Chapter 18 #2
Sullivan pointed to a line near the top of the first page.
"This is the prescription for blood pressure medication.
Based on the prescribed dosage, this bottle should have been refilled every thirty days.
But according to these records, the refill wasn't requested for forty-seven days.
" He moved his finger down the page. "This is the same medication, but the next cycle.
There were fifty-one days between refills.
" He looked up at Olivia. "The refills weren't requested on time. Can you explain?"
Olivia's hands came together in her lap. Her fingers interlaced and squeezed. "I did exactly what I was supposed to do." Her voice was sharper than the question warranted. The defensiveness was immediate and visible.
Sullivan did not react to the tone. He simply waited.
Olivia took a breath and tried again. "Celia Ann was confused toward the end. She didn't remember things. Sometimes she would refuse her pills or say she had already taken them when she hadn't." She shook her head. "It was difficult to manage. I did my best."
Barrett heard the shift. At her apartment weeks ago, Olivia had described herself as meticulous. She had said she kept careful track of everything. Now she was blaming the patient for confusion and resistance. Both versions of the story could not be true.
"So, Celia Ann sometimes refused her blood pressure medication?" Sullivan said.
"Yes," Olivia said. "She could be stubborn."
"But you continued to refill the prescriptions at the pharmacy?"
"Of course. I had to have them available in case she changed her mind. You can't just stop medication."
Sullivan nodded slowly, as though he found the explanation reasonable.
Then he turned to a different section of the records.
"Now, for heart medication, this is an opposite pattern.
Based on the prescribed dosage, the refills are coming in ahead of schedule.
In some cases, a week early. In one instance, eleven days early. "
He looked at Olivia and let the silence hold.
Her neck flushed red. The color started below her collar and moved upward, and Barrett watched it spread with the detached precision of a man reading a target's vital signs. She was losing control of her body's responses, even as she fought to maintain control of her words.
"I don't know," Olivia said. "Maybe I miscounted. Or maybe a bottle was dropped and pills were lost. It happens."
"Six times in six months?" Sullivan said. His voice carried no accusation. It was just a question.
"I don't remember the specifics," she said. "It was a stressful time. She was declining, and I was doing everything I could."
Sullivan let the answer sit without challenge. He made a note in the margin of the page, a small, deliberate gesture that Olivia tracked with her eyes. The act of writing something down in front of a person who was lying was its own form of pressure, and clearly Sullivan knew it.
Barrett shifted the conversation. "What about the doctor's visits in the final months? Dr. Morrison's records show that Celia Ann missed her last three scheduled appointments."
Olivia's arms came up and crossed over her chest. "She wasn't feeling well enough to go. The trips exhausted her."
"Did you inform Dr. Morrison of the changes in her condition?"
"I called the office. I told them she was too tired to come in."
"Did Dr. Morrison suggest any changes to the medications based on what you reported?"
"I don't recall." Olivia's voice had gone flat. The performance of grief and feigned competence had fallen away. "It was months ago. I can't remember every conversation."
Barrett noted her avoidance of direct eye contact. She was looking at the table, at the pharmacy records she had not touched, or at her own folded arms. She was looking everywhere except at the two men sitting across from her.
Sullivan pivoted again. His voice remained even, almost casual.
"Ms. Stewart, as part of the estate review, we've also been looking at financial records.
We've noticed some deposits in accounts associated with individuals connected to the estate.
Can you tell us about any additional income you had during the time you were caring for Celia Ann? "
The question landed like a stone in still water. Barrett saw the ripple move through Olivia's body. Her shoulders drew up. Her breath caught, audible in the quiet room. Her eyes went wide for a fraction of a second.
"What money?" she said. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Sullivan did not react. He held his pen over the notepad and waited, as though the question was still open, and he expected a more complete answer.
Olivia's face was damp now. A fine sheen of perspiration had appeared along her hairline and across the bridge of her nose. Her voice climbed half an octave. "My only income was my salary from caring for Celia Ann. That's it. I don't know what deposits you're referring to."
Barrett observed the response with the same clinical detachment he brought to every interrogation.
"What money?" was a revealing answer. Sullivan had not mentioned an amount or a source.
An innocent person with nothing to hide would have asked which deposits, or offered to explain their bank activity, or simply said they could provide records.
"What money?" was the response of a person who knew precisely what money was in question and was terrified that it had been found.
Sullivan made another note. "All right," he said. "We may follow up on that, but for now, I think we have what we need." He closed the file folder and set his pen down. "Thank you for coming in, Ms. Stewart. We appreciate your cooperation."
Olivia nodded. She uncrossed her arms and placed her hands on the table, and Barrett noticed that her fingers were trembling. She tried to stand and her chair scraped against the floor. She steadied herself with one hand on the table's edge.
"If you have any other questions, you know how to reach me," she said, her voice wavering.
Sullivan stood and opened the door for her. "We'll be in touch."
Barrett watched her walk out of the interview room.
Sullivan closed the interview room door and turned to Barrett. Neither of them spoke until they were back in Sullivan's office with the door shut.
"She's lying," Sullivan said.
"About the medications and the money," Barrett said. "The story she told about Celia Ann refusing pills and being confused contradicts what she said at her apartment. She described herself as meticulous the first time we met. Now Celia Ann was confused and stubborn. She can't have it both ways."
Sullivan sat behind his desk and opened his laptop.
"The pharmacy records don't lie. The blood pressure medication lasted too long between refills, which means the patient wasn't getting it.
The heart medication ran out too fast, which means it's likely that Olivia was administering more than prescribed. "
"And she can't explain either pattern without admitting what she did," Barrett said.
Sullivan pulled up a screen and turned the monitor so Barrett could see it. "Now we wait."
The screen displayed an audio feed from the phone monitoring system.
The tap on Olivia's phone had been authorized with the warrant that also produced the text message transcripts.
Sullivan had kept it active, anticipating this moment.
When Olivia felt pressure, she would probably reach out to the one person she believed could reassure her.
Barrett settled into the chair across from the desk and waited. He had learned the art of patience. It was inadvisable to rush an operation. It was better to let events develop at their own pace and stay alert for the moment that mattered.
It took less than ten minutes.
When the audio feed activated, Sullivan turned up the volume, and Olivia's voice filled the small office. She was breathing hard, as though she had been walking fast. The sound of a car engine hummed in the background. She had not even made it home before calling.
"They're asking questions." Olivia's voice was tight and thin, stripped of the composure she had tried to maintain in the interview room. "About medications. About money."
Kal's voice came through on the other end. His tone was cold, and he acted untroubled. "Don't panic. Stick to the story. You cared for her. She died of natural causes."
"What if they find out?" Olivia said. The words came fast, tumbling over each other. "What if they know?"
"They don't know anything," Kal said. "Stop being paranoid."
A pause. Barrett heard Olivia take a shaky breath. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. The fear was still there, but there was a note of desperation.
"When this is over, we'll be together like you promised, right?"
Barrett looked at Sullivan, whose eyes were fixed on the monitor.
Kal's answer came after a beat of silence that lasted just long enough to carry its own meaning. "Sure," he said. "Just hold it together."
The call ended.
The office was quiet. Sullivan reached over and turned down the volume of the monitor.
Kal's tone had not been warm or reassuring. There had been no affection in his voice, and no show of concern for the woman on the other end of the line.
Most likely, he had never intended to follow through on the promises he'd made to Olivia. She'd served her purpose—and now she was a liability.