Eleven Detective Olivia Newhouse #4
My father reminded me often that though it was perfectly fine to feel wistful about the past, particularly lost loved ones, it was never smart to linger there unless it was in the good memories.
“The past is the past for a reason,” he would say.
“It’s behind you. Move toward what’s in front of you, Liv. ”
But it’s the past that has drawn me back here today.
Right after my father’s death, it was necessary to pull out his will and other essential papers and to go through his office.
He’d had a number of those necessary documents laid out on his desk already.
I don’t know whether he was feeling ill and just didn’t tell me or if he was merely doing an annual update to his paperwork.
Some financial records and insurance documents were out of their folders.
A sealed envelope that contained a letter of instruction, reminding me where important documents were stored, the names of insurance companies, passwords for bank accounts and other online accounts, had been right on top.
He made sure the instructions were as easy to follow as a detailed road map.
I walk beyond the cavernous great room and into the side hall that leads to his home office and on to the principal suite.
My father loved his office. It looks out over the rolling green pastures of the property.
Those pastures spill out around the front and west side of the house’s perch on a rise.
Behind the house are acres and acres of woods.
I loved exploring those woods when I was younger.
I round his desk, pull out his Herman Miller chair, and sit. Memories of him turning me around and around in this beloved chair flash in my mind. I have a life full of memories here, how could I possibly sell my history?
Pulling myself back to the present, I set to the task of reviewing what’s in front of me.
The files are neatly arranged. Most are personal files related to his finances and the property and all that it entails.
All but a few I pulled from where they were stored as I prepared for settling the estate.
I’ve been through those repeatedly. Across the room the row of steel cabinets house his professional case files.
There are certain steps that need to be taken on those files.
He left specific instructions. Just something else I need to get around to.
I open the center drawer of his desk and retrieve the notes I stuffed there after removing them from the trash bin under his desk.
The day he had the heart attack, he’d been right here at this desk, cleaning out some of his drawers apparently.
I didn’t find out until after the funeral that he had been having some heart issues.
I found the prescriptions and visited his doctor, a family friend.
He hadn’t said anything at the funeral because he assumed I knew.
But my father never told me. Didn’t want to worry me, I suppose.
He was always far too concerned with ensuring I was happy to tell me bad news.
I could never understand why he viewed me as so fragile.
I’m strong. I’m a cop—a homicide detective.
Even if these migraines have kicked my butt recently.
So far, so good today. Any aches I’ve suffered have been a distant twinge. I mentally cross my fingers.
My intention is to go through everything—eventually—and burn all the papers that were related to his work or finances that he appeared not to want or need—which is what he wanted according to the letter of instruction.
Discounting, of course, the official patient files.
Those are the ones with the precise instructions regarding disposition.
Anything else I deem simple rubbish I will toss in the burn barrel out back and destroy.
I probably would have burned the pages of notes I found in the bin under his desk if I hadn’t noticed a name.
At the time the name wasn’t one I recognized, but I worried that it was either a patient or a work-related associate.
It wasn’t until Walt mentioned that Sanchez would be home from Mexico on Sunday that the memory finally clicked. I knew that name was familiar to me.
So maybe I didn’t come here after work to avoid David. Maybe I came in search of some truth that will help us solve this case. Only, this doesn’t feel like a simple, unexpectedly discovered truth. This feels like a stumbled-upon, well-hidden secret.
I open the papers and confirm that nagging worry: The name on my father’s tossed handwritten notes is “Mario Sanchez.” Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t exactly be a stunning revelation.
He treated hundreds of patients in the Nashville area over the course of his long and prestigious career.
But this is not just any name, this is a name on Walt’s and my list of persons of interest.
I skim through the notes once more in search of any other names I might have overlooked. I reach the last page and my gaze stalls. Letters—initials possibly. Two simple bits of the alphabet that were jotted next to each other shock the breath out of me.
CF.
Carl Fanning.
I have to tell Walt.