Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gage
P op and I have an appointment to talk to the medical examiner at King’s Crossing Regional Hospital. This isn’t my first foray into the hospital’s morgue and it won’t be the last, but I’ve never witnessed an autopsy and I’ve never had to identify anyone. Mom and Rourke claimed Max’s body and chose what to bury him in. Fortunately, I didn’t have to make any decisions. I didn’t know him well enough to know what he’d want.
The coroner’s office smells sterile, maybe even a little dusty. It’s clean, and bookshelves full of medical textbooks line the walls.
I like reading thrillers and mysteries, and almost always the coroner and the detectives are at odds. Either the detectives want too much information and the coroner doesn’t have it, or the detectives think the coroner has made a mistake, which usually isn’t the case. The tension creates conflict and doubt, but there are only straightforward answers here.
“JodiAnne Donnelly’s cause of death was cardiac arrest, simple as that,” Dr. Krout says, leaning back into his chair, and the thing squeaks like crazy. He’s not a big man, but his chair doesn’t appreciate the weight.
“Is that common in someone so young?” Pop asks.
It’s a valid question.
“You’ve seen the list of medication she was on, haven’t you?”
Pop nods. So have I, and apprehension slithers over my skin and suddenly Dr. Krout’s little office is too hot.
He sighs and scrubs a hand over his tired eyes. “The human body isn’t made for that. You can call me a granola-guy, crunchy, a tree-hugger, or simply a nutcase, but the human body wasn’t created to withstand that kind of assault. Those drugs, prescribed over such a prolonged period of time, wore out her heart’s interior walls and when she attacked Mrs. Donnelly, the exertion was too much. Her heart stopped beating, and there wasn’t anything anyone could do. If it hadn’t been her heart, it would’ve been her liver. There has to be other ways to treat the human body...the human mind. I believe it and I’m called a crackpot, but the evidence is there. Look at JodiAnne Donnelly.”
I swallow hard and start thinking about Zarah’s health. She, too, has been on shitload medication, meds she didn’t need, Ash Black bribing a doctor to treat an illness she didn’t have.
Everyone talks about Zarah’s mind, her wispy memory, but I haven’t heard anyone say anything about her heart.
“There isn’t any indication that it was a homicide?” Pop asks.
I need to keep my head in the game. I try to shove Zarah’s heart, and other body parts, out of my mind. It doesn’t work. She looked good last night in a little slip of a bronze dress that matched her skin. I caught a glimpse of her date, too, after Zarah purchased that photo from a stunned Syd Miller. He looked steady. Her date, I mean, not Syd. Would glance at her with real affection as far as I could tell, and I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character.
The doctor’s words snap me back. “The family can sue Quiet Meadows all they like. They might have a case. You’d have to talk to the woman’s psychiatrist—I don’t know if all the medication was necessary. Prescription drugs is a billion-dollar industry in this country, gentlemen, and I doubt you’ll find any psychiatrist who would admit that a natural approach could work just as well. I could go on and on about the benefits of Vitamin B12, but no one wants to hear it because, you know, vitamins , and I go back to being called a crackpot.”
“But Mrs. Donnelly specifically thinks someone killed her daughter. Not it being a byproduct of her treatment,” I say, and hey, I sound coherent after thinking about Zarah’s legs. I need to get laid.
“Do you have motive?”
“Not at this time.”
“Then I’d have a hard time believing someone induced cardiac arrest in a twenty-seven year old woman just for the hell of it. If that’s all, I have work to do.”
Dr. Krout shows us the door, but through the glass window of his office we watch him pour a cup of coffee and pick up the phone. I guess he was done and wanted us out. Suits me just fine. I didn’t have any more questions. Pop and I knew when we took this case there wasn’t much to go on, but we still have her nurse to talk to, and her psychiatrist, for all the good it will do us.
Pop buckles his seatbelt and cranks the heater in the truck. The temperatures dipped overnight, and we’re colder than we’re used to. “Now where?”
“The nurse has another gig not far from the Donnelly’s. We’ll be early but that’s not a bad thing.”
Noon hour traffic slows us down, and we drive at a snail’s pace across the city. Pop fills the time with idle chitchat. “What’d you do last night?”
“Sierra and I went to a photography showing.”
“That’s not your style.”
I’m not offended because it’s usually not. “She didn’t have anyone to go with and she didn’t want to go alone.”
Pop scoffs. “I find that hard to believe, pretty girl like her. Don’t know why you can’t see she’s waiting for you to make a move.”
“No harm in going slow.”
Pissed her off last night too, when she invited me up to her apartment and I declined. Gawking at all that sex all night, she would’ve spread her legs real fast, and maybe, maybe, if Zarah hadn’t been there, I would have.
But she had been there. Her soft skin under my hand as I helped her through that anxiety attack...the way she smelled. Fuck. I dropped Sierra home and had a good time alone fantasizing about Zarah looking at me the way that woman in the photo she bought gazed at her lover.
I imagine wrapping my hand around her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my fingers. How wet she would be. How she would taste. Her little body under mine, telling me she loves me in her throaty, husky voice.
“Zarah Maddox was there last night,” Pop says, shifting in his seat.
I scowl. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re thinking about sex again, and don’t deny it. I can smell it on you. Baby’s not here, you can talk freely.” His lips twitch.
“Cute.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Maybe she was there, looking like sin in a little dress I’d have no trouble peeling off. But, Christ, Pop. You know her history. You watch the news. Black sold her, then all that time in that hellhole of a sanatorium. She’s probably on just as many drugs as JodiAnne. Maybe more. Black took pleasure in torturing her and still is.”
“You’re saying she’d be too much work.”
“Not to mention she has billions dollars behind her name. I have bills and live near the industrial park.”
“How much does Sierra make at the café?”
“Fifteen bucks an hour and she can whip up a mean cup of coffee.”
“More your speed is what you’re saying.”
“Damn straight.”
I idle at a light waiting for it to turn green, my jaw aching because I’m gnashing my teeth together so hard.
“Then why in the hell do you look so miserable?”
I grip the steering wheel and look out the window. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
Pop sighs. “I know you don’t think I know anything about it, but your mom was always too good for me. I knew it when I met her. She knew it, too, and it wasn’t long until she found someone better suited. I’ll never complain because I got you out of the deal. Maybe Zarah Maddox is out of your league, hell, she probably is, and I’m pushing you in the direction of a broken heart. But your brother got through to her. I think if Max could, you have a fair shot.”
In all this, I forgot Zarah was Max’s girlfriend, lover, significant other. He had her first.
It doesn’t console me, I only step back another million feet.
“Just another reason to keep my distance, Pop. Max and I sure as hell didn’t live in the same universe, either.”
Pop adjusts his ball cap and doesn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah. Guess you’re right. Invite Sierra to my place this week. I’ll make spaghetti and we’ll play Trivial Pursuit.”
The idea doesn’t turn my crank, but I say, “Yeah.” In fact, it pisses me off because all I can picture is Zarah sitting in my dad’s kitchen feeding Baby scraps under the table.
The nurse, who looks more like a hospital’s beefy orderly, talks to us on his lunch break. The house he works at has a fancy solarium, and we chat in front of a window. Enough plants to fill a florist’s shop listen in.
“How long have you worked for the Morrisons?” Pop asks, leaning away from a fern that looks like it wants to hug him.
I don’t mind plants myself—I like buying women flowers—but all the green is too much, and they lend a sickly smell to the air. The snow’s blinding light shines through all the windows, and I’d much rather have this talk inside a police department’s interrogation room.
“I lucked out, and I started this gig the day after JodiAnne’s death.”
“How long have you been an in-home nurse?”
“A little over a year.” Jason Bellamy bites into half of a turkey sandwich. Mayo oozes out the side.
He’s affable. Doesn’t seem to mind us wasting his lunch hour. But we’re not cops and people are more inclined to talk to us. They think if they’ve done something illegal, they won’t have to pay the price. Little do they know, we turn everything over to the police if we find out crimes have been committed.
“What was working for the Donnellys like?” Pop bats at the fern. A frond is brushing his cheek.
“It was fine, but she was a handful. Schizo.” Jason circles his finger in the air near his ear in the “crazy” gesture. “Kept saying people were after her—that they wanted to kill her. Hallucinations are common with schizos, but I’m not a psychiatric nurse. More muscle, if you know what I mean. I made sure she took her meds and didn’t hurt herself.”
“How’d you do that?” I ask.
“I took her on long walks. Miles. Then she’d sleep. A woman who has her mental issues belongs in a facility. It was only a matter of time before something like that happened.”
“Mrs. Donnelly said they were looking for a place.”
“Quiet Meadows closing put a lot of families in a jam,” Jason agrees, shoving the last of his sandwich into his mouth.
“How many meds was JodiAnne prescribed?” Pop asks, testing him. We already know.
Jason shakes his head. “I can’t tell you that. I’m obligated under HIPAA. If you want to know, you’ll have to ask Mrs. Donnelly. I could lose my license.”
A guy who has a little integrity. Some stand behind their ethics as an excuse to be difficult, but I think Bellamy wants to keep his job.
“That’s no problem. We’re in touch with her.”
Pop meets my eyes, and I guess it’s time to go. Bellamy didn’t give us anything, but then, we didn’t expect him to.
“What’s it like working here?” Pop asks, standing from the table.
“Better. Easier. She plays solitaire all day and I get paid to read.”
“Are you drawn to the mental health care jobs? Do you ask for them?” I ask curiously. It seems to me there are easier nursing jobs out there. Hospice. Nursing homes. Assisted living facilities.
“Yeah. I used to work at Quiet Meadows. Lost my job when the Feds shut it down. I’m clean, though,” he says, lifting his hands, showing us his palms. “I had no fucking clue they were mistreating patients.”
“Did you know JodiAnne while she was treated at the facility?”
“Nope. That place was separated by pay scale, you know? JodiAnne was too rich for me.”
“Then you didn’t see Zarah Maddox, either.”
Bellamy whistles. “Dude, no one saw Zarah Maddox. If I didn’t see Ashton Black visit her, I would’ve thought she was a myth. Her brother visited every once in a while, and man, did they roll out the red carpet whenever those two stopped by.”
“Thanks for your time,” Pop says. We shake hands, thank the family for access to their daughter’s caregiver, and sit in my truck while it warms up.
“He didn’t kill anyone.”
“If he did, he didn’t know it.”
“Dead end then,” I say, shifting into gear and rolling onto the street.
“We still have the psychiatrist.”
“She won’t say much. Bellamy threw us the HIPAA law quick enough. She’ll hide behind client confidentiality.”
“Probably right, but never hurts to see what will shake out. It’s Donnelly’s dime.”
“Anything else in the pipeline?”
“Your mother called me again. You avoiding her?” Pop asks, looking at me out of the corners of his eyes.
“No. Yes. No. She’ll want to talk about Max.”
“You don’t want to? He was your brother.”
“I know who he was. She’ll want to know when I’m going to go through his apartment. I’ve paid rent on that place for over a year. She wants me to clean it out.”
“What are you hiding from, Gage?”
I look Pop full-on. He rarely says my name. When he does, I know it's serious.
I'm silent until we reach the office. I park next to Pop’s car and let my hands drop off the steering wheel. “I was a shitty brother. I never cared about spending time with him. I never felt good enough. Never felt like we had anything in common.”
Pop doesn’t say anything. Probably feels a little guilty. He and Mom kept their distance after the divorce and I preferred spending as much time with Pop as I could. Mom didn’t complain, especially after Max was born.
“It’s why I’m not going to make a play for Zarah Maddox. Max was her style. He had class. I’m a hood, a punk. You think she wants to date someone like me? She can have her pick of anyone in the world. And I mean literally, Pop. Anyone. I don’t want to clean out his apartment. It will just remind me of what a jackass I was.”
To my embarrassment, tears clog my throat. I never cried over Max’s death, blamed him, really, for getting shot in the first place.
“I’m sorry this is all I am,” Pop says and unbuckles his seatbelt. We both stare at the rundown strip mall that houses our office. “I’m sorry I’m not tuxedos and caviar like Rourke is. I’m sorry we don’t jet off on vacation.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I’m not asking you to be like that. I’m not asking for that lifestyle.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.” Pop jumps out of the truck and I sit, fucking tears burning the backs of my eyes.
I made him feel bad for where he came from, and that hadn’t been my intention. I’m proud of our roots, and I’m proud of the work we do. I’m proud to be blue collar because God knows being rich isn’t a yardstick for integrity or human decency. Every day the DA’s office arrests another asshole.
I don’t want money. I don’t need it.
Zarah’s fucking with my head.
I’ll clean out Max’s apartment and put it all behind me. Letting it sit is a waste of money.
I debate going into the office and apologizing, but in the end, I leave it alone. He has his own regrets with the way he and Mom raised me. He doesn’t have to shoulder the blame they didn’t work out, but parents feel like that when they divorce. I know my parents love me, and that’s more than what some kids have.
Baby’s happy to see me, and I let her outside to sniff around. My cell dings and I yank off my gloves and pull it out of the back pocket of my jeans. It’s a text from an unknown number.
Hi.
I think the person has the wrong number and say so. You have the wrong number.
I shove it into my pocket, and Baby keeps sniffing. My phone chimes again.
Is this Gage?
Yeah. Who’s this?
Zarah.
I’m tempted to tell her I’m busy. I don’t want to talk to her, not after the conversation Pop and I just had, and nothing could make me more aware I don’t belong in Zarah’s world than watching Baby sniff around a dumpster in the industrial park.
Pursing my lips, I type, Are you OK?
I’m fine. Do you want to bring Baby to play outside? Does she get along with other dogs?
Zarah’s inviting me over for a puppy playdate? Baby does well with other animals, and she’d be thrilled to chase after other dogs on a property of that size. I’m not surprised Zane and Stella have dogs sniffing around. They probably have armed guards too, lurking in the woods bordering their house.
She likes other dogs. What were you thinking? I ask against my better judgment. Didn’t I just finish convincing myself I didn’t want to have anything to do with Zarah Maddox?
Why can’t I tell her no?
Because I have the same problem every male that has a pulse has. Look into her deep brown eyes and I’m fucking toast.
What are you doing?
Baby’s still nosing at the thin layer of snow behind my apartment building.
Nothing.
Drive out now and stay for dinner.
It’s an offer I can’t resist. OK. See you in an hour.
I must have made her happy because smiley faces pop up on my screen.
“Want a playdate?” I call to Baby.
Her ears perk up. She knows the word “play.”
I want a playdate, too, but chances are a hundred percent that while Baby gets to roll around in the snow, I won’t be as fortunate.
Cursing my too-vivid imagination, all I think about on the road is lying Zarah back into a snowbank and kissing her as if both our lives depended on it.
I pull up in front of her house and Zarah’s already waiting outside. My heart does this stupid little patter thing when I see her, and that’s how I know I’m really and truly fucked.
Baby’s going crazy on the bench. She remembers Zarah, and she’s curious about the dogs Zarah has by her side. They’re two of the most gorgeous German shepherds I have ever seen, and they sit at her feet like they were born to serve her. Just like any male of any species.
I park and kill the engine.
Baby scrambles out of the truck and bounces neatly onto her feet. She cautiously approaches the dogs and they sniff politely at each other. Not only are the dogs beautiful, they’re also well behaved, and they only need a few seconds to grow comfortable with each other and move on to the play portion of the date.
“Thanks for asking Baby, too,” I say, my boots shuffling through the fresh snow.
“Sure. Do you have to use the bathroom before we go? Stella told me to remember to ask because the drive is long.”
I want to chuckle at her earnestness, but I’m afraid that would embarrass her. She’s trying to be polite. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Okay.”
The dogs are hunched in anticipation waiting for the okay to run, and the second Zarah says, “Go then,” the shepherds zip off. Baby waits for me.
“You can go, too.”
Baby’s paws dig into the thin layer of snow, and she dashes after the others, catching up to them in record time.
Zarah and I ease into it a little more gently, wandering away from the house toward the woods.
“What are their names?”
“Sansa and Arya. They were the governor’s dogs. Stella made friends with them the night of the fundraiser, and she wanted to keep them. She went to Florida get to know her parents, and after she came back, Zane called Governor Guthrie. He didn’t want to give them away, but my brother wore him down. Zane gives her whatever she wants.”
“The governor’s a Game of Thrones fan. Did you watch the show?”
Zarah shakes her head. “I read the books.”
I smile down at her. “Me too.”
She looks cute in a gray winter jacket and cap. She’s wearing sturdy boots, and she’s steady over the yard. Though Christmas isn’t that far off, we don’t have much snow, and my snowbank fantasy turns into having her against a tree, but we’re wearing too many clothes to do anything. Besides, Sierra and I stayed for a bit after I calmed Zarah down at the gallery, and I watched how her date treated her. Protective and kind. Just what she needs.
“Did you enjoy the rest of your evening?” I ask.
“When?”
“Last night at the gallery.”
She blushes, or it could have been the chilly air. “The photo will be delivered this week. Did you buy anything?”
“No.” I couldn’t afford anything at the showing even if I had found something I wanted. “You and...” I trail off. I don’t know her date’s name.
“Tate.”
I laugh. “Tate? What kind of a name is that?”
She looks at me and squints. “What do you mean?”
I’m being stupid for judging someone for their name, especially since I saw evidence for myself he seemed like a decent guy. I’m not usually so vindictive. As you get to know me, you’ll see jealousy can make me a little mean. It doesn’t happen often.
“Not very manly is all,” I mumble.
She shrugs. “He was nice, but when he looked at me, I didn’t get the squishy feeling. Like when I’m with you.”
I put a hand to her shoulder and we stop. Up ahead, the dogs are scrabbling through the trees, and the rustling echoes to us, the twigs snapping. “You get a squishy feeling when you’re with me? Is that bad? I would never hurt you.”
“You wouldn’t mean to,” she says, correcting me.
I have nothing to say to that because she’s right. I’d never intentionally hurt her, but that’s not how relationships work.
“Right.”
We pick our way through an overgrown trail, and all I can hear are the dogs barking at the squirrels, the squirrels running off, and birds. Tons of birds too high up in the trees to care about the dogs below.
It’s eerie, and I can’t say I like it.
Maybe I’m more city than I thought.
The air smells clean, like winter, cold, if that makes sense. Woodsy. Earthy. Like how I drink my coffee. Smoky. It’s a lot different than car exhaust or the stink of the Renegade on a hot summer’s day, I can tell you that.
The trees have completely swallowed us, and I’ll have to trust Zarah knows her way back.
“Do you spend a lot of time out here?” I ask, helping her step over a large log blocking the path.
She looks at me, smiling her thanks. She’s gorgeous, her brown skin popping against the snow, her lips painted a berry pink. Mittens protect her tiny hands from the cold, and she looks like a little girl wearing her knit cap. The expression in her eyes says the same. Innocence, but it’s not. She’s seen too much, been treated without kindness for too long, and it’s then I realize it’s not innocence but maybe trust. We’re alone in the middle of the woods, and she’s not scared of me.
I want to wrap my arms around her and keep her safe forever.
“I like to be alone. It’s exhausting trying to explain what I’m thinking, puzzling out my emotions for the right words to describe what I need. The drugs make me feel like I’m swimming. My memories are liquid.” She moves her hand in an up and down motion mimicking a fish in the water.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. The people in my life are patient. Stella talks to me like I’m normal, and Ingrid works with me. Lucille lets me help her cook. Everyone is doing what they can, and that tires me out, too.”
“I understand. Sometimes after a tough case, I veg out on the couch and watch movies for a couple of days.”
“Zane told me you’re a private investigator, and he gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind I texted you.”
“No, I don’t mind.”
She smiles at me and her eyes crinkle in the corners. “You said you and the woman from the café aren’t a couple.”
“We’re not.”
Zarah starts walking again, and the dogs zoom by us playing tag.
“You looked like it. She likes touching you.”
“I guess. I didn’t notice.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
If she can ask, so can I. “Did you sleep with your date, Zarah? Did Tate bring you home, take off your clothes? Kiss you all over until you were panting his name? Did he lick you until you came?”
Her eyes grow large, and her throat works. I’m stumbling through new territory. I’ve never dated a woman who’s been a victim of sexual assault. At least, I don’t think I have. I suppose women don’t volunteer that kind of information until they need to, if at all.
“No. I want to be in love when I have sex. I want him to love me back.” She pauses. “You have sex with women you don’t love.”
I’m honest. “Sometimes.”
“Have you ever been in love?” she asks.
“Once, a long time ago.”
“What happened to her?”
“She found someone else.”
“Why?”
I push back a laugh. She’s trying so hard to hold a conversation, but we’re all over the map and my head is spinning.
“She didn’t like what I do for a living.”
“Stella says it’s sexy.”
“What do you think? Me chasing down bad guys. Do you think it’s sexy?” I’m teasing her, but I’m invested in her answer.
She ignores my question.
“Stella says kissing a tall man is awkward because we’re short, and it’s easier if he picks you up.”
“Yeah, that works. It’s romantic, right?” She’s wading through so much. Emotions, feelings, memories, love, and that’s only the mental part of it. Then there’s the physical. Touch. Someone holding her without the intent to harm her. Kisses and cuddles in the dark. “Did Max pick you up?”
She shakes her head. “No. Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure. I’m good at keeping them.”
“Max was a gentleman. He was safe, and funny, and kind, and I think I might have loved him a little, but it wasn’t squishy. Does that make sense?”
Unbelievably, it did. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“Zarah?”
“Yes?”
“You said I make you feel squishy.”
She blushes. “Yes.”
“Good.”
She crinkles her eyes at me.
Yep. I am really and truly fucked.