A Guilty Mind (10 page)

 

Chapter Nineteen

“D
AMMIT!
T
HIS DOESN'T
make sense!” Smitty smacked his desk.

“What doesn't make sense?” Cancini came up behind the younger man. In spite of the early hour, the office buzzed. Anyone not already assigned to a case had jumped into the Michael investigation. Cancini sipped coffee and leaned over Smitty's shoulder. “What's the matter?”

Smitty pointed at the computer screen. “This phone number. I don't get it.”

“Don't get what?” Cancini put the file folder he'd been perusing under his arm.

“Mrs. Michael. Remember how I told you she made three calls from her hotel room the night her husband died? And they were all to a local cell number we've been trying to trace?”

“I remember,” he said. “Did you find out whose cell it was?”

Deep lines appeared above Smitty's long, thin nose. “Yeah, and that's what's weird. That number is hers.”

“Hers?” Cancini repeated, and angled his head to see the screen. “Whose?”

“Mrs. Michael's. It doesn't make sense. Why would she call herself? And why three times? Was she leaving herself messages or what?”

“Wait.” Cancini's brow creased. “She gave us a number, didn't she, so we could reach her?”

“Different number. She has two phones in her name. The one she gave us isn't the one she called that night.”

“Maybe it's Dr. Michael's phone.”

“No. He had a different number, different ser­vice even, and we found that phone in his car. This number wasn't his.”

Cancini straightened. “Have you tried calling the number?”

“Yep, three times. No answer and there's no name on the voice mail. It's automated.”

“How long were each of those calls?”

“Hold on,” Smitty said. He shuffled through his notes. “The first call was less than ten minutes and the second about the same.” He looked up at Cancini. “Now, here's where it gets interesting. The third call was close to thirty minutes long and that was at midnight.”

“Midnight D.C. time?”

“Right.”

“How long had she had that phone number?”

“Looks like at least a year.”

The dark-­haired detective nodded and sipped from his coffee. When he spoke, the words gained momentum, an idea taking shape in his mind. “It's possible she was leaving messages for herself, but thirty minutes at that time of night seems excessive. For now, I'm going to rule that out. Just because the phone number belongs to her and she pays the bills doesn't mean she actually uses that phone.” He walked the floor behind Smitty's chair. “Let's say she's paying for someone to carry that phone so she can get in touch with them whenever she wants.”

“Someone for hire or maybe someone she didn't want her husband to know about?”

“The boyfriend idea.”

Smitty spun around to face Cancini. “It's a pretty clever scheme actually. The lady gives the phone to someone else so no one will know who she's talking to. Makes sense if you're trying to hide a lover, especially a lover who'd be happy to help a lady get rid of her husband.”

“Maybe,” Cancini said, “but remember, we're guessing. She could have given the phone to her housekeeper or a close friend. There could be another explanation.”

“Doubt it. From what I've learned, she doesn't have any close friends and the housekeeper idea doesn't seem right. Why spend half an hour on the phone with your housekeeper at midnight? Making sure the laundry gets done?” Smitty snorted. “It's fishy to me. No question about it.”

“So, boyfriend is your best guess?”

“Probably,” Smitty said with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. “There aren't any kids and the marriage seems weird.” His long fingers tapped a tune on the desk. “She's pretty hard to read.”

“You're not kidding,” Cancini said. He glanced over at the captain's office, then pulled up a chair close to his young partner. For the next several minutes, he detailed Nora Michael's surprise visit to Monty's. Cancini concluded by repeating the story of her husband's preoccupation with the patient who may have been violent. “I honestly don't know what to make of it. She seemed a little more broken up about her husband than she did the other day, but that doesn't mean shit. The whole note thing bothers me and now this, tracking me down at Monty's on the flimsy pretext that she thought I should know.” He banged his fist on the desk. “What the hell is she after?”

“She must have followed you. It's not like that dump is easy to find. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Either way, she went to a lot of trouble to find you and talk to you alone.” Cancini couldn't disagree. “So, that means one of two things. Either she doesn't want us looking too closely at her, which means she has something to hide, or she's telling the truth.”

Cancini rubbed his hand across his chin. “Or both. She could be telling me the truth because she has something to hide. A true story that pans out makes her more credible and less suspicious.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Smitty said. “So what's our next move?”

The detective's head pounded and he didn't answer right away. The next move was always the question. It kept him awake at night, lying alone between the sheets and staring at the ceiling in the darkness. A mistake, a miscalculation, could change the course of the entire investigation. He'd seen it happen. A detective, convinced he had his murderer, could be wrong, inadvertently wasting time pursuing the wrong suspect while the real killer escaped judgment. Sometimes those situations could be corrected, but other times . . . Cancini had been lucky so far. Still, the knowledge that he might be wrong, that he could fail to avenge a victim because he'd made a mistake, fed the insomnia he lived with day in and day out.

Cancini stood again and returned to his desk. “We need to go with both angles. Let's keep after the wife, see what we can find and look into the patients as much as we're allowed. Any more on Nora Michael's background check?”

“Still working on it.”

“Good. Let's get a record of all the outgoing calls from the Michael house and the doc's office for the past month. I want to know if there are any other calls to that cell phone number.”

“Okay.” Smitty took notes as they talked.

“Have we learned any more about why she wouldn't move from Boston to be with the husband she admired so much?”

“No one seems to know. Everyone assumed it was job-­related.”

“What about bank records? Have we got anyone working on that?”

“Wilder is pulling Michael's records, personal and private, to see if there's any funny business, large withdrawals, or deposits that can't be explained. There were joint accounts and separate accounts, stocks, bonds, insurance. He'll find it if anything's there.”

“Let me know what he comes up with.” The second angle, pursuing a patient, could prove stickier. Domestic situations happened all the time, but questioning patients could stretch the boundaries of privilege. He would have to be careful. “I want to find out if what Mrs. Michael said holds any water, too. She claims it's one of the patients he saw on the day he died. We'll bring the patients in, go over their alibis again, and ask a few questions about how their appointments went. There were a ­couple I wanted to talk to again anyway.” He saw the questioning look on Smitty's face. “Don't worry, I'll clear it with the D.A.'s office first.”

“And then?”

“Let's see where it takes us. We'll ask each of them if anything unusual happened. What was the doctor's manner? Did he seem himself? Supposedly a lamp was broken. Maybe someone in the waiting room heard something. We'll keep 'em here as long as we can, get as much out of 'em as possible.”

Smitty's light eyes narrowed. “Some of them might not talk without their lawyer.”

“That's okay. Let 'em have a lawyer. I'm not going to ask why they were seeing the doctor,” Cancini paused and grinned. “Unless they happen to want to tell me.”

“Yeah, right.”

Cancini rose, empty cup in his hand. “There is one more thing. I'd like to bring Sandy Watson in again.”

“I thought she was done giving her statement.”

“She was, but now I have some new questions to ask her. She didn't mention anything about an incident in the office that day. Either she didn't know about it, it didn't happen, or she deliberately left it out. I want to know which it is. Also, it's been a ­couple of days now. Maybe she's remembered something else.”

“I'll call her,” Smitty said without delay.

“And let's make sure that the patients see her here, answering questions, fully cooperating.” A smile spread across Cancini's face. “Let's see if we can make any of them a little uncomfortable, shake the tree a little. Maybe then we'll see who's who.”

 

Chapter Twenty

M
ARY
H
ELEN HAD
hung up on him. Not that he cared. George had phoned her on his way to the city, his trip hampered by the ubiquitous Washington traffic. When he'd told her he wasn't coming home for a few days, she'd screamed, hurling nasty words across the phone lines. His head still throbbed, but he didn't mind. For the first time in months—­maybe years—­he was completely sober. Mind clear, he sat up most of the night, writing letters to his children, their framed pictures in front of him on the wooden table. For much of the time, he stared into space, smoking and dreaming of the years he'd pissed away, the most important years of his kids' lives. He didn't know if they could ever forgive him, but if nothing else, they would know he loved them.

The letters were brief, barely more than notes, but they were written from his heart. He made no promises or sweeping pronouncements. He simply told them he was sorry. Careful not to predict the future, George wrote he might do and say things they wouldn't understand, but none of it was a reflection on them. The choices he'd made throughout his lifetime were his alone and he took sole responsibility. He did not mention their mother at all. As he put pen to paper, he sensed the tide turning, for better or for worse.

Sliding into bed, George's body trembled. Sharp pangs clawed at his gut and he fought the urge to go out for vodka or gin or anything to stop the shakes. Sleep, when it came, proved restless and dreamless. Awaking early, he shivered under the heavy comforter. Overhead, the ceiling fan whirred and he blinked in the morning light. Had he made a mistake? It was one thing to tell yourself you were going to change your life, it was another to follow through on that vow. Still, it felt better than all the days before when—­most of the time—­he felt nothing. In the past year, hope had only come in sessions with Dr. Michael, dissolving as soon as he was out the door, but this was new. This was hope born of his own planned actions and resolutions. The realization got him out of bed.

George felt like crap. In the early stages of withdrawal, his hands shook and his skin crawled. When the police called and suggested he come down to the station, his stomach twisted and he could barely choke down a piece of toast. He considered calling Larry but pushed the thought from his mind. He hadn't done anything wrong. That was the old George, the fearful George, the man who excelled at the art of hiding. The new George wouldn't do that. Those days were done.

At the police station, he followed a tall blond detective with such long legs he didn't walk so much as lope across the room. Left alone in a dreary room, George hid his shaking hands in his lap. Five minutes stretched into ten. He looked around the room. Three windowless walls were distinguished only by spots of peeling paint. The fourth wall contained a large panel of glass. Squinting, he guessed the glass was of the one-­way variety, used to watch interrogations. He crossed his legs and jumped at the squeak of the chair in the soundless room. Goose bumps erupted on his arms. He locked his hands together and bowed his head. His heart pitter-­pattered at a breakneck speed and he took several deep breaths.

Detective Smithson poked his head in. “Sorry about the wait. Would you like a soda?”

George licked his lips. “Yes, thank you.”

The man waved a hand. “Follow me. I'll take you to the machine.” Out of the room, voices rose and fell and phones clattered. ­People rushed by. George hesitated, frozen by the activity. The detective apologized again. “It's not always like this. The Michael investigation has everyone pretty busy.” George remained silent, not trusting himself to speak. Smithson held up a ­couple of bills. “On us today.”

“Thanks.” He bought a soda and a pack of crackers. “Will it be much longer?” he asked as they made their way back.

“Probably not,” Detective Smithson said. “Some of the questioning has taken longer than we thought. I hope you don't mind waiting.”

Looking around, George stopped again. He recognized the detective who'd escorted Sandy Watson from the office building on the morning after Dr. Michael's death. Seated at a desk on the far side of the room, he spoke to a young woman with long, dark hair. A petulant glare distorted her pretty face. The girl seemed familiar, yet he didn't know her.

“Like I told you on the phone,” Detective Smithson said, “we're talking to everyone who saw Dr. Michael the day he died. Anything you know might be important.”

“Oh. Well, I don't think I know anything, but I'll try.” George's eyes returned to the girl at the desk. He watched her jump up from the chair, sling her purse over her shoulder, and stomp away. His lips parted. He did remember her.

“Mr. Vandenberg? Are you all right?” The detective followed his gaze.

“Yeah, sorry,” George said. He tore his attention from the retreating back of the young woman. “I'm fine.” He hesitated, then asked, “That girl, the one that just left, was she one of Dr. Michael's patients, too?”

The detective shrugged. “I think so. Several of his patients are here today.” He walked on and pushed open the door to the interrogation room. “His secretary is here, too.”

“Oh.” He wobbled on his feet, disoriented as though he'd just stepped off a roller coaster and couldn't quite regain his balance. He put his right hand out and grabbed the table, catching himself before he stumbled. “Mrs. Watson?”

The man looked at him. “Yes. You know her, right?”

He fell into the chair and exhaled. “This must be terrible for her. How is she doing?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess. She's been a big help to us, too.”

The door clicked shut and George was alone again. A chill crawled up and down his spine. Nausea clawed at his belly and he chugged the soda, the bubbles temporarily vanquishing the urge to throw up. He could leave. He didn't have anything new to tell the police anyway. In spite of his wife's sly insinuation, he knew he wasn't involved. He couldn't be. He loved Dr. Michael. Even in death, the therapist loomed large in George's mind. The one person he wished for in that moment was the same reason he sat in a police station. He smiled at the irony.

“You certainly look pleased with yourself, Mr. Vandenberg.” The dark-­haired detective stood in the doorway, a thick file folder in his hand.

The smile vanished. “No, not really.” He stood and extended his right hand, wiping it on his trousers first. “Call me George.”