Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (14 page)

“I’m going to drive. Pete hurt his foot.”

“I know. Guess what else I know.” Harry winked at her. “You’re Zoe.”

“Yes, I am. I’m glad you remembered.”

“Me, too. I’m lousy with names. Always have been, but it’s getting worse. Old age sucks.”

Zoe snorted.

“I know something else, too.” He shook a finger at her. “My boy’s kind of sweet on you.”

Her cheeks warmed.

“And I have a pretty good idea the feeling’s mutual.”

She stared at her hands on the table. Chewed her lip.

“Well?” Harry nudged her. “Am I right?”

Zoe considered admitting her feelings to him. After all, he’d probably forget all about the conversation within the next few minutes. Then again, he seemed to be quite lucid at the moment.

“Well?” he asked again.

“Well what?” Pete swung around the corner into the kitchen.

“Nothing,” Zoe said.

Harry gave her an ornery grin. “I’m right. I knew it.”

Pete looked at his dad. Then at her. He raised an eyebrow.

She jumped to her feet. “Are you ready to get going?”

Harry slammed both palms down on the table. “I sure am. Let’s go. This is gonna be fun.”

Fun. According to Harry, spending the day together investigating a suicide that may or may not be a homicide ranked right up there with a day at Kennywood Park. But all Pete could think about was the half-dozen calls he’d placed last night and this morning to Nadine, all of which went to voicemail.

Zoe drove Pete’s township SUV with Harry riding shotgun. Pete had claimed the backseat so he could put his throbbing foot up. But he hadn’t counted on the hard plastic being so uncomfortable. It wasn’t often he’d been delegated to the rear seat, usually reserved for prisoners. In fact, this was a first. And, he decided, his last.

“You never said what you thought about Carl Loomis,” Zoe said. “Should we question him again?”

We?
“I don’t imagine it would do any good. Warren said Loomis had no memory of the accident. He’d blacked out.”

“But maybe he’s remembered something since then. I bet no one’s asked him about it in years.”

“I thought you’d let go of this thing about your dad after Warren told you he saw the body with his own eyes.” At least, Pete had hoped she would.

“He saw a body burnt beyond recognition. What if it wasn’t really my dad?”

“Zoe...” Pete let his exasperation creep into his voice.

“What’s this all about?” Harry asked.

“Nothing,” Pete replied.

“My dad supposedly died in a car crash twenty-seven years ago,” Zoe said. She proceeded to fill Harry in on all the details, from the closed casket, to the cryptic note found in James Engle’s house, to suspecting her father was still alive.

Pete listened as he watched houses, barns, trees, and underbrush whiz past his window. In his heart, he understood Zoe’s longing to have her dad back. Hell, he wanted his own dad back, and Harry was sitting in the same vehicle with them. In Pete’s head, the whole scenario reeked of conspiracy-theory craziness.

In his gut, something felt off about the whole thing, but he wished Zoe would leave it alone. Let him quietly ask some questions. Do some digging. Then he could report to her what he found,
if
he found anything. And if he didn’t...Well, she wouldn’t have to experience that loss all over again.

“We definitely need to ask this Carl Loomis fellow some questions,” Harry declared when Zoe finished her tale.

There was that
we
thing again. “But not today,” Pete said. “Today
I
am investigating James Engle’s death and Marvin Kroll’s shooting.”

Harry turned in his seat to scowl at Pete. “You’re not being very helpful to this young lady.”

They hit a pothole, and Pete’s foot bounced on the unforgiving hard plastic seat. He gritted his teeth against the pain. “We—I—have a job to do and two active cases to solve.”

“But my dad’s supposed death may be tied to them,” Zoe said. “After all, that note was written by one of the victims. Not to mention it was found in his house.”

“Yeah.” Harry sounded like a belligerent child.

Great. Now he had the two of them hounding him about a very cold case that probably wasn’t a case at all.

Zoe slowed the vehicle as they approached the traffic light on the edge of Brunswick. “Maybe we could swing by Loomis’ place on our way back to Dillard.”

Harry nodded in agreement. “That’s a great idea.”

Pete dropped his head against the glass of the backseat door. “I doubt we’ll have time. Once I finish interviewing Dr. Weinstein, we should stop at the hospital and check on your landlord.”

“Okay.”

Zoe agreed way too fast. Pete caught her watching him in the rearview mirror. A smile tugged at her lips. Damn. She’d played him. “That’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” The light changed, and she hit the gas to make the left turn ahead of the tractor trailer coming the other way.

She probably figured on squeezing in a side trip to visit Franklin Marshall while she was there.

Sneaky.

Pete squinted into the morning sun to camouflage his smile.

Zoe’s and Harry’s protests echoed in Pete’s ears as he waited for the elevator in the National Trust Building. He’d insisted they drop him off at the front door of the historical relic turned office building on Brunswick’s Main Street and ordered them to find a parking space until he called on his cell phone to come pick him up again. The only reason Zoe had relented in her demands to go inside with him was the lack of on-street parking and his inability to walk two blocks, which was the location of the nearest spot. Convenient. He’d pondered how he was going to lose his entourage long enough to question Engle’s doctor.

The doors opened, and he hobbled into an elevator small enough to remind him of a vertical coffin. The grinding and whirring sounds of the cables did little to instill confidence. He wondered how claustrophobic types dealt with the quaint early twentieth century amenities.

They probably used another doctor in a more modern building, he decided when the doors finally opened following a painfully slow ascent.

Dr. David Weinstein’s small waiting room held about a dozen chairs, three tables stacked with golf and movie star magazines, and one potted palm tree that desperately needed water. But other than the condition of the plant, the space appeared tidy. An elderly couple occupied two of the chairs. A woman and a sullen teenage boy thumbing a cell phone claimed two others. Only the mother met his eyes, and she quickly looked away.

Pete crossed to the small sliding window with the “Please Register” sign taped to it. He stood there and waited as a blonde in blue scrubs ignored him from her desk on the other side of the window. After a minute or two, he cleared his throat.

“Please sign in, and we’ll be with you shortly,” the blonde said without looking up.

Pete wondered about the definition of
shortly
. “I’m not a patient.”

She lifted a weary gaze and eyed his uniform shirt without any indication of being impressed.

He held up his wallet with his ID. “Pete Adams. Vance Township Police Department. Dr. Weinstein agreed to talk with me this morning about a case.”

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the four patients in the waiting room giving him a long hard look. No doubt they were mentally calculating how much longer they’d be stuck there thanks to him.

The blonde ordered him to wait and disappeared. Minutes passed with no movement behind the registration desk. Then a nearby door swung open, held by a short, sinewy man with wire-rimmed glasses and a white lab coat. Pete sensed the doctor taking in the crutches, the cast—and the uniform and badge. 

“Come this way, please.” The man escorted Pete into a small office. Framed diplomas and degrees filled the walls. “I’m Dr. David Weinstein. How can I help you, Officer?”

“It’s Chief, actually. And I’m looking into the death of a patient of yours.”

“James Engle. Yes. I’ve been notified of his passing. It’s quite sad.”

“How long had you been treating Mr. Engle?”

“I believe he started coming to me six or seven months ago.”

“What were you treating him for?”

The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I can discuss this with you. Doctor-patient privilege, you know.”

“True, but your patient is dead.”

“By suicide, as I understand it. I didn’t think the police investigated suicides.”

“There are some...irregularities regarding the circumstances. I’m just making sure we haven’t missed anything.”

Dr. Weinstein didn’t look convinced, but he motioned toward a chair. “Have a seat.”

As Pete gratefully obliged, the doctor picked up his phone and told someone on the other end to bring James Engle’s chart.

“It’ll just take a moment.” Weinstein removed an expensive-looking pen from a marble desk set in front of him.

Pete wondered if the doctor’s interpretation of
a moment
was the same as
the doctor will be with you shortly
. Which generally meant sometime between now and when you die.

Weinstein pointed the pen at Pete’s cast, perking up as if he’d smelled fresh blood. “What happened?”

“Injured in the line of duty.”

“If you need a referral for an orthopedist...”

If the doctor was truly guilty of misdiagnosing James Engle’s cancer, there was no way he was getting his hands on Pete’s bones. “It’s been handled. Thanks anyway.”

Weinstein smiled. “Good to hear.”

The door opened and the same blonde who had manned the reception desk entered. She handed a folder to the doctor and left without acknowledging Pete.

Weinstein thumbed through the papers and reports, frowning and humming to himself. “Ah, yes.” He tapped his upper lip with the pen. “You need to understand something about the way these things are treated. Finding the right balance of medication is tricky. Often the drugs make the situation worse. Hence all the disclaimers on the television advertisements.”

“Disclaimers?”

“Yes. Thoughts of suicide. Deepening depression. I’ve been working with Mr. Engle to find the proper dosage. To make my job more difficult, he tended to take himself off his meds. Refused to refill the scripts I gave him because he didn’t like the way the drugs made him feel. I can’t be held responsible for a patient’s death when he doesn’t follow the recommended course of treatment.”

“Exactly what were you treating him for?”

“Depression, of course.”

“Depression? That’s all?”

“Recently, yes.”

“What about
not
so recently?”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking, Chief Adams. Why don’t you tell me what you really want to know? It might make this conversation easier.”

Pete considered his next move and decided the doctor might be right. “Was there ever a concern about Mr. Engle having lung cancer?”

“We ruled that out.”

“But you did test him for it?”

“We did chest x-rays as part of his routine physical, but they came back clean.”

Just like the autopsy.

The doctor skimmed his pen down the page. “The patient had complained of chest pains, but we ruled out any cardiac issues. Determined his symptoms were caused by stress combined with clinical depression. I referred him to a therapist. My receptionist set up the appointment for him, but he cancelled and never rescheduled.”

“Doctor, do you have any explanation for James Engle leading his family and friends to believe he was dying from lung cancer?”

The pen slipped from Weinstein’s fingers and clattered to his desk. “What? No. As I said, his chest films were clear.”

“And Engle was aware of that fact?”

“Absolutely.”

Pete started to close his notebook, but the letter to Zoe’s mother flashed across his mind. “Besides the depression, did Engle suffer from any other mental or emotional impairment? Dementia, perhaps?”

The doctor reclaimed his fancy pen and replaced it in the holder. “No. In my professional opinion, he was in complete command of his faculties.”

Pete slipped his own disposable pen in his shirt pocket. “Thanks for your time,” he said, leveraging himself to his feet with the crutches.

The doctor muttered an unintelligible reply.

Pete made his way back to the waiting room where the four patients had been joined by a slump-shouldered woman and a white-haired man in a wheelchair. The receptionist called for one of them to come on back, but Pete didn’t take the time to notice which patient. He was too busy solving at least part of the puzzle behind James Engle’s death.

Fourteen

“You should ask Pete to help you,” Harry said with a case-closed nod of his head.

Parked in a lot two blocks from the National Trust Building, Zoe had just finished pouring out her suspicions and doubts regarding her father’s death and was a bit startled by Harry’s response. One thing she’d discovered while helping Patsy with her mother was dementia patients were terrific sounding boards. They would listen intently and then promptly forget the entire conversation. So Zoe had considered her monologue nothing more than thinking out loud. “Pete thinks I’m making too much of it. So does my stepdad.”

Harry shifted in the SUV’s passenger seat to face her. “What does your heart tell you?”

She drew a deep breath and held it as she contemplated the question. “My
head
tells me they’re probably right.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She met his steel-blue gaze. “My heart says I need to know for sure.”

“Well, there you are then. You have to pursue it. Otherwise you’ll always wonder. Always wish you’d done something about it when you had the chance. You’ll never be at peace with your dad’s memory.” Harry tapped the side of his head. “Memories are damned important. Most folks don’t give them enough credence. But when you start losing those memories, you really start appreciating them.”

A flash of heat rose behind Zoe’s eyes, and she blinked to prevent the rush of tears. She leaned across the gearshift and gave him a hug. With a gruff chuckle, he hugged her back.

From her jeans pocket, her phone erupted into a rendition of
I Fought the Law.

“What’s that?” Harry asked as she drew away from him.

“That’s Pete.” She dug for the phone and flipped it open.

“Come pick me up,” he ordered.

“On our way.”

Brunswick’s Main Street had the quaint appearance of a nineteenth century village courtesy of a recent attempt to revitalize the dying downtown shopping area. Cobblestone sidewalks sported reproduction gaslights. Flowers cascaded from planters. The genuine historic buildings had been sandblasted and buffed to their original glory. While the county courthouse and a few office buildings created a certain amount of commerce—and kept the parking spots filled—traffic was light, so Zoe had no difficulty making the left turn out of the lot.

Pete leaned on his crutches on the curb in front of the old office building. Zoe pulled the Explorer next to him. For a moment, she considered popping on the flashing lights, but figured Pete wouldn’t find it amusing. He might even insist on taking over the wheel, cast or no cast.

“Do you need a hand?” she asked as he fumbled into the backseat.

“No.” He flopped down with a groan and slammed the door.

She eased away from the curb and just happened to head toward the hospital. “Did you find out anything from the doctor?”

“Not much. He denies ever diagnosing Engle with cancer. Says he was treating him for depression, but Engle wasn’t exactly diligent about taking his meds.”

“Depression?”

“Uh-huh. Supports Marshall’s finding of suicide.” Pete gazed out the window. “I gather we’re on our way to check on your landlord.”

“Do you mind? I’m worried about him, but I’m more worried about how
Mrs.
Kroll is holding up.” She failed to mention her secondary reason for a trip to the hospital.

“Nope. I’d like to find out when Mr. Kroll will be up for some questions.”

“Like who shot him?”

“That would be at the top of my list, yes.”

The renovated portion of Brunswick gave way to decay within blocks. Zoe braked to a stop at a red light. On one corner, a brand new four-story brick building housed a bank. Part of the attempted renewal project. On the opposite corner, a dingy, sprawling Victorian with an overgrown weed lot for a lawn and plywood covering the windows appeared to house only rodents—or possibly a stray drug addict or two.

When the light changed, Zoe turned right, driving through a section of town devoted to rundown housing projects and beer distributors. A few blocks and a left turn brought them into an older residential area with plain, but well-kept homes lining one side of the street and Brunswick Hospital taking up two solid blocks on the other. 

She bypassed the entrance to the underground parking lot, which connected to the morgue, with a glance at the Marshall Funeral Home right across the street. Instead, she pulled into the main entrance with its above-ground lot. Pete directed her to park in a tow-away zone near the front doors. “Official police business,” he muttered.

Zoe wasn’t exactly sure how official the trio looked. Harry, so sharp and clear during their conversation earlier, once again appeared dazed. Pete in his regulation uniform and not-so-regulation crutches lacked his usual air of authority. And Zoe, donning jeans and a Monongahela County EMS t-shirt, but driving a Vance Township police vehicle, felt a bit like an imposter.

A white-haired woman at the courtesy desk squinted at her computer screen. “Marvin Kroll is still in surgery.” At Pete’s request, she directed them to the surgical waiting room on the third floor. “Use the E elevators down that way.” She pointed to the far end of the waiting room.

Pete thanked her. A few minutes later, he led their odd procession through a set of automatic doors into an obnoxiously cheery room filled with vinyl-upholstered chairs, a pair of couches and two institutional recliners. A pair of TVs in opposite corners were set to two different stations, the volume so low that neither produced more than some muffled background noise. An empty coffee pot sat on a table near the doors.

Zoe spotted Mrs. Kroll hunched in one of the chairs near an end table. On one side of her sat a man who appeared to be in his fifties. His face was a younger version of Mr. Kroll’s, but his body had the soft look of someone who worked in an office rather than on a farm.

On the other side of her, Detective Wayne Baronick stood when they approached. “Chief Adams. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I could say the same about you.” Pete motioned to the detective, and they moved toward the empty coffee pot.

Zoe claimed Baronick’s vacated chair. “Has there been any word?”

“He’s in surgery. It’s taking so long.”

The man next to her fingered a tattered magazine. “Not really, Ma. It just feels that way.”

Mrs. Kroll put a hand on his arm. “This is my son, Alexander.”

The younger Kroll gave her a weak smile and shook her hand.