Darkness & Shadows (12 page)

It was hot in the car, and Lilliana’s perfume was strong. He lowered the windows and let in the smell of heated tarmac.

“I have to ask you, Ms. DeFrancisco. Do you have any idea what might have happened to the Clarks?”

Lilliana dropped her gaze, began busily working her fingers against one another, as if kneading imaginary dough. “I think he killed her.”

Patrick watched her for a lengthy moment, then said, “Do you have anything to back that up?”

She stopped kneading, looked out her window. “All I know for sure is that Char was in a world of hurt. She’d just moved out to Las Brisas… or I should say, ran out.”

“Why?”

“Because she was scared to death of him. She thought he was going to kill her if she didn’t get away.”

“Details?”

“I didn’t get many. She was gone before I could. All I know is that things were heating up between them. He’d been making life hell, tormenting and threatening her on a daily basis, and the more he did it, the more frightened and unstable Char seemed to get. He was wearing her down. She’d call me, frantic and rambling, sometimes not even making any sense.”

“Did you tell the cops this?”

“I did.” She seemed to be thinking on something. “Then there was the incident with his office.”

Patrick furrowed his brows into a question.

“At the compound. He kept it locked, spent a lot of time there. Alone.”

“Doing what?”

“Supposedly research, but he was super protective of it, wouldn’t let anyone in, not even Charlene.”

“So what does that have to do with her murder?”

“After Char moved to Las Brisas, she started talking a lot about how she wanted to see what he was really doing there. I think she was hoping to dig up dirt so she could get out of the marriage. For good.”

“Do you know if she ever found anything?”

A car drove by. She watched it with mild interest, shook her head. “I don’t, but I keep wondering, what if she broke in? And what if it ended up being the last thing she ever did?”

She was giving him lots of food for thought, but it seemed more like conjecture. He needed something concrete. “Did you actually see anything to support her claims? Did you ever see Wesley acting strangely?”

She gave him a sober look, then laughed mildly. “That almost seems like a rhetorical question. Let me put it this way: there was nothing good about that relationship—nothing at all. It wasn’t about love. It was about something else. Something really warped.”

“In what way?”

“The way he controlled her. The way he’d never let her out of his sight. She was more like his prisoner than his wife.”

“How did he control her?”

“How
didn’t
he control her, is more like it. Sometimes we’d be on the phone and hear a strange sound and realize he was listening in. So we’d stop talking, and then he’d hang up—just like that. No attempt to even try to hide his eavesdropping. Didn’t care. It was like he wanted Char to know he was monitoring her.”

“Like he was messing with her mind,” Patrick ventured.

“It was constant, and it was really scary. I remember once we were having lunch on a restaurant patio. I looked up, and there he was, no more than fifteen feet away. Again, no attempt to hide his spying. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, giving
us this unsettling look. Charlene turned around, and as soon as she did, he casually strolled out of the restaurant. It was
so
creepy.”

“Do you know if he ever got physically abusive with her?”

She didn’t answer. She just gave Patrick a long look.

“Is that a yes?”

She nodded gravely. “She would never tell me, but I saw things.”

“Like what?”

“One time we were shopping, and we were running late, and she was all sorts of freaked out about getting home on time, worried that Wesley would be furious. Without thinking, she pulled the sleeve of her sweater up to check the time.” Lilliana shook her head rapidly with closed eyes, and her voice wavered. “I swear, the bruises on her wrist. They were fresh. They were just horrible.”

“Did you ask her about them?”

She nodded with regret. “Gave me some story. It didn’t even make sense. But that was Charlene for you.”

Patrick couldn’t help but feel the sting of inner unrest—not for Charlene Clark, but for Marybeth Redmond—wondering once more what kind of mess she’d gotten herself into, and why. The thought mutated externally into a question. “What was she doing with a guy like that in the first place? Was it the money?”

“If it was, that’s one hell of a price to pay for financial security. I honestly don’t know. Maybe it was love in the beginning, but by the time I met her, it just wasn’t happening. She loathed him, and even more, was scared to death of him.”

“And you never figured out why he was so obsessed with controlling her?”

“At first I thought maybe he was just insecure. You know… afraid she’d stray. I mean, she was so beautiful, and he was so… well…” She flashed the icky smile. “And that would have made sense, except in fact it didn’t.”

“Because?”

“Because men who cheat aren’t usually concerned if their wives do.”

Patrick lifted a brow.

“Jocelyn Fairchild,” she said.

“The doctor he owns the center with?”

“Yeah, but trust me. Those two were swapping a helluva lot more than test tubes.”

“Any proof?”

“Word was, one of the employees walked in on them while they were getting it on in his office, but Char had her suspicions long before that. Anyway, take it from me. Fairchild is serious trouble. I’d watch her if I were you.”

“Any particular reason? Besides the alleged affair, I mean.”

“She’s the kind of person who’ll smile right in your face, but watch the hands—they move fast, and if you’re not careful, they’ll rip the lungs right out of your chest.”

C
hapter
T
wenty

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Not exactly a ringing endorsement for Jocelyn Fairchild, but the word on Wesley Clark seemed even worse. Still unclear was how Wesley fit in with the homicide investigation. Charlene Clark’s body had already been found, but her husband’s was unaccounted for, and nobody knew whether he was dead or alive. But after hearing about Wesley’s alleged marital infidelities, there was still one body that Patrick definitely wanted to see—the one that was alive and running the center.

Clark-Fairchild sat on a westward-facing bluff in Del Mar overlooking the ocean, a prime slice of real estate. The building itself looked more like a posh rehab facility than a cancer treatment center. Ivory steps flowed like silken ribbon to a modern three-story structure of white concrete and slick, mirrored glass. A refined and masterfully elegant sculpture stood out front, tall and proud: part phallic, part bronze, and part that-must-have-cost-a-bundle. It seemed Clark’s excesses didn’t end at home.

Inside, the orgy of superfluity raged on with Italian marble floors so shiny they looked like coral-colored ice. Water tumbled playfully down a colorful glass fountain that hugged the reception area. Overhead, a clear elevator cube swept its way to the top floor where it kissed a beautiful glass-domed ceiling, then made a graceful, earthward decent.

Patrick felt ill.

He decided to poke around a bit before hunting down Fairchild, unless someone challenged him.

But nobody did: things were hopping here, the staff far too busy dealing with their abundance of patients. Patrick breezed past the consulting rooms, ten in all, each occupied by a frightened-looking patient and an unctuous-looking doctor. Just as he passed, two rooms emptied out, only to have more potential patients fill the spots. Pricey cancer cures seemed to be a hot commodity. He wondered where all the people came from. Treatment at a center this swanky, and in this part of town, couldn’t be cheap.

He turned his head and saw trouble coming down the chute: a security guard heading his way with an expression that was not at all warm and fuzzy. Big dude with a shaved, egg-shaped head atop a cinderblock neck. Pants yanked halfway to his chest, a likely attempt to hide the expanding girth that didn’t want to play nicely.

Trying to think fast on his feet, Patrick rushed to the guard and with the most distraught voice and expression he could manage, said, “Excuse me. I can’t find my wife. Can you tell me where the cafeteria is? I’m supposed to meet her there.” He capped the performance with an Oscar-caliber frown.

The guard relaxed a millimeter, pointed toward the opposite side of the building, and said, “Down that hallway, second door on the left.”

“Thanks so much,” Patrick replied, still working the bad theatrics. “She told me it was on this side, but she’s really shaken up after her diagnosis. I’m sure she got confused.”

Guard bought that one, too.

It wasn’t the most clever ploy he’d ever used to save-ass, but the guard’s reaction was a good indication that the place was mindful of intruders—especially ones who liked to snoop. Patrick knew he might end up with his can kicked to the curb if the guard caught up with him again. Now he just needed to figure out where to find Jocelyn Fairchild. He headed for the receptionist’s counter, where a nameplate informed him the woman sitting behind it was Samantha. She greeted him with a spirited smile.

He tried the wife routine again.

“Would you like me to page her?” Samantha asked.

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. That would be a bad idea.” Patrick frowned. “She’s very upset about her diagnosis.”

Samantha frowned back, nodding.

“But I was just wondering,” he continued. “She mentioned she was supposed to see Dr. Fairchild, I think?”

“Oh, yes,” Samantha said. “The doctor is in consultations this afternoon. I could call her if you’d like. What’s your wife’s name?”

“Quack,” Patrick said.

Samantha looked confused.

“Sheila Quack,” he confirmed, nodding.

Confusion turned to reason—or something like it—and the smile blossomed again.

“But no need to bother the doctor,” Patrick said. “I’m sure she’s with my wife as we speak. I’ll just go on over and wait for her. Can you tell me where they might be?”

“Certainly.” She pointed to the hallway Patrick had just left. “Right down there. I believe I saw Dr. Fairchild in Room 3?”

“Room 3,” Patrick repeated, with a quick, affirmative nod. “Thank you so very much.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Quack,” Samantha replied.

He walked back toward the consultation area. In the waiting room, he thumbed through a magazine, keeping one eye on Room 3. A few moments later, Security Stooge came strolling by again, observing Patrick with renewed interest.

“I finally found her. She’s in there now,” Patrick said, pointing toward the room. The stooge seemed satisfied—although, a smile was apparently still not an option—and went on his way.

About five minutes later, the door to Room 3 opened, and a woman emerged sobbing, tattered tissue clenched in one hand. A man, probably her husband, guided her out with a comforting hand on her shoulder. Then a guy wearing a white medical coat exited the room briskly.

Unless Dr. Fairchild had recently undergone sex-reassignment surgery, Patrick was pretty sure the dude in the coat wasn’t her.

He edged his way toward the room and peered inside: empty. As he turned around, he saw the Security Stooge coming his way again. Patrick darted back to the seating area, grabbed a pamphlet off the table, and pretended to be fully engrossed in
Tips and Advice for Breastfeeding Mothers.
The guard turned up the hallway, and Patrick decided this was becoming a royal waste of time. Frustrated, he headed toward the lobby.

Halfway down the hall, a door swung open, smacking him in the knee, and narrowly missing his face. “Oh, my! I’m so sorry!” a woman’s voice said.

Patrick rubbed his leg, and then looked up into the face of Dr. Jocelyn Fairchild.

“Are you okay?” she asked, touching an appeasing hand to his shoulder.

“I think so,” he replied, enjoying the perfection of kismet. He delivered a grimace, followed by an impressive groan.

“Please,” she said, running the hand lightly down his back. “Let’s get you to a seat and take a look at that knee. I’m a doctor.”