A Heartbeat Away (20 page)

29

Emily Greene approached the pharmacy counter and showed her badge to the clerk. “Baltimore PD. I called earlier and spoke to a pharmacist, Mr. John Bell. Is he available?”

The young woman seemed barely old enough to be out of high school. “He's expecting you. He's in the office.” She motioned Emily to follow around the end of the counter. “This way.”

She walked past several rows of shelving stocked with drugs. In a small office, she saw a man staring into a computer screen. His hair was dark and curly, falling to the top of his white coat. He was clean-shaven and wore one of those pink ribbon pins on his lapel, the kind that identified his support of breast-cancer research.

“Mr. Bell? I'm Emily Greene with Baltimore PD. We spoke on the phone.”

“Yes, yes. Thanks for coming over.” He motioned toward a chair on the opposite side of his desk. “I'll get right to the point. I'm seeing a shift in some of the prescribing patterns. I haven't checked with other pharmacies, but from what I see, the downtown free clinic is starting to prescribe a ton of narcotics.”

“What pills exactly?”

“Mostly OxyContin. Some Percocet and Tylox.”

“We've been seeing a lot of OxyContin on the street. In fact, that's why I'm looking into this. Someone has found a new source. A forty-milligram tablet can be sold for up to forty bucks a pop in the suburban high schools.”

“I get that. Now, nothing here is illegal. I just wanted you to be aware of a trend.” He held up a stack of prescriptions. “Look at these. I called the clinic on a few of them, but the story is always the same. They are seeing more and more terminal patients due to problems with the poor not being able to see home health hospice.”

She took the stack and peeled her finger across the edge. “Whoa.” She shuffled through the top ten or so and read the names of the prescribing doctors. The name on the third prescription caught her eye. Christian Mitchell.

She lifted the prescription. “This guy,” she asked. “Are you seeing a lot from the same prescribers?”

“The same five or six doctors man the free clinic, so I see a fair number of repeats. I've also seen the same trend with a few of the home health hospice programs.”

“This is for one hundred tablets. Who could possibly need that many pain pills?”

“I asked the clinic the same question.”

“And they said?”

“These are for terminally ill patients, and many of them have built up a tolerance.”

“Did you look back? Have the same patients been receiving narcotics in a slowly rising trend?”

He shook his head. “That's just it. I'm seeing more and more first-time prescriptions for this amount.”

“Can I have copies of these prescriptions? If these are terminal patients, I would expect you'd be getting prescriptions for just a month or two. I'll cross-reference this to the obituaries.”

“I'm not supposed to give out patient names. Can you get a warrant?”

“Not sure. Let's follow the trend for a little while and if it worsens, I'll sweet-talk the magistrate into giving me a warrant.”

“Okay.”

“In the meantime, maybe I can figure out a way to get into that clinic to do some snooping.” She looked back at the prescriptions and frowned.

“Something bothering you?”

“This name … I wonder if it could be the same guy I knew.”

“You bust him before?”

“Nothing like that.” She set the papers on his desk. “Just someone from a former life, that's all.”

She touched the edge of a prescription with Christian Mitchell's name and remembered.…

Thirty minutes after Officers Campbell and Moore left Tori's suburban Richmond home, they were back, this time to investigate the package she'd received in the mail.

“It's in there,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen.

She followed the duo.

Officer Campbell put on a latex glove and lifted the bag from one corner. He twisted his mouth as if tasting something sour. “You're sure this is human?”

She nodded silently.

He squinted at the package. “Could be a deer, maybe a bear. I saw a deer heart when I went hunting with my cousin.”

“It's human,” Tori said. “I should know.”

“Looks like it's been opened, maybe stabbed.”

The younger officer looked on. “We need to talk to homicide.”

Officer Campbell gestured with his head. “Open that evidence bag.” He then carefully placed the Ziploc into a second bag that he sealed for evidence.

Tori pointed to the box on the island. “It was in there.”

Campbell frowned. “Postmarked Richmond.”

“So now I guess everyone will agree. Someone is threatening me.”

“No doubt about that.”

“I need to explain something,” she said. She launched into the explanation about cellular memory and her concern that she'd received transplanted memories, clues to how her donor had died.

Officer Campbell sighed. “Why didn't you tell me this in the beginning?”

“I was afraid you'd react like everyone else. No one seems to believe this.”

“I'll get our team to evaluate the package and the contents, see if they can find fingerprints and confirm your suspicions that it's human.”

“Oh, it's human.”

“Okay,” he said, holding up his hand. “We just need to confirm.”

The younger officer shook his head. “Whoever did this wants us to know exactly what he's capable of. That's sick.”

“Are you done?” Tori backed away. “I want to get out of here. I'm staying at the Jefferson downtown if you need me. You have my cell.”

He nodded and handed her a card. “My cell number is here. Call me if you get any more threats.”

Tori escorted the officers to their patrol car. The sky was overcast, threatening rain, adding to the eerie mood and Tori's anxiety. She looked down the street, wondering if someone watched. Everything was quiet except for the chattering of leaves responding to the wind.

She locked the house and jogged to her car, nearly stumbling over a flower bed. Once inside, she pressed the door lock, checked the backseat, and slowly pulled out. She circled the neighborhood three times watching her rearview mirror. The rain started just as she saw headlights in the mirror.

She followed a crazy route through town, dashing forward through yellow lights, making U-turns, and even circling the med-school employee parking deck before handing her keys to a valet at the Jefferson. If she'd been followed, she hadn't detected it.

As she wheeled her suitcase past the front desk, a hotel employee, a young man of college age, called her name from behind the counter. “Dr. Taylor?”

She looked over.

“Good,” he said, his eyes bright. “I thought that was you.” He smiled. “You got a delivery.”

Immediately, her chest tightened.
Not here. No one knows I'm here.

He disappeared momentarily into an office behind the counter and returned a few seconds later holding a vase of red roses.

Mentally, she ran a short list of men who might send her flowers. It was a very short list.
Phin? Jarrod? Who knows I'm here?

She reached for the flowers and plucked a small envelope from a clear plastic holder. She slipped out the card. Inside there were only two words.

“You're next.”

30

Trembling, Tori looked up. “Who delivered these? What florist did they come from?”

The young hotel clerk smiled flirtatiously. “Why?” His voice had a singsong quality. “Secret admirer?”

“It's not funny. Someone is threatening me.”

An older brunette woman stepped up next to the young man. “Nice way to be threatened.”

Tori looked up at the woman. Tori estimated fifty, dyed hair, gray roots. “Did anyone ask for me? Visit my room?”

“We don't give out room numbers.”

“Did anyone ask?”

The clerks looked at each other and shook their heads. “No one.”

“I … I need to check out.”

The woman tapped the computer keyboard. “We have you in until the end of the week.”

“You don't understand. I can't stay here. Someone knows I'm here. Someone is threatening me.”

The male clerk looked at his coworker. “The cancellation policy—”

The woman interrupted. “I'm handling this, Stan.” Her voice was firm and silenced the young man.

“I'll need a minute to collect my things.”

“Certainly.”

Tori looked at the man. “Can you come with me?”

He looked at his coworker and raised his eyebrows.

The female clerk said, “Go. I'll cover the desk.”

Tori led the man to the elevator and then down the hall to her room. Once there, she let him enter first. She stood in the hall. “Anyone in there?”

“No.”

She entered and scanned the room. She emptied the closet, grabbed her toiletries and her new Bible, stuffing them into her suitcase. “Let's go.”

“You can take the shampoo,” he said. “It's from Redken, but they make it special for our patrons.”

Tori wanted to roll her eyes. “Keep it.”

She stomped back to the elevator, hiding her fear, pushing back a sudden urge to cry.
Who wants me dead?

Where do I go?

Not home.

Not here.

In the lobby, she left her bags with a bell captain, who promised to have the valet retrieve her car. Then she paced the spacious public areas, trying to spot anyone who may have been watching her. But no one seemed to care. The statue of Thomas Jefferson was marvelous, but indifferent. The pool in the Palm Court, long ago the home of live alligators, was still. She opened her cell and dialed Officer Campbell. She got his voicemail.

She spoke quietly, facing a massive marble column. “Officer Campbell, this is Tori Taylor. I've been staying at the Jefferson Hotel downtown. Someone delivered some flowers with a note saying ‘You're next.' I left the flowers at the desk. I'm scared. I'm leaving town.” She closed the phone.

She was leaning against the column when the bell captain called, “Dr. Taylor, we have your vehicle.”

She watched as the valet put her luggage in the trunk. She handed him a tip and sat behind the wheel.
Now what?

She pulled into traffic and tried to come up with a plan.

She flipped open her phone and punched in a number.

“Phin MacGrath.”

“It's Tori.”

How to begin?

She took a deep breath. “I need your help. Can you meet me in the employee parking structure?” She waited for a response. She heard papers being shuffled and a squeak of his chair. “Now?” she added.

He sighed. “What's this about?”

“I don't have time to explain. But I'm in trouble, Phin. Someone's really upset with me looking into Dakota's death.” She felt her voice thickening. “Someone's trying to kill me.”

“Okay. Try to calm down. I'll come to the deck. My Accord is on the second level.”

“I'll be there in five.”

Tori drove up the hill toward the VCU Medical Center complex, frequently checking her rearview mirror. There was so much traffic, she couldn't tell if she was being tailed. Her only comfort was that the entrance into the parking deck required an employee ID badge.

Once in the deck, she circled the second level and found an open spot a few spaces from Phin's Honda. He arrived two minutes later. She transferred her luggage and got into the backseat.

As he pulled out, she quickly slipped forward off the seat and pressed herself toward the floor.

“What's going on, Tori?”

“If you talk to me, raise your phone to your face,” she whispered. Quietly and urgently, she summarized the terrifying events from the last few days.

She listened as Phin flipped open his phone. “This is crazy. Have you talked to the police?”

“Of course. They have the heart. They advised me not to stay at home. But whoever it is was able to follow me. Trading cars in the employee deck was my idea to throw them off. Hopefully they won't recognize your car.”

He sighed. “Why me? I thought we were kind of—” He halted. “Off.”

She took a deep breath. “I didn't know who else to call.”

She felt the car turn left, accelerate, slow, and turn again. “I'm pulling into Popeyes Fried Chicken. No one followed me. Why don't you come up here?”

When the car stopped, she quickly got up and out, then back in on the front-passenger side. After smoothing her hair with her hand, she looked over and smiled. “Thanks.”

He shook his head. “You make me crazy. What have you gotten into?”

“I don't know.”

“What's your next move?”

“I need to talk to that psychiatrist. She interviewed me under hypnosis but wouldn't reveal what I said, only that she needed to process the information. I think my interview must hold the key to why someone wanted Dakota dead.”

“Have you talked to the Baltimore PD, told them about the threats?”

“I asked Officer Campbell with Richmond PD to talk to them. Hopefully they can come up with something together.”

“You talked to Gus Peterson?”

“Yep. He's looking into finding out what he can on Dakota Jones.”

“Okay, let's go back to my place to regroup.”

She looked at him. It felt better to have someone else in on her misery. “Thanks.”

“Have you eaten?”

She thought back over her day. It seemed like another life ago when she'd ventured out from the Jefferson and bought a new Bible. “Coffee this morning.”

“Hey, I know what kind of medicine regimen you must be on. You have to eat.”

“I know. Time got away from me today.”

On the way home, he stopped at a Ukrop's grocery store. She stayed in the car, relaxing for the first time in hours. She closed her eyes after he locked her in.

She awoke about fifteen minutes later when he unlocked the doors.

Phin lived in a three-story townhouse in Henrico County, north of downtown. He carried her suitcase and two bags of groceries. She carried a two-liter bottle of Coke Zero. At least he had good taste in diet drinks.

His townhouse had bamboo floors, taupe walls with white trim. They were covered with modern-art reproductions, neatly framed and spotlighted. The kitchen had cabinets with wormwood doors of green, yellow, and cranberry, a happy Caribbean-island style. Tori relaxed a notch just walking in. A reproduction of a Calder mobile hung over an oak kitchen table. There were two complete arched window-like openings through the wall between the kitchen and great room. Each contained some sort of modern sculpture accented by recessed lighting in the tops of the cutouts.

He smiled at her inspection. “I did that,” he said. “The room needed some character. Cutting those in the wall did the trick.” He pointed at a pale-green painting. In the center, outlined in a prominent blue circle, was a green-brown sphere. “This is my favorite. It's called ‘Burst' by Dalia Rubin. She's an artist from Israel. Her art is all about nature and creation.”

“It's perfect.”

He emptied his grocery bags onto a granite island. “I picked up a rotisserie chicken. Give me a minute to throw together a salad.”

She helped, washing baby spinach leaves and watching him sprinkle in Craisins, walnuts, and crumbled blue cheese.

“Not quite up to your gourmet standards,” he said.

“It looks great. Besides, my gourmet tastes are relatively newly acquired.”

He shook his head. “A lot about you seems to be newly acquired.”

She smiled.

“I want to heat this up a little,” he said, sliding the chicken in the oven. “I'm going to call Gus and see if he's found out anything.”

“Okay, I'll call Mary Jaworski.” She fished a business card out of her purse.

She reached the psychiatrist's voicemail. She didn't want to leave a message.

She listened to Phin's half of his conversation with Gus.

Phin closed his cell phone. “That's weird. He wonders if Dakota was a nickname. He can't find anything on a Dakota Jones. No driver's license, no credit history, no criminal history, nothing.”

“What's that mean?”

“He's seen it before. Either we have the wrong name, or …”

“What?”

“He thinks Dakota Jones may have been an alias.”

“What?”

“He thinks Dakota Jones was hiding her true identity.”