CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

His meetings over, Jack returned to his office. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark except for the greenish glow of his desk lamp. He eased the door shut. She was sleeping on the couch, her head pillowed on the valise, her coat for a blanket. Her shoes were side by side near the coffee table, upon which lay an empty plate and an empty bottle of apple juice. Tré had followed through with his request to bring her food.

He went closer and studied her face. She had prominent cheekbones, a high forehead, a slender nose and delicate chin, a small mole on her neck. Her skin was pale and clear and her hair fine textured. He smelled perfume mingled with perspiration and the mothball scent of her coat. Her breathing sounded like distant waves receding. He pulled the coat up over her shoulder. A lock of hair falling across her right eye might scratch her cornea when she woke. He carefully moved it back in place. She stirred, then settled.

Questions churned through his mind. There was something behind all of this that made no sense. Why would a Russian oligarch go to the trouble of kidnapping her and sending an impostor? If the oligarch was an internet criminal, might that be related to the hospital’s financial collapse? But they’d found no evidence of hacking. His overriding instinct remained to get Frances Dirkens involved, the sooner the better. But he wasn’t going to break the woman’s trust by talking to the police without her knowledge. Her ability to trust the authorities had obviously been shredded. She knew about corruption a thousand times better than he did. Maybe these people really did have eyes and ears everywhere. But why this subterfuge? It felt like he was crawling through a labyrinth of rabbit holes with no glimmer of light.

His phone chirped with an incoming text from Tré. Dr. Singh the pathologist is here to see you. Marianna shifted and sighed. He went out to the reception area, closing the door quietly behind him.

Annabel was talking to Tré. “There you are,” she said. “I’ve got some follow-up about Chad Chadwick’s toxicology findings.”

“What did you find?” asked Jack.

“The test turned up positive for PCP, which didn’t make sense after your comments about him being a straight shooter. So either you were wrong, or somebody slipped it to him. Or . . .”

Jack felt something cold stirring in his chest. “Or it was something different,” he said slowly. “PCP cross-reacts with ketamine on the drug screen.”

She broke into a smile. “A-plus, Dr. Forester! Exactly. I did a quantitative assay for ketamine. Very positive. His level was in the therapeutic range at the time of death. I checked his medical records from the ER and the step-down unit. He was given sedation—but not with ketamine. They used lorazepam. You were with him in the field. Did the medics give it to him?”

“No. I’m sure they didn’t.”

“Then the most likely explanation is that he was given it in the chaos of the ER when he arrived there, and they failed to document it. This is a serious breach of protocol. I’ll notify the quality assurance office. They need to start a full root cause analysis.” She hesitated at the look on his face. “What’s the matter—don’t you agree? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He studied her. After a pause, he said, “I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re busy. This is such a crazy time. I’ll get the process started, not to worry.” Her expression turned serious, and she held out her hand. “And, if I don’t see you before you leave, Jack, I enjoyed working with you these years. I wish you the best of luck.”

Standing there by Tré’s desk, lost in thinking the unthinkable, he watched her stride away. On the night of Chad’s death, the woman posing as Marianna Kovalenko had gone out to his car because she’d forgotten her purse. Shortly afterward, she’d complained of a headache and left the dinner early. This meant she’d potentially had access to the ketamine in his vehicle not long before Chad died. Maybe when Kaitlyn surprised her, she wasn’t taking it out—she was putting it back.

“Tré, listen to me,” he said, pointing at his closed office door. “Thanks for bringing our guest some nourishment. And let me remind you again that we need to keep her visit here completely confidential.”

“When are you going to tell me who she is?”

“Not yet. You’ll understand why when the time’s right.”

Back in the office, he found Marianna awake.

“Thank you for the food, Dr. Forester. And for the nap. I’m feeling more like myself. Are you done with your meetings?”

“I am. But we hadn’t discussed where you’re going to stay tonight.”

“I will find a place.”

“There is plenty of room at my house.”

“Oh no,” she said, springing to her feet. “Do not even think this thing, please. It would bring possible danger to you and your family.”

“Not if no one knows you’re here.”

“Because of what they did to Anatoly, they know I have come to America. They could be listening, maybe right now.” She pointed to his computer. “You don’t know what they can do. I don’t want to risk any chance of them hurting you or your family. Maybe I already say too much.”

“Ms. Kovalenko—”

“I ask you to stop repeating.”

Her paranoia had some justification, he realized, but he must find a way around this. “Okay,” he said, taking a piece of paper and a pen. “I understand. There could be bugs or informants here. So, here’s an idea. You find a safe place to stay and contact me. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

As he spoke, he wrote on the piece of paper. He handed the note to her. Go to the basement level, section D-1. I’ll be waiting outside the exit next to the physiology lab. 30 minutes. This will be safe. Trust me.

As she read the note, he continued talking. “But honestly, Ms. Kovalenko. I still believe you’ll be safer with me. We have a lot to talk about.”

She finished reading and looked up at him, the hint of a smile on her lips. She nodded. “Please stop asking,” she said. “Besides, I would be imposing on your wife. No.”

Jack tensed. “My wife is deceased.”

“I am sorry. I did not know.”

“But she would have wanted the same thing.”

“Again, this is so kind. I will find somewhere safe. I will make sure I’m not being followed.”

“Okay, if that’s your final say,” he said. He gave her a thumbs up. As she returned the gesture, his cell phone rang. It was Investigator Dirkens. “I have to take this,” he said. “It’s the police.” He saw her expression turn alarmed. “Don’t worry,” he added. “I will not tell them about you—until you agree.”

She took the slip of paper he had written on and waved it, her eyes wide with consternation. He understood the need to mollify her and nodded, then he answered the call.

“Doctor, can you converse now?” asked the investigator.

“Could I call you right back?” he said.

“Sure.”

He hung up. “Come with me,” he said to her. “We’ll go outside. Just in case.”

A few minutes later he emerged with Marianna onto the roof of the building and closed the door behind them. There was a chill wind and the sound of traffic below.

“We’ll be safe here.”

“Good,” she said, folding her arms against the wind. He had not thought to bring jackets.

He redialed Investigator Dirkens and put it on speakerphone so Marianna would be able to hear. The number rang. In the distance, the rotor blades of an approaching helicopter thudded.

“I can talk now,” he said as the investigator answered. Marianna leaned closer.

“Is that wind noise?” said Dirkens. “Are you outside?”

“I needed to get some fresh air. Listen, Investigator, I wanted to talk with you anyway. I’ve got some news for you. Our pathologist just told me that Chad Chadwick had a therapeutic level of ketamine on board when he died, but there’s no record of it being given in the hospital.”

“Ketamine again?” Dirkens said. “Good Lord. Ketamine here, ketamine there, fricking ketamine everywhere. What are you thinking?”

“Here’s what I know.” He went on to describe how the woman who claimed to be Marianna Kovalenko’s identity had access to the ketamine in his car the night that Chad died. She’d gone to get her purse, then had left the dinner early. With ketamine on board, someone could have strangled Chad without a struggle.

“Interesting,” said Dirkens. “You’re suggesting she murdered him and made it look like suicide?”

“Or maybe she gave the medication to whoever murdered him. I don’t know. It makes more sense to me than Chad killing himself. Maybe when Kaitlyn saw her in the parking garage, she was just putting it back.”

“But what’s her motive?” questioned Dirkens.

“No clue.”

“Remind me. You said Chad was a friend and partner of your brother. Could Kovalenko have had any other connection with him?”

“She helped me take care of him at the scrapyard and she rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital. That’s their only contact, as far as I know.”

“Okay. I’ve heard enough. We’ll reclassify his death as a potential homicide and open a full investigation. I’ll need to talk with your brother.”

“That may not be easy now.” He explained Tony’s condition.

“Understood,” she said. “But backing up a little, you said ‘the woman who claimed to be Marianna Kovalenko.’ We have DNA evidence confirming that’s who she was. You know that.”

“I do, but maybe we’re wrong. Listen, I was doing a little searching on the internet, looking for photos of her and—”

“But there weren’t any. We checked.”

“I know there weren’t any individual photos, but she’d told me that she’d graduated from Kyiv Polytechnic.”

“You didn’t mention that before. When did she tell you that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. When she first came, I think. At any rate, I searched their website. It turns out she was in the gymnastics club. I found group photos from the years she attended. Even accounting for the age difference, the real Marianna Kovalenko didn’t look anything like the one who was here. Maybe the DNA needs to be confirmed using other sources, say directly from her apartment. From what I’ve heard, you can’t trust the Ukrainian consulate that gave you the hairbrush. Are there FBI agents in Ukraine?”

“Yes. There’s a legate in Kyiv.”

“That’s where it needs to come from. And you should get a new set of fingerprints—not from Ukraine. I know she spent a semester at Leeds University in England. I’m sure they keep a set of foreign student fingerprints at English universities. That would be more reliable.”

Dirkens was silent for a moment. Then she cleared her throat. “You seem to be doing a lot of extracurricular investigating.”

“Can you blame me?”

“No. Not at all. Good finds.”

After hanging up, he caught Marianna’s eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “This is smart.” It was the first time he’d seen anything like a smile on her lips.