I washed down the last of a tasteless biscuit with cold coffee, then started toward the door. The kitchen clock read 7:35, too early for me to be up as a rule. But these were days without rules. I put my hand on the doorknob, then stopped. I couldn’t do this alone. I needed help. Rachel would need help. It’s time we all came clean with each other.
I walked back into my bedroom and called Walter’s office.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “He’s not in yet.” I was surprised anyone was in yet, but after all, the sharks feed early.
“Can I leave him a message? It’s urgent. In fact, it’s an emergency.”
“Go ahead. I’ll see he gets the message.” Her voice was concerned, serious.
I gave her Rachel’s address. “Tell him to meet me there as soon as he can. It’s very important.”
“Can I tell him what it’s about?”
I couldn’t leave that in a message. “Just tell him to be there.”
The drive over to Rachel’s left me brittle, like the time Lanie wanted me to meet her for lunch. I knew she was going to divorce me; I knew that was what she was going to tell me. But I went to lunch anyway. It was like that today.
I turned onto Golf Club Lane and drove quickly to Rachel’s driveway. I imagined Walter’s BMW pulling out just as I pulled in; the thought made me laugh out loud.
The Ford chugged up the driveway, squealed to a stop behind Conrad’s Jag. I wondered if she’d keep the Jaguar, now that she had all that money. I rang the bell a few times, with no response. But the cars were there. Odd, I thought.
I walked around the side of the house, down the driveway a few feet, and stood in the sun. The storm front had long since moved through. It was a beautiful, sunlit day. The sky was deep blue; even the air temporarily clean.
Rachel shot into view, running at a good solid clip from up the street to my left. She disappeared behind a line of hedges, then came back into sight running the street in front of the house. She moved quickly, with an ease and grace that gave me an ache in my chest. Rachel really was beautiful, on the outside anyway.
She turned into the driveway and slowed as she saw me. Her arms dropped to her side, and she loped up next to me, glistening with sweat and breathing hard.
“Harry,” she panted. “What-”
“Hi, Rachel,” I said. “How’re you doing?”
“Tired. Out of breath. Glad to see you, though. C’mon inside.”
She walked past me, head down, shaking her arms and shoulders to stay loose. She pulled her keys out of her fanny pack, turned off the burglar alarm, and opened the kitchen door. Inside, the remnants of a breakfast eaten solo remained on the table.
“Let me run upstairs and get a towel,” she said, pulling off the fanny pack and laying it on the table. “Be right back.”
She left the kitchen and went down the hall. I heard her footsteps on the stairs. The fanny pack was lying there; I reached over, unzipped it, spread it open wide.
Inside the dark pouch, I could see what looked like a black plastic box. I pulled it out. A button on the side, four metal contacts on the end. Just like Lonnie showed me.
I shoved the stun gun back inside the pouch, zipped it shut. Damn, I thought.
Footsteps padded down the stairs, then through the hall. She stepped into the kitchen, hair combed straight back, face rinsed, towel around her neck.
“Good run?”
“Yeah, almost an hour. Great way to start the day. You want coffee or something?”
“Sure.” I stepped around the counter to get out of her way.
“You look like you’ve been up all night, darling. Been on a stakeout?”
“Something like that.” It hurt to have her call me darling.
She opened a bag of gourmet coffee. I recognized the store’s gold sticker. They imported it special, mixed the blend themselves, ground it right in front of you. Real class.
“Harry,” she said, pouring water into the coffee maker, “how come you’re here?”
My heart made a big thump inside my chest. I shut my eyes, tried to get centered, get ready.
“Rachel, we have to talk,” I said.
She turned to me, fidgeted with a couple of coffee mugs, sugar, milk pitcher. “About what?”
“I found out how Conrad was killed.” She stopped cold, her eyes meeting mine for a split second, then turning away again.
“We know how Conrad was killed, don’t we?”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant how he came to be killed.”
“Really? Who killed my husband?” she asked. “If you know who killed him, you should tell me.” Her voice was soft, almost far away. But a deep red color rose in her cheeks.
“The way I see it, whoever killed Conrad was paid to do it. A contract job. Paid by somebody who knew their way around the hospital, knew pharmaceuticals. Somebody with medical training. Somebody who could get into a hospital, steal what was needed, then make sure the hired killer did it right.”
She laughed, a short, nervous snicker. “Well, that narrows it down. Only about a thousand suspects.”
“It does, Rachel. It narrows it down a lot.”
“So who was it?”
“The only person I can find who not only had the knowledge and the opportunity, but the motive. Homicide 101, Rachel. I should have figured it out sooner. The first thing you ask is ‘Who benefits?’ ”
She looked up from the counter. The color that rose so quickly in her face had drained away just as fast, leaving her skin a perfect, almost translucent alabaster.
“There’s only one person who benefits,” I whispered. “You.”
Nothing showed in her face, no reaction, no flicker of reflex or fear. Her eyes were steady, calm.
“Harry, you’ve been watching too much television.”
“It would have been easy for you to steal the protocurarine. It wasn’t a class narcotic, would have been accessible for somebody who fit in at the hospital.”
“Harry,” she laughed, “I didn’t even work there.”
“But you spent time there. Your husband worked there. You put him through med school. You’re a nurse. You knew how the system worked. There are hundreds of nurses in that facility every day. You put on the uniform, blend right in with them. You just went where you wanted. Who was going to stop you?”
“You’re crazy,” she said quietly after a long moment.
“I even know how he was put down without a mark on him. I know about the stun gun,” I said. I reached over, unzipped the pack, turned it upside down and poured all her belongings onto the kitchen table.
Her eyes darkened. “No marks,” I continued. “No permanent damage. When he was lying on the bed helpless, the killer shot him full right through his pants leg.”
“Harry, I-”
“Did you imagine you heard his breathing after that?” I demanded. “Could you hear his death rattle inside you? I did, Rachel. I felt him die under me.”
Her eyes reddened, filled with tears. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.”
“Am I wrong, Rachel? If I am, show me how.”
“You are wrong! Why would I want him killed? I loved him!” she yelled.
“I know about the money, Rachel. I know how far in debt you were. I know how close to collapse you were.” I paused a moment, steadying myself against the back of a chair. “And I know about the insurance. You’re a wealthy woman, Rachel. If you get away with it.”
She stared at me silently, her face a blank. We stood there like that for what seemed like a long time.
“How much did it cost you, Rachel? Where’d you find the guy? I’m glad, for some reason, that you couldn’t do it yourself.”
“I didn’t kill him, Harry. And I didn’t pay to have him killed.”
“How long,” I asked, “have you been seeing Walter Quinlan?”