Chapter Twenty-One Margo Angelhart
Chapter Twenty-One
Margo Angelhart
I arrived at Honor House at ten thirty Thursday morning. The facility was a sprawling, cream-painted brick ranch-style building
on Central Avenue, south of Camelback, with a two-story addition in the back that tried to keep the same look and feel as
the main structure. It was flanked by a small business complex on one side, and condos on the other. An American flag waved
in the light breeze, signaling a safe haven for vets. It was both comforting and sad because I knew that the veterans who
came here had hit rock bottom and were asking for help.
As a vet myself, I knew most of us hated asking for help. Whether it was hard-wired into people who chose military service,
or something we learned during training, we generally felt we should be able to solve our own problems and didn’t always recognize
when we couldn’t. The community of support was there, we just had to seek it.
The entry had once been a grand living room, now converted into a comfortable sitting area with couches, games, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
A reception desk separated the room from the front door, but no one was there.
A dozen or so men and women, most under forty, were talking, playing games, or reading in the room.
One young man who couldn’t be more than twenty-five sat in a wheelchair, one leg propped up and one leg missing, staring out French doors into a rose garden that separated the main house from the two-story apartments.
Grace approached from one of the wings. “Margo, it is so good to see you again.”
I hadn’t remembered meeting Grace, but assumed we had. “Likewise,” I said. “It’s been a while.”
“Years,” she said with a light laugh. “Your mom called and said you were going to stop by. How may I help you?”
“Do you have a few minutes to talk in private?”
“Certainly.” Grace led me down a short hall to her office, a small but immaculate room with a desk, two chairs, and one wall
of photos.
Grace was in her late forties, her light red hair cut into a sleek bob, pale blue eyes sharp but kind. A small gold crucifix
and a U.S. Navy pendant hung around her neck, one resting over the other like competing talismans. Her walls were crowded
with photographs—Grace handing water to the homeless in the heat of the summer, leading group therapy circles, smiling next
to men with prosthetic limbs. Interspersed were pictures of her family: a military husband, two daughters, four sons—two of
her boys were sailors.
“I’m looking for a veteran who may have come through here a few years ago,” I said. “My mom thought you might be able to help.
He was a patient of my father’s.”
I wasn’t entirely sure Novak had ever been a patient of my dad, but until I knew how Grace felt about my father’s incarceration,
I wasn’t going to bring up Dr. Klein’s name.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Jim Novak.”
She touched her crucifix. “Jim,” she said softly with a small shake of her head. “A lost soul.”
“I couldn’t find a death record,” I offered.
“He’s not dead, as far as I know. But for years he’s resisted help. He’s homeless now. I used to see him often—he had a small
apartment, a job, came here for group therapy. He was making progress.”
The word progress rang like a bell inside me. Progress meant there had been a plan. And plans meant records.
“How long ago?”
“Well, I’ve seen him a few times over the last couple of years, but he stopped coming to group therapy and lost his apartment
and job about three years ago.”
That bell went off in my head again. Three years would be shortly after the end of the drug trial.
“What was his problem?” I asked carefully. “Drugs?”
Grace hesitated. “I don’t feel comfortable sharing anything too personal. As you know, Honor House works primarily with veterans
transitioning from service to civilian life—mental health counseling, addiction, homelessness, PTSD, physical disabilities,
alcohol abuse. We’re also a meeting center, a place where vets can talk to each other, play games, relax in a safe and welcoming
environment. We have job postings, training, help with using the GI bill for college, general support services. We also serve
wounded warriors who fall through VA cracks. But our primary mission is servicing homeless vets through rehab, shelter, and
job retraining, whatever it is they need. Traditional services don’t always work for them.”
“My dad was a big supporter,” I said.
“One of our biggest,” she agreed. “Your mother’s continued his legacy. Why are you looking for Jim?”
I couldn’t tell her the entire truth, but the lie I’d come up with was believable.
“My dad asked me to check in on some of his patients he’s been worried about. Jim is on that list.”
Grace’s eyes softened. “He comes in sometimes, usually during monsoons. The storms set him off, he panics, sometimes reacts
violently. He was diagnosed with PTSD, but as far as I know, he didn’t stick with therapy. He could be self-medicating—many
of those who suffer from PTSD fall down that dangerous path. We’re not equipped here for violent clients. I’ve tried to get
him to self-commit—our sister program is Honor House Cave Creek, which is a secure drug rehab facility. Unfortunately, he
hasn’t agreed. I hold out hope that someday he will.”
“Do you know where he stays?” There were several large homeless encampments on the outskirts of downtown and a few clusters
of small groups in the area.
“He walks a lot, avoids people. He prefers solitude. Police have picked him up along the wash in Glendale a few times, the
section just south of the 101. They bring him here, he stays for a day or two, leaves. Seems to drift back there.”
“That helps. Do you have a recent photo?”
Grace typed on her computer, and the printer clicked to life. She handed me a sheet of paper.
Two pictures. The first was Jim’s military photo: close-cropped sandy hair, brown eyes, smile firm and confident. The second
was a man I barely recognized from the first image. Full beard, hair long and stringy, eyes hollow and wary. His stats were
listed below the photos: white, blond, brown, six foot one, 170 pounds. He was forty-one. Only next of kin was a daughter,
Kristen Novak.
Grace muttered sadly. “Five years.”
“What?” I asked.
“Those pictures were taken five years apart. Jim served thirteen years in the Army before shrapnel forced him out of service. Multiple surgeries and he still has a limp. We helped him find housing. He didn’t have much of a homelife to return to, but he was trying, had a part-time job, was making progress.
Then about a year later, he started acting paranoid. Agitated.”
I knew what she’d say before she said it.
“He was seeing a psychiatrist,” she continued. “Nothing helped. He lost his job, his apartment. He didn’t care. When he first
came in, he didn’t drink or use drugs. Now, I can’t say, but I can tell you that he needs help or he’ll die.”
She handed me a card. “If you see him, call this number. Our counselors are well trained. Maybe you can encourage him to talk
to one of our people. You’re a vet, he’ll relate to you. And the majority of our staff are veterans as well, we just need
him to take that first step.”
“They have the space?” I tapped the card for Honor House Cave Creek.
“I’ll make sure they do. It’s five acres that are peaceful and secure. We can’t force him, but if he comes in willingly, he
can sign himself into a thirty-day program. Otherwise . . .” Her voice faded. “Well. I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that.”
“Do you know his daughter, Kristen?” I tapped the paper.
Grace nodded. “She’s in college at Arizona State. She was a teenager and his pride and joy when he got out of the military.
But after his paranoia increased, he pushed her away. She calls every couple of months to ask about him, try to figure out
where he might be. I don’t usually have information for her.”
I folded the paper and card together.
“If she calls, you can give her my name and number and tell her I’m trying to help her dad.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“If I find Novak, I’ll call you,” I said.
“Novak?” a deep voice said from the doorway. “Sorry, Grace, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but are you looking for Jim Novak?”
“Yes, Carl, have you seen him recently?” Then, to me, Grace said, “Carl is one of our full-time staff members. A jack-of-all-trades,”
she said with a light laugh. “Carl, this is Margo Angelhart, Dr. Cooper’s daughter.”
Carl was a large man with a deep scar coming from the corner of his left eye that was covered by an eye patch.
“Dr. Cooper is a good man,” Carl said. “Yeah, I saw Jim on Monday.”
“This Monday?” I asked.
He nodded. “I was taking one of our residents to his doctor’s appointment at the medical center. About ten thirty we got there
for an eleven a.m. appointment. Jim was leaving the building. I tried to talk to him, but he just walked away. I got my guy
settled into his appointment, went out to look for Jim, but he’d already gone. The guard said he was heading west on Indian
School, toward Central.”
Monday morning. The same day Liz called me. Could Jim Novak have been her patient?
Possible, even likely. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but it seemed too coincidental. I wouldn’t know until I found
him.
“How did he seem to you?” Grace asked, concerned.
Carl shrugged. “He’d been living on the streets, but didn’t seem too out of it. I think he recognized me, but intentionally
ignored me.”
“I wonder why he would go to the main medical center and not a clinic,” Grace said.
There were several VA clinics in the Greater Phoenix area and most veterans preferred one of the outpatient clinics to the huge, imposing medical center, including me.
Not to mention that unless you went into the emergency room, you needed an appointment.
Most clinics would see you even without an appointment if you were willing to wait.
Maybe Jim Novak did have an appointment. It could have been a standing appointment. He couldn’t be so far out of it if he
remembered the day and time of his annual visit.
I asked Carl, “What was he wearing? Does he still look like this?” I showed him the recent photo Grace had given me.
Carl nodded. “Yeah, not much different. He was wearing camo fatigues, old and faded, but there weren’t any holes or tears
in them. Army-green jacket that was too big on him. It wasn’t his—he was Navy—likely something he pulled out of a donation
bin. Dressed in layers. Oh, and good black boots. Scuffed and dirty, but they’re good boots.”
I thanked them both for their time and left.
Jim Novak wasn’t just a name anymore. I had his face, I had his possible location, and I would find him. He might be a man unraveling, but he still had the wherewithal to go to a doctor’s appointment.
He had at least some of the answers I was looking for.
I slid back into my Jeep, checked my voice mail, then called Jack back. He picked up on the first ring.
“Margo, where are you?”
“Just left Honor House. Central and Camelback. Are you sure?” I asked about the message he left. “You’re one hundred percent
positive the killer took her phone?”
“They know Liz called you.”
“That’s what you said.” How had the killer had time to take her phone? The murders happened quick, in public. And no one saw
him.
“And I’m telling you again, you are in danger, Margo. You have to take the threat seriously.”
I tried not to snap. Jack wasn’t being annoying; he was being protective. But my nerves were wearing thin.
“I am taking it seriously. I’m watching for tails. Security’s on at my place.”
“Maybe I should pull Nate off Tess and put him on you.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, though I felt a flicker of doubt even as I said it. Luisa was with Tess, and Luisa was security
conscious. Still, I wasn’t quite ready to call in the cavalry. “Where are you headed now?”
“Lab. To see if Nico learned anything new from the evidence and autopsy.”
“Let me know what you find. I’m going to the office to do a little research, then heading out to look for Jim Novak. The folks
at Honor House say he likes to stay in the Scatter Wash south of 101 in Glendale.”
“Don’t go alone.”
“Tess and Luisa are covering ground I can’t.”
Or, rather, ground I didn’t want to cover. I could dig through records and handle research if I had to, but my sisters were
faster, better, and smarter about it, and right now, I needed to be out in the world. I was better in the field.
“I’ll go with you,” Jack said. “I’ll swing by after I talk to Nico.”
“Actually, Nate would be better. Can you take over for him at Tess’s house?”
He hesitated, then I heard the irritation in his voice. “I’m just as good as Nate in the field.”
“You are,” I said, a little humored that Jack sounded jealous. “But both Novak and Nate were in the Navy. It might help to
have someone who speaks the same language.”
A beat. Then he muttered, “Fair enough. Just don’t leave the office until Nate gets there.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
He hung up. No laugh, no goodbye.
We were all tense. A little scared, maybe. But panic wouldn’t help. It would only make us sloppy.
I checked my mirrors. Left, right, behind. Nothing jumped out. No cars sticking too close. No one giving me any unusual attention
as I drove out of the Honor House parking lot. No one following.
I didn’t panic easily. But I drove to the office with my shoulders tight and my head on a swivel, because scared or not, someone
out there was pulling strings, and I refused to be a puppet.