Ill Will (41 page)

“But…”

“The woman is dead. Nothing is going to bring her back. You made a bad decision to not tell him everything. I’m not going to upend my life to make up for your bad decision. Didn’t want to talk to that detective? I don’t blame you—if it’s who I’m thinking of, he is a major asshole. But you can do what other citizens do and call someone else. Nothing is stopping you from doing that.”

“Okay. Got it,” I said. She had a point, not one I wanted to concede.

“Look, I’m sorry. But…I just can’t do it all, okay?”

“Yeah, I know.” I did know—we were all stretched too thin—she could be here or with Alex in Baton Rouge. I had taken a case, then another case, and somehow stepped off the ledge and Cordelia had cancer. Pulled too tight and in too many directions.

“I’ll see you Monday morning and we’ll take care of it,” she offered.

“Thanks. You didn’t even need to answer the phone. I’ll see you then.” When we hung up I realized I didn’t know if she was with Alex or had some other reason for being there. I hoped it was for Alex.

If you can’t have the cavalry you wanted, you went with the cavalry that was available. I called Rafe. He didn’t answer. Probably too early in the morning for him.

That left me staring at my hands, wondering what the hell to do next.

Go see Cordelia. Pretend that none of this is happening.

I stopped at a florist on the way there and got a big flower arrangement. Every hospital room needed something to brighten it up. I also went Uptown and ran through the grocery store. I got her some cut-up fresh fruit, a really good chocolate bar, and some magazines to read. Maybe I was being nice; or maybe I was being guilty at all the things I was withholding from her.

Temporarily
, I reminded myself as I looked for parking on the street. It would be a long time before I’d park in the garage again. She would know soon enough that Lydia was dead, and I’d have to tell her my part in everything. But maybe it would wait until Monday. We could have a weekend with a calm surface.

“Hi, a stranger bringing gifts,” I said as I entered her room.

She smiled at the flowers, at the same time saying, “You didn’t need to do that.” But her smile won the battle, especially when I produced the fruit and the chocolate.

She shook her head, but opened the wrapper and took a chunk.

“Chocolate on Saturday. Let’s make it a rule from now on,” she said. Then she prudently put the candy away and nibbled on the fruit.

We didn’t talk much, mostly it was enough that I was here and could see her, how she was doing. Maybe I needed it, but she seemed better than yesterday. She pointed to the IV tube; it was making up for her lack of appetite.

The day was punctuated by nurses coming by to check her vital signs, our occasional talk.

Rafe called me back to say that he’d flown to Dallas on Friday evening to check on some things and was on an early morning flight tomorrow. We could connect then. I’d stepped out of the room to take his phone call.

As long as Cordelia didn’t hear about Lydia, I wasn’t going to mention it. She needed to focus on herself and getting better.

But I couldn’t help thinking about Lydia and wondering what she had wanted to show me. What was hidden in those records across the street?

In the late afternoon, Cordelia’s doctor came by. They were waiting on a few more tests, but she could probably go home tomorrow. I did another food run after that, getting her a fancy smoked turkey sandwich with avocado. Also a very good dark chocolate bar. And some fruit. Her appetite seemed to be better—maybe because it had been a while since the chemo, so I wanted her to eat while she could.

After supper—the one the hospital delivered—she told me to go home. But I stayed for another hour. Mostly to be with her. Partly because I was considering not going straight home.

“Do you want me to take your clothes home? Bring you clean stuff?” I offered as I was getting ready to leave.

“Would you? I’d appreciate that. Just take everything. That way I don’t need to worry about carting home my purse and briefcase tomorrow.”

“Not a problem.” I smiled at her and kissed her good night.

The last place I wanted to go was back into that garage and office building. So why was I rooting through Cordelia’s briefcase to get her keys and access card?

Because there had been something in those files worth killing to protect. It was likely they’d disposed of whatever it was yesterday. But they might have assumed that with Lydia out of the way, they had time. Maybe even with her out of the way and her death written off to a chance robbery, they were in the clear.

They wouldn’t expect me to be able to get into the building at all and certainly not late on a Saturday night. The sooner I—or anyone, but I seemed to be the only one available—took a look, the more likely I’d find something.

Lydia had died. Cordelia, even inadvertently, was involved.

I’d be quick; I’d be careful. I put her stuff in my car, keeping the keys and swipe card. I also stuffed some latex gloves and a small flashlight in my pocket, put on my holster under my jacket, and took my gun out of my glove compartment. That and my phone, in the other pocket, were my protection.

I again entered through the garage, but this time went up the stairs and carefully scanned each floor looking for red sports cars and dark SUVs. I saw a number of the latter, but closer inspection revealed a toddler seat in one, a dog blanket in another, a rainbow flag on a third one. Of the ones that didn’t so clearly eliminate themselves, they seemed the wrong shape or size; the one I’d seen was big and brutish.

I took the stairs back down to the bridge into the office building, listening carefully before opening the door. No one was around. From there I took the stairs up to the floor where the office was, again listening carefully before entering the elevator lobby. Again, no sound.

I held there for a minute, listening for any noise. First from the elevators, then with my ear against the office door, in case anyone was there. Still quiet, no sound.

I took a deep breath, then put the key in the lock. Cordelia hadn’t mentioned an alarm, so I was hoping they relied on multiple keys and access points. Now was not the time to ask her.

I opened the door and stepped inside. It was dim, only a few lights left on. No alarm sounded. It was lame, but if someone caught me here, I’d claim Cordelia left her house keys here and needed them. Very lame. I’d only been here once. I tried to remember the layout of the space. Latex glove time. My fingerprints would be on Cordelia’s keys—she’d given them to me, after all. But nowhere else here.

On the first door I came to, I gently tried the knob. It opened to a sparse exam room. The next two were also unlocked and also exam rooms. Across the hall from them was a small reception cubby and, next to it, a waiting room.

I didn’t want to linger, certainly couldn’t stay here long enough to check every room. When she’d retrieved the charts, Lydia had turned to the left on her way to get them. I quickly bypassed the exam area and went back to the door to the conference room and used that as my point of reference.

From there the first door was a bathroom. But the next was locked, with a door swipe pad. I used Cordelia’s. It was an office. A messy office, with piles of paper on the desk and the floor. Only the chair behind the desk wasn’t covered. On it was placed a note—clearly the lone place that it would be noticed—
Dr. Hackler, Mr. Bernstein from your bank called. He needs an answer ASAP.

Dr. Hackler? I searched my memory. Ron Hackler, the aloof one from Ole Miss. A bank calling. Did he need money? But his office was a mess. I would need a lot more time than I had and some idea of what it was I was looking for. In truth this was a fishing expedition, with some vague hope of turning up something.

I closed his door, making sure that it locked.

The next was also an office, but almost as opposite from Ron’s as it could be. The desk was neat, only one small pile of journals in the far corner. This was clearly Brandon Kellogg’s office. The walls were framed with his diplomas and certifications, several fishing trophies, and a picture of a blond woman, presumably his wife, and two equally blond boys. Nature was either generous or she’d paid for her bustline. And probably her perfect white teeth and blond hair. He was a doctor; he could afford a good-looking wife. Cordelia was also a doctor, so maybe I was misjudging him. Perhaps she was a cardiologist and he loved her for her brain.

But I was wasting time here. His taste in women wasn’t my concern.

I exited his office, again carefully locked his door.

Third try was the charm. I’d found the file room. First line to cast was to look for the two names I knew—Reginald Banks and Eugenia aka Eugene Hopkins.

Reginald still had a file. I quickly glanced through it, most of the words a foreign language to me. But he was listed as deceased, on the day he died. I couldn’t find any indication that his insurance company had declined treatment. I did find a sheet that read
pt. contacted, att. to reschedule, pt. will call later.
I flipped back to the sheet before. It was a list of notes from his last visit, another flip back and another visit. Then another flip to another visit. The notes from this one were identical to the notes in the first, as if every few visits, they could just be recycled. I checked through all the visit notes. They skipped in irregular patterns, but every third to fifth visit, the notes were almost identical, just the dates changed. I also noticed a crease on the top of the page, like a bent paper clip had held it. The crease carried through several pages. It wasn’t on the page with the note, but then was on the page following. The note about trying to contact him had been added, slipped in between two other pages.

I placed the file back where I found it and searched for Eugenia’s file. According to her file she was still in treatment, had been there last week. As I put her file back I realized how difficult it would be to sort this all out. If the records said someone was here, the only way to disprove that was to talk to each individual, one by one. And even then you’d need to speak to enough of them to prove that it wasn’t just someone misremembering, but a pattern of concocted visits and insurance payments.

There’s a reason I didn’t go into insurance fraud
, I thought. I randomly grabbed another file, wondering if anything would stand out—like the repeated notes in Reginald’s files. After glancing through ten files, I did notice one thing: no patients left the practice—at least none of these ten. Especially in post-Katrina New Orleans, that alone was odd—people moved all the time. I’d switched most of my doctors since half of them hadn’t come back and the other half had moved to either the north shore or out in the suburbs. For some it took me two or three tries to find someone I liked—and who took my insurance.

The eleventh file showed a glaring mistake—a chart note signed by Cordelia in what was clearly not her handwriting.

That was my fear, that whoever was doing this would be willing to implicate the innocent to cover his or her tracks.

There was a faint rumble in the background. The air-conditioning system? No, that had clicked on and off several times. The elevator?

I hastily shoved the file back in its place, then locked the file room. This was a multistory building with ten to fifteen offices on every floor. What were the odds that they were coming here?

Given that they killed people, ones I couldn’t take a chance on.

I didn’t dare risk going out of the office as I might run into them at the elevators. If these were the people who had killed Lydia, they weren’t likely to fall for my lame excuse. I couldn’t hide in any of the offices or the file room; those were the likely places they would go.

I wished I knew where Cordelia’s office was. It would be safe there since I could be sure she wasn’t coming to visit.

Except they might enter it to plant more phony incriminating evidence.

The exam rooms. I could only hope that they wouldn’t check exam rooms—unless this was an affair and they were into the kinky stuff.

I headed for the first room, the one closest to the door. I had just got the door shut and taken one deep breath when I heard a key in the lock. Sometimes, I hate it when I’m right.

Maybe it was the cleaning crew.

But the person who entered was quiet and didn’t turn on any lights. From the stealthy footfalls, it was just one person. I heard him—or her—shuffle by. It sounded like he went to the file room, but I couldn’t be sure and I didn’t dare look.

Now I had another quandary—did I stay here until this silent person left or did I try and get out? And if it was the latter, should I be quiet or just make a run for it?

I heard a sound like a copy machine. The machine had been just outside the file room, which was on a side hallway. It would be out of sightlines from here, and if I was lucky—and quiet—it would cover any sound I would make. There was a white lab coat hanging on the back of the door. I put it on. That, at least, would make it seem more like I belonged here. I caught a faint lingering perfume. Cordelia. Appropriate.

I cautiously cracked open the door. A weak light spilled from the conference room hallway. Edging out of the room, I pulled the door almost shut, but didn’t want to risk the snick of the catch.