Did Not Survive (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

“I think I found it,” Hap said over a fitful cell phone connection. “Front end is smashed, and the paint scrapes look green, like your car. It's face-to-the-wall in the parking lot of this little strip mall by the freeway.”

I was home from the hospital, sitting on the sofa in my green sweats, mid morning on a gorgeous day. My mother was outside weeding my shrub border, a task that had never once made it onto my own to-do list.

Hap said, “And you'll never guess—”

“It's the zoo van.”

“You did guess. Damn. How'd you do that? I'll call the cops.”

“Hap,” I said. “Don't. Leave it there. Don't tell a soul. Please? We need to find this person, and I don't want to spook them.”

He said, “You didn't ask if the tiger was in there.”

“He's not.”

“Tarp's gone, too.” Traffic sounds. “Cops are actually useful for this. They can run the fingerprints. Whoever stole it might have been careless and might be on file.”

“Hap, I think it's one of us. All our fingerprints are in it, so we've got nothing to gain. We can turn it in later. Don't report it yet, Hap. I'm asking you.”

A pause. “Who was it?”

“I don't know yet.”

Silence.

“Hap, the van wasn't stolen. The
tiger
was stolen.”

“Spill, babe.”

“It's way complicated, and I haven't got it figured out yet. Give me a day or so. Please?” I considered sharing more and decided against it. The fewer people knew, the fewer could leak it.

Traffic noises and something like a leaf blower. Hap said, “Not if someone might try for you again.”

He wasn't that far behind me.

“How could they? I'm not alone for a minute. My parents are terrified my brain will bleed, and they'll find me dead on the floor.”

“Not persuasive. I'll think it over.”

“A couple of days. No, I need until next week.”

Another pause. “I don't like this. Later.” He disconnected.

I sank back on the cushions, hoping Hap would, one, not call the police, and two, forgive me for stonewalling him. I could always plead brain damage.

The aches had let up enough that I could think a little. Detective Quintana had scoffed at me for trying to connect all the zoo's current ails into one thread. Now it looked as if I was blundering toward an explanation that did just that. If I had the outline right, each disaster had triggered the next. An hour at the computer left my neck and shoulder muscles in spasms, but confirmed much of my theory.

My mother said she would depart when Pete and Cheyenne arrived after work, leaving behind the rosemary/tomato chicken stew she had simmering. I called Linda and invited her to dinner.

That was the easy call. The second was tougher. The best plan I could come up with was weak. I dialed and lucked out. Dr. Reynolds answered from her office. “This is Iris. Look, I know this is unusual, but I need to talk to you in private right away. It's about the stolen turtle that showed up in my car. You're the only one I can talk to.” I wanted privacy and a neutral territory for this conversation. “We can't do this over the phone, and I can't drive because I was in a car accident. There's a coffee shop near my house. I can meet you in an hour.” Awkward and chancy, but she finally agreed.

I needed shoes. Tying laces was impossible. I found a pair of fleece-lined leather bedroom slippers that looked like moccasins and slipped them on. I put a ten into my pocket and tidied myself up. How had the right side of my face gotten bruised? It was the left side of me that was busted. I practiced walking around a little. Now for my escape.

I stepped outside and found my mother yanking morning-glory vines off the bank fence. “Mom, I'm going for a little walk. I'll be back soon.”

She brushed graying hair back from her forehead. “Let me wash up, and I'll come with you.”

“No, you're doing good work there. I need to think. I'll be back soon.”

She called after me, “Are you sure you're up to this?”

“No problem. I need a little exercise.”

I was dragging by the time I walked the four blocks. It was farther than I remembered. I got my mocha and worked the pity angle to score a table, offering a wounded and grateful smile to the older man who vacated the spot. People sat with textbooks and laptops, mostly one per tiny round table. Dr. Reynolds stepped in a few minutes later, head high, alert. She pulled over a chair and sat down. “Coffee?” I asked. “Tea?”

“No. I have to get back. What's this about the stolen turtles.”

I was still in my sweats instead of a uniform, and she had removed her lab coat. That somehow changed the dynamic, made us closer to equals. I inhaled and was reminded about the rib. “This isn't really about turtles. I don't know who planted it in my car. This is about something else.”

“What.” She sat stiffly in the chair. Her eyes were cold.

“Dr. Reynolds, is someone blackmailing you?”

The eyes went wide. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You're trying to keep something secret, something from before you started at Finley. I think it's related to Kevin Wallace dying.”

She pushed back the chair and stood up. “That's absurd. You dragged me out here for that?” She stepped toward the door.

“Someone tried to kill me. And my baby.” I didn't raise my voice. “I don't think it was you.”

She turned and stared at me and went a little unfocused. “Neal said you were banged up. I didn't realize you'd been so badly injured.” A pause. “Is your baby okay?”

“He's fine, but it could have been bad. It was enough to break a rib and my humerus.” I remembered the name of the bone.

“Why do you think someone hit you deliberately?” Her voice was puzzled, not challenging.

“It was the stolen zoo van.”

She came back and sat down. “What you're asking me about has nothing to do with Finley Zoo or Kevin's death.”

“I need to know.” I waited.

She ducked her head and brown hair flowed forward, almost hiding her face. “One bad decision, one bad choice, and it follows you forever.” She raised her head and shook the hair away, in focus now, crisp. “Okay. I married a guy. He liked to scramble around in a four-wheeler. He took a bad fall and broke bones. The recovery was slow, and he got addicted to pain medications, started buying them off the street. I found out, and he went through a program. I thought he was done with that. Months later, I discovered he was stealing ketamine and other drugs from my veterinary clinic. He used them himself, and he sold them to others. He got caught, and I nearly lost my license.”

Not what I expected, but not too far off. I remembered something Kayla had said. “That's why the team came to do the drug inventory.”

“I'm being watched. One bad choice and it never ends.”

“Is someone blackmailing you about this?”

She gave a dark little laugh. “No. Mr. Crandall knows. That's how he got a bargain, a wildlife vet he could afford. I'm damaged goods. Neal knows because he used to ride the dunes with my ex. He recognized me, and I had to tell him. I didn't want the entire staff to know, and Mr. Crandall agreed it would undermine my authority. But I see I can't keep it quiet for much longer. The police found out right away.”

“Did Kevin Wallace know?”

“What, you think I killed him to keep my tawdry little secret?”

“I had to ask.”

“Yes, Kevin knew from the time I was hired. I had no reason to kill a man I liked. You actually thought me capable of such a thing?”

Hot blood rose in my face, and I looked away. She pushed her chair back as though we were done. But we weren't. “At first, you really wanted me to help you find out who killed Wallace, then you changed your mind and warned me off. Why?”

She hesitated. “The police don't want me to talk about it.” She thought it over. “I don't see what harm it can do now…I received a letter the same day Kevin died, after I talked to you. It was anonymous. It said something like ‘I did it for you. I'll do anything for you.'”

“Wow. That is so ugly.” I digested this for a bit. “What did the letter look like?”

“Typed on white paper. No signature.”

“Do you have it with you?”

“No.”

I didn't have the apologetic letter that Denny found with his brownie. “Was that the only one?”

“No. One more came. It said something like, ‘I'll always be here. You can count on it. I'll do anything to be with you.'”

“Yuck. So you had the security guard escort you to and from the parking lot. Do you think Ian wrote them?”

She shrugged. “The police questioned him and a man in my neighborhood with a prison record. There's no fingerprints, and they both denied it.”

No wonder Ian had become so unapproachable. He was probably afraid to be anywhere near a woman. I told her about Denny's tires and the “apology” he received. “I wish we could compare the letters. It wouldn't surprise me if the same person sent them.”

She gave me that subtle “are you nuts?” look. “Why would you think that?”

“Denny was asking about alibis for the time of the attack. Nobody has one, so Denny is no threat, but the person who attacked Wallace wouldn't know that. He or she tried to stop him by getting him stoned and fired. Someone is muddying the waters. And trying to implicate Ian.”

“Ian
was
parked outside my house all night. It seems extremely unlikely that all these incidents are connected.”

“Yeah, that's what Detective Quintana said. I'm sorry about putting you through all this. I won't tell anyone about the old drug issue or the letters.”

“We're done?”

I nodded to the extent my brace permitted.

She stood up. “I tried to call you off for your own safety.” She left without another word.

The price for this conversation was high.

It was a long walk back, and my mother was anxious. I lay down on the sofa, worn out with nothing to show for it. No, not true. I'd eliminated a complication to my main theory. Dr. Reynolds' secret was irrelevant, but the letters she'd received were not. I slept.

Cheyenne and Pete showed up soon after work, sooner than I expected them to make it home by bus. They came in grinning and full of energy, a contrast to the gray anxieties that dragged me down. They urged me and my mother to take a look at my driveway, now inhabited by an enormous cream-colored Lincoln Continental with a peeling landau top. According to Pete, Hap had wearied of chauffeuring. He acquired or discovered this ancient vehicle, dropped in a battery and a radiator, and handed it off as a loaner. We admired it at length, and my mood lightened.

Cheyenne waited until my mother was occupied at the stove, then told me that she loved the car, but was a little perturbed by Hap's instructions. “He said never go over the speed limit and always use the turn indicators. No getting stopped by the police.” She wrinkled her brow. “Would Hap give us a hot car?”

“No, no,” I said. “Well, maybe a little warm. The registration might be unclear. I wouldn't worry about it.”

She did not seem reassured.

I said, “The vacuum cleaner is in the closet in your room.”

Cheyenne said, “It's not dirty. The upholstery is spotless. It's a really classy ride.”

Pete blinked twice and said, “Uh-huh, you betcha,” and pulled out the vac. My mother found the extension cord, and he scoured out the land boat until not a seed or a leaf or a dusting of powder could possibly remain.

My mother left to feed my father, and Linda showed up. We ate with Winnie and Range sitting on alert nearby, ready to assist with any spills the instant they occurred. Congenial, tired, hungry people eating a great dinner. In my house. Despite everything, it felt good.

After dinner, Pete and Cheyenne caught up on American television in the living room. I took Linda upstairs and sat on my bed with the door closed, leaning against the headboard with pillows behind me. She lay sideways across the foot of the bed. Her hair was still bi-color, red roots and blond tips. She wore a black sweater, jeans, and heavy boots that she stuck out to keep them off the bed. Her ears looked barricaded, loops like chainmail marching up the rims. She said, “Your forehead is all wrinkly with big thoughts. What's up?”

“Linda, I think all the disasters are connected, and the link is money. Not flash anger or jealousy or careers or embarrassing secrets. Wallace, Raj, the cub, the turtles—it's all the same thing.” I was still in my trusty green sweats and slippers. My arm hurt, and I rearranged pillows.

Linda said, “Try me.”

“The common thread is traditional Asian medicine. It's a huge market. Millions and millions of dollars. That's what's behind this. An opportunity to make some bucks.”

Linda tucked her lips in and bit them. “Rajah. The van.”

“You got it. Cut and wrapped tiger parts. Bones, fat, meat…It's all used.”

She sat up. “The cub?”

“That too.”

“Was the cub's death deliberate?” Her voice had that deadly edge.

I considered. “No, stupidity, like we thought—and then someone took advantage. It wasn't that hard to sneak in and out of the quarantine room until recently. It's all about taking advantage of opportunities.”

“Somebody inside the zoo.”

“The turtle in my car pretty much proved that. Whoever took the turtle knew where I was and decided to implicate me in the theft. Insurance in case the crash wasn't enough to stop me.”

“Cold. But it fits.” Her eyes narrowed, fists bracing her on the bed. “Asian wildlife exterminated, bears tortured for their bile in tiny cages, all for quack cures, and if you're right, it lands in our laps in Washington. Why do people still take that junk?”