Timmie leaned forward. "And?"
Micklind shot Murphy a quelling look. "This is all off the record."
"Then why am I here?"
Micklind gave him a ghost of a smile. "So I can let you know the reason behind that little set-to you had the other night. Has to do with Restcrest, economic opportunities, and a mayor who's going to run for reelection on the strength of the town's rebirth."
Murphy looked poleaxed. "The mayor was behind that little escapade?"
"Not in any official sense. It was probably more like the misunderstanding between Henry the Second and Thomas a Beckett. A halfhearted complaint taken as an order."
Timmie almost laughed aloud. Go figure it'd be the detective who'd finally show some residue of a real education. Timmie wondered if he knew poetry, too. "General opportunities?" she asked. "Or specific?"
Micklind didn't bother to dissemble. "You should go see the mayor when this clears up. He has a great model in his office of the hotel and convention complex that's being planned. Lots of important decisions being made right now by potential investors. Decisions made on the assurance that Dr. Raymond and Restcrest will continue to be part of the town's picture."
Money and power. Another puzzle piece neatly slotted into place. Murphy smiled a reporter's smile.
"I'm afraid there's not much you can do about the... uh, messengers," Micklind continued. "But though nobody else will do it, I apologize for the... enthusiasm of the message."
Murphy nodded. "Apology accepted. Now, what about Restcrest?"
Micklind went back to meditating, until Timmie thought she'd scream. "Nothing about it," he said. "At least nothing official. We've all been warned as far off as possible. But..." He lifted the book, weighed it. "I figure you haven't been listening to the warnings anyway. And I'd like to know what the hell's going on."
"You won't help?" Timmie asked.
"I am helping. I'm giving you what Vic had and staying out of your hair, which is not what my directive is. Besides, if something's going on over at that hospital, no cop is going to get the truth like a nurse is."
Much to Timmie's chagrin, she had to admit his point. "And any further... warnings?"
"I'm afraid you're on your own. Just remember that no matter what's behind this, it's a real hornet's nest. You're swinging your stick at the most important opportunity to hit Puckett since the railroad. Which means that whatever's going on, nobody wants anybody else to know about it."
Timmie grimaced. "We've already picked up on that. What about Victor, though?"
Micklind gave a tight little shrug on a par with his smiles. "I'd appreciate a regular update on what you find. With your experience I'm confident you won't compromise a possible case."
Now Timmie was stunned. Good lord, the second person in this town who actually acknowledged that her training meant more than knowing alternate uses for the paper bag. "That you can count on," she said. "You want our theories?"
Micklind pulled out a second, almost identical notebook and flipped it open. "Yes, ma'am, I probably do."
For the first time, Timmie smiled. "Tell me, Detective. You're not from Puckett, or I would have recognized you. Where are you from?"
"Chicago." His grin was brief, bright, and telling. "I came here looking for some peace and quiet."
* * *
When Timmie and Murphy settled at the table to study Victor Adkins's notebook a little later, two things stood out. Victor had been more careful with his private deliberations than with his public interrogations, and Detective Sergeant Micklind had done more than just find that notebook. The notes Victor kept were neat, concise, and objective. Micklind's additional comments showed up sporadically in a hastier scrawl.
Unfortunately, Victor hadn't gathered a whole lot more than Timmie and Murphy. He'd talked to quite a few people under different guises, dug through Van Adder's records, and pored over the charter for the revamped Restcrest. He'd visited families and talked to both Cindy and Ellen about their time in Restcrest, and all he'd been able to garner had been disdain for Van Adder, respect for Alex Raymond, and frustration with the families.
It was on the very last page of notes that Timmie struck gold. A list of names, meticulously recorded in Victor's round, careful, grade school-level hand. Familiar names, listed with ages, times and dates of death, and one other item. Their original admission date to Restcrest.
"Well, I'll be damned," Timmie muttered when she saw Butch Cleveland's name almost all the way down and realized what it was she was looking at. "I think it's a list of the old-timers."
Pushing the notebook at Murphy, she jumped up for her knapsack purse, where she'd been carrying her own list of cardiac arrest victims. "You don't think we could be this lucky, could we?" she asked, yanking them out and adding them to the pile.
"Of course we can," Murphy assured her, his finger steadily tracking down the crinkled, lined page. "That's how reporting works. Just ask Geraldo Rivera."
Even so, when they matched up every name but one, Murphy was the one to let out the low whistle. "It's almost a dead match. Fifteen out of sixteen are on that cardiac arrest list."
Timmie grimaced. "Nice turn of phrase, Murphy. You should be a reporter..." Reaching out to the list, she pointed to the only name that didn't match up. "Bertha Worthmueller," she said, tapping the paper. "I know her. I took care of her the other night. Tiny little woman with a big nose. Looks like a mole."
Murphy scowled. "Don't ever take care of me, Leary. I don't think I could stand the affection."
But Timmie was already shaking her head. "No, that's not the point. She's the only surviving old-timer, and she hasn't been doing well. I remember Ellen saying it when she was taking care of her, and she was right. She's been weak and nauseated. They've had her on parenteral nutrition only for the last four days."
Murphy raised an eyebrow. "She's also ninety-three and has Alzheimer's."
Timmie glared at him. "What if she's already being poisoned?" she demanded. "Nobody'd notice. Like you said, she's old, she's sick, and she has Alzheimer's, just like all the others."
Murphy sat back and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Shaking one out, he didn't bother to light it, just stuck it in his mouth, as if the oral stimulation was all he needed in order to think. "And you think who, exactly, is poisoning her?"
Timmie glared at him. "Not Landry, okay? It still doesn't mean it can't be Mary Jane or Davies or anybody who works up in that unit."
"Or the golden boy."
"No."
"He'd have access. He'd have motive. He'd have the weapon."
"No."
Murphy leaned back, crossed his arms, raised his eyebrows. The farther away he moved from her, the faster Timmie's heart worked. Timmie was amazed how quickly one could go from elation to distress. The thrill of the hunt had just become "Oh shit, the tiger's turned on me."
"Only one way to make sure," he said easily. "Watch her. Watch him. Make sure he never sees her alone."
"I can't."
"Which? Check the drugs? Control access? Take care of her?"
She got to her feet. "Do it alone," she said, walking. "And who else will help? Who can we trust up there?"
There was a tiny silence, and then Murphy's quiet question. "You don't trust the golden boy after all?"