Chapter 7 – Shane
I’m in my downtown office building the following morning when there’s a knock on my open door.
Diane stands in the doorway and informs me my nine o’clock appointment has arrived. “Detective Jamison’s here to see you, Shane.”
When Tyler walks into my office, I feel an overwhelming sense of deja-vu. Seeing him in his black suit and tie takes me back to the day, five years ago, when he walked into my office wanting to hire my company to protect his younger sister.
“You’re still wearing the undertaker’s suit, I see. Aren’t you a private investigator now? You could wear anything, and yet you still look like a homicide detective.”
He gestures to his suit. “This is how I dress when I’m pissed.”
“Then I guess you were always pissed when you were a detective.”
He shrugs, not bothering to contradict me. “I didn’t have much to be happy about back then.”
That’s a rare admission for him to make. Before he met Ian, Tyler had no social life to speak of, certainly no love life. He was deep in the closet and in utter denial of his sexuality. Ian charged through Tyler’s defenses like a battering ram and changed all that.
“Ian has certainly softened your edges,” I note.
Tyler surprises me by smiling. “You could say that.”
I gesture to one of the chairs facing my desk.
“Have a seat.” I lean back in my desk chair.
“Thanks for coming to meet me here at my office. I thought it would be best if we talked away from Beth. She’s stressed enough as it is over this Andrew Morton debacle.
I’m trying to shield her from as much of that as I can. ”
Tyler’s expression darkens. “I was going to ask how she’s doing.”
“She’s trying to hold it together—mostly for the kids’ sake. They take their cues from her, and she wants to keep things as normal as possible.”
Tyler nods. “How can I help?”
I appreciate Tyler’s no-nonsense, straight-to-the-point approach. “I’d like to ask you to do some digging, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Anything. Just name it.”
“Something underhanded is going on here. The psychiatrist—a Dr. Rhona Masterson—has consistently reported over the years that Andrew still represents a risk to Beth. All of a sudden, she’s making a complete reversal and says he’s ready for release? It doesn’t make sense.”
Tyler nods. “Do you have any specific suspicions?”
I shrug. “No. We’ve considered everything, though, including bribery.”
“You think the Mortons could be bribing the psychiatrist to change her tune? That’s a pretty serious allegation. If it’s true, she could lose her medical license.”
“It’s one possibility—one that neatly explains her sudden change of heart.”
Tyler reaches inside his suit coat and retrieves a small notebook and a pen. “The father is Richard Morton? He’s a cardiologist, right?”
“Yes.”
“And the mother?”
“Cynthia Morton, a pediatrician.”
Tyler jots a few things down in his notebook.
“Paper and pen, huh?” I say. “That’s so old school of you.”
Tyler chuckles. “Now you sound like Ian.” He flips his notebook shut and slips it and the pen back into his pocket. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
I hold out my hand across the desk. “Thanks, Tyler.”
He grips my hand. “No need to thank me, Shane. You and I want the same thing.”
“Right.” Beth’s safety and happiness. “You and I have come a long way since the night you had me arrested and thrown in jail for assaulting an officer, especially considering you were the one who threw the first punch. I was just defending myself.”
This time he actually laughs. “I can’t wait until Luke is old enough to hear that story.”
“Please don’t,” I beg, suppressing my own laughter. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”
* * *
Thursday morning
The hearing is scheduled for ten o’clock. I wake up at six and can’t go back to sleep. My mind is racing. I’m hoping, of course, that Andrew’s request for release is soundly rejected by the board. But at the same time, my brain is already strategizing ways to protect Beth in the event it’s not.
I slip out of bed quietly so I don’t wake her. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I head into the kitchen to start the coffee. Today’s going to be a high-octane day when it comes to caffeine.
I needn’t have worried, though, because Cooper beat me to it. I find him sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading a hardcover book.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” I ask as I walk to the coffeemaker and pour myself a cup. I join him at the table.
“I hardly slept a wink last night for worrying about Beth. Any news from Tyler?”
“Nothing so far. He’s been splitting his time between investigating the psychiatrist as well as Andrew’s parents. No obvious connection yet.”
“The Mortons are loaded,” Cooper says. “They can certainly afford to bribe Masterson. If she is acting unethically, she’s taking a serious risk. She’ll never work as a doctor again.”
“If the price is high enough, it might be worth it to her.”
“I smell coffee,” says a sleepy male voice. A bleary-eyed Sam walks into the kitchen, in the process of securing his hair on top of his head with a black elastic band. “You guys couldn’t sleep either?”
“Go back to bed, babe,” Cooper says.
“Are you coming?” Sam asks, leveling his puppy dog eyes on Cooper. “I woke up and you were gone.”
I shake my head. The co-dependence these two—a bodyguard and a former sniper—have for each other kills me. I guess I shouldn’t talk, though. Beth and I aren’t any better.
Cooper gets up from the table, walks over to Sam, and cups his face. He presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Go. I’ll come in a little bit.”
Feeling like a third wheel, I stand with my coffee. “I think I’ll take this to my office.”
Cooper grips Sam’s shoulder, turns him to face the way he came, and gives him a gentle nudge. “Go back to bed.” Once Sam’s out of earshot, Cooper rolls his eyes at me. “He can be such a baby sometimes.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”
After Sam and Cooper return to their room, I decide to head back to bed, too. I strip and crawl back into our bed to spoon Beth, wrapping my arm around her waist and tugging her close.
She’s still naked from the previous night, which has my dick coming to attention. I pull my hips back so I don’t wake her.
She moans softly and pushes her ass back against my erection.
I kiss the back of her head as I lay my palm on her belly. “Shh. Go back to sleep.”
* * *
At eight-thirty, after kissing the kids goodbye and Beth giving her mom unnecessary childcare instructions, we leave the house in Cooper’s Escalade.
Cooper drives, and Sam rides shotgun. I sit in the back with Beth.
It’s nearly an hour-long drive to the psychiatric hospital northwest of Chicago, where Andrew is incarcerated.
I try not to be obvious as I look Beth over.
She looks very professional in a light gray business suit—slacks, jacket, and a white blouse.
Her silky blonde hair is up in a twisted knot.
There’s a gold chain around her neck that holds a photo pendant I gave her for Christmas.
Inside is a picture of us at our wedding and a photo of the two of us with our kids.
It occurs to me we might need to update that family photo soon.
Despite the light bit of make-up she has on—a little mascara, a touch of blush, and some pink gloss on her lips—she looks pale.
She had nothing but coffee for breakfast this morning.
Despite my best efforts, I wasn’t able to get her to eat a thing.
She said she was too nervous. Even Cooper failed to get her to eat, and he even offered to make her pancakes.
She’s sitting quietly in her seat, her hands clasped in her lap, staring out her window at the passing scenery. I can’t stand seeing her so emotionally disconnected. I take one of her hands in mine and set it on my thigh. When I lace our fingers together, she squeezes my hand.
“If he gets out, this is going to hang over us for the rest of our lives,” she says quietly. “It’s never going to go away. And our children—” The words die in her throat, and she looks out the window.
I lean over to kiss the side of her head. “I swear to you, this will get resolved one way or another, no matter what it takes.” I turn her face toward mine and meet her gaze head-on, trying to let her know I mean exactly what I say.
Read between the lines, sweetheart. One way or another.
I’ve taken matters into my own hands before when it came to her safety. I’ll gladly do it again, without hesitation. Years ago, my brother Jake and I did just that, and we eliminated Howard Kline permanently.
“If he does get out, either now or at any time in the future, I’ll find some way to fix this.”
She closes her eyes and leans back on the headrest, effectively shutting the world out.
The drive to our destination goes smoothly.
I’m focused on Beth the entire way. She’s off in her own world, and I’m getting strong vibes from early in our relationship when we’d drive north to my Kenilworth home, and she’d zone out, watching the boats on Lake Michigan. It’s her way of masking her anxiety.
When we arrive at the psychiatric hospital, Cooper parks in the visitor lot, and the four of us walk in together. We sign in at a security desk.
Troy’s already here, waiting for us. He looks quite the part of a high-powered attorney in his dark Armani suit, polished black loafers, and slicked back dark hair.
As we’re checking in, Tyler walks into the lobby. When Beth sees her brother, she goes to him, and he wraps her in his arms. As he murmurs something to her, he catches my gaze over her head and nods to me.
Once we’re all signed in, we head for the hearing room. The others follow Troy, while Beth and I bring up the rear. When I glance at Beth, my chest hurts. She looks pale, and her eyes look haunted. She’s clearly not comfortable at the thought of facing Andrew.
As the others walk into the room, Beth and I hang back a moment in the hallway. I turn to face her, cupping her face in my hands. “You don’t have to do this, sweetheart. I can have Sam and Cooper take you home. Troy and I can handle this.”
She gazes up at me with a pained expression. “I hate him,” she says, her voice cracking. “I can’t stop thinking about what he did.”
At the sound of footsteps, I glance down the hall to see Andrew’s parents headed our way.
Cynthia Morton has the decency to look away, avoiding my gaze altogether. Richard, on the other hand, looks right at me, his expression a mixture of annoyance and condescension.
What are you up to, Richard?
The Mortons pass us without a word and enter the room.
Troy steps out into the hallway. “They’re about to start.”
Taking a deep breath, Beth pulls away from me and straightens her jacket. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she says as she walks into the room.
The hearing room is set up much like a courtroom, but instead of a judge seated at the front of the room, there’s a long mahogany table where three individuals sit facing the room, one African-American woman probably in her sixties, along with two Caucasian men, one silver haired and one perhaps in his early forties.
Facing the long table are two smaller ones separated by a mahogany podium. Troy is standing at one of the smaller tables. He motions for me and Beth to join him. The other smaller table is currently unoccupied.
Behind the tables is a wooden railing, and behind that are two rows of wooden chairs currently occupied by Sam, Cooper, and Tyler on one side, and Andrew’s parents on the other.
I glance back at Richard Morton, and he meets my gaze. His expression is stoic, revealing nothing of what he’s feeling. His wife is seated beside him, her expression carefully neutral, giving away nothing. I notice, though, she has a death grip on her husband’s coat sleeve.
I can imagine what the Mortons are feeling. Their only child has been locked up for nearly five years. I’m sure they want him to come home, whether he’s ready to or not.
I pull out a chair for Beth, and she sits between me and Troy.
The African-American woman seated at the front of the room picks up a landline, pushes a button, and speaks quietly into the mouthpiece. Shortly after she hangs up the phone, a side door opens.
Beth reaches blindly for my hand as three people walk into the room.
The first one is Dr. Rhona Masterson, who looks to be in her late-forties or early fifties.
She’s dressed professionally in an emerald green business suit with a white blouse and is carrying a burgundy portfolio in the crook of her arm.
Her brown hair, liberally threaded with gray, is pulled back in a tight bun.
Andrew follows her, dressed in a gray hospital jumper. He shuffles slowly into the room, escorted by a hospital staff member dressed in navy blue scrubs. Andrew’s gaze bounces wildly around the room until it settles on his parents’ faces.
Andrew’s brown hair is buzzed short. As he approaches the second smaller table, he finally notices Beth. He stares at her with expressionless, dull eyes. It’s impossible to guess what he’s thinking.
Does he feel remorse for what he did to her? That’s the real question here.
As Andrew takes a seat beside his psychiatrist, Beth digs her fingernails into my arm. He’s sitting maybe twenty feet away from her.
I catch her looking at him out of the corner of her eye, trying not to be obvious. Andrew doesn’t have any such qualms. He stares openly at her, almost as if he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. When Dr. Masterson says something to him, he redirects his gaze to the front of the room.
I squeeze Beth’s hand, and she grips mine so tightly I feel my circulation cut off.
As the African-American woman calls for the hearing to begin, the room goes silent.