Fenway found the ICU and rushed into room 9. Dez sat at Rachel’s bedside. Rachel slowly blinked, her bed raised halfway to a seated position. She didn’t acknowledge Fenway.
“Have you asked her anything yet?” Fenway whispered to Dez.
“Just asked her how she was feeling. She shook her head at me, then whispered that she wanted some water. I just informed the nurse.”
Fenway walked out to the nurse’s station and came back to Rachel’s bed with a cup of water and straw, which Rachel leaned forward to take in her mouth and drank gratefully. It took some energy out of her, and she leaned back to her half-seated position.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“What do you remember?”
Rachel shook her head, trying to clear out the cobwebs. “It’s all kind of a blur. I went to the gym in the morning and I remember wondering what I wanted for lunch.”
“I found some containers from Dos Milagros in your trash,” Fenway prodded.
“Oh, that’s right. Yeah, I stopped there. I ate the tacos in the car on the way home. I remember I spilled some hot sauce on the seat.”
“What did you do when you got home?” Dez asked.
“Uh… I think I started watching TV.”
“Did you have a drink at the taquería? A Coke or something?”
“Oh, no. I remember now. I had just been at the gym so I thought I should have Gatorade. I threw the trash from the tacos away, and I went to the fridge to get some Gatorade. And then I sat down to watch TV. And… then I woke up here.”
“Did you see a note on the table when you got home?” Dez said.
“The kitchen table?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t notice anything there. Did you find a note in my apartment? On the kitchen table?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say? Did it threaten me? What do they want from me?”
Dez shifted uncomfortably.
“What is it?” Rachel had more color in her face now, eyes going from Dez to Fenway.
“It was a suicide note,” Fenway said.
“A suicide note? From who?”
“From you,” Dez murmured.
Rachel’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened and closed, and finally she spoke. “I swear to you, Fenway, I didn’t try to commit suicide. I didn’t write that note. I don’t know who’s doing this to me or why.”
Fenway nodded. “I believe you. We all believe you. Whoever wrote that note didn’t spell your sister’s name right. It’s an obvious forgery.”
“But who would do something like that?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. And we think it’s got to do with another murder.”
“Another murder?”
“Yes,” Fenway said.
“I’m not sure we should talk about this, Fenway,” Dez said sharply.
Fenway looked at Dez. “I don’t see how we move forward without it. Whoever tried to kill Rachel will figure out pretty soon that she’s not dead. And if it’s tied to the murder, the faster we catch who did it, the sooner Rachel will be safe.”
“You think someone tried to kill me?”
“I do.”
“And—” Rachel paused, and swallowed, her mouth dry, “they’ll try to kill me again?”
“I don’t know.” Fenway shook her head. “The police are all over this case now, so maybe not. But if whoever it is thinks you know something you shouldn’t, and if it’s dangerous enough to them, sure, they might try again.”
Rachel looked horrified.
“I’m sorry, Rachel. It’s tough to hear, I know.”
“Especially after just waking up from being unconscious for who knows how long,” Dez said pointedly, looking at Fenway.
Rachel was silent for a moment. “I don’t think I know anything I shouldn’t,” she said. “Who was murdered?”
Fenway hesitated. “Mayor Jenkins.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “No.”
“I’m afraid so,” Dez said softly.
“And I think that whoever tried to kill you,” Fenway said, “also had a hand in the mayor’s murder.”
“What?” Dez’s head turned to Fenway. “You haven’t told me anything about that.”
“It’s not anyone’s theory but mine,” Fenway said to Dez. “I just think there are too many coincidences for them not to be connected.” She turned to Rachel. “Did you uncover something about the mayor, or about any of the mayor’s enemies, or, um, family members, anything like that?”
Rachel was quiet.
“Think back over the last week, Rachel. Maybe two weeks. Did anyone tell you anything off the record? You’re the public information officer now. People are coming to you for all kinds of official announcements, but did anyone come to you for anything unusual?”
Rachel hesitated. “Lots of people come to me with stuff that’s off the record.”
“Anyone in particular? Anything to do with the mayor?”
“You know there are a couple of councilmembers that are the worst. Dr. Klein especially. He hates everyone on the board, he thinks the police are out to get him.” Rachel laughed ruefully, if a little weakly. “He thinks everyone is out to get him. He’s constantly trying to put out misinformation about Ferris Energy.”
Fenway had a strange feeling that Rachel purposely evaded her questions. She opened her mouth, but Dez spoke first.
“What do you do about that?”
“Maisie warned me about Dr. Klein before she left,” Rachel said. “She would throw him a bone every once in a while to calm him down. You know, so that he wouldn’t completely go off on her either. She played sympathetic, but insisted that Klein release factual information, not innuendo. She told me she could get away with it because she appealed to Klein’s need to, well, cover his ass. She told him if he based his attacks on innuendo and not facts, his ‘enemies’ would turn it against him.” Rachel paused. “Plus, honestly, I think Klein had a big crush on Maisie. He followed her around the office like a puppy when he came in.”
“Did he try the same tactics with you?” Dez asked.
“He didn’t know what to make of me,” Rachel said. “He knew you and I were friends, I guess. But he’s only approached me a couple of times.”
“With what?”
“Uh… once about the new park opening on the east side.”
“Anything else?”
“No, I don’t think—oh, right, the new open space off 326.”
“Did Alice Jenkins bring anything to you in the last couple of weeks?” Dez asked.
Fenway leaned forward.
“The last couple of weeks,” Rachel said, choosing her words carefully. “The mayor’s office sends over meeting minutes. I release those pretty much verbatim into the public record and on the website.” She paused. “I don’t remember anything interesting.”
“Maybe it doesn’t look interesting to you,” Fenway said, “but maybe someone else thinks it’s very interesting.”
“Worth going through,” Dez said.
“I got the meeting minutes on Friday,” Rachel said. “I always post the minutes on Monday morning. Guess I won’t make it for this week.”
“Can’t Natalie do it?” Fenway asked. “Kind of what an assistant is there for, right?”
Rachel hesitated for a split second; Fenway didn’t think Dez caught it. “Sure,” Rachel said. “Sure, Natalie can do it, of course.”
Fenway looked at Rachel’s face. Rachel was holding back something important.
“Anything else about the mayor, Rachel?”
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Come on,” Dez interrupted. “Girl’s been through hell and back the last twenty-four hours. What’s with the third degree?”
Fenway looked from Dez to Rachel. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I just want to make sure we’re being thorough.”
“I get it,” Rachel said. “Not a problem.”
“Okay, thanks,” Fenway said, nodding. “Oh—and Rachel, one last thing. Do you have a prescription for buprenodone?”
“For what?”
“Buprenodone. It’s an anti-anxiety med. But lots of people use it for a sleeping pill.” She paused. “It’s what you overdosed on.”
“No,” Rachel said firmly. “I’ve never even heard of that. I’m not on prescription anything. Well, birth control. Not that I need it right now.”
“Okay,” Fenway said. “I’m sorry to bring this up, but what about Dylan? Did he take medication?”
Rachel paused. “He, um, he wasn’t prescribed anything. But he would take Norco sometimes. When he felt depressed. When he got a bad review at work, or something like that.”
Dez nodded. “Do you know his contact?”
“Contact?”
“Who got him the Norco?”
“Oh,” Rachel said. “Dylan’s brother.”
“That’s Parker, right?”
“Yeah. Well—Parker didn’t actually get Dylan the Norco, he just knew a guy at the restaurant who had a connection.”
“Maybe the dealer knows someone who can get buprenodone,” Dez said.
“It’s a generic now,” Fenway said. “Every pharmaceutical company produces some version of it. All the major ones, anyway. It’s not hard to get.”
Dez nodded again, thoughtfully. “Still worth a shot to talk to Parker’s contact, though.”
“Probably makes sense to talk to the sheriff’s office about local prescription drug rings too.”
The nurse came in and Fenway and Dez were quiet while the nurse took Rachel’s vitals.
“You gave us quite a scare, Miss Richards,” the nurse said to Rachel. “It looks like you’re not going to have any permanent liver or kidney damage. And it looks like you’re getting your strength back.”
“When can I go home?” Rachel said.
“First things first,” the nurse said. “Let’s get you transferred out of the ICU and into a regular room. We’ll keep you for observation tonight for sure. Then let’s see how you’re doing.”
Rachel nodded, her eyes drooping.
“All right, ladies,” the nurse said. “Rachel is too polite to tell you to get out, but I’m not. So get out.” She smiled, but Fenway knew she was serious. “She needs her rest. She wants to go home tomorrow, and she won’t get to do that if you’re interviewing her like she’s on some damn awards show.”
Fenway and Dez both went over and hugged Rachel before they said goodbye. They exited the hospital into the warm, still air.
“Who do you suppose is around to talk to?” Fenway said. “And where do you want to start?”
“I think we start with Parker’s co-worker at the restaurant,” Dez said. “That buprenodone didn’t appear out of thin air.”
Fenway and Dez stopped at the Impala. “I actually think we’ve got a good idea where the buprenodone came from,” Fenway said. “Did McVie tell you that we dragged Fletcher Jenkins to San Miguelito yesterday to question him?”
“Yeah, McVie told me,” Dez said. “The William Matisse connection. But I couldn’t talk for very long. Did he have a connection with Rachel, too?”
Fenway said, “He’s got a prescription for buprenodone. And he couldn’t find his brand-new prescription bottle. So there’s that.”
“You know,” Dez said, “I hate to get all conspiracy-theory on you, Fenway, but doesn’t it seem awfully convenient that the murder victim’s son just happens to have a prescription for a seemingly unrelated crime?”
Fenway nodded. Her phone rang and she pulled her phone out of her purse, glancing at the screen. “Oh, it’s the M.E.”
“I’m not here,” Dez said.
Fenway looked at Dez quizzically, and picked up. “Hi, Dr. Yasuda.”
“Hi, Fenway. We got a hit on the fingerprints on the prescription bottle. Fletcher Jenkins.”
“I wondered about that. Were his fingerprints on the suicide note too?”
“Strangely, no,” Dr. Yasuda said. “No fingerprints at all. Like the person who wrote it wore gloves.”
Fenway paused. “Why would Fletcher use gloves when writing the note but not on the pill bottle?”
“I don’t want to speculate on that,” Dr. Yasuda said. “But the fingerprint evidence on the pill bottle strongly suggests that Fletcher Jenkins’ buprenodone was used to poison Rachel.”
“Does it suggest that he’s the one who poisoned her?”
“That’s less suggestive, Fenway; you know that. The fingerprints don’t have a time stamp on them.”
“Yeah, you’re right, of course. Thanks, doctor. Oh—Melissa said she suspected the Gatorade had the buprenodone in it. Have you tested that yet?”
“Yes. It tested positive. A high concentration, too. Certainly enough to kill her. It’s a good thing she didn’t drink any more of it than she did.”
“That sure looks like attempted murder to me.”
“That’s a theory that certainly fits the available evidence,” Dr. Yasuda agreed. “Okay—I’ve got another autopsy to do—not a murder victim, thank goodness.”
They said their goodbyes and hung up.
Dez looked at Fenway. “Fletcher’s fingerprints were on the pill bottle, but not on the suicide note?”
“Right.”
“The conspiracy theory doesn’t sound so crazy now, does it?”
Fenway crinkled her nose up. It didn’t sound crazy at all.
“All right,” Dez said, “I’m going to head home. I’m beat.”
“Oh—before I forget, Dez.” She paused, and then decided to just say it directly. “Dr. Yasuda told me to tell you that she’s sorry. She said that you’d know what she means.”
Dez narrowed her eyes. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
Fenway opened her mouth to say something, but then clamped it shut. Dez turned, got in her car, and started it. Fenway walked through the parking lot toward the Mercedes, figuring she’d mind her own business.
She opened the door of the Mercedes and sat for a moment, basking in the warmth of the sun reflecting off the black leather. But after just a few seconds, the leather seats radiated too much heat and the stifling air made her feel claustrophobic. She turned the car on and turned the air conditioning to high. She pulled her phone out again and called her father.
“Nathaniel Ferris.”
“It’s Fenway, Dad.”
“Hi, sweetie. You still in San Miguelito?”
“No, I’m back. I just saw Rachel. She regained consciousness.”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear it.” She heard him take the phone away from his ear. “Everett, that PR officer I told you about? The one they found poisoned? She’s regained consciousness.” She heard the phone being muffled, then some conversation in the background, then a sound like a hand sliding over the mouthpiece, then her father came back on. “I’m putting you on speaker, Fenway.” The background noise got suddenly louder. “Fenway, I’m going to tell Charlotte. She’ll probably want to send flowers or something. I bet she remembers Rachel at our wedding—just a teenager at the time, of course, but not one of those sullen teens. She was polite and engaging; Rob told me how proud he was of her.”
An awkward silence fell over them; Ferris had brought up the wedding again, as well as the previous coroner’s killer, currently awaiting trial.
Ferris cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m really glad she’s okay.”
“Give her my best, too,” Everett said.
“Sure,” Fenway replied.
Everett’s voice lowered slightly; he spoke directly to Ferris. “Did you get the name of the hospital so Charlotte can send flowers?”
“Oh—no, I didn’t. Say, Fenway, what hospital is Rachel at?”
“She’s at St. Vincent—but, Dad, she’s in the ICU. They don’t allow flowers in there.”
“Of course,” Ferris said. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
Fenway heard rustling as Ferris moved the phone. “Thanks for telling us about Rachel, sweetie.”
“Sure, Dad.” Fenway paused. “So, listen, I’m finished with the car.”
“But you don’t have the Accord back, do you?”
“No—but I’m not driving the Mercedes all around town.”
The sound changed again; Ferris had taken Fenway off speakerphone. “Why not? I’ve got plenty of other cars.”
“Because, Dad, it wouldn’t look right. And you already gave me the Accord.”
“Fenway, come on, don’t be like that. Let me help you out.”
“You’ve already been a big help today, Dad.”
“Listen, if you would just—”
“Dad! I’m done talking about this. You can pick the car up whenever you like.”
“How about you come up to the house for dinner? You can drop the car off.”
“Then I wouldn’t have any way to get home.”
“I think we can give you a ride home. Or take an Uber if you’re all high and mighty about me helping you.”
Fenway sighed. “All right, Dad. What time? Seven?”
“That’s perfect. See you then.”