Diagnosis Murder 7 - The Double LIfe (19 page)

"Who is Dr. Noble?" Susan asked.

"A pediatric surgeon," Mark said.

"Then why were you her patient?" Jesse asked.

"She was my wife," Mark said.

"Your
wife
?" Steve said.

"I have a hunch that's one of the symbolic things we need to figure out," Amanda said.

"Clearly, she represents something important, but I can't figure out what it is," Mark said. "Is it her name? Is she someone I know? Is it her medical specialty?"

"Maybe it just means you were married to the case," Susan said. "That the victims were all connected to you."

"Could be," Mark said. "But I have a hunch that if we figure out why she was in my dream, we'll find out the identity of the killer."

He described how he promptly resumed his investigation into the deaths of his patients Grover Dawson, Joyce Kling, and Hammond McNutchin, among others. He started by going over notes he'd left in his office at Community General. There was a list that included two insurance companies, a pharmaceutical company, and several odd items like dentures, a glass fish, and a pearl necklace.

"You must have a photographic memory," Steve said. "I found those same notes, and they mentioned the items you just listed."

"That's reassuring," Mark said, and continued with the rest of his story. He went home, where he'd converted the first floor of the beach house into an office that was dominated by dry-erase boards that were covered with details culled from the research conducted by Amanda and Jesse.

"I can explain what that means," Jesse said, raising his hand. "You'd like Steve to move out sometime before he turns fifty."

Susan shot him a look and Jesse swatted himself on the shoulder, saving her the trouble.

"You've got him well trained," Amanda said approvingly.

Mark talked in detail about his meetings with the epidemiologist and the cardiac specialist, as well as his encounter with Grover Dawson's daughter.

"I can vouch for your account of what you got from those doctors," Steve said. "I spoke to them and the sociologist, too. But I don't know if you really spoke to Dawson's daughter."

"I did," Mark said. "In my dream, I was reliving the real meeting I had with Mallory Dawson the day before I nearly got run over. Only in reality, of course, my wife wasn't with me. The important discovery in both my real and my fantasy lives was that Grover Dawson had lost his wedding ring." 

"Maybe he took it off before his hot date," Amanda said. 

"I don't think he had a date," Mark said. "I think either someone swapped his regular meds with Viagra or forced him to take those pills."

"Can you prove it?" Steve asked.

"It's all in their medical files. All the victims lived alone, died sudden or accidental deaths, and had their prescription drags delivered by Kemper-Carlson Pharmaceuticals," Mark said. "But the clincher is that they were all missing a personal item. Grover Dawson's wedding ring was gone. Sandy Sechrest's glass fish disappeared. Joyce Kling's pearl necklace was lost. You'll find that Leila Pevney and Chadwick Sixelid were missing things, too."

"You think the killer took those things as trophies," Amanda said.

"I'm convinced of it," Mark said. "If we backtrack through the files, using the pharmaceutical company link as our guide, I'm afraid we'll find more victims. But we'll also find the murderer."

There was silence as everyone mulled over what Mark had told them. Steve studied his father's face. Mark's brow was furrowed and he was frowning.

"Is there something else?" Steve asked.

"I'm not sure what it means, but it must be significant," Mark said, glancing at Susan. "In my dream, you were pregnant."

Susan blushed. "I can assure you that I'm not."

"There was more to it than that," Mark said. "You were hit by a drunk driver and left brain-dead. We were going to keep you alive until you could give birth."

"How awful," Susan said softly.

Jesse put his arm around his wife's shoulders. "It was only a dream."

"More like a nightmare," Susan said.

"Emily had to perform in utero surgery to save your unborn child's life," Mark said. "Your accident and your pregnancy mean something."

"I'm afraid I didn't study dream analysis in any of my college psych courses," Amanda said.

"This is more like English lit," Susan said, "Analyzing a writer's symbols and metaphors for the deeper, thematic meaning."

"Care to make some guesses?" Mark asked.

Susan bit her lower lip and thought about it. "Well, me and my unborn child could represent your patients and the almost parental way you protect and care for them. If you don't find this killer soon, another one of your patients, your surrogate children, could die."

"Maybe Emily Noble is the killer," Jesse said. "We ought to run a check on her name."

"Or maybe she represents the fact that the murderer is a mirror image of you, your evil twin of sorts. A medical professional who doesn't save lives but takes them," Amanda said. "Perhaps her name refers to our ‘noble' profession, which the murderer has warped."

"But Emily didn't kill anyone in my dream," Mark said. 

"Since when do dreams have to make sense?" Jesse said. "Why did Cap'n Crunch show up in the hot tub with the Hawaiian Tropic models?"

Everyone stared at Jesse, who shrugged.

"Hypothetically speaking, of course," he said.

"I wouldn't worry too much about what it all means, Dad. You did good work in your coma, but—" Steve stopped himself. "Now there's a sentence I never imagined myself saying."

"Go on," Mark said.

"But the thing is, you went in the wrong direction," Steve said. "We know who the killers are. We've already solved the case."

"You have?" Mark said. "Who have you arrested?" 

"Nobody yet," Steve said. "There's this little technicality we have to deal with first."

"All we have to do is prove they're guilty to the satisfaction of the district attorney," Amanda said.

"And that's going to be tricky," Steve said. "But I think I've got a way to do it."

"Tell me everything," Mark said. "Start at the beginning." 

Before Steve could say anything, Jesse stood up and spoke. "I hate to behave like the responsible doctor around here, but this is enough for one night. Mark needs his rest." 

"I've been resting for three days," Mark protested. 

"You've been unconscious and you have a hole in your read," Jesse said. "You could have died."

"Now you tell me," Steve said pointedly to Jesse.

"It's time for everyone to go home and for Mark to get some sleep," Jesse said, ignoring Steve's comment. "We can pick this up tomorrow."

Susan, Amanda, and Steve got obediently to their feet. The fact was, they were pretty tired and looked it. The last few days had been hard on them all.

"Sit down," Mark said. "You can't leave me hanging like this."

"You're lucky I extended your visiting hours this long," Jesse said. "Don't push your luck."

"Listen to Jesse, Mark," Amanda said. "I don't want you to become one of
my
patients."

"I'm the senior doctor here, and I say I'm fine," Mark said.

Susan turned to Jesse. "Would you like me to give the patient a sedative, Doctor, or put him in restraints?"

"I don't know," Jesse said, looking past her and narrowing his eyes at Mark. "Would I?"

"Okay, okay, I get the point," Mark sighed, giving in. "I'll see you all tomorrow, bright and early."

Steve leaned down and surprised Mark by kissing him on the forehead. "Good night, Dad."

Mark watched his son and his friends go. There was no way he could rest now, not while there was so much to ponder. What did Steve mean when he said Mark had gone in the wrong direction? Steve himself had gone from arguing against foul play to accepting that a killer was at work. So why was he still maintaining that Grover Dawson's death was an accident? And why was Steve talking about
killers
? How many were there?

Mark kept asking himself unanswerable questions, which for him was like counting sheep, and within a few moments he was lulled into a deep, dreamless slumber.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Steve got up at dawn, put on shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes, and headed out onto the chilly, fogged-shrouded beach for a jog.

He had the sand to himself. Anybody with any sense was still asleep in a warm bed, especially the people who lived on this stretch of Malibu, most of whom were so rich they paid people to jog for them. There didn't even seem to be as many seagulls as usual. The Malibu gulls were probably smart enough to sun themselves in the Valley until the fog cleared.

Steve couldn't blame them. He was freezing, so he rushed himself a little harder, hoping to quickly work up a sweat and warm himself against the cold.

The air was misty and the salt spray off the sea stung his eyes. Or perhaps what was irritating his eyes was the pollution, all those cancer-causing particles clinging to the wisps of fog as if they were cobwebs.

But, like most Los Angelenos, he consciously tried not to think about the air he was breathing, and so he immediately changed his train of thought.

Instead, he puzzled over the killer nurses and what it would take to nail them. He had only one option, and it meant gambling with the lives of innocent people.

He had to let the nurses come close to killing their next victim and try to catch them in the act before they succeeded.

It was a hell of a risk.

Then again, if he didn't take the risk, those same innocent people would surely be killed anyway, only without him sitting outside their door trying to guess the right moment to come storming in to the rescue.

The only way his dangerous plan could work was if he accurately predicted who the next target would be. Then it would all come down to surveillance, timing, and luck.

But he wasn't at that point yet. Tanis was watching Wendy Duren, while Amanda and Jesse were going through confidential medical records, compiling a list of potential victims in the nurses' sick game.

Steve was hoping for a short list. Even if there were only a few possible targets, he didn't have the manpower or the resources to protect them all or to follow Guyot and Duren around the clock.

He would have to go with his gut.

The prospect of relying on his instincts made him uneasy. His hunches hadn't proven to be all that dependable over the years, certainly not as often as his father's. It was his father's hunch that had brought these homicides to light.

Then again, Mark's investigation had gone astray. He identified the wrong patients as homicide victims and the pattern he'd discovered, of missing items and a shared pharmaceutical provider, were just simple coincidences.

It was Steve who'd managed to find the killers. Thanks to solid, by-the-book police work. No smoke and mirrors. No hunches. Just dogged determination, following the facts where they led.

He was keenly aware that this would be the first time he'd solved a crime on his own that his father was also investigating. Of course, Mark was operating at a slight disadvantage—he'd done most of his detective work while in a coma.

Even so, the victory was sweet. Not that it was a competition. It was simply nice for his self-esteem to best his old man once in a while.

Or even once.

Just once.

It was about seven o'clock by the time Steve, drenched in sweat, returned to the house. He was tired and yet at the same time he felt invigorated—the contradiction that was miracle of endorphins. He knew it was nature's way of insuring that humans would get off their butts. The more exertion, the more feel-good chemicals the body releases into the bloodstream. But nature didn't foresee satellite television, the Internet, and the Xbox. Mere endorphins couldn't compete.

Steve was planning on a quick shower, an even quicker breakfast, and then a meeting with Amanda, Jesse, and Tanis to go over their list. He would stop in to brief his dad, but he hoped to have the case solved before Mark was well enough to get involved again.

But he scrapped those plans when he heard footsteps upstairs. He grabbed his gun from his holster, which was draped over a chair, and cautiously crept up the stairs to the main floor. There was a chill in the entry hall, indicating to him that the front door had recently been opened.

Who the hell was in the house?

He eased carefully across the entry hall to the living room, where the dry-erase boards were laid out. Someone was sitting on the couch, his head swathed in bandages, like some kind of mummy. A folding walker was propped within reach.

"Dad?" Steve said incredulously, lowering his gun.

Mark turned his head and smiled. He was wearing a bathrobe and surgical scrubs. His skin was wan, his cheeks hollow, his eyes red.

"Good morning, Steve," Mark said jovially, but the effort showed in his expression. "How was your run?"

Steve set his gun on the end table and sat down beside his father on the couch. "How did you get here?"

"I checked myself out of the hospital and ordered a medical transport service to bring me home."

"Are you out of your mind?" Steve said.

"I'll recuperate better here with the peace and quiet and the sea air than I will at the hospital," Mark said. "Besides, I'll be under a doctor's constant care."

"You mean your own."

"You don't have faith in my medical abilities?"

"Dad," Steve said, "you've got a hole in your skull. What are you going to do, just put a cork in it?"

"I'll go back to the hospital next week when I'm stronger, and we'll seal it with a bone graft taken from my hip or from a cadaver," Mark said. "In the meantime, I will stay here and rest."

Steve gave him a skeptical look. "You're going to rest." 

"I'm going to stay right here."

"You mean like the way you stayed in the hospital?" Steve asked.

"I'm going to lie in bed, sit on this couch, or relax in a chair on the deck, taking it easy and avoiding any kind of exertion."