Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) (16 page)

“Hold up, Schwartzman.”

She tried to stand. The blood rushed to her head. She reached out with the vial of Ken’s blood and felt it roll off her fingers. Hal’s hand swept through the air. His fingers closed on the vial as the walls moved sideways; the floor rose. Hal’s arm around her waist. Her head fell into his chest, and everything went gray just before it was black.

24

San Francisco, California

The hospital room smelled of astringent, plastic, and the musty smell of body odor and urine that could never quite be scrubbed away. Hal stood against a wide metal beam that ran along the inside of the window. It was as far as he could get from the noises and smells of the rest of the hospital. Schwartzman had been brought directly to the ICU. There was no private room, no privacy at all save a thin curtain that divided the ten-by-ten space from the main desk, where phones rang constantly and doctors and nurses conferred about their patients in voices not quite loud enough to understand but too loud to ignore.

Normally he would have assigned a patrol officer to watch her. Like it or not, she was their primary suspect in Macy’s attack. Occam’s razor—the simplest explanation was usually the correct one. But nothing about this was simple. He wanted to believe, as she did, that her ex-husband was at the center of all of it, that somehow they would be able to tie him to the death of Sarah Feld and now to Macy’s attack. Homicide. God, he hoped it wouldn’t be that.

The last time he’d seen Macy was in the interrogation room. Confused, deflated, Macy had seemed so genuinely stung by the questions Hal asked. It was the job, but it hadn’t made him feel any better.

He stood now in the room of another person who
looked
guilty of a crime. Another colleague. Worse, a friend.

The window behind him was large, the ledge down at his knees, but the room was dark and cold. A single chair with a plastic blue cushion stood against one wall, but he had yet to sit down.

Hours had passed, and still adrenaline pumped through him. Schwartzman had woken twice. The first time she cried out like a child, and in the moment it took him to cross the room to her, she tried to sit up, clawing at her IV. Her expression was pure terror until she saw him. She had calmed slightly just before the room was invaded by nurses. As Hal held her hand, the IV was fixed, a sedative added to the fluids. “To help her sleep,” the nurse had said, as if he didn’t understand sedation. The second time she woke, she simply whispered the name. “Macy?”

Again, he took her hand. “He’s going to pull through,” Hal told her, although he had no idea if it was the truth. Macy was in surgery, and it would be hours before they knew what kind of damage was done. Hal had been to his share of scenes where a victim had died by bleeding out. From what he’d witnessed in Schwartzman’s apartment, there was enough blood for it.

Macy was out of his control, but he could be here for Schwartzman. There would be a lot of questions when she woke. Difficult ones, and he wanted to be the one to ask them. Where had she gone last night? When did Macy come to her apartment? And what the hell happened after that?

When Hal had arrived at her apartment, she was holding a vial of her blood. Somehow, in the midst of all the chaos, she’d taken samples of their blood. She told Hal to test the blood for drugs. Hal had given the patrol officer strict instructions to wait for Roger’s team to arrive and to have them take it directly to the lab. It was there now. They would have results by tomorrow. That was as rushed as they could manage with the current backlog.

He tried to imagine Schwartzman stabbing Macy some dozen times, then waiting before calling 9-1-1. Then, while waiting for the ambulance to arrive, drawing their blood. Why would she do that if she was the one who’d stabbed him? But it might not be so simple. It was possible that the stabbing was her doing. There were plenty of drugs that caused hallucinations. It wasn’t difficult to imagine a scenario that would fit. A woman with an abusive ex-husband, alone, confronts a man at the door and mistakes him for that husband. In a drug-altered state, she attacks without thinking. When she wakes, the drug has worn off and she realizes what she’s done.

He stared down at Schwartzman sleeping. Blood in her hair and across her forehead.

Macy’s blood.

Was that MacDonald’s end goal? To manufacture a scenario where Schwartzman stabbed Macy and was arrested for assault? Or worse, for murder?

Had MacDonald realized he wouldn’t get her back and decided this was the next best thing? Or was killing Macy his plan from the beginning?

Hal hated that he couldn’t send a car to pick up MacDonald, throw him in an interrogation room somewhere, and let him sit for a while. He wanted to face MacDonald when the questions were asked. Instead the most he could do was make long-distance phone calls to a department where he had no clout and ask them to pull in a man who was, by their records, a well-respected citizen.

Damn this.

Hal’s phone buzzed with Roger’s latest text.

The security cameras went down at 11:17. The basement alarm went off at 11:39. The desk clerk followed procedure, locked the outer door, and went to check.

Hal frowned.
False alarm?

Yes
, Roger confirmed.

Hal considered the building where Schwartzman lived. It was modern, new, high-end. The security systems in those places had to be top-of-the-line.
Any idea why the sec system went out?

The line of dots on his screen told him Roger was replying.

The company is working on that now. The night guard said everything was working. He saw images on the screens but nothing at all was recorded after 11:17.

And no Macy before that?
Hal typed.

Roger wrote back,
No
.

Roger occasionally complained about inspectors who requested text updates while he was processing a scene. It used to be simply impractical, the constant removing of gloves to type out a text before donning a new pair and going back to work. These days, Roger wore a Bluetooth device that he could voice activate, and he recorded his texts, no fingers required.

Outside communication meant Roger had to shift his focus from the scene, but there was nothing regular about this case.

From the frantic pace of the texts Hal was getting, Roger was working this one like a kidnapping. In those cases, the protocol was all about speed. The scene was preserved so that it could be revisited, but that first sweep had to be done as quickly as humanly possible. The sooner they identified and traced the evidence, the sooner they found the victim.

What about Schwartzman?

Have her coming home just before 7. Nothing after that.

So maybe Macy came over. Maybe they were a couple. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d missed signs of an interdepartmental relationship.

Will get traffic cam feeds. Have one pic. Could be her. On corner.

Send pls
, Hal texted back.

Coming . . .

An image appeared in a text message. He enlarged the photograph, but what he saw was not especially useful. Dark, wavy hair under a black ball cap. A black trench coat belted at the waist. Black boots with a small heel, black slacks. A large bag, something between an oversize purse and an overnight bag. It might have been Schwartzman, but it just as easily could have been someone else.

Think it’s her?
Roger texted.

Hal studied the image. He had seen her in slacks and boots, but the baseball cap was odd. Unless she was trying to conceal her identity.

Not sure,
Hal wrote back.
What time?

11:33.

Almost exactly fifteen minutes after the cameras stopped recording. Just six minutes before the false alarm in the basement. That was no coincidence.
No Macy?

Nothing yet.

Thx, R. Keep ’em coming. You send a team to his house?

There was a short delay before a single word popped up on the screen.
Yes.
Then a few seconds later, Roger wrote,
And we’re pulling additional footage from surrounding cameras in the area. It’ll take us a while.

Everything was being done. Roger would get him results as quickly as possible, but this wasn’t magic. Someone had to pull the traffic cams, run search programs, and hope like hell they got lucky. In the meantime, there was nothing for him to do but wait until Schwartzman woke up and hope she could answer some questions.

He watched the rhythmic beat of her pulse on the monitor. Outside he saw the sky was cast in an orange glow.
Morning?
He glanced at his watch.
Damn.
It was almost seven. Exhaustion cut into his shoulders and neck like heavy straps. He stretched his arms up and laid his palms flat on the ceiling. He could have gone for a walk, but he didn’t want to leave her. Instead he convinced himself to settle into the chair.

The top edge of the metal chair dug into his back just below his shoulders. He shifted down and stretched his legs out. Folded his arms across his chest and waited for the vibration of his phone to alert him to news.

25

San Francisco, California

Schwartzman couldn’t draw her gaze away from Hal, asleep in the hard hospital chair in her room. His chin tucked to his chest, his arms crossed, his enormously long legs stretched across the floor, he looked distinctly uncomfortable. Touched that he had stayed with her, she could not wake him. She was letting Hal down by leaving.

She had no choice. It was obvious she’d be the primary suspect for Macy’s attack.

Moving silently, she slid the lock on the IV to stop the drip. Gritting her teeth, she yanked the lead from her hand. She held her thumb against the skin to stop the bleeding and used her feet to push back the sheet and the thin blanket.

It was temporary, she told herself. Until Macy woke up. Her pulse drummed inside her ears. If he woke up.
God, please let him wake up.
If he didn’t survive, she would be charged with his murder. He was found in her bed; she had been covered in his blood. The tox screens might create questions, but without another suspect, she was the obvious choice.

So she would run.

She was the kind of woman who ran. Spencer had made her this person. Always looking over one shoulder, afraid. Who would she have been without him?
No.
The question was, who would she be?

Because she was ready to be done running.

Her feet met the cold linoleum floor, and she crept across the room to the locker where her personal belongings would be. If she had any.
Please let there be something.
She took a deep breath and opened it slowly. The hinge let out a little cry. She froze, but Hal didn’t move. She peered inside. Her purse, her trench coat, and a pair of tennis shoes.

She bent down to put her shoes on, slipped the coat over the hospital gown, hitched the purse onto her shoulder, and turned the coat collar up. Then she removed her phone from her purse, held it to her ear, and, with her hair half covering her face, walked out of the hospital room. She kept her head down. “Right, right,” she said into the phone when she was far enough away from Hal not to wake him. “I’m on my way.” She paused until she was at the door, pushed it open with her hip. “Urgent. Yes, I understand.”

She ducked into the stairwell rather than take the elevator and came out the service entrance at the back of the hospital. There, a group of doctors, nurses, and employees was gathered to smoke. Head down, she kept moving. If she looked strange, no one said anything.

At the corner of the building and out of view, Schwartzman sped up to a jog. Spotting a cab at the front curb, she ran. She was woozy and off balance. Her head thundered with every step. She wondered if the hospital had performed a toxicology report. It would be useful to know what drug had been used so she’d have an idea of when the effects would wear off.

As she opened the cab door, her cell phone vibrated. Hal was calling.

She dropped the phone into her pocket without answering as she slid into the back of the cab.
I’m sorry.

Pulling the door closed, she decided on a plan. “Crunch on Polk Street, please.”

The driver’s eyes appeared in the rearview mirror. “Crunch?” he repeated.

“It’s on Polk between Union and Green.”

“A restaurant?”

“A gym,” she said.

“You are okay?” he asked, touching his own forehead. “There is a little blood.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “But I’m running a little late.”

With that, the driver started his meter and pulled away from the curb. Schwartzman ducked as the hospital’s front doors opened and Hal ran through them. He stopped and scanned the street, rubbing his head. He hadn’t seen her. At least she had that.

Schwartzman massaged the tender lump on the back of her hand where the IV had been. For a doctor, she had little experience with IVs, and in her hurry, she’d been rough. She thought about Macy. She had to know if he was—she stopped herself. She searched for the hospital number and asked the receptionist to be connected to ICU.

“Patient name?”

“Ken Macy,” Schwartzman said, whispering his name like a prayer. There was a brief hold, and during the wait, it was impossible to move air in or out of her lungs.

“ICU,” said a male voice.

Macy had five sisters. “I’m trying to get an update on my brother’s condition.”

“His name?”

“Ken Macy.”

“Hold on, please.”

More waiting. Her chest walls hardened again.

“This is Sammie.”

“I’m calling to check on my brother, Ken. Ken Macy.”

“Oh, hi. Is this Susan?”

“No,” she said. She hoped not all of Ken’s siblings had already called in. “This is Anna.”

“Oh sure, Anna. He is doing okay. He’s been stable for a few hours, which is encouraging. Nothing we can do but watch him. Was it Susan who said she was on her way out here?”

“Uh, yes,” Schwartzman said. “I think that’s right.”

“Are you coming, too?” Sammie asked.

“No. I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it, but I’ll call back a bit later.”

“Sure. I’m here until about three thirty. I’ll tell him you called, Anna.”

“Thank you.” She wished she’d asked if she could talk to him. But of course she couldn’t. He was barely out of surgery. She wondered when she would be able to talk to him. Or if.

As the cab turned onto Van Ness, Schwartzman found the compact mirror from her purse and checked her reflection. She had nothing to clean the blood from her forehead—Ken’s blood—so she pulled her hair to cover the side of her face. The hospital gown hung down below her jacket. She couldn’t show up to the gym in a hospital gown. She touched the bottom of her coat, which reached almost to her knees. It was long enough to suggest she might be wearing something other than underwear beneath it. Even if she showed too much leg, it was better than a hospital gown. She reached behind her head and untied the gown, working it down one arm under her coat.

She hadn’t been to the gym more than a dozen times, but at the moment, she was extremely grateful that she paid the $125 a month for the membership. With her right arm freed from the gown, she worked on the other side and pulled the whole thing out from under the bottom of her coat. There, she balled up the gown and shoved it as far as she could under the seat with her foot as the driver turned right onto Green.
Almost there.

Schwartzman opened her wallet and was relieved to see she had a twenty-dollar bill. As the cab stopped at the gym, Schwartzman stared at the front of the building.

“This is the place?”

She scanned the front window. Saw people on the treadmills.
Good.
The gym was open. “This is it,” Schwartzman told him, passing the twenty though the bulletproof glass.

She slid out of the cab carefully and took a last glance at the floor. The gown was hidden from view. She crossed the sidewalk and pulled the door open, grateful to see the little display of workout clothes.

“Good morning.”

Schwartzman found her membership card and pressed it against the scanner, then moved to the clothes turnstile and searched for the clothes with the most coverage. Settled on a pair of capri workout pants, glad they had her size in black. She was less fortunate with the tops. The only medium top with a built-in bra had wide yellow-and-pink stripes. Yellow. The color of cancer and Spencer. There was the appointment with Dr. Fraser, the appointment she would miss.

Perhaps yellow was a fitting color to wear as she returned to South Carolina. She pulled the jog bra off the rack and chose the least offensive zippered hoodie to go with it. It was cheetah print. At least her coat would cover them. She added two large water bottles to the clothes to help flush the toxins from her system and paid with a credit card. Taking her selections back to the changing room, she found a quiet bench in a corner and searched her phone for flights to Charleston.