Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 6) (15 page)

Chapter 9

T
he next morning while having coffee in our room, I found a number for Brianna LePage, Rachel’s intern assistant.

I called her number and got a voice recording but decided not to leave a message. I’d try her later. It’s always best to catch someone in person. People are not inclined to return calls unless they think it’s going to benefit them in some way.

I had no idea what kind of working relationship Brianna and Rachel had had. In fact, I was surprised that Andrew had never mentioned the intern. Maybe because he didn’t think it was important.

Showered and dressed, Carter emerged from the bathroom smelling of cheap motel soap.  “Ready to go have breakfast at the soup kitchen?”

“We’re not actually going to dine there, are we?”

“Why not? I hear they make killer waffles.”

I rolled my eyes. “Just a minute. I want to call Sammy and give him a quick update.”

The first words out of his mouth, “Sarah dear, how’s it going down there?”

“Fine. There’s not much to report at the moment. However, there is a new lead we’re working on.”

“Such as?”

I explained to him the coincidence of the three doctors dying within four months of each other, but that we had no evidence to support the deaths were related. “Today, we’re going to visit Rachel’s brother. Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s going to be much help. He has schizophrenia and probably won’t talk to us anyway.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sammy said, with remorse. “Just be careful. Don’t put yourself in a dangerous situation.”

If only he knew how many chances Carter and I took in a day, he’d probably keel over. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay? Gotta go, love.”

* * *

It was just after 9:00 by the time we got to the soup kitchen. There were a dozen tables set up, cafeteria style. The place smelled like a combination of freshly baked muffins and dirty socks.

We scanned the room, searching for a man in a green jacket. There happened to be three different guys wearing green jackets, all fitting the general description that Shefke had given us.

Then I spotted a man about Michael's age, sitting by himself, hunched over his tray of food like he was afraid someone might come along and swipe it. It also looked like his left eye area was bruised. “The guy in the army green canvas jacket. Could that be him?”

Carter nodded. “It’s gotta be him. Let’s wait until he’s done eating before we approach him.”

I continued to observe Michael from across the room while trying to act casually. From time to time, Michael appeared to be talking to himself. It was hard to get a good look at his features with all the facial hair. He probably hadn’t had a shave or a shower in weeks. Maybe longer. 

As we stood by the exit and kept an eye on Michael, a feeling of guilt bubbled up inside me. “Maybe I should start volunteering at the soup kitchen back home,” I whispered to Carter.

“Sure, that sounds nice,” Carter whispered back. “But first, let's stay focused on the reason we're here to begin with. To find Rachel’s killer and get Andrew out of jail.”

“Right.”

A few minutes later, we watched as Michael got up, left his empty tray on the table, and headed for the exit, all the while mumbling to himself. He walked right past us, never acknowledging our presence.

Once outside, he hung a left and continued down the street, head bent forward, hunched over as if he were inspecting his own feet. Then he crossed the street and entered a park, where he sat on a bench and stared off into space. After a minute or so, he got up and circled the park, occasionally peering into the various trash receptacles.

“I wonder what he’s looking for,” I said. “He can’t still be hungry.”

“Probably searching for cans or bottles. Cigarette butts.”

“When are we going to approach him?”

“You stay right here. I’ll go.”

I didn’t like this idea one bit; however, Carter seemed confident. “Go easy.”

With hands in jeans pockets, Carter casually crossed the street and slowly made his way toward the bench. Michael jumped to his feet and scurried off.

Carter didn’t even try to go after him. Instead, he turned around and gave me the big shrug.

As we headed toward a cafe on the block to get breakfast, Carter did not seem pleased with himself. “Well, all I managed to do was confirm Michael’s fears that someone is following him.”

“We can try again later,” I said. I didn’t mention anything to Carter just then, but I had my own suspicions that we were being followed. I’d seen a man in a blue windbreaker on several occasions since we’d left our motel. He was at the soup kitchen, then the park and had walked past us again right as we entered the cafe.

Standing in line at the counter, Carter ordered bagels and coffee while I kept my eye on the door. Sure enough, the man in the blue windbreaker waltzed in and snagged a table near a window.

I whipped out my phone and pretended to check my texts while snapping a few photos of the man.

Once Carter had our items, he suggested we find a table outside since the temperature was mild and sunny.

Once we got comfortable, and Carter began stuffing his face, I showed him the photo on my phone. “I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but this guy has been following us since we left our motel this morning. He’s sitting inside the cafe at the window right now.”

Carter knew better than to turn his head around and gawk at the man. He inspected the photo with interest. “Does he look familiar to you?” he asked.

“That’s the thing. I know I’ve seen him somewhere, but I can’t place him.”

“After breakfast, let’s go for a walk. We won’t go anywhere in particular, just wander the city and see what he does.”

“Sounds like a decent plan to me.”

We took our time with breakfast, but I had a hard time choking down the dry bagel. I was too excited and nervous to eat.

Ten minutes later, we disposed of our trash, left the cafe and headed west.

After two blocks, I casually looked behind me, as if trying to read street signs, but the man in the windbreaker was not in my vision. “He’s gone,” I whispered to Carter. “Maybe he figured we were on to him.”

We proceeded as planned, traversing another three city blocks. When I checked our surroundings, the man was still nowhere to be found.

“He either decided to give up,” I said. “Or he wasn’t following us to begin with.”

“I trust your instincts,” Carter said. “Let’s go back to our room and make sure no one has been inside, rifling through our stuff.”

We returned to our motel room, and the door was securely locked, just the way we’d left it. Inside, nothing seemed out of place.

I sat on the bed and examined the photo I’d taken of the man at the cafe. He had blonde hair, a strong jaw and appeared to be fit overall. Early forties. That nagging feeling you get when you know you’ve seen a face before and can’t place it, hurt my brain.

Then, finally, it clicked.

“Hey Carter, remember those printouts you made of newspaper articles in Andrew’s court case? Did we bring those with us?”

“Yeah, why?”

“The photos of Andrew and his lawyer, right after they announced the guilty verdict. I need to see those, please.”

Within a minute, he placed them in my lap. “What are you looking for?”

“That person sitting behind Andrew in the courtroom. It’s him, isn’t it?”

With pointed finger, I singled out the blonde man, sitting directly behind Andrew. It was the same guy, only he wasn’t wearing the blue windbreaker. After comparing it to the photos I’d taken with my camera, I was positive.

“Yeah, that’s him alright.” Carter gave me a congratulatory pat on the back. “Nice work. Now we just need to figure out who he is and why he’s following us.”

“Maybe Andrew’s lawyer would know. I think it’s time we have another chat with him.”

“He’s probably in court all morning.”

“Maybe,” Carter said. “Let’s just show up at his office anyway.”

Chapter 10

A
s we’d expected, Patterson was not due back in his office until after 1:00 pm. Since it was only 11:00 am, we didn’t feel like waiting around.

Patterson’s secretary assured us that she’d have her boss call as soon as he got back, in other words, please don’t bother me again.

I could tell the secretary was busy, but I figured it was worth asking the question. I showed her the photo of the blonde man in the photo, sitting in the courtroom. “Do you know who this person is, by any chance?”

She scrutinized the photo for a minute and nodded. “Yeah, you don’t?”

The fact that she’d expected me to know was interesting. “No, I’m sorry. What’s his name?”

She smiled. “Oh, that’s right. You’re not from around here. His name is Logan Taylor. He used to be a freelance investigative reporter until he got arrested, eventually sued, and lost everything. Look him up on the web and you’ll find the entire story about the scandal.”

“Wow,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

We left Patterson’s office, went back to the motel room, and spent the next hour reading all about Logan Taylor.

We were stunned.

Logan had been arrested in August of 2015 when he interrupted a meeting between two large Pharmaceutical companies, planning to merge. The deal would further monopolize the already tightly controlled industry and, therefore, raise prices of drugs to cancer patients. His actions resulted in a whirlwind of hurt, and eventually he lost everything.

“Looks like Logan got in over his head,” Carter said. “Apparently he messed with the wrong people. From the article I just read, people in the industry have commented how Logan has dropped off the face of the earth. He hasn’t written an article in months. Probably taking time off to lick his wounds.”

“The big question is, why was he in the courtroom when Andrew’s verdict came in? What interest does he have in Rachel’s murder case?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll work on getting a current address and phone number.”

While Carter went to work on his laptop, I tried once again to get in touch with Brianna Lepage. This time, a woman answered my call.

“Brianna Lepage?” I asked, hopeful.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

“Hi. My name is Sarah Woods, and I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of Rachel Manning, your former boss. Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Um, I guess so, but I already spoke to the police months ago.”

“I realize that, but I have a few more questions if you don’t mind. Are you familiar with a man named Logan Taylor?”

“Is he that investigative reporter that got in trouble?”

“Yes, that’s him. I’m wondering if Logan and Rachel knew each other.”

After a long pause, Brianna cleared her throat nervously. “Why do you ask?”

“I think he might have something to do with her death.”

Another long pause. “Well,” she finally said. “He came to Rachel’s office only one time that I know of.”

“When was that?”

“About a month before she died. I remember it was right after that other doctor died in the car accident.”

“Dr. Lenzer?”

“Yeah, him. Anyway, Logan Taylor and Rachel had a private conversation in her office. After he left, she wouldn’t tell me what it was about but I’d never seen her so upset. In fact, for weeks after, she seemed really distracted.”

“Distracted? How do you mean?”

“She just seemed paranoid, I guess. Looking over her shoulder all the time. Making sure doors were locked. Making arrangements for things that didn’t make sense.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for instance, she called a self-storage company downtown and paid for a six- month lease in advance.”

“Did you ask her why she did that?”

“She said it had to do with her brother, but she wouldn’t explain.”

“And all of this weird behavior started happening right after Logan Taylor visited her?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Did you ever tell the police about it when they questioned you?”

“No. I didn’t think it had anything to do with her murder. I mean, they already had her boyfriend in custody. They basically only wanted to know about Rachel’s relationship with him.”

I could sense by Brianna’s tone that she was beginning to feel guilty. That maybe she
had
neglected to tell the police this important tidbit.

“It’s okay,” I said. “The police are the ones who didn’t ask you the right questions. So let me ask you this; what happened to all of Rachel’s files on the research she was working on?”

“A guy named Roger Shefke came to pick them up. He’s the one planning to publish the book. He took everything. Rachel’s laptop, patient files, the research papers, and even her cell phone. Since Rachel had no family and her boyfriend was in jail, there was no one else who came to collect her things. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

I was beginning to get a sour taste in my mouth for Roger Shefke. “Okay, just one more question; after Rachel was murdered, did you ever see Logan Taylor again?”

“No. I never saw him after his meeting with Rachel.”

“Thank you, Brianna. You’ve been a big help.”

“Wait,” she said. “If Rachel’s boyfriend is in jail, why are you still looking into her death? You think her boyfriend didn’t kill her?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure he didn’t do it.”

After my discussion with Brianna, I filled Carter in on the details.

“Well,” he said. “I didn’t have much luck finding a current address for Logan. His last known address has different tenants living there since December. Maybe he’s been staying at a friend’s house.”

“What I don’t understand is why Logan Taylor met with Rachel a month before she died. Why was she so upset after their talk?”

“Maybe he was writing a new article and wanted information. It’s obvious he’s got a beef with Big Pharma, so it might have had something to do with her research. Or, maybe he wanted to send her a warning.”

“About what?” I said. “That her life was in danger because the powers that be didn’t want her research getting out and they’d just as soon kill her if she published the book?”

“Which is exactly what Barry Boyle’s wife was trying to tell us yesterday.”

“The conspiracy theory,” I said. “Just great.”

Carter came to sit next to me on the bed. “I think it’s time we start to consider the fact it might be true.”

“Then we are royally screwed. How the heck are we supposed to go up against an entity like Big Pharma?”

“One step at a time, Sarah.”

I could appreciate Carter’s optimism, but I didn’t share it. “By the way, according to Brianna, Shefke took possession of Rachel’s life work. All her research, her laptop, phone, and patient files. He has every intention of publishing that book, doesn’t he?”

“Or...” Carter rubbed his chin, perplexed. “Maybe he wants to make sure it
never
gets published.”

* * *

For our next course of action, we decided to contact Mrs. Susan Lenzer, the wife of the doctor who died in the car accident three months ago. She agreed to meet us on her lunch break at a place called Molly’s, a sandwich shop on the east side of town.

Susan Lenzer was in her early fifties and worked at a realty firm as a broker. We explained who we were, that we needed to ask questions about her late husband’s accident.

“Roland had never been in a car accident before,” she said, looking down at her hands, woefully. “He was usually a very attentive driver.”

“We read the article in the newspaper about the accident,” I said. “There weren’t many details about the circumstances. Only that your husband went off the road on Highway 84, after 9 pm. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Why?” she asked, looking up, tears in her eyes.

I had to remind myself that it had only been three months since his death, and she was still mourning. “We don’t have proof yet, but there’s a remote possibility that your husband’s death is related to Rachel’s - and even Dr. Spealman.”

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “But, Dr. Spealman had a heart attack.”

“Yes,” Carter said. “At least, that’s what it appeared to be.”

Susan Linzer wiped her eyes and regarded us warily. “You think my husband was murdered?”

“We’re exploring that possibility,” I said.

She nodded as if the news hadn’t surprised her all that much. “What do you want from me?”

“In the days or weeks preceding your husband’s accident, did he ever mention feeling like he was being followed? Had he been acting more paranoid than usual?”

She shook her head. “No, he seemed normal to me.”

“Where had he been coming from the night he died? His office?”

“Yes. Lots of late nights at the office. He’d been working on a special project and it took up all his free time.”

I searched the restaurant to make sure nobody else was focused on our conversation. “The research for the book, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “So, you know about that?”

“We know that Rachel, your husband and Dr. Spealman hired Roger Shefke to produce the book once they had finalized their research. Right now, Shefke seems to hold all the cards. We’re unsure what his intentions are. Right now, though, what other details can you tell us about your husband’s accident? Details that weren’t in the paper.”

“Well,” she took a sip of her soda and cleared her throat. “I don’t know. Let me think for a second. When I spoke to the coroner a few days after the accident, he asked if my husband abused drugs or alcohol. I said no. Roland was highly against the use of any kind of substances. He asked if he could perform a toxicology test because he had mild suspicions that my husband was under the influence of a narcotic. I didn’t believe it, but I was curious enough to have him do the test. A few weeks later, the results came in. My husband had traces of diphenhydramine in his system. The active ingredient in sleeping pills. It didn’t make sense. Roland would never take them and, even if he had, why would he take sleeping pills before driving home? At any rate, the coroner surmised that the sleeping pills probably impaired his judgement and contributed to the accident.”

“Did you ever suspect foul play?”

“No. He’d had insomnia for weeks because he was a little stressed out, so I just figured that he had a moment of weakness and took something for it. He probably figured they wouldn’t kick in until after he got home.”

“Or, someone could have drugged him,” I said. “Who was the last person your husband saw that night, before leaving his office? Any ideas?”

“His last patient that day left at five. He called me around 5:15 and said he’d be at the office late again and wasn’t sure what time he’d get home. That was the last time I spoke to him. A policeman knocked on my door around 10:30 and informed me my husband was dead.”

While Susan dabbed at her eyes, I turned to look at Carter. “Looks like our theory has some merit.”

He nodded. “Yep, I think so, too.”

As it turned out, nobody was in the mood to eat lunch. So, the three of us finished our sodas, and Carter paid the bill.

As we left the restaurant, I gave Susan Lenzer my card. If she ever wanted to talk, she was welcome to call me anytime, day or night. “If we find out anything more about your husband’s accident, we’ll let you know, okay?”

She shook our hands and headed back to work.

When Carter and I found ourselves in our motel room twenty minutes later, I wolfed down a slice of cold pizza from the night before. “We need to find out who went to see Dr. Linzer at his office before he drove home that night.”

“Maybe it was Roger Shefke.”

“Or Logan Taylor,” I said, “But whoever it was spiked his drink.”

Carter didn’t seem convinced. “Spiking his drink with sleeping pills wouldn’t guarantee that he’d be killed in a car accident. Unless the person followed him home and made sure that Dr. Linzer drove himself into a ditch with a little help.”

“There must be a way to check traffic cameras and toll booth cameras to confirm someone was following him.”

“Sure, but that’s gonna take some time. I’ll make some calls.”