Thursday early evening
Dr. Emilie Soto had asked me to drop by at six. Her office occupied a small frame house on a quiet Verwood street, across from a graveyard dating back to the Civil War. I looked forward to seeing her, telling her that her guidance had put me back on the right path. So much had changed in the last ten years. Back then, at sixteen, I had been poised to escape—to just about anywhere, as long as it took me away from Fern’s flirting and paint-dabbing and bills she couldn’t pay. I had wanted to attack life with the outrage and anger I had carried since I was five, since the day someone abducted my mother while I, unwitting, waited in her car.
Some grain of self-preservation made me listen to Dr. Soto when she told me to turn my rage into a positive force. I listened, and decided to make homicide investigation my life’s work. If that sounds melodramatic—well, it was.
I arrived just as a group of women of varied ages was leaving. “My relationship group,” Emilie told me. She wore a mango-colored linen dress and a necklace of shells—tiny shrimp-and pearl-colored conches. Today her silver curls were pulled back into a shell barrette. She was round, colorful, and I loved her. “A support group. I try to keep them focused, remind them what’s healthy.”
“I should join.”
“You’d be welcome. But that’s not why you’re visiting! Here’s your Lemon Zinger. Sit down and tell me all about yourself. I must tell you how happy I was to see you yesterday. You looked so professional, so successful.”
“Fooled you, did I?”
She clasped her hands over her heart. “I knew you’d achieve your goals. Fern must be proud.”
“I think she’s reconciled to it.”
“And you chose law enforcement.”
“Not exactly. It’s the investigative part I like, the search. That’s why I wanted to join the SBI rather than a police department.”
“Finding the bad guys. And hopefully removing them from circulation.”
I had removed my shoes out of habit, and now, curled up in the overstuffed chair, I sipped my tea. The antique clock ticked softly in the corner, and I smelled vanilla and some other spice, cinnamon or nutmeg, from the bowl of potpourri on her desk. What a safe-feeling place she’d created. “I probably never told you how grateful I was for you, back then,” I said.
“No need to say it. You trusted me, such a gift. Tell me, how did you get into the SBI?”
“I was lucky.”
“No, you worked for it.”
“I got a BS in criminal justice from State, and then I interned with the SBI. I guess I made a decent impression. That’s the lucky part.” I told her about the training, my assignment as an undercover drug agent. “And now I’m working on the murder of Kent Mercer.”
Emilie’s smile faded. “Ah, yes. I have been following that case. The missing baby, such a worry. And a relief, when she was found. Her poor mother . . . what she’s been through.”
“Do you know her? Temple Mercer?”
She nodded. “I do.”
Temple might be a client, but I knew Emilie wouldn’t confirm it. “Funny thing,” I mused. “Fern told me the child was okay. I don’t know if she knew something, or was just an optimist.”
“This is a small town, Stella. You can’t keep a secret around here.”
“You must know secrets.” I sipped my tea.
“But I can’t ever share them, unless I think someone’s life is in danger. I do know a secret connected to your case.”
I set my mug on the table. “Tell!”
“I’ll talk with my client. Perhaps.” She clasped my hands in both of hers, pulling me closer. “Be patient?”
“There’s a murderer out there thinking up new ways to kill Lincoln Teller. I can’t be patient. I want to stop this.”
Emilie looked puzzled. “This has nothing to do with Lincoln Teller. It’s a delicate situation. I’ll let you know if I think anyone is at risk.”
I had to accept that promise. I stood. “Come say hello to Merle, the well-adjusted one of the family.”
She laughed. “You turned out all right.” We walked outside. The bakery a block away had filled the air with the aroma of warm bread, making me hungry. I let Merle out of the car to greet her. He sniffed her hand politely, and wagged his tail as she leaned down to scratch his ears. The shells of her necklace swung above his head.
“Merle’s a lucky fellow to have you as his person.” She rubbed between his shoulders.
“You have it backwards. I’m the lucky one.”
“What good manners he has,” she said. I felt a surge of gratitude toward her, and Merle, for being in my life.
Then a gunshot shattered our peace forever.
I felt the first bullet, a whoosh of air pressure inches from my head, as I heard a rifle’s crack. I dropped to the ground, pushing Merle down under me, reached up for Emilie, too late, for a snapping pop sprayed her blood everywhere and she collapsed. The three of us lay in a gasping whimpering knot for an instant. We couldn’t stay there. I had to get us to the other side of the car, to put it between us and the shooter across the street in the graveyard.
I dragged Emilie around the car, waiting for the next gunshot to finish her, or hit me, or Merle, who bounded into the open, barking angrily at the sound of the gun. I screamed his name but he wouldn’t come, and I had to go out there and pull him, angry now because he was being a stupid dog, risking us both. Then someone hit me in the head with a baseball bat—at least that’s what it felt like.
I lay on the ground, stunned, not sure what happened until I touched my forehead and my fingers came away bloody and I realized a bullet had grazed me. Adrenaline took over and I scuttled around the car, dragging Merle after me. He whined and wriggled and I took deep breaths. I knew my injury had to be superficial—I was conscious, rational, terrified.
But Emilie’s injury wasn’t superficial. Her breathing was a harsh choking, and no wonder—she’d been shot in the throat and I guessed blood was running into her lungs. There was blood everywhere, filling the little conch shells of her necklace, sprayed onto her silver curls. I eased her onto her side, thinking it might help her breathe.
I slid into the backseat, onto the floor, reached for my phone, and called nine-one-one for officer down, backup, and an ambulance. I pressed my jacket to Emilie’s neck, listened to her bubbling attempts to breathe. I stroked her hair and watched her eyes. “Hold on,” I whispered, “they’re almost here.” She looked up, into the clouds.
What just happened? She wouldn’t die, would she? Where was the goddam ambulance?
After a short eternity I heard sirens, and Anselmo called on my cell.
“We’re here. Are you all right?” he asked. “Where are you?”
“In my car. I’m OK. Hurry, Dr. Soto needs help.”
“We have to secure the area before the ambulance can come in, so hold on. We’ll keep talking.”
“Hurry. Thanks. Please,” and it was true, I was grateful, more than he could possibly realize, to have another human being who could hear me if I had anything to say like help come get me. Emilie’s breathing had become harsher. I whispered meaningless encouraging things to her. You’ll be okay soon. Here they are. Just hold on.
“We’re encircling the graveyard across the street now,” he said. “Did you see a person or a car?”
“No, with the first shot I got down.”
“We’re not seeing anything over here. It’s deserted. The shooter is gone.”
I heard the vehicles pull up. Paramedics began to work on Emilie with skill and urgency. One asked me, “Are you hurt?” I held up my hand and shook my head, no.
Anselmo gently pulled my hair back. “It’s just a graze, right at the hairline,” he said. I could feel the blood trickling down my face. I was still jumpy, and wanted to tell him to drop and hide, so that no bullet would pierce his chest and dull his warm black eyes. I kept my cowardice to myself and slowly pulled myself out of the car. I looked over the EMTs’ shoulders at Emilie. Her eyes were open, her breathing ragged. I knelt and took her hand, her plump, freckled, warm hand.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” Sorry for your suffering. Sorry you came out into the parking lot with me. Sorry I visited today. Why did I bring Merle, anyway?
They eased her onto a stretcher and slid her into the ambulance. Then my legs buckled and I sat down on the gravel. Merle nosed me, whimpering.
Anselmo handed me an icepack. “You’re okay, Stella, it’s shock.” He twisted the cap off a bottle of water and offered it. “I called Richard. He’s going to take you off the case.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Well, yeah. Almost. Tell me what happened.”
“We came out of her office. We were standing by the car, she was patting my dog. Three shots were fired. It sounded like a rifle.”
“Yeah. We found the bullets—.25 caliber. Were the shots intended for you?”
That had occurred to me. We had been standing close together, about a foot apart, Dr. Soto leaning down as she reached for Merle. “I don’t know. She’d told me she knew a secret, something to do with the Mercer murder. I want to look at her files.”
“You’ll have to specify the files you want, to get a subpoena.”
He was right. Dr. Soto’s patient records were privileged and confidential, unless I had names, dates, and a good reason. Well, I had a damn good reason—she had just been taken away in an ambulance. Names and dates would be in her appointment book. There were two ways to go. The legal way—get a search warrant in the morning, research the appointment book, get a subpoena for specific files, and wait until they were retrieved for me.
Or another way.
I would come back later, by myself, and browse. I wouldn’t be collecting evidence, not exactly—just information, a pointer to a person or an event. Hardly legal procedure but I didn’t care. Dr. Soto knew a secret, and someone had tried to kill her, or me. I didn’t want to wait another day to find out what it was. Whoever fired those rifle shots could easily pick off another target at any time. “Can you put a guard on her room?” I asked.
“I’ll see to it. And you—avoid open spaces.”
“Yup,” I said, though a sniper can work at any distance. “I’m going inside to clean up.” At the restroom sink I wiped my arms and face with dampened paper towels and studied my injury in the mirror. Right at the hairline, an ugly lump had formed, a groove in my skin. Minor. Another centimeter and I’d have a cracked skull, or worse.
I went into Dr. Soto’s office and found keys that unlocked her desk and filing cabinets. Her appointment book was in her desk but I couldn’t very well walk out with it, so I put it back and shut the drawer. Finally, I went to the restroom again and opened the window an inch. I was still in there dabbing at my shirt when Anselmo came to find me. “I’m going to give you a ride to the ER.”
“If we’ll drop my dog at home first.” Normally I would try to be stronger, able to handle this. But today’s events were so shocking, it felt right to let Anselmo take care of me for a little while.
On the ride, he told me he’d been shot once himself.
“On duty?”
“Yep. I had to serve papers on this paranoid old guy, divorce case. His wife was afraid of him and asked us to help. He opened the window and blasted me with a shotgun when I rang the bell. I’ve got a couple of holes in my back still. Here, you can feel them.”
He pointed to his shoulder blade, and I eased my fingers along his back. Two little depressions, flaws in the warm hard muscle of his back. My hand lingered no more than a second.
“You were lucky,” I said.
“Yeah. I dropped when I saw the gun. You were lucky too, Stella. I think you were the more likely target back there.”
I wasn’t sure. What did Emilie know? I hoped she took good notes.