Nineteenth Street, Tuesday, July 27, 9:45 a.m.
Have you been sleeping well, Chief Harris?”
“Like a rock.” Jess smoothed a hand over the hem of her skirt, mostly to avoid eye contact—a maneuver the shrink would likely recognize. How well was she supposed to sleep when her job was to find and stop evil?
But she wasn’t about to delve into that can of worms with the doctor who possessed the power to remove her from duty. Presenting a calm, rational, nonviolent facade was key. All she needed now was for a Nobel Peace Prize nomination to suddenly appear in her personnel jacket so they could be done with this charade. She and the nice Dr. Oden had been dancing around the events of last Wednesday for nearly an hour. The woman should get to the point, but Jess doubted that would happen in this session.
Shrinks were like lawyers—they billed by the hour.
“What about your dreams? Anything unusual since the shooting?”
“Nothing at all.” Jess folded her hands together in her lap to conquer the urge to reach for her cell. It was driving her nuts not to know what was going on this morning. Had Harper learned anything on the Simmons case? How was the sketch artist doing with getting a likeness of Nina on paper? Had the ME’s office given any preliminary results on Chandler’s death?
She wouldn’t know because she was stuck here. Not that the latter was any of her business.
Speaking of the Simmons case, Jess wondered how long it would be before the good doctor learned about the drive-by shooting and added that to the pile of reasons Jess couldn’t possibly be stable.
While Oden made more notes and decided on her next question, Jess wondered if the doctor had chosen the decor in her office. The plaid upholstery on the chairs clashed annoyingly with the striped drapes, and there was enough brown and tan in the room to depress a mud turtle. It wasn’t normal to be this neutral and drab. Oden really needed a color intervention.
“How are things at work? Any problems fitting in? Sometimes it takes a while to feel like you belong when an abrupt career change occurs later in life.”
Later in life? Now there was an uplifting thought.
“None at all,” Jess said with a smile. Except for Lieutenant Prescott wanting to scratch her eyes out and Chief Black stealing back the case Jess had stolen from him. Gangbangers shooting at her and, oh yes, Burnett getting up close and personal with his ex at a private dinner for two and then showing up to play the boss for Jess. Things were downright dandy.
“Your former relationship with Chief Burnett hasn’t made you feel awkward in your new position at the BPD?”
Apparently the doc could read minds. Either that or Jess’s new boss had given a little more info than necessary when writing up his evaluation. Or maybe he’d spilled his guts during his own psych eval. The annoyance and impatience needling at Jess turned to something far less polite. This session was about her shooting and ending the life of Matthew Reed, not who she’d had sex with last.
“My former relationship with Chief Burnett, having taken place more than twenty years ago, is absolutely irrelevant to these proceedings, Dr. Oden. Nothing related to our shared past makes me feel the slightest bit awkward about anything at all, then or now.”
There were enough lies in those two sentences to guarantee her a seat on the train to hell.
“I see.” Oden jotted a few notes.
“I see” was code for “I think I’m onto something.” Jess had news for the nice doctor: she was done. She grabbed her bag and eased to the edge of her chair in preparation for making her exit before Oden could zero in on just how right she was.
“Here’s what I see, Dr. Oden. I shot and killed Matthew Reed, a sociopath who murdered at least three people. The shooting was justified since at the time he had two hostages, both of whom were mere moments from certain death. Yes, one was my former lover and current boss, but the other was a detective I’d known only a few days. So let’s not make anything of the idea that Burnett was even in the room. I did my job and I have no regrets. No bad dreams. No inability to sleep. No loss of sex drive and no problem getting along with others.”
Maybe that last part was a stretch.
“You believe you don’t need these sessions.” Oden studied her with open skepticism. “That this is a waste of your time. Is that a fair assessment?”
That was a trick question. “I think you’re doing your job, Doctor. That’s what I believe.” Jess stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to do mine.”
“You may suffer later for ignoring your mental health, Chief Harris. You’re aware of the consequences, just as I am. Why add that kind of easily avoidable regret to your already complicated life?”
Jess hesitated at the door. She told herself to keep her cool but she’d suddenly catapulted past any possibility of doing that. She turned back to the well-meaning shrink. “My only regret, Doctor, is that I didn’t find and kill that monster before he mutilated and murdered a federal agent who was a wife and mother. That’s a regret I’ll have to live with the rest of my life. Unfortunately there isn’t a thing I can do or you can say that will fix that. But thank you very much for giving it the old college try.”
Before Oden could organize a response, Jess was out the door. She didn’t wait for the elevator. It was only two flights of stairs and there was no worry about snapping a heel or twisting her ankle. Not in these generic old flats she had worn to show her practical side. Thank goodness she had her blue pumps in the car. She hadn’t ever been vain, not really. She dressed her best for the job because it was expected. People, strangers, colleagues, whoever, responded better to you when you were well dressed. The shoes, now that was a whole different ball game. The shoes were her one true vanity. And the bag. She loved it. She’d paid a killing for the Coach Bleecker tote bag on her fortieth birthday.
A little voice nagged at her for lying to herself. The M&Ms were a close second to the shoes. The bag was a definite third when set against the chocolate. Still, if that was her worst sin, she wasn’t doing so badly.
At least she wasn’t having dinner and hugs with her ex.
Then again, she and Wesley didn’t have children. Andrea might only be a former stepdaughter, but she and Dan had grown quite close during his and Annette’s brief marriage.
Jess escaped the stairwell and hit the lobby determined to erase Burnett and his ex, as well as the psych eval, which she might very well have just flunked, from her head.
Outside she took a moment to get her bearings, then headed in the direction of the parking garage a couple of blocks away. The streets were already jammed with medical district traffic. Birmingham physicians and facilities were tops in the nation. The streets were always crowded in this area. Parking was at a premium.
“Jess!”
She stalled in front of Starbucks and zeroed in on the voice that had called her name. Lori Wells. A smile slid across Jess’s lips and she hurried to accept a hug from the detective. Jess had rolled back into her hometown husbandless, almost jobless, and definitely friendless. In a mere two weeks two-thirds of that sad state had changed.
Drawing back, she assessed her friend’s recovery after being abducted by Matthew Reed. Lori’s eye was still swollen a little but looked far better than a few days ago. The bruises on her cheek and throat had turned that ugly yellowy-purple color. Otherwise she was her usual tall, thin, gorgeous self. Long dark hair and rich green eyes. Dressed in dark green slacks and a mint-colored blouse, she looked damn good for a woman who had escaped the worst kind of evil. God, Jess was glad to see her.
“You have a follow-up appointment with your doctor?” Jess couldn’t imagine anyone tackling this traffic unless necessary. Lori had a couple of fractured ribs in addition to the more obvious signs of the beating she had taken. Like the mental trauma, the damaged ribs weren’t visible to the naked eye. Sometimes what couldn’t be seen was far worse than the readily apparent. As much as Jess wanted to ignore Oden’s warning, the shrink was right. That kind of damage didn’t just go away easily.
“No follow-ups today.” Lori held up her iced coffee. “Unless you’re in a hurry, let’s find a quiet corner and catch up.”
“I have some time.” She could rendezvous with Harper and Prescott before lunch. Both were working the Simmons case. A few minutes with Lori would be good.
Inside the coffee shop Jess grabbed an iced coffee of her own while Lori laid claim to one of the comfy seating areas as far away from the counter as possible. Jess curled up in one of the big chairs. She hadn’t had a break like this in decades. Not having cases stacked to the ceiling in her office was just another aspect of why she felt a little off balance.
Balance is everything. That was what Annette Denton had said about Darcy Chandler. How did a woman who had been a professional ballerina lose her balance and fall over a railing?
Not your case, Jess. Finding DeShawn Simmons had to be her singular goal.
“I’m here to see the department shrink,” Lori stated with about as much enthusiasm as a woman about to undress for her annual gynecological examination.
“Just left her office,” Jess admitted.
Lori made a face. “Is she tough? Weird?”
Jess dismissed the unkind remarks that came immediately to mind. Oden was doing her job. Dislike of the system should have no bearing on her conclusions about the woman. “She’s thorough and she’s blunt.”
“I suppose those are good traits in a shrink.” Lori cradled her coffee in her hands and gave a little shrug. “My appointment’s not until ten thirty.” She laughed, the sound a little weary and a lot dry. “My mom was determined to stop by and make breakfast for me. She calls me every half hour if I’m out of her sight. I told her my appointment was at eight thirty just to get away from her hovering.”
“You’ve been here for almost two hours?”
Lori toed her bag, pointing out the iPad stowed there. “Caught up on a little reading. Cruised Facebook. Sent a couple of tweets. Believe me, it was a relief to escape. I swear my poor mother is never going to treat me like a grown-up again.”
“In time,” Jess promised. Lori was the youngest detective at BPD. Quite an accomplishment, especially for a woman. But last week had taken its toll on her and her family. As normal as she sounded, there was a new guardedness in her eyes. Something that hadn’t been there a week ago.
“I’m not really so worried about Oden,” she confessed. “This isn’t my first time going through a required psych eval. I had the honor after the shoot-out Harper and I survived six months ago,” she reminded Jess. “This is a different doctor, but when you get down to the nitty-gritty, they’re all the same, I guess.” She sighed. “The real problem is, I think I need a shrink this time. It’s not like before.”
Jess understood completely. “When you took that bullet all those months ago, your actions were by choice. For all intents and purposes you were in control. When you were taken hostage, Reed stole all control from you. Both situations were deadly, but you’re right, it’s very different.” She went for a lighthearted laugh but the effort fell a little flat. “People are terrified of flying because there might be a plane crash when, statistically speaking, they’re far more likely to die in a car crash. But being on a plane takes away all the control. That helplessness fuels the fear. Makes the possibility more terrifying no matter that it’s far less likely.”
“Exactly,” Lori agreed. “While I was with that psycho, I felt utterly helpless. I hadn’t felt that way since I almost drowned as a kid. That whack job scared me. Scared the hell out of me.”
“That was his goal.”
Lori smiled, the real deal this time, and the shadows clouding her eyes faded just a little. “But he got his in the end.”
“Yes, he did.”
They tapped their cups together and toasted the victory. “Too bad the other sicko got away.”
“One of these days he’ll get his.” Every instinct Jess possessed warned that Spears would be back. She would be ready.
“You check out any more real estate listings?” Lori relaxed into her chair. “Now’s the time to buy. I’m even thinking of picking up something. A town house or condo. I love the location of my apartment, but why pay rent when interest rates and housing prices are this low?”
“I’ll get around to it.” Jess had barely gotten settled at the HoJo’s. Why was everyone in such an all-fired hurry to get her moved into something permanent? Her sister, Lily, had e-mailed her at least a dozen listings since Friday.
“I need to come back to work.”
If Jess didn’t know better she’d swear Lori set up this unplanned meeting just to broach that subject. “If your physician gives you a release—”
“Already have it.”
“And,” Jess pointed out, “if you complete your psych eval and get a release from Oden as well, I’d love to have you back.” That was an understatement.
“I’m hoping to have that about an hour from now.”
Jess leaned forward and set her coffee on the ergonomic little table. Lori’s confidence was admirable but Jess wasn’t so sure. She doubted anyone would ever know exactly what went on during all those hours that Reed held Lori prisoner. “Are you absolutely certain you’re ready to deal with work again so soon?”
“You sound like Harper.” Lori exhaled a frustrated breath. “And my mother and Chief Burnett. They all think I need a couple more weeks at home.”
Jess could relate. “You’re going crazy, huh?”
Lori nodded. “Absolutely rip-my-skin-off insane.”
“Let me know what Oden recommends.” Jess caved. “If for some reason she believes you need more time off, there’s nothing I can do about that, but there’s no rule that says we can’t get together and talk shop after hours. Your insights are always valuable.”
“Deal.” Lori smiled, and this time it reached all the way to her eyes.
“I guess Harper told you about our close call in Druid Hills last night.” Jess felt confident he had. “We were extremely lucky.”
Lori looked confused. “He didn’t mention any close call. What happened?”
Uh-oh. Seemed she and Burnett weren’t the only ones keeping secrets from each other.
Jess gave her the condensed version. “I’m sure he just didn’t want you to worry.”
“Wow.” Lori was rattled. “I’m glad you two are okay.”
“Last night was a warning for us to back off.”
“Harper’s doing follow-up today?”
She was worried. The uncertainty in her expression belied the nonchalance of her question. Understandable. “He’s getting what he can from Captain Allen in GTF. Checking on interviews with DeShawn’s family and friends. We’ve got some major catching up to do. This kid is a popular guy.”
Jess’s cell clanged that old-fashioned ringtone. “Sorry.” She rummaged in her bag. “I need to… get this.” She studied the screen of her cell. No name, just a local number she didn’t recognize. With a dubious look in Lori’s direction she accepted the call. “Jess Harris.”
“Chief Harris, this is Dr. Harlan Schrader. We need to have a conversation. Face-to-face. There are things about the Chandler case you need to know… Can you meet me this evening?”
As much as she wanted to hear anything the ME had on the Chandler case, Burnett had gotten his point across. She had to at least make an effort at following the rules. “It might be better if you called Deputy Chief Black about this. The Chandler case belongs to him.”
Jess held her breath. Told herself she’d done the right thing and still she wanted to bite off her tongue.
“I’m calling you, Chief Harris. Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”
She’d tried. Really she had. She even had a witness. Lori was sitting right in front of her and heard her plainly tell her caller that he should talk to Black.
Her day was already booked with legwork that needed to be accomplished on the Simmons case. “Name the time, as long as it’s after six, and the place,” Jess agreed. “I’ll be there.”
Finley Boulevard, Captain D’s, 10:50 a.m.
“Mr. Davis, I appreciate your assistance in this matter.” Jess surveyed the prep personnel from her seat next to the manager’s desk at the back of the kitchen area. Harper was out front interviewing the servers who knew DeShawn. The store opened in just ten minutes but no one had complained about taking the time to answer questions. The smell of fish and hush puppies frying had already filled the air.
“Whatever I can do,” Mr. Davis assured her. “DeShawn is an outstanding young man. He is sorely missed here, I can tell you.” He glanced back at the crew working to prepare for opening. “I can’t believe the police haven’t spoken to Jerome Frazier already or that he hasn’t come forward to assist in whatever way he can. He and DeShawn are the best of friends. Have been since elementary school.”
Mrs. Simmons had mentioned Jerome Frazier as well. But Harper hadn’t been able to catch him at home or here, at work, until now. “Mr. Davis, I really would like to speak with Jerome but I’ll need some privacy. Can you spare him for a few minutes? We’ll be right outside.”
“Of course. I’ll have someone take care of his station. You do what needs to be done, Chief Harris. We all want DeShawn found safe and sound.”
The manager would have risen from his chair but Jess waylaid him with a question. “What can you tell me about DeShawn’s other friend, Nina? The young woman you gave a job?”
Not once had Davis mentioned her. Even now he turned away from Jess’s gaze. This was a subject he did not want to discuss.
“In thirty years of food service,” he began, his tone defeated, “I have never broken the rules. But, for DeShawn, I did. He was desperate to help this young girl and I went along with it. I paid her cash for cleaning up after hours. Sometimes my night crew doesn’t get everything done. I didn’t ask any questions. I just did as DeShawn asked. I didn’t want to let him down.”
There wasn’t anything they could do about that now. “This morning one of our sketch artists drew a picture of this Nina based on the description DeShawn’s grandparents gave. Would you mind having a look to see if you can add anything?”
“Certainly.”
Jess showed him the image she had received via e-mail scarcely twenty minutes ago.
Davis nodded. “That’s her.” He looked away again. “She has a tattoo on her left shoulder. I saw it one night when she was wearing just a”—he motioned across the upper area of his chest with both hands—“tube-like top.”
There were numerous tattoos associated with MS-13 and other gangs. New, unique symbols popped up all the time. “Can you describe it to me?”
“It was the number thirteen inside butterfly wings. I might not have noticed except that one of the other employees mentioned it to me. She was worried that Nina might be associated with the MS-13. DeShawn insisted that wasn’t the case, but I asked Nina about it myself. As much as I wanted to help them, I’m responsible for the safety of the folks who work here.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath the glasses he wore. “She told me she was born into that life but her mother stole her away when she was just an infant. When she was thirteen, her mother had the tattoo put on her shoulder as a symbol of her freedom.”
“Did she give you any idea of where she’d come from? Did she grow up here? Is her mother still alive?” Jess needed to identify this young woman as quickly as possible.
Davis moved his head side to side. “She was very secretive. I was surprised she gave me that much information.”
Jess had a feeling she knew why. “When did you confront her about the tattoo?”
“Last Tuesday. One week ago today.” As if he’d just realized the same thing Jess was thinking, he frowned. “She never came back to work after that.”
Because she disappeared. Then less than seventy-two hours later DeShawn vanished as well.
Jess thanked Mr. Davis and prepared to question Jerome Frazier.
Frazier wasn’t too crazy about the idea of talking to Jess and Harper in the small storage building in the rear parking lot. Other than sitting in Harper’s SUV, that was the only privacy they could hope for.
Standing amid the stacks of paper products required to run the seafood restaurant and still wearing his apron, Jerome folded his arms over his chest and remained silent.
“Do you understand the rights Detective Harper has just explained to you?” Jess asked. The Miranda rights weren’t really necessary just now but she wanted him worried.
“I got nothing to say.”
“Yes or no, Jerome?” Jess said more firmly.
The silent treatment continued.
“It might be best if we took him downtown, ma’am,” Harper suggested.
Jess exhaled an impatient sigh. “I guess we have no choice.”
Jerome visibly stiffened. “No way. I didn’t do anything wrong and I don’t know anything that can help DeShawn.”
“Do you have any idea what happened to him?” Jess demanded.
“That ho he was messing with is part of that crazy-ass posse always chopping heads off and shit. I don’t care what DeShawn thought—she was just using him.”
“By ho, do you mean Nina?”
He gave Jess an incredulous look. “Who else? DeShawn’s on a path. He’s gonna be somebody. Until he met that Nina bitch, he didn’t let no girl alter his focus. That girl messed with his head. He’s gonna get himself dead trying to help her—if he’s not dead already.”
“How was DeShawn trying to help Nina?”
“She said she loved him. They could have a life together. All they had to do was get away.”
“You think there’s a possibility they’ve left Birmingham?” BPD uniforms had gotten a good deal of legwork done yesterday. If the couple had left the city, they hadn’t done so in a taxi, on a bus, train, or plane. “What sort of transportation do they have?” DeShawn Simmons’s eleven-year-old Buick was still at his grandparents’ house.
Jerome shrugged. “Maybe Nina knows people. None of DeShawn’s friends would help him make this kind of mistake. No way.”
“I don’t suppose he’s tried to contact you?”
Nineteen-year-old Jerome shook his head but he made one mistake. He lied. Until then Jess had sensed he was telling the truth, but the way he averted his gaze and that little tick that started in his jaw gave him away.
“Thank you, Jerome. If you hear anything,” Jess said, handing him a card, “call me immediately. Your friend’s life depends on our finding him fast.”
“Wait.”
Jess turned back to Frazier.
“This says you’re a fed.” His gaze narrowed with suspicion.
“Sorry about that. I just started this job and I haven’t had time to get new business cards made. Just ignore the fed part.”
Jerome still wasn’t convinced, but that was irrelevant as far as Jess was concerned. When she and Harper reached his SUV, she hesitated before getting inside. “We need Officer Cook today. Now. I want someone tailing Frazier. He either knows where DeShawn Simmons is or he’s heard from him since his disappearance.”
The parking lot had begun to fill with the early lunch crowd. The morning was gone and the afternoon would fly just as fast. Jess had a list of DeShawn’s friends as long as her arm that she wanted to interview. Sheriff Griggs along with the deputy chiefs of both Patrol and Support had met first thing this morning to form additional search teams. The media attention DeShawn’s case was getting had lit a fire under the BPD.
DeShawn Simmons was now the poster boy for a better awareness of social and economic equality. The mayor and all the others in charge of this city had better listen up. Jess had a feeling this was not going away.
“I’ll put in a call to Deputy Chief Hogan in Patrol and see if we can make that happen ASAP,” Harper said as he reached for his cell. “Frazier’ll be on shift here until two thirty. We should be able to have Cook in place by then.”
Before Jess could thank him or open the passenger-side door of his SUV, a van whipped into the parking lot and stalled behind them, blocking any possibility of backing out of the parking slot.
Channel 6.
After a nod from Jess, Harper walked away from the vehicle to complete his call. She turned to face the nuisance.
Gina Coleman.
Birmingham’s most beloved reporter.
This made the moment truly perfect. Beautiful, talented, former lover of the chief of police, Gina strode determinedly toward Jess, her cameraman hot on her heels.
Jess was several inches shorter than both Gina and Annette. She walked with the purpose of a man and she had wrestled numerous criminals. She’d even shot a few. No matter the designer label she wore or the time she took to apply makeup or style her hair, there was no way she would ever look like these women. Both far outclassed her in the beauty and style departments.
Just one more reason she didn’t fit in Dan Burnett’s world.
Her stomach knotted in protest.
“Chief Harris, is it true you were removed from the Darcy Chandler murder investigation?”
Apparently Jess’s shrink wasn’t the only one who could toss out trick questions.
“Any questions you have about the Chandler case,” Jess said calmly, “you’ll need to take up with Deputy Chief Black.”
Jess reached for the door handle.
“So you were removed from the case?”
Jess produced a smile. “Since my full attention is required on the Simmons case, I am not involved with the Chandler case. That’s true.” To say she had been removed carried a negative connotation. Coleman wasn’t getting that sound bite from her.
This time she actually got the door open before the next question was hurled at her.
“Were you assigned the Simmons case because of your past connection to his neighborhood? Have you spoken to your aunt since returning to Birmingham? Did you know she still lives in the same house?”
Fury whiplashed Jess. She slammed the door and got in Coleman’s face. “Do you understand what you’ve just done?” The woman had just mentioned that Jess had family in the neighborhood where some of the worst gang activity in the city played out.
Coleman held up a perfectly manicured hand and her cameraman backed off. “I’ll edit out that last part.”
Jess wanted to like this woman. She really did. She doubted the feeling was mutual since she’d left Coleman holding the bag on a so-called exclusive story last week. But this was going too far.
“What do you want, Coleman?” Besides a pound of flesh.
“I want to know if Darcy Chandler was murdered.”
“Like I said, you’ll have to ask Chief Black.”
“I’m asking you.”
What was up with these people? First the ME and now Coleman? The ME could cite his age. Coleman was as old as Jess for sure. She’d just opted for Botox so it didn’t show. In her line of work she could likely use it as a tax deduction.
“You owe me, Harris,” Coleman reminded.
“Off the record,” Jess made clear, “there are inconsistencies, but nothing substantial. Talk to Black. Ask him about Chandler’s shoes.”
Coleman nodded. “I will. Thanks. Do you have an update on DeShawn Simmons?”
Jess hadn’t released the rendering of Simmons’s mysterious female friend to the press. Maybe this would earn her some points with Coleman. She dug out her cell and forwarded the image to the number she had for Coleman. “We believe this young woman knows something about DeShawn’s disappearance. If anyone recognizes her they should call the tip line.”
Coleman checked her cell. Clearly surprised to get any kind of heads-up, she passed Jess a business card. “Let me know if I can be of assistance to your investigation.”
As the reporter and her cameraman loaded up their van and drove away, Jess considered that she and Coleman didn’t have to be friends as long as they were working toward the same goal.
Funny, as hard as Jess tried to keep the Chandler case off her mental plate, folks just kept shoving another serving her way.
Galleria Mall, 8:15 p.m.
Jess couldn’t claim to have participated in any real covert investigations. A few times she’d ended up in the middle of an outburst and wound up in a struggle, but most of her professional battles had taken place over a desk or in a training facility. Her work as a profiler with the bureau had been conducted in formal interviews where those present understood the legal ramifications of any and all exchanges. She observed and analyzed. Before and after the interviews, she researched. The persons of interest, where they lived and worked, were extremely important to her final assessments of any case. Knowing how each individual involved acted and reacted in their daily lives was almost as telling as any physical evidence found at a crime scene.
Each act was motivated by an emotional reaction or lack thereof to stimuli. If the motive was unearthed, all the rest fell into place. It was that simple and, at the same time, vastly complicated.
The circus music accompanying the spinning of the mall’s carousel dragged her from her musings. Where the devil was Schrader? He’d said eight o’clock. Near the food court at the carousel.
Jess had done her research on the cocky Dr. Harlan Schrader. He was in the final days of a forensic pathology fellowship program with the Jefferson County Coroner’s Office. He was a short-timer, which meant he had little to lose if he decided to spill about something he’d seen or heard. Hotshot Dr. Schrader was on his way to the Mayo Clinic in just a couple of weeks. He either wanted to have a little revenge against a colleague who had rubbed him the wrong way or he genuinely felt compelled to reveal whatever information he intended to pass along.
If he ever got here.
Another check of the time on her cell showed it was five minutes later than the last time she checked. After hours of interviewing friends of DeShawn Simmons and sitting in on an update with the search team commander, she was pretty much exhausted.
She scanned the crowded mall. Who dragged their kids around in a public place at this hour? There were enough small children and bright colors to prompt flashbacks to Munchkin Land of the Wizard of Oz fame.
Her attention landed on a black tee and jeans on the other side of one of the play areas. Dr. Too-Sexy-to-Be-Punctual leaned down and kissed a young woman. Surprised, Jess watched as he ruffled the hair of a small boy before heading in her direction.
So the hotshot had a baby and the requisite baby-mama. Maybe he had a little more at stake than she’d gauged by his attitude and bio.
He surveyed the crowd in both directions with just about every step he took. By the time he reached her he would likely be suffering from neck strain. The doctor was a wee bit nervous. How big could his news be?
“Let’s sit so we’re less conspicuous.” He motioned to a bench that had just been vacated a few feet away.
That he didn’t wait for her to sit first was no surprise. “What has you so upset, Dr. Schrader?”
He stared at her as if she’d asked him to produce documentation that he was an actual American citizen. “I’m not upset. Who said I was upset?”
Jess kept her lips bent into a smile. “I’m sorry. You just seem a little out of sorts, that’s all. And you mentioned on the phone that you were taking a risk. I just assumed that meant you were upset.”
“I’m not upset,” he argued, still scanning the crowd. “I’m frustrated and offended.”
“I see. Why don’t you explain the situation and perhaps I can help?”
“He’s going to rule her death accidental.”
The decision reached by Dr. Leeds, Jefferson County coroner, was not a total surprise. Since a complete autopsy wouldn’t be necessary in a case where no foul play was evident, the coroner’s decision would rely solely on the circumstances at the scene and the less invasive preliminary examination of the body, and, of course, a full toxicology screen. Considering the suspected cause of death, those procedures were sufficient to reveal the injuries consistent with a fall and any indications of a struggle that might have occurred prior to the fall. If the victim used one or more drugs that might have contributed to an impulsive act or the lack of balance in a woman with particularly good balance, those secrets would be discovered in a comprehensive toxicology report.
“Her injuries were consistent with a fall from that height,” Jess guessed. “No signs of a struggle.”
He performed another survey of the crowd. “Nothing irregular in toxicology. No drugs at all. Darcy Chandler was a very healthy thirty-eight-year-old female. The official cause of death is traumatic brain injury. The extent of the injury precluded any possibility of survival. She may have been conscious for moments or a minute, but death was imminent and inevitable. However, there were two inconsistencies in my opinion relative to the manner of death, and that’s where my concerns lie.”
“Did you bring these inconsistencies to Dr. Leeds’s attention?”
“Of course.” He swung his attention from the crowd long enough to glare at her. “He insisted those anomalies were not sufficient to warrant deeming her death anything other than accidental.”
And Jess would just bet that given Chandler’s standing in the community and the lack of any good-bye note, suicide was off the table. “Why don’t you tell me about the inconsistencies that disturbed you?” The routine never changed. Someone came forward with information and inevitably she had to extract it.
“There was a first-degree contusion on the outside of the lower left leg. This mild bruising was not consistent with the impact of falling fifteen feet or with any other object in her path as she fell. It would have been far more severe had it occurred in the final impact of the fall.”
“Maybe she bumped into something that morning.” Unless he had more than this she would tend to agree with Leeds.
“The injury was very recent, minutes before death,” he insisted. “And it was exactly the width of the upstairs handrail.”
Now he had her attention. “You confirmed the width of the upstairs handrail?”
He cut her a look that warned he suspected she knew the answer to that question. “I measured. The bruising is exactly the right width. As if she fell over the rail from an elevated position, striking her lower left leg as she pitched over.”
“Like someone threw her over,” Jess offered.
“But she wasn’t expecting the move, so she didn’t have time to react. There was no indication of a struggle with another person or an attempt to catch herself. Her fall was totally unforeseen and unprepared for, in my opinion.”
Jess conjured the scene in her head. “She might have stumbled as she started to climb over the railing if suicide was her intent.” That one seemed highly unlikely.
“Darcy Chandler was right-side dominant,” Schrader explained. “Her instinct would have been to put her right leg over first. And either way, there is no scenario where she would have bumped the top of the railing with the outside of her leg by lifting it from a normal standing position and going over the rail.”
“Obviously you’ve considered the scenario at length.”
“I went back to the house and proved my theory.”
“How did you get back in the house?” Had one of Black’s detectives escorted Schrader on a second review of the scene? Seemed the only feasible possibility.
“Mrs. Chandler asked me to take a closer look.”
Was he kidding? “Mrs. Chandler, as in the victim’s mother?”
He shook his head. “Her grandmother. She and my grandmother are close friends. She’s convinced that Darcy was the victim of foul play.”
And there it was. The proverbial hornet’s nest. No way was Jess kicking that one. “Dr. Schrader, you really need to share your thoughts with Chief Black. This is his case and he will decide what direction this investigation needs to take.”
She was not getting dragged into this emotion-driven war.
“I thought you would get it.” He shook his head. “I read up on you. I expected more.” He stood. “I guess I wasted your time and mine.”
“Wait.” Not that she was going to change her mind, but he had said there were two things. “You didn’t tell me about the other anomaly.” They were both here, smack-dab in the middle of Munchkin Land. She might as well get the whole story.
“There were traces of a material trapped between the fingers of her right hand.”
Fabric from her assailant’s clothing? Not hair or he would have said as much. “What kind of material?”
“Marabou. White in color.”
“Marabou?” She didn’t have a clue. Given a few seconds she could Google it using her phone.
The cocky expression reappeared on the handsome doctor’s face. “Small, soft, white turkey feathers. Commonly used in feather boas. Since the victim wasn’t wearing one, makes you wonder how she got her fingers entwined with one.”
Jess knew exactly how.