Fatal Reaction (13 page)

CHAPTER 32

A banner, tied between two pillars on the grand porch of Emily and Derrick’s five-thousand-square-foot house, welcomed Emily home. A line of high-end cars—Porsches, BMWs, and Mercedes—stretched halfway down the block, heralding a crowd inside.

“You shouldn’t have done all of this.” Emily reached for the door handle, and Derrick stopped her.

“All of what? It’s only family and a couple of close friends. They wanted to come to the hospital, but I asked them to help us keep this private. They’ll only stay long enough to check on you, and then they’ll leave. I promise.”

Emily pulled down the visor and checked her drawn reflection in the mirror. Dark circles surrounded her eyes, and she hated how visible her freckles were without concealer. She hadn’t taken a shower in days, and her frizzy, greasy hair stuck out of the elastic holding it back. “I just wish I knew to expect company is all.” But it wasn’t
all
. The news of Stephanie Martin’s failed transplant weighed heavily, despite Dr. Carmichael’s vague reassurances. “This was your father’s idea, wasn’t it?”

Derrick sighed. “He’s excited.”

“Does he know what happened to the other patient?”

“I told him, but we both think it best we don’t tell Mom. It’s all going to be fine.” Derrick smiled and went around the passenger’s side to help Emily out.

A flood of cold hit her as soon as the door was open, and she shivered, sparking new pain in her incision. She let out a groan and gently crossed her arms over her stomach.

“Easy does it.”

“It’s freezing out here.” Emily swung her legs one at a time over the doorsill, and pulled her coat closed.

Derrick squatted in front of her and wrapped her arm around his neck.

“On the count of three. One, two . . .”

“Three.” Emily braced herself for the pain that came when Derrick eased her onto her feet. She stood, frozen for a minute, and waited for the knifing pain to pass. She shuffled clear of the car door, which Derrick closed behind her.

The front door opened, and Mayor Bill Warren, Emily’s father-in-law, greeted them, wearing a tentative grin and holding a glass of Merlot. “Anything I can do to help?” He wore a navy blue suit with a white dress shirt and an understated tie. He was an older version of Derrick, lean and bookish, but he wore contacts instead of glasses, and had the smug confidence of a used car salesman.

“No. I’ll get there,” Emily said, but with each painful, nausea-inducing step, she wondered. When she finally made it inside, her face was windburned and her nose runny.

Derrick unfolded the wheelchair tucked between an ornate, mahogany coat tree and the wall by the door. “Dr. Carmichael said it would be good to keep you off your feet for a while.” He adjusted the footrests and pressed his lips to her forehead. A look of concern washed over him. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Fine enough,” Emily said. “Let’s get this over with.”

Bill waited at the other end of the hall and opened the door to the first-floor master bedroom when they reached him.

The crowd erupted with shouts of “Surprise!”

Emily tried to smile, but something was wrong. The mix of heat and the smell of food made her nauseated. She swallowed the vomit rising in her throat and grimaced.

“You like it?” Derrick said.

In the short time Emily had been in the hospital, Derrick had converted the first-floor master to a children’s playroom. The walls were painted a delicate yellow and decorated with a pastel Noah’s ark mural.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Margaret, Emily’s redheaded mother-in-law, rushed over to her. Her long hair was piled into a high bun, and she wore too much blue eye makeup. “The ark was my idea.”

“When you’re up to it, I’ll show you the nursery upstairs,” Derrick said.

Emily clamped her hand over her mouth. She had tried to repress the sick feeling, but the smell of her mother-in-law’s perfume was too much. She waved her hand at the garbage pail, and Derrick quickly grabbed it.

Emily buried her face so far in the pail that the crowd disappeared, and after several seconds of painful retching, she was too embarrassed to come out. “Take me to bed,” she said, her voice echoing. She spat and waited. “Derrick, I need to go to bed.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Excuse us.”

Emily crossed her arms over the edge of the can and didn’t look up until she felt the wheelchair reenter the hallway. Several of the wives conjectured that their being there was a bad idea from the start. Bill, in his most mayoral tone, assured the visitors their presence lifted Emily’s spirits.

Emily sighed, her breath hitching when the inhalation stretched her stomach.

Derrick steered her into the already prepared guest bedroom and set the brakes.

“Close the door.” Emily withdrew her head from the sour-smelling container. The room spun, and she waited until she was sure she wasn’t going to be sick again before trying to lift the footrest.

“I got it. Hang on a minute.” Derrick moved them and took the can from her.

“Don’t go too far with that.” The nausea was already returning.

Derrick turned down the bed and eased Emily out of the chair.

She took a couple of steps and felt the first bit of relief when her skin pressed against the cool cotton sheets.

Derrick had already filled her prescriptions, which were lined up on the nightstand. He opened a bottle of water and handed her two pills.

Margaret, not one to miss out on the action, knocked softly. “Derrick, everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine, Mom. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Emily, dear. Anything I can do?”

Emily waved her hand and swallowed the pain pill.

“No, Mom. We need a minute, please.”

“Have we heard anything about when the nurse will be here?” Emily wasn’t ready to admit to Derrick how much worse she felt since leaving the hospital.

“It’s only been an hour. I’ll call Dr. Carmichael this afternoon before his office closes if we don’t hear anything by then.”

“Maybe you should call now.”

A knock came at the door.

Margaret, again.

“Mom, please.” Derrick peered through the small opening, shielding Emily from view.

“Your father wants to talk with you,” she whispered, loud enough for Emily to overhear.

“Tell him I’ll be right there.” Derrick closed the door and headed into the adjoining bathroom where he flushed the vomit down the toilet and rinsed the can. He dried it with a paper towel and set it on the nightstand next to the bed. “Why don’t you see if you can get some sleep?” He placed a cool, wet washcloth on Emily’s forehead. “I’ll get everyone out of here. You’re right. I shouldn’t have let them come in the first place.”

“Tell everyone that I’m sorry.” She adjusted her pillow and turned on Food Network for noise while she slept.

“I’m sure they understand.” Derrick pulled the room-darkening
drapes and forced a smile. “Get some rest. I’ll be back in to check on you as soon as they leave.”

“Derrick,” she called after him.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

CHAPTER 33

“Nestor, a Corona and a mug of Sam Adams, please.” Ana ignored the men’s stares as she took her seat at the bar. “And crack that door open, would you? It stinks in here.” As many times as she’d been to the Barfly, the acrid smell of urinal cakes was hard to get used to.

It was ten times worse with the heat on.

Nestor slid a lime wedge into the neck of the Corona bottle and poured a frosted mug of Sam Adams on draft. “Anything else?”

“Just that door.”

The frosted mug started to sweat as soon as Nestor set it down.

“You got it.” Nestor propped the door open with a rubber wedge, and a cool breeze blew across the bar.

Ana squeezed the lime into the bottle and took a sip. The sour juice coated her lips and stung where the chapped skin had split. She licked at the wound, and a man, one of the few she didn’t know, nodded in her direction. She rolled her eyes and focused on the small television broadcasting the most recent headline news.

It had been a long, confusing day, and as Ana waited for Mike to arrive, she thought about all that had happened. She wouldn’t call herself superstitious, but she did believe in signs. Henry Coleman had been the first, talking about someone to take care of her. The right person could have made the past week much easier, and if Cecelia was right—Ana considered her the second sign—the one person she imagined herself being with was becoming available.

“Is this seat taken?” Mike slid off his knit cap and set it on the bar.

“Thanks for coming,” Ana said, and reached out for a hug.

Mike looked around the room, and she followed his eyes.

Two firemen from Anthony’s station racked up a fresh game of pool. Ron and Coop sat at a booth in the corner and were three empty pitchers of beer into what looked to be the beginnings of a long night.

“Interesting choice of location.”

“Beer’s cheap and the company’s trustworthy.” Ana slid the defrosting mug over to him. “Any luck?”

Their meeting was to discuss leads in Sydney’s case.

Mike scratched at the gray-and-white stubble on his chin and pulled a smart phone from his pocket. “Maybe.” He called up a series of pictures, screen shots of criminal records that were nearly impossible to read given their small size. “Tell me if any of those names or faces rings a bell.”

Ana sorted through a half-dozen suspects, four female and two male, zooming in on the screen to read their laundry lists of charges. “Robbery, prostitution, drug possession, and intent to sell. None of these are murderers, Mike. And no, none of their names or faces rings a bell, except for maybe this one.” She held up the screen and showed him the picture of Lucinda Morales. “I think we brought her into County once for an overdose.”

“Are you sure?” Mike sipped his beer.

“Positive. Where did this list even come from? What do any of these people have to do with Sydney?”

Mike shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell me. There were literally hundreds of fingerprints in that room, half of which belonged to people with priors. Julian and Elsa sorted the suspects by physical description.”

“Description? Why, did somebody see something?”

Mike shrugged. “Yes and no. I went back to question Samuel and to get the surveillance tapes from the Aquarian.”

“You have a tape?”

“No. The cameras are fakes. There wasn’t any footage, but there’s a possible eyewitness. She described a mid-five-foot, slender person, wearing a dark trench coat in the Aquarian parking lot the night of Sydney’s murder.”

“Like a woman?”

“Maybe, or a small man, or Sydney met someone there who had nothing to do with what happened. It’s too vague a description and too loose an association for me to say anything definitive. The witness saw someone walking away, but not leaving room eleven. The person was wearing all black, it was dark, and snowing. Misty’s alibi checked out. She was at County all night. The only reason I’m even looking into this is because the witness said she overheard a fight.”

“Was there evidence of a struggle?”

“Sydney had a broken fingernail, but Kim says it’s consistent with her shoving her finger down her throat to induce vomiting.”

“Anything off the supposed suicide note?”

“No prints.”

“And no pad, right? The note wasn’t written there?”

Mike waved for Nestor to refill his beer. “Right. There wasn’t a notepad in the room.”

“Can I see it?”

Mike hesitated and looked down at the bar. “It’s in evidence lockup.”

“Mike, come on. You have all of those files on your phone to show me, but not the note?”

“It’s not important.”

“It’s important to me. Please?”

Mike flipped through a handful of photos and handed her the phone when he reached the shot of the crumpled piece of paper.

Ana ordered another round before reading it.

You never really know what you want until you can’t have it.

I will never have the family I deserve.

I will never be a mother. I will never be loved.

I’ve lost too much to keep going.

Anna, I’m sorry.

I just can’t stand the pain.

Ana handed him back the phone. “They spelled my name wrong.”

Mike wiped beer foam from his mustache. “What?”

“My name, look at it. I’ve never used a double ‘n.’ They spelled my name wrong,” she repeated, pointing at the second-to-last line.

“Shit. How did I miss that?”

“And whoever it is, they know about the surgery, that Sydney can’t have kids.”

Mike nodded. “Most people know. It’s not like it was a secret.”

“And about our parents? That bit about loss says that whoever did this knew about our past.”

“Again, not a big secret.”

“It’s not, no, but whoever wrote this knew about me. Not enough to spell my name right, but enough to call me Ana. They knew about our parents and about Sydney’s surgery. Who would know all of that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mike, stay with me here. Someone who took a medical history would have reviewed Sydney’s family and social history as part of the intake process. What if whoever killed Sydney was part of her treatment?”

“It’s a reach, Ana.”

“A reach, maybe, but not an impossibility.”