine that fact right then. “I would help him, I mean . . . encourage him to come in and explain, but I don’t believe he needs protection, not from us. I don’t for a minute believe that he killed Jennifer Toner.”
But she couldn’t be entirely sure of that, either.
Carol entered, and Maggie caught her up with current events. The older woman drank two cups of coffee in rapid succession, such was her agitation as she expressed shock, amazement, confusion, and abject fury that Maggie hadn’t called her to share this emotional turmoil. Maggie protested that she had not been particularly turmoiled in her emotions, but knew she had and knew that Carol knew. After Maggie promised upon her lifeblood to keep Carol apprised of any and all updates to future developments in this and any other drama that affected Maggie, Carol trundled off to her DNA analysis room, still shaking her head.
Maggie texted Jack: Anything?
A text returned with reasonable promptness. No.
Time to get to work, to make sure she crossed every t and dotted every i on all the other tasks, which the taxpayers of Cleveland routinely paid her to complete. Rick would be all right. He would surface, having been deep in pursuit of Jennifer Toner’s killer, and for once he could be the hero of his own story, the toast of the department for at least a week or two. It would distract him from the pursuit of Jack’s past, thus doing her a favor as well.
In any event, there was nothing for her to do right then, provided Jack had told her the truth.
She definitely couldn’t be sure of that.
In exactly ninety minutes, Carol returned with a look on her face Maggie had never seen, and said she had something to tell her.
Monday, 9:10 a.m.
The guys in Vice hadn’t been personally acquainted with Marlon Toner, but could offer some general suggestions on where to start looking. They also suggested the homeless shelters—if he were out of doors, this bitter cold would force him to seek shelter no matter how much he wanted to avoid the authorities.
“I’m not so sure,” Riley said. He sat at his desk across from Jack’s, warming his hands on a cup of coffee. He wore a Christmas-themed tie that must have been a gift from one of his daughters because Jack could see no reason other than sentiment to hang such a bright conglomeration of elves, three-dimensional reindeer horns, and gold lamé accents around one’s neck. He kept this thought to himself.
“His sister said that he said he didn’t need money,” Riley went on. “So he may have a place to stay.”
“She also said he hadn’t showered in a couple days, so that could have been his pride talking.”
“It’s six degrees outside. I doubt he’d sleep on a grate purely to keep from having to tell his sister he was broke.”
“True, but we don’t have a lot of options. We can start at the hangouts first, try the shelters second.”
Riley massaged the dip where his nose met his skull. �
��I’m going to need more coffee.”
But then another detective walked in and told them they had a visitor. “Some little chick says she’s here about somebody named Harding. Your guy in the cemetery, right?”
Riley got up with something like enthusiasm. A visitor, after all, put off the moment when they would have to plunge into the aforementioned six degrees.
Shanaya Thomas stood in what passed for a lobby for their floor, dressed in a parka she kept zipped to her chin. “I came to get Evani’s stuff,” she said without preamble.
“Let’s find a place where we can sit down,” Riley said.
“I don’t have much time. I have to get to work.”
“I understand,” he assured her, which assured her of absolutely nothing because her getting to work on time was not their priority. Wringing more information about Evan Harding out of her, that was their priority.
They ushered her into an interview room, a much softer name than interrogation room, with only slightly softer decor. It held nothing save one simple table and three chairs. Two for them, one for her, but the disproportion didn’t appear to bother the girl.
Jack thought she had changed in the past two days. The sweet, grieving and completely innocent persona had been set aside as unhelpful; she had decided on her goals and narrowed her focus to a laser point. This didn’t make her cold or aggressive, only determined. He had to use that determination to get what he needed from her.
Problem was, he didn’t know what he needed from her. She might have no more clue who had murdered her boyfriend than Jack had.
“Have you been able to locate any relatives of Evan’s? Other friends?” Riley began.
“No.”
“Where did he live before?”
“Before when?”
“Before your current apartment.”
She considered. “He was sleeping at a Holiday Inn Express with some other guys when I met him.”
“What other guys?”
