RACHAEL
“Knock, knock.” My friend Lora pushes the front door open and strides inside. She’s wearing black yoga pants and a caramel-colored tank the same shade as her hair. Today, that’s pulled back into a sloppy bun, yet she’s still somehow rocking it. “You ready?”
“Give me five minutes.”
“I already gave you ten.” She shields her eyes from the glare reflecting off the living room window. “I told you morning-after workouts were a bad idea.”
After Joanna stood me up at the distillery last night, I’d called up Lora and taken an Uber to the city to meet her. I wasn’t about to throw away a girls’ night simply because Joanna was sick. No way. Girls’ night was my night. Time away from Travis. By now, he’s fully aware of the way it works. Whether I’m with Joanna, drinking and painting into the night, or partying with Lora in the city, I never make it home before three. Hell, I don’t even mind going out alone. I’ve watched movies Travis would hate. Spent hours in a quiet corner of a late-night coffee shop reading a book I can’t pull my nose out of. Or, other nights, I’ve occupied the end of a bar and waited for a handsome stranger to catch my eye. I’ve gone home with men who made me feel wanted and beautiful and perfect. Men who simply filled a void that a fight with Travis had caused. Truth is, I don’t care what I’m doing. As long as I feel like myself again at the end of the night, it’s a success.
Last night, Lora and I hit a comedy club and two Irish pubs and shut down a third. It was a blast, and closing time came fast.
I had no idea the real excitement was waiting for me at home.
“Damn, that’s hot.” I nearly scald my tongue on my coffee. “I’ll drive.”
Giving the cup a quick wash, I swipe it dry with the towel hanging on the oven door, then set it back in the cupboard. Can’t leave anything in the sink. Drives Travis nuts.
“I’m almost done,” I say, rushing toward the bedroom. “Promise.”
Because Travis wanted a quickie before work, my morning has been a scramble I’m still recovering from. I missed the morning news and only had one cup of coffee instead of my usual two. It doesn’t help that Travis and I had to do major damage control with Joanna last night, so I barely got any sleep.
I wouldn’t normally have a problem being late for Pilates, or skipping at all, especially since today is a special two-hour Saturday session. But I’ve been raving about Studio Balance and Mandy’s skills for so long, Lora finally agreed to come with me.
Snatching my Nikes from their cubby in the closet, I shove one on my foot and hop into it, then switch to the other. I’m annoyed that I couldn’t find my favorite tank—the cute black one with cutouts on each side and straps in back. I had to settle for my pink one, but it doesn’t go as well with these pants. After tying my hair back, I turn my attention to our bed. Sometime this morning, Travis and I must’ve kicked the duvet and top sheet to the floor and yanked the fitted sheet from each of the corners. I can’t leave it like that. I get to work making the bed, tucking the fitted sheet around the bottom of the mattress.
“Oh, for the love of God.” Groaning, Lora peers into the room. “Do you really have to do this now?”
“It’ll only take a second.”
She sighs. “Must’ve had a rough night.”
“Actually, it was. I still can’t believe what happened with Michael and Joanna. That was insane.”
Lora nods as I run through all the details again.
“The worst part of it is that she lied to me, all this time,” I say, smoothing the sheet at the foot of the bed. “I get lying to Michael about her affair, but I was supposed to be her best friend. Last night, she said she was feeling sick and dizzy, so she called off our plans. No biggie, you know? I don’t want to catch something nasty if she’s passing it around. But I guess she was never sick at all. Lying comes second nature to her now.”
“This is like something out of a bad reality show,” Lora agrees. “She’s insane to cheat on Michael and throw all that away. I mean, look at her house.”
“Right?” I go on. “I can’t believe she ditched me to go out with a guy. Never pegged Joanna for a cheater, but you never can tell these days, can you?”
“Who called the cops?” Lora asks. “Did she?”
“Well, I’d just gotten home after leaving you, so I was in the shower when she ran over. She was crying and banging on our door. Travis had called by the time I came downstairs. You should have seen him jump into action, Lora. He was so chivalrous, taking care of Joanna until the police came, making sure she was comfortable. She couldn’t stop crying.”
“Are you sure Michael actually beat her?” Lora frowns. “Or is she lying again?”
“She had marks on her throat and swelling over one eye. Who knows, though? She could’ve done those things to herself. Hard to filter the truth from lies these days. The people on the shows I watch go through the same thing.”
“Did she press charges?”
“No, and she went back to him right after the police left. We offered for her to stay with us, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Lora takes a slow, dramatic blink. “Well, there’s your answer.”
“You should’ve seen her, Lora. She was a mess. And who wouldn’t be, after a fight like that?” I prop the pillows against the headboard. “I didn’t get a chance to really talk to her, to ask about who she’s sleeping with, but you better believe I’ll find out sooner or later.”
“Do you think she’ll show for Pilates this morning?”
“I don’t know,” I say, making a firm crease on the edges, just the way Travis likes it. “Last night she said she was, but plans might’ve changed. Travis was really worried about her. He’s already called from work, wanted to know if I’d talked to her yet, if I knew how she was holding up. He loves a damsel in distress.”
“Well, I guess we know one thing for sure.” Lora’s poking around the perfume bottles and makeup on my vanity. “You’re the luckiest woman on the block. If you figure out a way to clone your husband, let me know. I’d like to order four copies.”
Laughing, I shove the sheet between the mattress and the headboard, and my fingers catch something hard.
A ring.
“Whoa,” Lora says with a gasp as I hold it up to the light. “Only thing I find when I make my bed is a dryer sheet.”
It’s not just any ring. It’s a platinum Tacori. The princess-cut three-stone beauty is at least six carats, with a crown of diamonds intensifying the center diamond.
“I’ve never seen that one before.” Lora sets a perfume bottle down and comes closer. “That’s gorgeous. Why haven’t you been wearing it?”
“It’s not—” Heart drumming, I twist the ring in my fingers so the diamonds catch the morning rays. “It’s not mine.”
“Then whose?”
I know instantly, without doubt. It’s one of a kind. This flawless bauble has been flaunted in my face, waved around at cocktail parties, its outrageous price tag bragged about more times than I could count.
“Joanna’s.”
“Figures she’d have a ring like that, but what’s it doing in your—” Lora stops. Covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh no…Rach, you don’t think…”
I can’t speak. Not a word. Her ring is in my house. In my bed.
If it was in our living room, anywhere downstairs, I could explain it away. I’d concoct excuses in my head about how she must’ve lost it when they came over for dinner last Friday. But last night in particular, when I came home around two A.M., I swore I picked up the scent of Joanna’s perfume in our room. Joy. It’s an unmistakable scent, and one she’s worn since I’ve known her. When I mentioned it, Travis had brushed me off, telling me how ridiculous I was being. He’d never break our rules and cheat on me with a friend. I’d believed him. Not an hour later, Joanna raced over, claiming Michael had beaten her.
My skin crawls with a memory of the company anniversary party in February. Travis and Joanna disappeared for the better part of an hour. He’d said they were out smoking, and even though they’d returned to the party, cheeks flushed, unable to take their eyes off each other, I’d believed him then, too. He’d said it was biting cold outside—that was the reason her cheeks were pink. His hair looked as though he’d tried to style it in a rush with his fingers.
That was nothing but an inkling, hunch, possible female intuition rationalized down to stupid jealous thoughts.
But this—this—is concrete proof in the form of diamonds and platinum.
“I’m sure—they couldn’t,” Lora whispers. “Travis wouldn’t…He loves you. You guys are the perfect couple.”
I’m gripping the ring, scraping my nails along its grooves as anger flares up inside me. He can’t explain this away—I’d like to see him try. Lora’s eyes are full of pity. When her hand touches my back, I flinch.
“Rachael,” she says, “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe they would do this to you.”
The pity in her voice makes me want to vomit.
I refuse to be this woman—the one my friends whisper about when they get together for brunch. The one they feel sorry for. Poor Rachael couldn’t keep her husband happy. Poor Rachael, did you hear he slept with her best friend while she was partying in the city? Poor stupid, ugly Rachael who can’t do anything right. I hear the voice I’ve had ringing in my head since childhood telling me I’m not good enough. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be good enough…and now everyone’s going to know it.
“Lora.” My voice is shaking with rage. “What time is it?”
“A few minutes before nine. Why?”
“We need to get going. Don’t want to be late for Pilates.”
On the way outside, I slide Joanna’s ring onto my finger, up against my own wedding band. Her fingers are impossibly slender; the ring barely slides over my knuckle. It’s heavy, its cut brilliant. Michael must’ve spent a fortune on it.
“Are you sure you feel up to working out?” Lora asks.
“Joanna will be there. She never misses.”
“You really think she’ll show? Even after what happened last night?”
I don’t answer.
An eerie calm settles over me as I drive to Half Moon Bay, Lora blabbering in the seat beside me. She rambles the whole way there without leaving much room for me to respond. Her tone is pacifying and sympathetic. She’s trying to calm me down by offering explanations of how Joanna’s ring could’ve ended up in my bed. It’s not helping because deep down in my gut, I know there’s only one explanation.
Joanna canceled our plans last night so she could sleep with my husband, in my bed.
Bitch.
Travis knew I wouldn’t come home early to catch them. I always manage to go out and have my fun one way or another. And he used that to his advantage, to have his own fun. With my closest friend.
He’s gone too far.
He’ll feel my wrath later, but for now, my hands are trembling as I turn onto Cabrillo Highway and pull into the parking lot. Joanna’s brand-new Lexus convertible is there, spit-shiny clean and parked up front, in her usual space. Leaving my engine running, I jump out, slam the door, and hear another door close behind me as I charge into the studio. My cheeks are on fire, my skin burning, prickling.
Mandy’s at the front, chatting with the half-dozen women who’ve gathered for her class. I recognize two of them, but where’s the home-wrecker?
There.
Standing on the far side of the studio, Joanna’s wearing white leggings and a purple sports bra. Even five months pregnant, she’s lean and barely showing. As usual, she’s put on a faceful of makeup to work out, with cherry-red lips and a hint of shadow over her eyes. Her dark hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail with not a single flyaway.
I want to clutch that silky rein of hair in my fist and yank it right out of her skull. I want to gouge my fingers into the soft flesh of her eyeballs, and dig them in so deeply that she cries tears of blood. I want—God, I want the perfect contours of her cheekbones busted and cracked, her lips split open. I want her so mangled, bloodied, and bruised, no man will ever look at her with lustful thoughts again.
“Joanna,” I call, out of breath, as I struggle for air. “Can I talk to you outside for a second?”
She peeks around the women who’ve begun to stretch. When she sees me, she smiles. “Rachael? Sure thing.”
I step outside and wait for her to exit behind me.
“Do you want me to go?” Lora sounds worried. “I can wait in the car….”
“I don’t care what you do,” I snap, and then spin around as the studio door opens behind me. “As long as you don’t say a word.”
“Hey,” Joanna says, a smile spreading across her gorgeous face. Not a single bruise mars her throat or her cheek. Those marks couldn’t have healed overnight. How much makeup did it take to cover them? “What’s up?”
I’ve never had such a burning hatred for anyone in my whole life, and I swear, if she weren’t carrying a child, I’d drag her down to the concrete and bash her head on the parking block.
“I just wanted to ask you something,” I say, spinning her ring around my finger. “How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”
Her smile falters. It’s only then I notice a slight discoloring on her throat, where Michael must have tried to strangle her. The bitch deserved it.
“How. Long.”
“Rachael…” Her gaze flips to Lora, and back again. “Don’t be absurd. You’re going to cause a scene for no reason. Come on, let’s get back inside before they start to think we’re fighting.”
She didn’t answer my question. She’s patronizing and a smart-ass, and I’m not going to let her get away with it.
“Were you together at the company party?” I ask. “In February—were you sleeping with him even then?”
“Rachael—”
“What about last night? After you canceled on me because you were ‘sick as a dog’? How many nights, when I had to work late, did you run over to my house to sleep with my husband?”
“Rachael, have you talked to Travis about this?” she asks, planting her hands on her hips. “Maybe you should call him.”
“I’m not talking to Travis. I’m talking to you. And I want to know how long it’s been going on.”
Sighing, she leans closer and murmurs, “I don’t think you want to do this here. Go home. We’ll talk later.”
I hold up my hand so that her beautiful, glimmering wedding ring stares her in the face. “Missing something?”
She exhales slowly. “I had a feeling I left it at your place.”
She reaches for it, but I pull my hand back. The fact that she hadn’t been concerned about losing something so valuable—not only in cost, but in the meaning of her marriage—is astounding. She couldn’t love Michael. Not really. Not if she was so careless with her wedding ring. Joanna’s features seem to morph right in front of me. Gone is the friend with the kind eyes, the woman we saved from a violent husband last night. Her features harden, and the swelling above her eye becomes more pronounced. But Joanna is no victim. I don’t know why it took me until now to see it. I was deceived like the rest of them. Tricked into believing someone so beautiful could never be so evil.
“So you’re not even going to deny it.” I’m fighting back tears.
“Just give it back, Rachael,” she spits out. “I’m not playing games.”
“Aren’t you?”
Joanna glares, thrusting out her hand. “I won’t ask you for it again.”
I shake my head, dizzy. “How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”
“Why are you doing this? Seriously, Rachael, I don’t know why you’re so upset. He told me about the way your relationship works. What’s the problem?”
“You, Joanna. The problem is you. We were never supposed to sleep with people we knew. It was never supposed to be personal. You were my friend.”
“Were?” Her thinly plucked eyebrows rise. “You’re going to throw away our friendship over meaningless sex?”
“It’s only meaningless sex to you. But it means something to me. To my marriage.” Her ring burns on my finger, and I ache to get it off.
She folds her arms over her chest as if she’s a child ready to throw a temper tantrum. “Don’t worry, we haven’t been sleeping together long enough for it to be Travis’s baby. That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it?”
“You’re sick!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Don’t blow this up into something it isn’t.” She raises her hands and studies her manicured nails.
All the nights I’d come home and smell an unfamiliar perfume, the dinner parties when their gazes would linger just a heartbeat too long…all this time. I’d been right, and he’d dismissed my doubts. Made me feel as if I were delusional and stupid with jealousy.
This is not what I agreed to.
“You should try having a little perspective,” Joanna adds. “Might make you feel better. Travis and I have had fun. A few trysts, that’s all. As my friend, I thought you might understand what it’s been like for me, going through all of this.”
“All of what, exactly?”
“The pregnancy and everything that’s happened after. Michael’s gone all the time because he thinks he has to work double time to make enough money for us, and meanwhile I’m stuck in that big house by myself, with nothing to occupy my time. I’m lonely, Rachael, and I’ve been depressed thinking about how much this baby is going to change my life.” Her expression turns tender as she shakes her head. “Travis has made me remember who I am. He’s made me feel sexy and smart, something I haven’t felt in years.”
Behind me, Lora makes a mocking sound as if she can’t believe a word of what she’s just heard. Until this moment, I had forgotten we had an audience.
“Do you love him?” I can feel my heart race as I wait for the answer I don’t want to hear.
Joanna’s grin flashes. “Of course not. Don’t be absurd.”
“Good,” I snap. “Then you shouldn’t have a problem leaving us the hell alone.”
At that, she tips her head back and laughs. “You say that as if I’m the one pursuing him. Have you thought about the possibility that it’s the other way around?”
“Stay away from him.” I yank the ring off my finger, ball it into my fist, and chuck it across the parking lot as she squeals. “I’m not kidding, Joanna. It’s over.”
“It’s over when Travis says it’s over. Come on, Rachael, what are you going to do?” she jeers. “Spread rumors through our little town? Tell Michael? Good. Tell everyone. Maybe then we can all stop pretending that our marriages are happy ones.”
“If you try anything with Travis again,” I cry out, jabbing my finger into her belly, pushing her back, “I swear to God I’ll kill you.”
DETECTIVE SHAW
Patel seems shocked to learn of Travis and Joanna’s affair, but at this point, nothing would surprise me. I always knew there was something rotten lurking beneath this case. As soon as we get back to the station, I’m running through everyone’s details forwards and backwards.
If Travis has blood on his hands, I’ll find out.
On the drive to Dr. Garcia’s office in the city, I shift sides of the cube in new directions. Left. Right for two. Back side once. Left again, the other direction this time. Noting what happens, I change my approach. Adapt to the new formation. I’m thinking of Karen more and more these days, and I’m wondering what it is about Joanna Harris’s case that’s dredging up these feelings again. I’d rather liked my state of numbness, where I didn’t have to feel anything too sharply.
“Hope you solve this case faster than that cube.” I was toying with the cube even as Patel and I headed into Garcia’s office. “You don’t look any closer to figuring it out than you were yesterday.”
“Looks can be deceiving, Patel.”
That’s why we’re here, after all. On the surface, it doesn’t appear Joanna or Michael Harris are connected to Dr. Garcia’s office or to the drugs found prescribed to Mandy McKnight. Yet here we are in the waiting room of the San Francisco Women’s Health Clinic, because of those mismatched prescriptions hidden in their bathroom cabinet.
Chasing the unknown is one of the reasons I love this job so much. The lack of sleep during the chase? Not so much, but I’ve gotten used to it. A solid night’s sleep has eluded me since Joanna Harris’s body was dug out of the grove. I’ve spent countless hours going over Michael and Colleen’s initial interview recordings, studying the wobble in their voices when they get uncomfortable. I’m so absorbed in sifting truth from the lies that I hear their voices in my brain.
Closing my eyes and ignoring the drone of Michael Bolton over the waiting room speakers, I tip my head back until it rests against the wall and let my thoughts run through the Harrises’ home. In my mind’s eye, I drift past the massive dining room table, through the sun-flooded kitchen and living room. I skate around the couches and up the stairs, taking in details. Absorbing things I might’ve missed before. Turning right at the stairs, I head into the rooms we’ve now unlocked. The theater-like screening room with its rows of leather reclining seats. The billiards room with a table set up for a game. Balls racked in the center. Cue ball at the end. Sticks lined up on the wall. I let my mind float into the gym, over the elliptical machine, rowing machine, and yoga mats.
And then I drift through the walls straight into the nursery. It’s too quiet in there. Too sterile. Absent a child’s cry, a tub of diapers. Will that baby Colleen is carrying sleep there someday?
Patel’s phone pings with an incoming text, derailing my thoughts. He swipes his finger over the screen. “Got the search warrant for the Harrises’ phones,” he tells me. “The office is sending over the call logs now.”
“About time,” I say. I can’t wait to dig in. “Tell them to send over the text messages, too. And I want more than time stamps.” I need to know what these people were saying to each other. “We’ll dissect them tonight.”
As the receptionist calls for another woman to make her way into the back, I glance up, attempting to remind her we’re still waiting. But her eyes are downcast, her attention fixed on her computer screen. Three women sit separately, hands clasped in their laps as they ignore the muted television on the wall in the corner. One woman, a pregnant brunette, weeps quietly. Another, an attractive thirty-something blonde in a business suit, crosses her legs and taps her high-heeled foot in the air as if she’s got somewhere to be. The third woman, with deeply sunken, tired eyes, stares into space as if there’s something there, just out of our line of sight.
“Hear back from the maid yet?” Patel asks, pocketing his phone.
I nod. “She’s got an alibi. Took a family trip to Aruba from June until late July. She wasn’t anywhere near Point Reina. Checks out.”
“We haven’t had any more luck with the doctors,” Patel says. “Dr. Smith—the guy who prescribed Michael Harris something for his insomnia—won’t give any details that’ll violate the HIPAA laws. Dr. Souza—the ob-gyn Colleen is seeing—won’t give anything either. Dr. Garcia’s going to throw up the same roadblocks.”
“I know.” I twist the blocks on the right side of the cube around and move to the ones in back, giving them a hard spin. “Like you always say, we’ll have to think outside the box.”
After each woman in the waiting area is called back to see the doctor, we’re finally escorted down one blindingly white hallway that leads to another, and then up a narrow set of stairs. The office smells of disinfectant and coffee. A desk, two chairs, and a short bookshelf cram the small space. The clutter on the desk includes a computer, a clunky telephone, stacks of papers, and a lime-green coffee tumbler. Nothing out of the ordinary. Framed diplomas hang on the walls between patents for medical tools. On the bookshelves, pictures of a tall Hispanic man, a very pregnant woman, and two gap-toothed, beaming children showcase the perfect little family. Husband. Wife. A boy and a girl.
Does Cameron Garcia know how lucky he is?
We take our seats in front of the desk as the door clicks shut behind us. I try to steady my breathing. I hate hospitals; never have been able to stand them since Karen died.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. I’m Dr. Garcia.” He moves around the table, hand extended, and we stand to greet him. “What can I do for you?”
Towering over six feet tall, with a thick band of fat around his middle, Cameron Garcia has black hair buzzed close to his scalp. Wide-set eyes, intelligent, hidden behind square, black-rimmed glasses. Neatly trimmed beard. His handshake is firm, but his skin is soft.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Patel says. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”
“My assistant tells me you have a question about some prescriptions?” Garcia sits behind his desk and studies us impassively.
I nod. “We’re conducting a homicide investigation and recovered two bottles of medications prescribed by this office. One was for Valium, the other for Vicodin. The prescriptions are for Mandy McKnight. A patient of yours?”
Narrowing his eyes, Garcia scoots to the edge of his leather chair and leans over the desk toward us. “If you’re here about the victim of a homicide, I’m sorry I won’t be of much help. As I’m sure you know, HIPAA laws extend fifty years postmortem. I won’t be able to give you any insight into the patient—if Mandy McKnight was my patient—until the year 2067. I suggest you come back then.”
A real comedian, this guy.
“Mandy McKnight isn’t the victim,” Patel corrects.
“Has she granted you permission to unseal her medical records?”
Ms. McKnight wasn’t exactly forthcoming with her personal information. “Not yet.”
Garcia’s expression doesn’t change. “Then I really don’t know what you think I’m going to be able to tell you, Detectives. Anything I relate to you today wouldn’t be admissible in court.”
He’s going to be a difficult one to crack.
I’ve looked him up, and I know his is one of the few clinics in the area that performs late-term abortions. It’s not the sole procedure they offer, of course. From what I’ve read, they also perform tubal ligations and assist in cases of late-term miscarriage and fetal demise. They offer counseling to aid in their patients’ mental and emotional well-being. They’ve received stellar reviews.
“We don’t believe Ms. McKnight committed the murder we’re investigating,” I say, switching up the approach. “We’re in the middle of our investigation, and Ms. McKnight’s name has been brought into it through these pills. She could be in danger, so time is of the essence. We simply want to know more about Ms. McKnight to keep her safe and to maybe shed some light on details in this homicide.”
The doc eyes us thoughtfully. But he doesn’t budge.
“You have a beautiful family.” I gesture toward the pictures on the shelf beside us. “How old are your children?”
“Five and three.” He instantly relaxes back into the chair. “Maria and Martin. That’s my wife, Kendra.”
“You are very blessed. And I see congratulations are in order,” I remark. “How far along is your wife?”
“Eight months. It’s a girl.”
“I don’t have any children myself,” I offer, picking up the frame to study the picture of his smiling family. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I envy you.”
“Well,” the doctor says, “you’re still young. It’s not too late to start a family, if you want one.”
“Oh, it’s much too late for me,” I bite out, aware of the plain gold band still on my finger. “But thank you anyway.”
“His wife died last year,” Patel interjects, always the blabbermouth. “Cancer.”
And with that word, the air seems to be sucked out of the room with a vacuum. I wince.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Detective,” Garcia says sincerely. He studies me a moment and I’m certain we’re going to get nothing from him. Then he surprises me by saying, “I may not be able to give specifics, but I’ll answer what I can. What do you want to know?”
“Mandy McKnight was a patient of yours, correct?”
He nods.
Interesting. Either he or Mandy is a bold-faced liar. “Can you tell me what you treated her for?”
He shakes his head, his face still unreadable.
“When did she first become your patient?”
He pushes out a thin stream of air, adjusts a sheet of paper on his tidy desk. “As I said before, Detectives, I won’t give specifics, but I imagine it might have been sometime last June.”
“When was the last time she visited your office?”
He pauses, measuring me with guarded eyes. “The last time? July, I would say. Around the first of the month.”
“Do you remember if she came to her appointments alone?”
Again, his lips purse. “It’s hard to say. Many women in her position want the matter to be handled privately. Others prefer to have someone with them, for comfort.”
But why did she come to see you?
I can’t ask him. At least not outright. Because he won’t tell me.
“How many times did you see her?” Patel butts in.
Garcia’s razor-sharp focus shifts to my partner. “Not speaking to this case specifically, there are some services we offer that require more in-depth counseling. Sometimes we recommend our patients speak with one of our in-house counselors for four or five sessions before procedures are cleared. We pride ourselves on being a clinic that provides top-notch emotional and medical support.”
“Which of your procedures require counseling?” I ask.
“Abortion, late-term miscarriage, and tubal ligation, to name a few.”
I nod. “Taking into account this information, and speaking theoretically, you might have seen Mandy McKnight approximately once for her procedure”—whatever it was—“and four times for counseling afterward.”
“Not necessarily in that order, but yes. Theoretically it would’ve been something like that.”
“And—still speaking theoretically—what kind of medications might be offered after procedures like the ones you mentioned before?”
“There could be many,” he replies. “Ibuprofen or Motrin would be given to relieve minor discomfort. Antibiotics might be prescribed to prevent infection, and other medications might be added to the list as well, depending on whether or not the mother exhibits signs of depression. Also, not that it necessarily pertains to this hypothetical case, but women experiencing more severe pain may be prescribed a combination of Valium and Vicodin to make them more comfortable.”
There we go. It’s all coming together now.
Mandy McKnight sought some kind of services from Dr. Garcia’s clinic in June or July. She was either pregnant and lost the child, chose to abort it, or decided to have a sterilization procedure. She visited this clinic and received counseling here. She was in extreme pain and filled prescriptions for Vicodin and Valium, which she never finished taking, since fifty-two pills remain in each bottle.
But how did her medication end up in the back of the Harrises’ medicine cabinet? And what, if anything, does that have to do with Joanna? It could be nothing. Mandy might’ve been friends with Joanna. She might’ve come to stay the night and accidentally left her prescriptions behind. Yes, the pills could lead nowhere. But something keeps telling me Mandy McKnight will be the missing piece to finding Joanna’s killer.
“Thank you for that information, Dr. Garcia,” I say, rising. Patel sends me a surprised look: he has other questions he wants to ask. “It’s extremely helpful. I have one more question, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Go on,” he nods.
“Could you confirm whether Mandy McKnight was pregnant at the time of her first visit?”
I’m not taking a shot in the dark, not at all. I’m studying his reaction, analyzing his response, and measuring those against everything I’ve heard thus far.
“In your line of work, Detective Shaw, privacy may not be important,” he says evenly, his face a blank slate, “but to us, it’s paramount to the safety of the women who visit our clinic.”
Someone raps on his door, and a second later, the receptionist peers into the room. She’s taller than I realized. Glossy blond hair with hot pink streaks in it. Cornflower blue eyes. Round face and high cheekbones. She’s attractive in a sweet, innocent kind of way.
“Dr. Garcia,” she whispers, “your twelve-thirty is here.”
“Thank you, Tiffany,” he says, holding her gaze just a little long. He stands. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have business to attend to.”
Just like that, our time is up.
“What about the name Joanna Harris?” I stop in the doorway. “Has she ever been a patient here?”
He stares me down before replying. “As I said, Detective, I’m afraid I can’t be of much help.”
It doesn’t sit right with me that he didn’t actually answer my question one way or the other. But nothing about this case does.
“Sun is setting fast,” I tell Patel as we walk back to the car. The sky is turning dark, and I’m desperate to make something of this day before it’s gone. “I really want to dig into those call logs…but do you think we could make it to Pacifica by nightfall?”
“Depends on commuter traffic. It’s close to six.” Patel frowns at me. “Why?”
“Dean Lewis still hasn’t returned my calls.” I slide into the unmarked cruiser, and when Patel joins me, I point straight ahead, toward Point Reina. “It’s time to pay the Harrises’ chef a visit.”
The town of Pacifica is a gem. Tucked on the coast between San Francisco and Point Reina, it’s a short jog off Highway 1, a six-mile stretch of picturesque beaches and sprawling hills twenty minutes south of the city. Although it’s larger than Point Reina, Pacifica is still relatively quiet—an oasis for surfers and hikers and those seeking refuge from the daily grind.
I could see why someone like Dean—someone who spends his workday shuffling meals between Point Reina and San Francisco—would like it here.
Patel’s GPS sparks to life, informing us that Dean’s residence, Seascape Apartments, is ahead on the right. Painted brown and muted green, the complex fades into the landscape and looks as though it hasn’t been remodeled in the last few decades. The lawns are mowed short, the trees trimmed back. It’s the view at the end of the street that sells the place. A brisk, two-minute walk to the west and I’d be standing in the surf.
“What does Dean drive?” Patel asks, frowning at the line of parked cars at the curb. “A Camaro?”
“2012 Mustang Convertible. Kona blue. Bought it three years ago. According to DMV records, he’s the second owner.”
“Did I tell you about my wife’s new car?” Patel kills the engine. “She’s in love. Better be, considering they asked for one of my kidneys as collateral. If I thought I was broke before, I had no idea. You should hear the plans she has for our new pool.”
I make a sound of agreement as he goes on about the infinity pool they’re putting in.
“The promotion’s going to be perfect timing,” Patel rambles on.
“Promotion?” I hadn’t heard anything about it.
“Didn’t I mention my meeting with the lieutenant? Sure I did. He said the Harris case is getting national attention now. Said it wouldn’t look good for the department if the case stalled. They want us to wrap it up quickly. Might be a promotion in it for me if we do.”
It all makes sense. The promotion is perfect timing. Especially if he and his wife have already spent the money he’d earn from the raise. No wonder he wants a reckless pursuit of Joanna Harris’s killer, leading to a quick arrest.
But that’s not how I work. He should know that by now.
“Let me be the first to congratulate you then,” I say, without bothering to keep the cynicism from my tone. “Can we get back to work now?”
Without waiting for an answer, I exit the cruiser, slamming the door behind me. He follows and meets me at the curb as a surfer passes by, lugging a board. The breeze carries a scent of sand and salt. I breathe in deeply and take in my surroundings. Run-down duplexes across the street. Dead-end road. Seagulls swooping in the distance. No traffic. Not much beach parking. Actually, there’s hardly enough street parking for Seascape’s tenants. There must be a private lot, or—there it is. Up ahead, past the complex, a driveway turns off the main road.
“I’m going to check out the tenant garages,” I tell Patel. “I want a quick look before we head in.”
“All right,” Patel says, “but I’m going up. See if I can get him talking. Meet me up there. 3B.”
“I know,” I call over my shoulder. “I remember.”
Flanked by ruthlessly groomed hedges, the driveway leads behind the complex to a large lot edged by three rows of garages. Beside each single-car garage is a covered stall for a second vehicle. I stride down the nearest row, scanning. Honda Civic with expired plates. Dodge pickup truck with blacked-out windows. Electric company work truck. No sign of Dean’s blue Mustang.
My gaze lifts to the small metal placards posted above each garage door. 6A, 5A…
The stall beside 3B’s garage bay is empty. Oil stain on the concrete. Naked lightbulb overhead. There’s nothing to find here.
But I’m not about to leave any stone unturned, so I enter the covered stall and search for a side entrance.
“Hey,” someone calls from behind me. “That’s my garage. Can I help you find something?”
Dean.
I’ve already run his record, and feel like we’ve met before, even though we haven’t. He’s Caucasian, six foot one, thirty-four years old, and has lived in San Mateo County his whole life. Graduate of the California Culinary Academy. Top honors. Never married. Doesn’t receive government assistance or pay child support. I put his plates through the system, too. Three speeding tickets in the last two years for going over ninety miles per hour. Not surprising considering his choice of vehicle. Other than the speed infractions, and one night spent in jail after a nasty bar fight—in which I figure he earned that gnarly scar on the side of his neck—he’s clean. Tonight, he’s carrying two gym bags, one dangling at the end of each arm.
“I’m Detective Shaw from the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office,” I say as I approach him. “I left you several messages.”
“I’ve been busy.” I can tell from his tone that Dean’s not going to be too talkative today. “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand. I’m late for an appointment in the city.”
“I get the feeling you’re dodging my calls,” I say, keeping my tone light, “but you wouldn’t have any reason to do that, would you?”
“I’m not dodging your calls, Detective Shaw. I merely have nothing to add to your investigation. I thought I’d serve Joanna better if I stayed out of the way so you can do your job.”
I have to tread carefully with this guy. I want him on my side.
He drops his bags to the asphalt, crouches, and with one swift move, lifts the garage door. It rolls back with an obnoxious whinny and settles on its track overhead. Inside, the garage space is tidy. No garden tools, I note immediately. Not a speck of dirt on the concrete floor.
“No lock?” I ask, pointing to the door resting on the track overhead.
“The lock busted last spring. It’s not a big deal.” Dean reaches into his pocket, pulls out his car keys, and presses a button on the fob. The Mustang’s trunk jerks open with a loud thud. “I don’t keep anything valuable in here anyway.”
His garage is barely wide enough for the Mustang’s doors to open. Against the back wall, a narrow cabinet reaches from floor to ceiling.
Wonder what he keeps in there?
“Listen,” Dean says, picking up his bags and tossing them in the trunk. “I don’t want any trouble.” He slams the lid closed.
I put up my hands as if to surrender, smiling. “I just want to talk about Michael and Joanna Harris. Two minutes.”
Maybe ten.
“I like my job, Detective.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
He steps closer. He’s wearing cologne, something peppery. “You think Mr. Harris would be happy if he knew the police were interrogating me about his family? If anyone sees me talking to you, the news will make it back to Point Reina faster than I will.”
“What’s wrong with having a civil conversation?” I counter, still smiling.
Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m going to make this easy on you. I loved Joanna as a friend, and—”
“Only as a friend?” I interrupt. “Never crossed the line?”
“Never.”
“Not sure I believe that.”
His breathing remains even. His gaze holds mine steady. He’s either telling the truth or he’s a very skilled liar. He huffs in disgust, charges around to the driver’s side of his car, and yanks the door open. “I told you I was late. Have a good evening, Detective.”
I move in front of the garage door, so he can’t leave unless he plans to run me over. “You like your job, and Point Reina is a tight community. You can’t afford a bad name, or you won’t work anywhere around there again. You’re loyal to the Harrises because you and Joanna were close. I get all that. But if you loved her—as a friend—help us figure out who did this to her.”
If he doesn’t know already.
He curses under his breath, glaring at me. Then he says, “Okay. I’ll answer anything you want about Joanna. But their marriage was none of my business. I don’t want to get involved.”
“You already are, Dean.” I stare him down. “You go in and out of Ravenwood almost every day. You know what goes on inside those walls. Inside that marriage. You knew back then. Do you remember anything strange happening last summer?”
“Strange? No. Nothing.”
“Anything, Dean. Did they go anywhere in May, June, or July? Take any trips, or—”
“They didn’t go anywhere,” he blurts. “Especially in May. Christ! Joanna wouldn’t even come out of her room for the last half of the month.”
“Do you know why?”
He shrugs. “Said she wasn’t feeling well.”
“She secluded herself in her room for half of the month, and you don’t think that’s odd behavior?”
“It’s not a crime to be sick, Detective. She had a horrible pregnancy. Nauseous all the time. Couldn’t keep food down. It wasn’t abnormal to find her in bed half the day.”
“So she kept to her room and to her bed. Do you know who took care of her during that time?”
“Samara—the woman wouldn’t leave Joanna’s side.”
“Were she and Mr. Harris arguing at the time? Or any time before or after she secluded herself in her room?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? If I want to keep my job, I can’t talk about their marriage.”
“Did Mr. Harris give you that ultimatum?”
His jaw twitches as he stares into the Mustang’s interior. It’s as if Dean’s deciding whether or not to bolt. Staying would probably mean disrespecting or even disobeying his employer. But running from an open investigation would immediately throw suspicion on him. If he’s not guilty, why would he need to dodge innocent questions?
I’ve got him pinned, and we both know it.
“All right, Dean,” I say, pretending to give a little ground. “I’ll keep my questions focused on Joanna.” Because it’ll loosen him up for the more complicated questions later. “Did she have any enemies?”
“No.”
“Can you recall any disagreements between Joanna and Rachael Martin?” I press. “Or anyone else in the neighborhood?”
“No.” With a heavy exhale, Dean slams his car door shut. The sound ricochets off the walls of the garage like a thunderclap as he approaches me, fire blazing in his eyes. “That’s the thing you’re not getting. Everyone loved Joanna. Everyone. She was the light in any room. The life of the party. She was unbelievably charismatic, and kind, and funny. When she talked, you listened. When she walked away, you watched. Everyone did. Women wanted to be her. Men wanted to be with her.”
“Then,” I insist, feeling my own pulse jump at his words, “who the hell would do this to her?”
“If I knew of one person who thought poorly of her, who would wish her even the slightest bit of harm, I would tell you. But I can’t think of a single person in all of Point Reina because there isn’t one.”
Quite the speech. But I’m not falling for it. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Am I a suspect now?” he asks bitterly.
“We haven’t ruled anyone out, Mr. Lewis.”
“July, I guess.”
“I don’t want you to guess,” I say flatly. “Take a minute to think about it.”
Anger flares in his eyes again, then recedes. “I can’t remember exactly, but with the exception of that period in May, when she was sick, we met every morning to go over their menu. I couldn’t say if that happened the day she was killed or not, but in all likelihood it did.”
So he would’ve seen Joanna on the morning of July sixteenth, before she went to Pilates. It’s not concrete, since he can’t note anything specific that happened that day, but at least he’s giving me something.
“Did you see Joanna outside of work?” I ask. “Did you go shopping together? Movies? Dinner?”
He levels his humorless stare at me. “All of the above. Anything else?”
Aha. “You must’ve been devastated when she left Mr. Harris in July.”
His jaw clenches. “I was.”
“Anything strike you as odd about the way she left?”
He blinks, then stares me down for so long, I fear I’ve pushed too far. “If you’re asking my opinion, Joanna wouldn’t have just vanished without at least saying goodbye. It wasn’t like her. She was always thoughtful and kind.”
“If you thought her disappearance was strange, why didn’t you ever go to the police?”
“Mr. Harris insisted she was fine.” He glances at the cabinets at the back wall of the garage, though I’m not sure if he’s mentally searching for something hidden there or just desperate to avoid eye contact. “He said she was with her sister. I left message after message on her cell, but there was never any reply. It was strange.”
“It was strange,” I agree. “And yet you never filed a missing person’s report.”
“I thought about that,” he says bitterly, bringing his gaze back to mine, “and I even mentioned it in passing to Mr. Harris one morning. He said it was absurd. He explained that Joanna wasn’t in danger, that she chose to leave, and any effort to bring her back would be useless.”
Interesting. Harris hadn’t mentioned any of this. “Would you consider Mr. Harris a decent boss?”
“I would say so, yes,” he says. “He’s reasonable when it comes to days off, allowing vacation time, and even offers me benefits. Some people pay more for silence on certain issues, and—”
“No, you’re not skipping over that,” I interrupt. “Did Michael Harris offer a bribe to keep you quiet?”
His lips press together tightly, giving away nothing.
“What kinds of issues might someone pay to keep quiet?” I prod.
“I told you. I won’t answer any questions about my boss’s marriage.”
Dean’s acting like he doesn’t want to play this game, but I’ll get the information I need one way or another. “Abuse?”
Again, he stares me down, then lowers and lifts his chin. It’s the smallest of affirmative movements. If I hadn’t been looking right at him, waiting for a sign, I would’ve missed it.
“Mr. Harris loved his wife, Detective. I don’t think that’s what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. In fact, he probably loved her too much, and held on too tightly when she wanted more freedom.”
Fascinating. “Did she ever mention having an affair?”
He laughs.
“More than one affair?”
“For a detective, you sure don’t seem to be digging too deep.” He shakes his head. “I told you. She was loved by everyone who knew her. Everyone, Detective.”
He loved her, too.
There’s no doubting the nature of their relationship now. Dean Lewis and Joanna Harris had an affair. But he won’t divulge the truth to me because he knows it’ll make him a prime suspect.
Too late.
“Anyway,” he goes on, glancing at his watch, “I know she and Mr. Harris had their problems, but who am I to say what I would or wouldn’t do in a certain situation? Everyone has issues.”
I get the feeling that I’m teetering on the edge of something dark with Dean Lewis—valuable information that’ll turn this case around. I gamble, taking advantage of the answers flowing freely from him now.
“Does Mr. Harris know you and Joanna were having an affair?”
“You think he would keep me on his staff if he suspected I was sleeping with his wife?” With a curse, he jerks open the Mustang’s door, and slides inside. “Clearly you don’t know a thing about Mr. Harris’s character. The man would’ve carved me in two if he thought for one second that we were sleeping together.”
“Were you?”
I need to hear him say the words, if for no other reason than to prove my suspicions about him were right.
“If you want to know about their marriage,” he says grimly, “ask Mr. Harris. Be sure to tell him that I wouldn’t give you squat.”
I barely have time to scramble out of the garage before he reverses, barely missing my toes. Quickly, as if he nearly forgot, he rushes out of the car and yanks on the garage door until it slams against the asphalt.
“I left my number on the voicemails. Call if you think of anything that might help with the case.”
He flops into the driver’s seat and bangs the door shut again. He doesn’t even glance in my direction when he cranks the wheel and peels out of the lot.
“Was that Dean Lewis?” Patel hollers, charging along the stretch of garage doors. He’s out of breath. “Flag him down so we can talk to him!”
I’m still shaking my head, watching the taillights of Dean’s Mustang fade into the twilight. When Patel reaches my side, he doubles up to rest his hands on his knees.
“You didn’t stop him,” he wheezes.
“I didn’t need to. Our conversation was over.”
“Damn it. Took a two-minute phone call and missed him.”
“He refuses to bad-mouth his boss. Doesn’t want to lose his job. He was probably paid off to keep quiet.” My thoughts reel as I recall our conversation. If Dean loved Joanna and believed Michael killed her, would he keep working for him? Not likely. “Apparently Joanna had multiple lovers, and I’m convinced the list includes Dean Lewis.”
“I’m not surprised, considering how much time they had alone at Ravenwood. But you figure Michael Harris paid him off to stay away from us?” Making a shocked, whistle-like sound, Patel plants his hands on his hips and eyes the door. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you?”
It’d be easy to lift up the door and search through those cabinets. Easy, but also illegal. Would I find a shovel—the one that shattered Joanna’s skull? Her missing wedding ring? Or a bunch of useless old cooking utensils? I start the short walk back to the cruiser.
Patel follows. “Maybe Harris and his chef were in it together.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Love triangles never work out well in the end. Maybe they were both jealous of Travis Martin?”