Authors: Mica Stone
F
ORTY
-O
NE
Friday, 9:30 a.m.
Morning came to Miriam with the realization that she was exhausted. More so than the normal state of things. She’d worked tough cases in the past. She’d stayed at one particularly messy crime scene for thirty-six hours while the team of techs—because the evidence was too much for Karen Sosa alone to deal with—had combed a five-block radius in the Four Corners area of downtown, looking for spent casings and fired slugs.
In her five years with the UPPD, that had been Miriam’s one and only drive-by, and she hoped to never see another. It had been like a five-thousand-piece puzzle with each piece missing at least one of its tabs. Fragments of shattered windows and coffee cups. Blood spatter from floor to ceiling. Stuffing from couch cushions and plush animals strewn around the house involved like cotton-ball confetti.
She’d dug one of the slugs from a file cabinet, the bottom drawer of which had been used as a bassinet for a newborn. The baby had been asleep. And survived. His three-year-old sister hadn’t been so lucky, and Miriam didn’t think she’d slept for the next month.
Obviously, she had, having jerked awake with her head on her desk, or to Augie shaking her up from where she lay on the sofa, drooling on case files and making marks of her own on the leather of her traveler’s notebook. It had been their third year as partners, but their first sleeping together, sometimes at her place, others at his. She’d hated him seeing her so ugly.
He’d said ugly was in the eye of the beholder, and made her laugh.
After arriving at the office earlier, she’d checked her mail for any updates from the crime and forensics labs but got crickets. Augie wasn’t coming in today; God had called or something. And Melvin was back in court, following up on a DUI that wouldn’t die.
At the time of the crash, he’d still been a state trooper and the first on the scene. The driver had gotten off on a search-and-seizure technicality, one not Melvin’s doing, and the case was dismissed with prejudice. The victim’s family had then taken the driver to civil court, suing for damages and distress. Melvin’s testimony was a big part of the prosecution’s case.
That left Miriam at loose ends. And too many of them at that.
She wanted to talk to Jeff Gardner again, but supposed it was best to do that with Melvin there to keep her from stepping on the man’s toes. She wanted to swing by the clinic, too. See if anyone had heard from Sameen.
And she wanted to dig into the missing Van Lacey. She thought she’d start with that since she could do it from her desk. And, well, as tired as she was, she was a lot safer at her desk than behind the wheel.
According to what she’d learned from Edward, his father had vanished in Union Park, where the family had always lived, apparently. What she didn’t know was where he’d last been seen: at work, on the road, having a beer at Oldman’s Bar. Or by whom.
Edward had said he’d been sixteen or seventeen at the time, which would put his father’s disappearance in—she did the math in her head instead of on her fingers—1979, 1980. Yeah, this was so much better than looking for foster-care records from the sixties. She pulled up the DPS missing-persons’ bulletins as well as the DMV.
She wanted a photo of the man, his date of birth, and his Social Security number, at the very least. Anything else would be icing. And she loved icing.
She was deep into her search when she heard Ike Ballard’s chair roll off his mat and into the aisle shared by their cubes.
“Hey, Rome.”
“Hey, what?” she asked absently.
“Your third victim’s address book paid off.”
And just like that, her exhaustion vanished. She pushed her chair into the aisle to face his. “Ike Ballard, I’d say I love you if you didn’t annoy me so much. Who did you find?”
He blew out a disbelieving huff. “How about everyone you’ve been looking for?”
What?
“How so?”
He turned Autumn Carver’s black-leather Day-Timer to face her. It was five-by-eight, well worn, and as thick as Gina Gardner’s diary. “Your Corky is one Carolyn Dell, aka Mrs. Darius Preston.”
Miriam sat there with her mouth open, her head swimming, and finally said, “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Ballard rolled closer. She did the same, looking at the page in Autumn’s handwriting. And there it was:
Corky/Carolyn (Dell) Preston, Darius Preston
. With their address, their phone numbers—home and cells—their birthdays. Everything she’d wanted.
She stopped herself from telling Ballard she really did love him, and hugging him, and said instead, “What took you so long?”
“
P
for Preston, Rome,” he said, stopping short of rolling his eyes, though he did grin. “I started with
A
. Ms. Carver knew a lot of people.”
Miriam nodded toward the book. “Did you find the Gardners in the
G
s?”
“Yep. Gina
and
Jeff.”
Hallelujah. “He’s lying, then, when he says he doesn’t know anything about his wife’s background.”
Ballard cocked back in his chair and shrugged. “Unless your Ms. Carver only knew his name because she knew his wife. Could be those two never crossed paths.”
Could be, she mused, but she doubted it. “Is Franklin in the
W
s?”
“As a matter of fact, he is.” Ballard flipped to the end of the book, pointed to the entry, then flipped back a few pages and pointed to another. “And Sameen Shahidi is in the
S
s.”
Hallelujah times two. “Any notes with her name? More than her phone number and address? Something to connect her to all of this?” She would take any crumb she could get.
Ballard shook his head. “Her birthday, but that’s it. I’ll look back farther through the calendar in here when I get time. I didn’t see anything this month.”
“Good. Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you.
”
Ballard stood, then drove his chair back to his cubicle. There he took his suit coat from its hanger and slipped it on. “I’m going to go talk to the Prestons first. Get them to come in. You want to come along?”
“No, you go ahead.” She could talk to them in the interview room. Ballard could handle picking them up. “I want to dig a little deeper for Edward Lacey’s father. Then I’m going to go see the doctor and try again to find Sameen.”
F
ORTY
-T
WO
Friday, 4:20 p.m.
“What did Ballard find out from the Prestons?” Melvin asked.
He’d called earlier while Miriam had been in the records room, going through microfiche for anything she could find on Van Lacey. She’d told him then about Ballard’s discovery of Carolyn Preston, nee Dell, aka Corky’s identity. He’d been finished with court and wanted to tag along while she paid a visit to Jeff Gardner.
She wondered if he regretted the decision, sitting in her Yukon’s passenger seat, gripping the armrest while she drove.
“The Prestons weren’t home,” she said, turning in front of the building housing Chestnut Grove Pediatrics, then heading for the gate into Copper Acres. “According to the neighbor picking up their mail, they’ve been gone for a month.”
“Guess you can mark them off your suspect list,” Melvin said, his gaze focused out his window as she drove.
Miriam had happily done so following her conversation with Ballard. “Yeah. Hard to play God from the UK.”
Melvin winced as she turned another corner. “What are they doing over there?”
“It’s a work trip,” she told him, trying not to laugh at his discomfort with not being behind the wheel. “Something tech related, though they finished up with that last weekend and headed off for a private holiday. Now Ballard’s trying to find someone who knows how to get in touch with them, or where they are, because they have apparently totally unplugged.”
And they’d done so at almost the same time Ballard had discovered their identity. Seriously. It wouldn’t take much for her to become a conspiracy theorist . . .
Still staring out his window, Melvin asked, “Any idea when they’ll be back? Hate to say it, but that timing is more than a little bit suspicious.”
She didn’t disagree. “Judah talked to the company they’d been working for. They’re due in Tuesday afternoon. Now we have to hope they turn on their cell phones between now and then.”
“Tuesday. That’s good,” he said, glancing over like some disapproving fatherly type of driving instructor as she rolled through a stop sign. “Takes Monday off the murder schedule.”
“For those two, anyway.” She’d be holding her breath until Tuesday at least. “There are still a lot of checkers on the board.”
“You think he’s going to move from the foster siblings to the brothers?”
“Unless he
is
one of the brothers.”
“And the list grows on,” he said in sarcastic response, then ticked off the names as he might grocery items. “Edward Lacey, Gordon Hollis, Sameen Shahidi—”
“And Dr. Jeff Gardner,” Miriam added, because she hadn’t yet been able to get rid of the itch he’d given her.
Melvin grunted. “That’s what you’re thinking now? That not only did he kill the mother of his children but two of her foster siblings, too?”
His tone had her wanting to bristle. He rarely brought out the big gun of skepticism unless she was really off base. She wasn’t ready to admit that she was. “I don’t know what I’m thinking, except that something about him has bugged me all this time.”
Melvin let that settle, then asked, “You want me to dig into him a bit deeper?”
She nodded. “And can you check and see if the Prestons have hopped back across the pond since leaving on this work trip? Judge Charles is probably your best bet for a subpoena.”
“Will do,” Melvin said.
They fell silent after that, gearing up as they approached the doctor’s home. The drive took them past Henry Cross Elementary, which had Miriam picturing the three Gardner children again. She wondered how they were doing, and if her suspicions were going to ruin their lives.
It was the worst part of the job, the tears shed both by victims’ families and families of the guilty. Sons and daughters losing their parents. Brothers losing their sisters. Fathers losing their sons. More than once, Miriam had wondered if the reality of collateral damage was why she kept her siblings at a distance. Why she found her mother so difficult. Why she never got enough of her nephew Haven.
Pushing the thoughts away, she ticked through the suspects on her list. What she knew about them. What she didn’t. What she could prove. What was conjecture. Motives. Opportunity.
Honestly, she didn’t have a lot. And that was not where she wanted to be three dead bodies and nearly four weeks into a serial-murder case.
F
ORTY
-T
HREE
Friday, 4:40 p.m.
“Detectives,” Dr. Gardner said, having answered Miriam’s knock. He took her in, then nodded at Melvin and accepted his offered hand.
“I’m sorry to have to put you through this again,” Miriam said, “but our investigation has left us with several unanswered questions. I’m hoping you can help.”
“For Gina, of course. Anything.” He opened the door wider. “Would you like to come in? The children are with my parents for the weekend while I go through Gina’s things.”
“Thank you, yes,” Miriam said, holding her breath as she walked inside. The foyer had been repainted and tiled anew, and the carpet in the living room replaced. It was a mottled mix of browns. She figured it would hide everything the previous carpet had not. Mud from the kids’ shoes. Dirt from the dog’s paws. Blood from anyone spilling enough to matter.
Miriam sat in a side chair. Melvin perched on one end of the couch. That left the recliner for Dr. Gardner. He settled back, crossed his legs, and waited.
Rather than hedging, Miriam jumped right in. “Who is Sameen Shahidi to you?”
“She’s my nurse. You know that,” he said, still relaxed.
“Besides her being your nurse,” Miriam prompted. “Do you have a relationship with her outside of the office?”
“No reason to, no.”
“Would your wife have known her?” she asked, lifting the flap on her crossbody and digging for her notebook and pen.
He nodded. “Gina knows everyone who works at the clinic.”
There he went with the present tense again. “Would she have interacted with her away from the clinic? Maybe they were running buddies? Maybe they liked to grab coffee together? Shop for shoes?”
“If they did, Gina would tell me. We don’t keep secrets of any kind.”
She remembered their initial interview. He’d said he and his wife shared everything. He’d also said that Gina needed him. And he’d repeated the no-secrets thing when she and Melvin had stopped to ask if he knew the Laceys. His wife’s past was the only part of her life she kept from him, it seemed.
To Miriam, that was a pretty big thing.
She moved on. “Are you familiar with the names Franklin Weeks or Autumn Carver?”
“No. Should I be?”
If you’ve been watching the local news, then yeah.
“What about Gordon Hollis?”
He answered with a shake of his head.
She noted both on a page she titled:
Lies the Gardner Told
. “And you’re sure you never knew about Edward or Dorothy Lacey?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” He sat forward in his chair, his glasses slipping to the end of his nose. He pushed them into place, appearing impatient now, as if ready to fly to his feet and usher Miriam out with his wings. “Are you going to tell me who they are? The names you mentioned? Did Gina know them? Are they connected to her murder?”
Melvin answered, giving Miriam a moment to frame her next question. “Gordon Hollis is Dorothy Lacey’s son. He’s Edward’s older brother. They have different fathers.”
The doctor frowned. “But both lived with their mother when Gina was in that home?”
“They did, yes.”
“Did one of them have a reason to hurt her? Have you talked to them?”
Miriam debated how much to give away. “We’ve talked to both, yes.”
“And?” He asked the question expectantly, so Miriam left him hanging.
She tucked her pen and notebook away. “Are you sure the names Franklin Weeks and Autumn Carver don’t ring a bell?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said, looking from Miriam to Melvin. “That’s it? That’s all you came here for? To ask me something you could’ve done over the phone?”
“There is one last thing.” The moment she’d been waiting for, and she held his gaze, every nerve in her body buzzing. “Do you know if Gina shared a bank account with Sameen?”
He frowned. He blinked. He was either caught off guard or a great actor. “What bank account? What are you talking about? Why would she?”
His questions hung in the air, balloons full of outrage waiting to pop. It was Melvin who did the honors. “So, you weren’t aware that your nurse was writing checks to your wife’s foster siblings?”
The doctor stared at him for an interminable minute, then honked out a laugh. “That’s not true. That can’t be true. That doesn’t make sense. I don’t believe you.”
“Do you have any idea where we can find Sameen?” Miriam asked next as she got to her feet.
“I assume at the clinic. I haven’t been back yet, so if she’s not there or at home, I can’t say.”
Melvin was standing now, too, looking down at the doctor. “She hasn’t been in since your wife’s death.”
“What?” Jeff Gardner blinked as if he couldn’t focus, as if he didn’t understand what he was hearing. As if the downpour of information was drowning him. “You’re not saying . . . you don’t think . . . she’s not involved somehow, is she? With Gina’s death?”
His dismay was just genuine enough to give Miriam pause. “Can you think of a reason she would want to hurt your wife? Maybe because of the money?”
“I don’t know anything about any money. And I can’t believe Sameen would hurt anyone. Ever. That’s not who she is. She doesn’t have it in her. And certainly not Gina. That’s just absurd. No. It’s obscene,” he said, as he surged to his feet, waving a long arm toward the front door. His hand was shaking, as was his voice, when he said, “I’d like you to leave now. And until you know who murdered my wife, don’t come back.”