Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) (11 page)

“I’ll call Aaron as soon as I walk out of here.” I met Bob’s eyes and tried to match his smile, because I knew what he wasn’t saying.

If I could hit this, it’d keep Andrews off Bob’s case for good.

No pressure.

14.

Hypotheticals

A
aron didn’t answer his desk phone. Or his cell.

I left messages on both, then looked up a number for the NIH and dialed. For a day that started with oversleeping, it was shaping up. And there was the whole sexy boyfriend bonus.

I gave the receptionist my name and told her I needed to talk to someone about registration of clinical trials.

“Are you a doctor?” she asked.

No. But I didn’t want the media relations people. The communications industry is a very six degrees of Kevin Bacon world, and I wanted this trail hidden from everyone else. Especially with the unsearchable online thing making Maynard hard to research.

That whole situation was plain old creepy. Like Marty McFly’s vanishing family photo for the twenty-first century. Shudder. I jotted a note to call Chad after lunch.

“I don’t need to register a new trial. I just have some questions about the requirements.” Every word true.

And it worked. “Sure thing. Hold please.”

Next up was a woman who didn’t sound old enough to be answering anyone’s phone, let alone a government health organization’s, but her answer spiel said she worked in the clinical research division and her name was Emma.

“Good morning, Emma. I’m hoping you can clarify a few things for me.” I left my name and occupation off.

“I’ll sure give it my best shot.” Her voice was high and sweet. Seriously, was she twelve?

“I’m wondering about the requirements for registration of drug trials,” I said brightly, adding an edge of authority to my tone. “Specifically, if a private practice is running one, does it have to be registered?”

“Any trial of medicine or equipment used on human subjects must be registered within twenty-one days of the first administration of treatment. The only exceptions are phase one drug trials or studies designed to discover something other than a medical outcome.” She’d obviously quoted that line more than a few times.

I tapped my pen on my notebook. And Maynard had registered hundreds of the damned things. So where was the new one?

Curiouser, indeed. I looked over the words I’d just scribbled. “What if you’re not testing it for approval?” I asked, trying for nonchalant. I’m a lousy actress.

“Why would you test a drug on people if you’re not trying to prove it works?” The suspicious tone aged her voice considerably.

“Just hypothetically,” I said.

“We don’t get much in the way of hypotheticals, missy,” she said, and my mental picture morphed from middle schooler to feisty grandma. “Testing and approving new medications is serious business, and we treat it accordingly.”

“Of course you do,” I said hastily, wondering if Maynard was keeping secrets, or if their computers had been hacked. “As well you should. I’m just trying to make sure I understand fully. I’m pretty new to this.”

She chuckled. “I remember when I was new. It’s been a while.”

“Not from the sound of your voice.”

“You should’ve heard me when I was twenty,” she said. “My first year here, people thought there was a child playing with the phones. It was a bear getting to know everyone who calls regularly.”

I smiled. Three and a half minutes on the phone, and I liked her. Her tone warmed and I decided the feeling was mutual when she said, “Tell me what you want to know.”

“Is there ever any reason for a doctor to fail to register a trial?” I asked.

“Not in my time here. Which has covered everything from swine flu to the chickenpox vaccine. To say nothing of Viagra. Good Lord, what a year that was. They had a hundred times more applicants than any reasonable trial would hold.”

I giggled, jotting that down just because, and considered her words. Maynard had driven this block a few times. Two possibilities, then: someone had erased just his recent work from the NIH database, or he wanted to keep his secret more than he wanted to obey the law.

“Your computers haven’t been hacked recently, have they?” I asked in my best innocently-wondering voice.

I could almost hear her brow furrow. “Not that I’m aware. Why do you want to know? And who did you say you were with?”

“Just trying to learn as much as I can,” I said breezily.

“You still didn’t say who you’re with,” she said.

Damn. “Thanks so much for your help, Miss Emma. Have a lovely day.” I laid the phone in its cradle and tapped a fingernail on the handset, turning toward my computer. This internet thing was becoming a stickier wicket with every new clue.

The greatest hack in history, Chad said. Time to brush up on my information technology skills.

I read for an hour about how impossible it is to remove anything from search results. Celebrities and public figures can plead a case to have good results show up ahead of bad ones, and in other parts of the world, the government can dictate what’s there and what’s not (searching Tiananmen Square Massacre in China, for instance, returns zero results). But things don’t work that way in the land of the free. Or they’re not supposed to, anyway. Which is likely why Chad was so frustrated.

Resisting the urge to call him just yet, I pocketed my BlackBerry and strode to Parker’s office. His door was open, his chair facing the computer screen on the opposite wall. I tapped lightly, reluctant to break his concentration if he was in a groove.

He spun the chair to face me and smiled. “Morning. Glad you’re still breathing.”

I rolled my eyes. “Back at you.” I stepped inside and leaned on the wall. “Thanks again for letting me drag you along yesterday. Sorry we didn’t get to talk.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Hostages take priority.”

“So what’s up? You seem less bothered this morning.”

He grinned. “I’m not bothered at all. I—”

“You’ll never guess which Councilman voted against the school funding tax hike!” Mel barreled around the corner, her breathless tone telling me she’d sprinted from the elevators. Maybe from City Hall.

“Morning,” I said.

“Hey, Nicey.” She stopped short and smiled. “Glad you didn’t get shot last night.”

“Me too.”

“Am I interrupting?” She shot a glance from me to Parker and he shook his head.

“Just shooting the breeze. I missed you last night.” He waved to the chair across from his desk. “Come tell me about the meeting.”

She crossed to the desk and sat, and I raised my eyebrows at him. “Rain check?” I mouthed.

He nodded slightly and I turned for the door. “See y’all later.”

“Really glad you’re okay,” Mel called before she launched into the details of last night’s council blowup.

Coffee in hand, I wandered back to my desk. Too much of this was related for it to be coincidence.

I picked up a pen and clicked it in and out, staring at a silver-framed photo of Jenna’s kids. The whole freaking thing was crazy. Maynard couldn’t have found a cure for cancer. People would know. Who can keep that quiet?

I nodded. Someone would find out.

My inner Lois Lane whispered it was the wrong someone.

Wriggling my computer awake, I noticed the name of the
Telegraph’s
old editor in a Whitepages search bar. I clicked to page two of the results and there they were: Herman and Sophia Kochanski, an address in San Jose.

I wanted to know more about little Mrs. Eason and her growing collection of dead men.

Clock check: too early to call West Coast retirees and not risk pissing them off. I copied the number into my BlackBerry.

Opening a file on my laptop, I started typing out what I knew. Just so I didn’t forget anything.

Three pages of suspicions later, Aaron had texted twice to apologize for being unavailable and say thanks for the PR bump my story had given the department.

Glad to help. Need a favor. Call when you can
. I tapped back.

Will do.

Still on his good side meant he’d tell me whatever he could get away with. And Charlie had blasted him for not making an arrest, so I’d get a jump on her because she was in the doghouse.

I checked the day’s court docket (nothing that required my butt in a seat) and the other police reports (feather light. Still quiet, except for the oh-so-mysterious dead doctor), before I grabbed my bag. The hospital was open for visitors, and I needed to interview Tom Ellinger.

I made it three steps before my BlackBerry rang. DonnaJo.

“What’s up, sweetie?” I said in place of hello. “You bored with the criminals you have today?”

“I found something on the one you’re looking for, I think. Can we get coffee?”

Of course we could.

15.

Served

DonnaJo walked into Thompson’s twenty minutes later, not a blonde hair uncoiffed despite the gusting wind that said fall had arrived and winter wouldn’t be far behind.

I smoothed my mahogany waves out of my face and smiled as she stepped into line behind me at the counter. “Still bored?”

“It’s working in my favor, finally. I couldn’t shake the stuff you were asking me about the other day, so I did a little digging.”

“Where? You said y’all didn’t have a file.”

“I had dinner with my parents last night.”

Oh? I raised an eyebrow at DonnaJo as I ordered a skinny white mocha and a turkey bacon English muffin. She nodded, asking the cashier for a caramel latte and following me to the other side of the counter to wait for our drinks.

“What did you find out?”

“My dad plays golf with Mr. Eason’s attorney.”

Oooh. I liked the sound of that. I grabbed my coffee and found a table. DonnaJo followed, folding her willowy frame into the wooden ladderback chair across from mine and sipping her drink.

She put the cup on the table and leveled her I-know-something-you-don’t-know look at me. The one that made her a favorite of unsuspecting jurors everywhere. She should hold a patent, hand to God.

“Just tell me. You’re not trying to convince me, remember?” I sipped my latte, holding her gaze over the rim of the cup.

“So, I told you how much my mom hated the new wife?”

I nodded.

“Well, so did everyone else Mr. Eason ever met, from what the lawyer said. Especially his daughter.”

“He had kids?”

“Just one. And she got most of the money. Wife number two got the condo and an annuity that earns interest and provides her a modest monthly income.”

Three hundred and ninety-six society photos—with Elizabeth Eason in a different gown in each one—flashed through my head on fast-forward. She wouldn’t care for a modest monthly income. Not even a little.

I chewed a bite of bacon. “Who oversees the trust?”

“Eason’s daughter, Sarah Jane. She was a classmate of mine at Saint Catherine’s.”

“What does she do now?”

“Anything she damn well pleases if she’s got all her dad’s money. She was a housewife for the past several years anyway. She has two little ones.” The edge in DonnaJo’s voice told me she hadn’t changed her mind about her own biological clock, which she’d long wished would run out of batteries. She neither knew how to take care of nor understood children, so the reason any human would want to reproduce escaped her.

“And is there friction there? Between her and Elizabeth? Over the money?”

“I have it third hand that the wife erupted into a screaming rant that would’ve made Alexis Colby proud when the will was read. She swore he told her he’d changed it and left the bulk of everything to her, and given Sarah Jane a trust.”

“But the lawyer knew nothing about this?”

“Mr. Eason never said anything to him.”

“So if the wife found out he hadn’t changed the will…” I let the words trail off.

“Could it have made her mad enough to kill him? Maybe. But with what? What could she have done that would convince the ME he had a heart attack?”

I tapped a finger on my chin and picked up my cup, shaking my head before I took a sip of my latte.

“And that’s a stupid motive for a murder that wasn’t in the heat of the moment. Because when she’d had time to think about it, she’d have realized killing him when he hadn’t written her into his will would leave her in a tough spot. The comfortable life was what she was after all along, from what I hear.”

DonnaJo nodded. “True.”

“Did your folks seem surprised you were asking about her?”

“I didn’t really tell them why.” She grinned. “And I’m decent at manipulating a conversation. But my mother really hates her. She gets this look on her face when she has to talk about something she finds unpleasant—like she’s internalizing a scream because she just stepped in dog poop. It’s kind of funny when you know what it means.”

“And you get a look when you know something you’re not saying. It’s how you keep juries on the edge of their seats. So let’s have it.”

She dropped her head back and laughed. “My mom heard some of her friends at the club talking a few weeks back. Seems this woman had moved on to someone else who would be able to keep her in the lifestyle Mr. Eason got her accustomed to.”

I put down my cup and forgot to breathe. She was planning his funeral. But to have it confirmed? Jackpot.

“A doctor.” DonnaJo continued. “My dad sort of knows him, but not well. Daniel someone?”

“David Maynard?” I managed to force it out in a whisper instead of an excited shout.

Her neatly arched brows disappeared under her bangs. “Yeah, that’s it.” She paused, her pink lips popping into a perfect O. “Holy shit.”

I nodded. “He’s the victim Aaron and Landers are being so quiet about. I’d say it’d be nice to have a copy of his will, but I think you’re already to that point.”

“Any idea who his attorney was?” she asked.

“Nope. But this story gets more tangled every day.”

“Let me make some calls. Before I get buried in the gunman from the hospital. Notice I haven’t asked you why the hell you gave White such a glowing write-up for not arresting a clear murder suspect.”

“I did, as a matter of fact.” I winked.

“I respect you. And I get that you don’t want to share when you’ve got something in the works. But I’m going to hear that story at some point.”

I flashed a smile. “Call me if you find Maynard’s attorney?”

“Of course. I’ll keep my ears open, too. Cops talk to lawyers.”

“I really appreciate it, DonnaJo.”

“Just remember it the next time someone screws up and a criminal walks?”

“Deal.”

I turned for the door and her voice stopped me. “Hey, Nichelle?”

I spun back, my smile fading when I spotted the official-looking envelope in her hand. I’d been around the courthouse enough to know a subpoena when I saw one.

I met her eyes and she twisted her mouth to one side. “Nichelle Clarke, you’ve been served with this summons on behalf of the Commonwealth of Virginia.”

“Dammit, DonnaJo.” I eyed the paper like normal people would look at a rattlesnake. “I’m supposed to cover the news, not be the news. I can’t report on the trial if I have to testify.”

“Sorry, friend. You’re my only eyewitness. I need you in front of the jury.” She tucked the envelope into my bag. “November twelfth, nine a.m. Do not make me send the sheriff after you.”

I stuck my tongue out at her and turned back for the door.

“You mad?” she asked.

“No. You’re just doing your job. I get it.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your weekend.”

I wished her the same and tossed my bag into the passenger seat.

A subpoena.

Because I didn’t have enough to worry about.

I did a double-take when I walked through the revolving door at St. Vincent’s. T
he smiling candy stripers at the front desk had been replaced by two guys who had to moonlight as bouncers. In a rough part of town.

I smiled. “Good morning. Heading up to visit a friend.”

“Which floor?” The gruff baritone came from the one on the left. His cohort gave me a once-over and returned his attention to the door.

“Five.”

“Patient name?”

The narrowing of his eyes told me dropping Amy Ellinger’s name would get me shuttled right back out the door.

“My friend is a nurse, actually.” I kept my tone even and bright. “Alisha Royston.”

He checked a clipboard and nodded, waving me toward the elevator and wishing me a good day.

I punched the up button, wondering if this place would ever get back to normal. And how long it would take. The talking heads on the national cable channels were having a field day with yet another gunman—in a hospital, no less. Every TV station had a shrink talking about post-traumatic stress disorder and how it could affect medical staff at inopportune times. Probably a sad commentary on the world when only one victim meant it wasn’t big enough news for the networks to send reporters to Richmond, but I was glad they hadn’t. My story had been picked up by the wires, which meant notoriety for the
Telegraph
and fewer phone calls for me. They didn’t have to call me, they could just use my copy. Bonus: it also meant Andrews would stay in his office.

I stepped off the elevator on five, turning toward the nurse’s station. A dozen steps down the hall, and I could see Alisha’s golden-brown bun glinting under the fluorescents.

I stopped at the counter, scanning the hallway as I waited for her to finish making notes. Remnants of crime scene tape clung to the doorways, but the cops and forensics folks had cleared out. Probably worked all night.

“Hi there.” Alisha’s voice quavered slightly and I pasted on my brightest everything-is-going-to-be-okay smile and turned to her. She laid her clipboard on the counter and offered me a quizzical look. “Can I help you with something?”

“I was just hoping I could talk to you a little more. About yesterday. And maybe a few other things, too.” It was the oncology ward, after all. She had to know who Maynard was.

She pulled in a deep breath and managed a smile. “All’s well that ends okay, right?” She stepped behind the desk and waved for me to follow her. Closing the door to a cluttered little office a few feet away, she gestured to a chair and waited for me to sit before she took the other one.

“You had the gun last night,” she said. “You got it away from him?”

“He wasn’t going to hurt anyone. He had turned it on himself. He just doesn’t want to lose his wife.”

She nodded, her eyes shiny with tears. “He stays right by her side all day, every day. Reads to her. Talks to her. The pain meds keep her pretty out of it, but he doesn’t waver.”

“There’s no chance?”

“The federal government says I can’t answer that.”

The tear that slipped down her cheek was all the answer I needed. Damn.

“He’s desperate. Maybe even a little crazy because of it. But no one’s going to turn up a manifesto in his home or anything. This isn’t your typical I’m-going-to-kill-them-all scenario. No matter what CNN is saying.”

“I heard that on the radio this morning.” She shook her head, another tear escaping. “It’s been so hard for him to face the fact that no one can help them. The chaplain’s been in there every day for two weeks, and he says he’s never seen someone cling so stubbornly to hope.” She sniffled. “He loves her so much. Every woman wants to be loved like that. I know I sure as heck do.”

Amen, sister. “He’s convinced there’s someone who can help. Or there was, anyway.”

Her brows shot up in such a look of pure surprise, I couldn’t believe she knew anything about what Maynard might have been into.

“Maybe he is crazy. There’s no…Well. I think he’s wrong about that.”

Strike one.

“Do you know a Dr. David Maynard? I know he worked at the university hospital, but it can’t be such a big circle of people.”

“Everyone knows Dr. Maynard. He’s kind of a legend around here. But he left the hospital and went into private practice. Really private. I’m not sure I’ve heard much about him for the last couple of years.”

Huh. Now what? Truth or consequences. Maybe both. But if I wanted an answer, I had to ask the question. “Mr. Ellinger down the hall there, he met someone online who told him Maynard could cure his wife.”

Her jaw landed next to her sensible white shoe on the yellowed tile. “What?”

If she was pretending, her acting chops were going to waste. I nodded.

“That’s what he wanted to tell me yesterday. He wanted Charlie to bring a camera in here so he could go on TV and demand that Maynard come treat his wife.”

“But he can’t—no one could—that’s insane,” she stammered.

Strike two.

“I’m having trouble finding much information on Dr. Maynard’s work. Do you happen to know where he went or what he was doing after he left the university? Or maybe know anyone who does?”

She tipped her head to one side, biting her lip. “Not personally, but one of our physicians might…” She trailed off, then snapped her fingers. “Oh! You need to talk to Wesley.”

Her face brightened as she nodded. “Dr. Maynard’s research assistant—a few years ago, anyway. He was in the medical program when I was in nursing school. Brilliant guy. If anyone could help you, Wesley could.”

Jiminy Choos. “You don’t happen to have a phone number for him?”

“Sure.” She pulled out her iPhone and jotted it down for me.

This day was looking up again.

I smiled a thank you and tucked the Post-it into my pocket.

“I don’t suppose I could talk to Mr. Ellinger? I don’t want to bother him, but I have a few more questions.”

“You’re welcome to give it a shot. He hasn’t done anything but stare at his wife since last night. They have police officers outside her door, but I don’t think he even realizes they’re there.”

She led me to Amy Ellinger’s room, and I nodded at the two uniforms Aaron had parked outside the door. I recognized one of them as a patrolman who’d worked a bad accident about a month back.

“How are you this morning, Miss Clarke?” He didn’t look happy to see me.

“Doing well, Officer. Yourself?”

“Wondering why we have to babysit this looney tune instead of locking him up. Rumor is, it has something to do with you.”

Alisha pursed her lips, her flashing eyes already telling him which bridge his lack of compassion could take a flying leap from. I put up a hand and smiled my best southern belle smile. “I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

I turned from them without another word, and Alisha patted my shoulder as she turned back to the desk. “Good luck,” she whispered.

The flood of memories that smacked me in the face with the smell when I opened Amy’s door almost knocked me to the ground. The sharp bite of industrial-grade cleaners covering the sour-sweetness of illness, the air heavy and poorly circulated—I could practically hear my mom’s wispy voice. I paused to let my knees find their strength, surveying the space.

Typical ICU chamber. The bed sat opposite the door, the slip of a woman in it tethered to six different machines by various tubes and wires. The blue plaid armchair looked comfortable, but wasn’t if you actually sat in it.

Tom Ellinger half-laid in the chair, his face another day shaggier, his eyes a millimeter more sunken. He clung to his wife’s small, pale hand while she slept.

I cleared my throat.

He didn’t look up.

The scene was one I remembered so well I hated myself a tiny bit for interrupting it. I wanted to help him. But I also wanted the story. And that made my skin feel a size too tight when I tried for a smile.

“Tom? Can we talk for a few minutes?”

He just stared.

I took two steps forward. “Please? I need you to help me understand what happened yesterday.”

He blinked twice and looked around. “Yesterday?” His lips moved like they had to remember how to work.

“With the gun? You asked the police to let you talk to me?”

His eyes narrowed before a look of horrified realization broke over his thin face.

“A gun. I was going to scare them. Make him come see her. I wanted to talk to the press, but the girl from the TV station didn’t come in. Was that yesterday?” He blinked at me. “You came. You were here.”

I nodded. “You sent me messages.”

“I wanted Maynard to help her.”

I smiled. “What does ‘LCX’ stand for?”

“My lacrosse number.”

I wouldn’t have gotten that in ten million years. Somehow, that made me feel better about failing to stop this before it started.

I nodded, changing my focus to the bed. “This is Amy.” I didn’t bother with a question. “May I say hello?”

He nodded, a sad smile showing his teeth, which could stand a sandblasting. Alisha wasn’t kidding when she said he hadn’t left this bedside. “She’s so beautiful,” he said. “Isn’t she? Always so beautiful.”

I nodded, stepping closer.

“Amy, baby, this is Nichelle. The lady from the newspaper. Remember, I told you about her? She came to help us. Dr. Maynard can’t help, but we’ll find someone. I promise.” His chin trembled on the last word and a tear slipped off his lashes, following the path of hundreds of others before it.

I smiled, a swallow sticking around the lump in my own throat. “It’s so nice to meet you, Amy. I hope you’re resting comfortably.”

“She seems to be. Not as much noise today.” Tom shrank into the chair. “I don’t want her to hurt. But I don’t want her to leave me. What am I going to do?”

Go to prison, especially if he really killed that woman. I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag, writing his comment down.

“How did you get here, Tom?”

He shook his head. “We were so happy. Always. So happy. She’s been my whole life since I was nineteen. How do I just let her go? There has to be a way to fix this. I fix everything—it’s what I do. Making her happy makes me happy. Without her…” His shoulders started to shake and I laid a gentle hand on one of them as the flat unfairness of life socked me in the gut.

Isn’t this what most people are looking for? That kind of forever love I’d always thought lived only in romance novels and fairy tales? These two had managed to find it, and here the proverbial rug was being snatched from under them in the cruelest way possible.

Not. Fair.

It broke my heart.

And the fact that there was less than nothing I could do about it pissed me right the hell off. I like to help people. It’s one of the reasons I almost get myself killed poking around sticky stories on a pretty regular basis.

So how could I help these folks?

By finding the truth. Twelve hours of over-analyzing every word of my last conversation with Tom had left me with a list of questions—most of them about David Maynard.

I tapped the pen on my notebook. “Tom, can you tell me a little about Dr. Maynard? You said last night you found his name in an online forum. Do you remember the address? Or even the name?”

He shook his head, his eyes still on the floor. “I searched. I searched and searched so many different things. Something clicked and there was this chatroom. They didn’t say things outright, but there was this undercurrent of something. Like a code.”

I scribbled. “You don’t remember anything about how you found it?”

He scrubbed at his eyes with both fists. “Survivors. They were all survivors, and one post was from a woman who’d had the same thing Amy does, and she got better. I sent her a private message.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“I didn’t get it. Just her handle. DaisyMae.”

I jotted that down. Needle, meet ginormous global information haystack.

“And she told you to call Maynard? Eventually?”

“It took a while, but yeah.”