Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) (23 page)

Twenty-Two

It was a relief when the light of Monday morning arrived, although I couldn’t cancel my 10:30 appointment with Dr. Rush, since his timeline differed vastly from April’s. But I wasn’t going to get an exam today. He was.

“My daughter Melanie couldn’t make it due to a last-minute work conflict,” I told Mrs. Rush when I arrived. “I’m so sorry. But could I ask Dr. Rush some of her most important questions?” I offered to pay out-of-pocket and was grateful when she said new-patient consultations were free.

“Your daughter can fill out paperwork when she comes in,” Mrs. Rush said kindly. She was just as nice as the first time we’d met. “You can take a seat for now.” She nodded toward the waiting area.

What a relief. I didn’t want to fill out a clipboard full of lies. I also wanted to review my notes. I sat a few chairs away from a woman who appeared in her thirties and flat-stomached. We exchanged smiles and returned to our respective tasks. She watched a video about prenatal nutrition while I ran a finger along every line of my interview plans for Dr. Rush. Hopefully I looked like an organized, prepared patient.

I also inspected degrees and awards on the wall, including a plaque that listed him among the area’s “most respected” doctors for the past ten years—with plenty of space for future honors. Also framed were two news articles about Asheleigh Manor. One named Dr. Rush’s aunt as its founder in 1980. She and a young Dr. Rush were at the ribbon cutting. Her son, Dr. Rush’s cousin, had fallen from a ladder and suffered a devastating brain injury, which inspired her to open the center. I wondered if he was still alive and living at the Manor.

The other article named Dr. Rush “volunteer of the year” for his work with patients there. Apparently he held certifications in internal medicine and obstetrics/gynecology. Impressive.

“Mrs. Jacobs?” the nurse called out, looking at each of us. The other woman got up.
Don’t hesitate when she calls Mrs. Smith
, I reminded myself.
That’s you today.

When it was my turn to get settled in a room, I happily shunned the exam table in favor of an upholstered chair. Dr. Rush entered a few minutes later.

“Hello,” he said brusquely, glancing at a thin chart and then at me. “Mrs. Smith?”

“Yes,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” He pulled up a rolling stool. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here on my daughter Melanie’s behalf,” I explained. “She’s eighteen and pregnant, and she wanted to be here, but she got stuck at work, so I’m here to get some information for her.”

“Okay. And when is she due?” His pen was poised over the chart.

“November,” I lied. “Is there a certain hospital where you recommend delivering?”

He named two where he had privileges. “I assume you’re local?”

“Yes. We’re new in town. I know there are risks to having a baby so young. Can you tell me about those?”

“Has she been getting good prenatal care?”

“Yes. Before we moved.”

“Good. You probably know teens are at higher risk for complications like anemia and premature labor. High blood pressure can be a problem too.”

“Uh huh.” That was news to me. I wondered if Kenna was aware.

“Their babies are also more likely to weigh less, so that’s another concern. Does your daughter smoke?”

“No,” I said firmly, remembering the agency forms Beth had filled out. She’d indicated clean living except for drinking a beer before knowing she was pregnant.

“How about you or anyone else she spends time with? Any smokers?”

“No.” I wondered if Beth’s parents, April, or Dr. Rush himself smoked. I definitely hadn’t smelled it on anyone.

“Good,” he stated.

He asked about drug use, drinking, diabetes, and lab work. When he started to discuss prenatal vitamins, I turned the focus to him and tried to seem legit.

“Before we run out of time,” I said, “I need to ask, when you aren’t available, who covers for you?”

He explained that although he ran a solo practice, an excellent local physician took call for him. I wrote down her name: Janet Lawrence.

“Dr. Rush, my daughter is scared and embarrassed about being young, single, and pregnant. In fact she’s still in high school. Have you worked with patients like that before?”

He stared at me for a moment. I held his gaze and waited.

“I have,” he said with what sounded like confidence. “Fear is normal at her age, or at any age for that matter. I’m sure your daughter will do fine.” He closed the chart unceremoniously. “Any other questions?”

Yes. But now wasn’t the time.

Dr. Rush said all the right things, but his emotion was flat. I hoped intelligence made up for his lack of bedside manner.

Out of curiosity—and to buy more time in his office—I asked Mrs. Rush if I could borrow her phone book. I wanted to see how many OB-GYNs were listed in the area. To my surprise, there were almost forty.

I jotted down Dr. Lawrence’s contact information, returned the phone book to the front desk, and made a follow-up appointment I hoped to cancel. Mrs. Rush was friendly the whole time, which continued to reassure me about how she’d care for Beth, but it made me feel bad about fooling her.

Back at the car, I took out my disposable cell phone and mulled an idea that was potentially horrible. I’d make a similar appointment with Dr. Lawrence. In conversation with her, I could casually mention Dr. Rush’s granddaughter and see if I got a reaction. If I got desperate, I could call the other OB-GYNs with an innocuous question and see if Beth was a patient. I thought of what I’d ask my own doctors’ offices without raising suspicion, such as “When was my last appointment?” or “Could you check some lab results for me?” But since Beth might have been in recently, I couldn’t ask that. They might respond, “Umm...you were just here yesterday” or “We delivered your baby Tuesday. Are you okay?” Although I guess that would still be helpful.

Maybe I could say, “I’d like you to check my chart for some test results I just had sent.” That might fly. The worst they could do was hang up on me. Or maybe that wasn’t the worst. Could I get arrested for impersonating a patient? This couldn’t be proper PI protocol.

First things first. I’d try to see Dr. Lawrence and pretend to be Melanie’s mom again. That couldn’t get me in trouble, could it?

I put a little pressure on Dr. Lawrence’s receptionist to see if she could squeeze me in for a fifteen-minute “meet and greet,” as she called it.

“My eighteen-year-old daughter is pregnant,” I explained, “and I’m really anxious about finding the right care for her. If Dr. Lawrence has just a few minutes to talk, that would make a huge difference.”

“Hold please.”

I obeyed.

“She can see you at 2:30.”

“That’s wonderful! Thank you.” I hung up and looked at the phone’s time display. I had one hour to prepare.

Seeing two OB-GYNs in one day could be a lot worse
, I consoled myself as I waited in Dr. Lawrence’s exam room, reviewing my notes and listening for the chart to rustle outside the door.
You’re just here to talk.

I looked to God for help and saw a poster on the ceiling above the exam table, designed to relax nervous patients (not nosy investigators), but it helped anyway. It was a picture of a cat stuck in a tree with the caption, “How did I get myself into this position?” Funny. Maybe. Unless you were there for something like crabs or herpes.

There was a “knock, knock” at the door and Dr. Lawrence burst in.

“Hi, Ms. Smith, nice to meet you!” Dr. Lawrence said. Darn. It was so much easier to lie to unfriendly people. Even her appearance was likeable. Neat, gray bob, crisp lab coat, lively green eyes and a warm smile. She was someone you’d want to greet your newborn.

I reached out to shake her hand. “Thank you so much for seeing me on short notice.”

“Oh, I didn’t even know it was short notice. You can thank my staff for that. So what brings you in today? I see you’re here about your daughter?”

“Yes. She’s a teenager, and she’s pretty intimidated by being pregnant, so I’m helping her pick a doctor. We’re new in town, and while I was talking with Dr. Rush, he mentioned you take call for each other. My daughter might be more comfortable with a female physician.”

“I understand. I’d love to meet her. So she’s feeling overwhelmed by being pregnant, huh?”

“Very.”

“That’s obviously normal.” She smiled. “How old is she? And how many weeks pregnant?”

“Eighteen. And about twenty-six weeks.”

“Ahhh. Well, if she comes in, make sure she brings all her records from her past doctor. Then we can go from there. Do you have any specific questions for me?”

“Not really. I just really wanted to get a sense of your personality, which seems great. One of my friends mentioned Dr. Rush has a pregnant young granddaughter, and I figure if he trusts you, that makes me feel better.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and I strained to interpret her expression. Surprise? Surprise that I’d mentioned this detail? I couldn’t tell.

“Good. Well Dr. Rush and I have worked together a lot over the years.”

“That’s great.” I wrinkled my nose. “You know, maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned his granddaughter. It’s kind of personal. I heard it from a mutual friend, and I assumed it was public knowledge. Maybe it isn’t?”

“Oh, I don’t think he’d mind,” she said. “It’s exciting news! So, he’s going to be a great grandpa? We must be getting old. We’ve been doing this a long time.”

“Experience is a good thing,” I said, wishing I had more of it.

Dr. Lawrence didn’t seem to know about Beth, so I wrapped up the appointment and called Kenna, who unexpectedly picked up her cell phone.

“Hey,” I said. “Can you talk?”

“Yes. I’m on a break.” She was crunching on something. That was a good sign. I hoped it was fattening. “Tell me everything.”

I disappointed her with my dearth of information and decided not to share my view of Dr. Rush’s personality yet. It was too depressing. But she was thrilled I had the guts to visit two doctors. That wasn’t like me.

“What do you make of Dr. Lawrence not knowing about Beth?” I asked. “Do you think it means anything?”

“If Beth was there, you’d think, or you’d hope, Dr. Rush would pick the best to work with her. Do you think there’s another doctor he trusts more?”

“I have no idea. I wish I knew. Maybe I could call and ask.”

“Where are you going from there?” she asked.

“Home,” I said. “I want to—”

“Oh, Nicki,” Kenna interrupted. “I almost forgot to tell you. Andy and I are meeting with the adoption agency tonight.”

“About what?” I asked, hopeful.

“They want to talk about moving on. Showing our profile to new birth mothers.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Confused. Not ready. I’ll listen to what they have to say though.”

“I hope you call me afterward. If you can, try to see what they know about Beth. I keep wondering if they’re protecting her in any way.”

“Me too. I can’t imagine they’d do that though. But don’t worry. I’ll pull out all the stops. At least it’s one thing I can do. And you know what? If anything, I’ll put pressure on
them
to find her. They probably have more information about her than anyone else.”

“That’s true. I mean, she was getting counseling there, right?”

“Definitely. For months.”

“Well, call me as soon as you can. What time is your meeting?”

“Seven.”

“Hey Kenna,” I said, “My other line is ringing.” I looked at caller ID. Oh my. It was Dean. Kenna loved that.

“I gotta do an interview anyway,” she said. “Go!”

I clicked over.

“Hi, Dean.”

“Hey, Nicki. I talked to Darrell, and he’s willing to take a look at that computer you mentioned. He’s got some free time today.”

“That’s great. I was able to get the passwords from Beth’s friend,” I said. “But he could take a look anyway if I can get the computer from her.”

“Sure. Just drop it off with Amber when you can. In fact...” He paused. “I’m looking at my schedule. I’ll be here between four and six if you want to fill me in on things. Then I’ve got a VIPA meeting.”

“Okay.” Our class had learned a lot about VIPA—the Virginia Investigative Professionals Association—and I planned to join. It was a great resource with plenty of retired police and FBI members. Its dinner meetings were known for their intriguing speakers.

“You know,” Dean said, “you’re welcome to come along. I can introduce you to a lot of veteran investigators.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. It was a good idea that made me really nervous.

“Let me think about it,” I said. Dinner together would be nerve-racking, and possibly a waste of precious time, but it also might help. First I had to meet Mom and the kids for dinner at five. “I’m pretty busy between four and six. But the VIPA meeting might work. Thanks for mentioning it.”

To get to the restaurant on time, I had to fly home from West Virginia, convince April to let me pick up her laptop, and deliver it to the PI Academy.

“This is for Darrell,” I told Amber. “Do you have a sticky note I could put on it?” She handed me one, and I jotted down a request to talk with him before he delved into the computer’s contents. I added my phone number, visited the bathroom, and bravely asked if Dean was around.

“Sure,” Amber said. “Hang on.” She picked up a multi-line phone and pressed a couple buttons. “Dean? Nicki’s here.” She said he’d be right out.

I sat on a couch in the reception area, anxiously tapping one sandal against the other. I only had a few minutes to say hi, but it was important to keep him posted.

When he came down the hall and saw me, his smile was genuine, as if we’d developed a friendship. Oddly, instead of making me uncomfortable, it was relaxing.

“Hi there,” he said. “Come on back.”

He led the way to an office I’d never seen. He took a seat behind a mahogany desk covered with stacks of paperwork and folders.

“Welcome to my world,” he said, spreading his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Sorry it’s not more presentable.”

“It’s fine,” I said, taking it all in. A matching bookcase was filled with reference books. He had a trio of framed photos on a windowsill, one with his arms slung around two men, one as a child with a beautiful woman, and the last with a group of Army buddies.

“That must be your father and brother,” I said about the first. The men looked almost identical, although Dean’s hair was the lightest and his build was the thickest.

“How can you tell?” he joked.

“And that’s your mom?”

His eyes rested on the photo. “That’s her.”

“She’s so pretty,” I said. Dean looked about ten years old in the photo, his blond hair several shades paler than hers. “What was her name?” I asked.

“Jacqueline,” he said with a French accent.

“Even her name is beautiful. Was she French?” I asked.

“Oui,” he said proudly. If Dean spoke French, I wasn’t sure I could handle it. That would just be too much. “She was fluent, so I picked up some of it.” Oh. My. Gosh.

“That’s amazing,” I said, realizing the polite conversation had to end. I had to go. “Okay, so, I dropped off the computer for Darrell, but I didn’t want to leave without checking in with you.” I glanced at the time on my cell phone. “But my mom and kids are expecting me soon.”

“Oh. Okay. Are you staying at your house?”

“I am. But not my kids. They’re still staying with my mom. We’re meeting at a local restaurant tonight so I can give them some supplies.”

“Are you sure
you
shouldn’t stay with your mom too?”

“It’s tempting,” I admitted. “But it’s a drive. I can always stay with Kenna or in a hotel if I really need to.” I told him what I had (and hadn’t) learned in West Virginia, glossing over any questionable details. We agreed there was still a chance Beth was there.

“Why don’t you come to the VIPA meeting tonight?” he asked. “There are a few FBI guys who might have some good advice. I’d be happy to pick you up.”

My heart raced and my temperature rose, flushing my cheeks and, less appealingly, my armpits.

“Okay,” I heard myself say.
What?

“How about 6:30? The meeting runs from seven to nine.”

“Sure.” I sounded more comfortable than I felt. “Do you remember where I live?”

“I do.”

Eeek.

I rushed home to gather the kids’ necessities and meet them at a Mexican restaurant—keeping an eye out for stalkers on the way. I soaked in their hugs and love and listened to every word they said. I also thanked Mom for her amazing generosity.

“Aren’t you exhausted?” I asked her. “Be honest. I know this isn’t easy.”

“Not yet,” she said. “So keep doing your thing. But don’t tell me anything I don’t need to know. Just promise you’ll be okay.”

“I’m fine,” I exaggerated. “And tonight, Dean—that teacher from the PI Academy—is taking me to a dinner for investigators. So I’ll be in good hands and hopefully make some connections.”

“Is that like a date?” she teased.

“No.” I grinned. “It’s like a meeting.”

“Hmm.” She wasn’t convinced. “Well, there’s no need for you to eat here then, unless you’re hungry.” I was. But I didn’t want bean breath. “Give the kids some more love and then go before I don’t let you out of my sight.”

I knew how to dress for the meeting: business casual. Problem was I only had casual casual. I frowned at the dress Mom had given me. It wasn’t business-y. It was soccer mom-ish. And I’d just worn it. I pulled out the black outfit I’d worn at my first meeting with Dean, which I’d actually washed and hung carefully. I added the infamous fake-pearl earrings (which had been cleansed of mulch residue) and a soft, violet cardigan in case I was cold in the air-conditioned restaurant. I freshened my breath, brushed and sprayed my hair into place, and applied makeup more carefully and liberally than usual—all the while hoping the restaurant was dimly lit.

Dean rang the doorbell promptly at 6:30. He’d changed out of his work khakis, I noticed immediately, and into black pants, a charcoal dress shirt, and a black belt with a tasteful, silver buckle. More of him was covered than usual, yet everything highlighted his physique. The dark colors also set off his blond hair and bright eyes. If we were on a date, I would have said, “You look great!” (and thought
Holy shit!
)
,
but we weren’t, so I kept quiet.

“Thanks so much for the ride,” I said. “I really appreciate it.” I grabbed my purse from the foyer, knowing that if he stepped too far inside, he’d see the pile of junk I’d dumped out of it at the last minute. I’d also added a ballpoint pen—no writing in crayon or marker tonight—and paper for taking notes. If this didn’t impress him, what would?

“It’s good to see you,” he said. “You look nice.”

I felt myself blush as I thanked him, locked the door behind me, and tested the knob. The last time a guy complimented my appearance—other than Andy, who didn’t count—was...well, a distant memory.