Chapter Two #2
“Divorce papers. His wife needs it done today because she’s not coming home after work—she’s taking their kids and going to her parents’. He’s abusive and volatile. We’ll also need to escort her at some point to retrieve her personal items.”
“We don’t usually take these cases.”
“You used to.”
“That was me. Mom hates divorce court.”
“It’s the daughter of a friend of Aunt Rita’s.”
That explained it. Mom would do anything her sister asked of her.
“I’ll call you when I’m heading in.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re home.”
“Perceptive, big brother,” I said. “I’m getting coffee and meeting with a potential client.” Slight fib, but easier than explaining
the truth over the phone. “If it pans out, I’ll tell you about it on the drive to Buckeye. Later.”
I ended the call before Jack had more questions I wanted to avoid.
Two more police cars sped in the same direction as the first two, followed by an ambulance. Bad accident. I hoped no one was
dead.
It was seven fifteen—Liz was late. The accident probably delayed her, and I was in no rush.
Last night, I’d told Cal what Liz had said; we both agreed that if a computer file was missing, it was either deleted—and
could be found in a backup, if we had the individual’s name or ID number—or it had been modified, so that it couldn’t be found
through standard medical search terms.
Cal had asked one question that now had me thinking.
Was there a lot of overlap between your dad and Dr. Klein? Did they see the same patients?
I honestly didn’t know. I imagined some, but I wouldn’t know if it was a couple patients or a hundred patients.
My dad was a general practitioner with a specialty in orthopedics, so he handled general health, but also treated problems related to bones and joints.
Dr. Klein was a psychiatrist who specialized in PTSD.
They both worked for the main VA medical center in Phoenix.
As a GP, my dad could refer patients to Dr. Klein, so yeah, maybe they had a few in common.
I didn’t want to read too much into a brief conversation with the nurse. She hadn’t given me enough information to reach any
conclusion. But I remembered my conversation with Georgia Rollins in February—where she sent me down the rabbit hole.
I’d tracked her down in Tucson where she’d taken a job after Dr. Klein was killed. She’d been surprised to see me—and maybe
she looked a little scared, I considered now. Georgia was younger than me. She started at the VA right out of college with
a degree in molecular biology, and a year later was attached to Dr. Klein. Less than a year later, he was dead. She admitted
that she’d been avoiding my calls and emails because she wanted to put everything behind her.
She’d seemed on the up-and-up. Then: twenty-five, young, shy, almost demur. She stated that she liked and respected both Klein
and my dad and was upset about what happened, that she had no reason to believe my dad didn’t do it if he said he did. Why
would he lie about killing someone?
Why indeed.
But I had that itch, that tingle that said Georgia knew more. She hadn’t wanted to be found—literally changed her work name
to Sue Rollins, Sue being her middle name—and while on the one hand she seemed chatty and forthcoming, she also didn’t tell me anything
I didn’t already know. So I pushed. She said I should talk to Dr. Klein’s ex-wife, Nadine. She was also a psychiatrist, and
they were still friendly and he often talked to her.
I thanked Georgia for the information and returned to Phoenix.
Tried to find Nadine Klein. She wasn’t local, but I knew that Dr. Klein had moved from New York to Phoenix ten years before he was killed.
I expanded, focusing on New York and going from there.
I spent weeks looking for her—thinking that maybe she got remarried.
Or used her maiden name. So I looked for Klein’s marriage certificate, which isn’t something you can get online.
I actually flew to New York to dig into both Klein and his supposed ex-wife.
He did have a wife. Her name was Vivian Klein, and she died shortly before he moved to Phoenix. She wasn’t a psychiatrist, or even
a doctor. They’d had one son, who was married and lived in Boston. There was no woman named “Nadine” that I could find in
Dr. Klein’s life. Not his mother, grandmother, sister, or associate. I had his employment history and started going through
people he had worked with, but it was laborious and incomplete.
I drove back to Tucson after I exhausted all avenues. Georgia had quit her job and left no forwarding address.
She’d lied to me and disappeared. Or intentionally misled me. Or maybe . . . maybe she believed he had an ex-wife named Nadine. Except why would Klein lie about that to his assistant? The whole thing was fishy
and I wanted to talk to her again. Except I couldn’t. Because she was gone.
I’d considered then that she’d intentionally lied because she was guilty of something—murder, even—but that simply didn’t
feel right to me. Why would she suggest to Liz that she reach out to me if she saw anything weird at the medical center? And
was it before or after I spoke to her?
I stared out the window, looking for Liz Swanson. She was now more than thirty minutes late and I suspected she’d stood me
up.
I scrolled through my recent calls and hit her number.