Fatal Reaction (7 page)

CHAPTER 14

The fractured light of the stained glass lamp cast shadows across Ana’s living room where she sat, crying, holding Dr. Alan Sanders’s business card in one hand and a bottle of Xanax in the other. Making the funeral arrangements thrust her so deep into mourning that she considered chasing all thirty pills with the bottle of vodka on the coffee table in front of her. Sydney’s death was finally real, and the loneliness, the sadness that came with it, would either strengthen Ana, or break her. The choice was hers. She threw the sedatives as hard as she could against the wall, the voice of her conscience sounding an awful lot like Sydney’s, and dialed Dr. Sanders’s office.

The phone rang, and when the switchboard operator answered, Ana sniffled.

“Dr. Alan Sanders’s office, how many I help you?” Heavy static crackled on the line.

“I’d like to speak with Dr. Sanders, please.”

“I’m sorry, we have a bad connection. Is this a medical emergency?”

“No, but—”

“This number is for medical emergencies only. The office reopens at nine a.m. You can try back then, or I can relay a message.”

“It’s important he gets back to me. My name is Ana Ashmore. My sister is a patient of his. Her name is Sydney Dowling.” She wasn’t yet ready to speak in the past tense.

The static became louder. “I’m sorry,” the operator said. “Can you repeat that name for me?”

“Dowling. D-O-W-L-I-N-G.” Ana overenunciated as she shouted Sydney’s name. “Have him call me at 518-222-1515.” The crackling disappeared. “Hello?” Ana pulled the phone away from her ear. Tears blurred the small screen. “Hello?”

The line went dead.

“Dammit.”

Ana slammed the phone down and picked up the vodka. She rolled the chilled bottle between her hands, her body heat melting a band around the middle, and took a long swig. The fiery liquid burned down her throat, and worse than the taste, was the smell. It reminded her of the vomit on Sydney’s lips as she performed CPR, too late to save her. Ana poured the rest of the bottle down the kitchen-sink drain, and turned to see Ethan standing outside the front door. She smoothed her hair behind her ears and dried her eyes before answering it. Mascara didn’t so easily wipe off, and she was sure she looked a mess.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood. I thought you could use some company, and maybe one of these.” Ethan held one of two coffee cups out to her. “Banana bread latte, right?”

She inhaled the sweet cinnamon and banana smell and waved Ethan in. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a jerk. I just feel like a wreck right now.”

“Well, you look beautiful.” Ethan hugged her and made himself at home.

Theirs was a casual friendship, with the added benefit of sex when either of them was unattached. Ethan, Ana had noticed, remained not only single, but unavailable to anyone but her. She sat on the couch and tucked a pillow under her arm.

Ethan picked up the pill bottle. The cap was broken, and the pills had spilled on the floor. “Since when do you take Xanax?”

“Since I stopped sleeping.”

“They’re not going to do you much good on the floor.” Ethan sat next to her and eased her socked feet onto his lap. “You want to talk about it?” He gently massaged the arch of her right foot, and she could see he knew what she was thinking.

“Not really.”

“You’re not alone, Ana. I know how close you and Sydney were.”

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Ethan’s hands worked their way up her calves. “I know, I’m just saying. People are worried about you. They love you. I—”

She stopped him before he could say it. “We said no attachments, Ethan.”

“I just want to make sure you know I’m here. I care about what you’re going through.” He looked over at the pill bottle he set on the coffee table. “I don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

She’d have done about anything to get him to stop talking.

“I don’t want to think about any of it right now,” she said, pulling him toward her. “Help me forget?”

The vodka blocked out the voice in the back of her head shouting not to lead him on.

“Are you sure?” Ethan knelt between her legs and lowered himself on top of her until his soft lips met hers.

“Positive,” she whispered.

He smiled, and his bottomless, blue eyes swallowed her whole. His warm breath played on her skin as he crushed her with kisses.

“I love you,” he said, and she moaned in response, arching and digging her fingertips into his back as he slid her pants over her hips.

Each movement took her farther away from her pain.

Ethan pulled his shirt over his head, and Ana stroked the sparse, soft hairs on his muscular chest, tracing the long lines of his abs until she felt the top of his jeans and unbuttoned them.

“I want you.” She sat up and lifted her arms for Ethan to take off her shirt and bra.

Their practiced movements were rhythmic, and neither missed a beat as they finished undressing each other, their bodies becoming one.

Ana’s mind went blank, primal urge overtaking logic and sadness.

Tomorrow, she’d deal with the fallout, but tonight, making love to Ethan wasn’t a mistake; it was an escape.

CHAPTER 15

Mike walked into the Barfly Tavern wearing jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a dual-layer Columbia jacket more suited to a winter trek up a mountainside than an overheated bar. The smell of urinal cakes mixed with the stench of stale beer to make the kind of odor only someone who had smelled decomposition at a crime scene could get used to.

The rustic pub, located on the outskirts of Marion, served as a second home to a primarily male roster of cops and firemen. It was the kind of place one went to let off steam, which was exactly what Anthony Dowling appeared to be doing four seats down the bar.

Mike peeled off his gloves, debating whether to sit, or turn around and walk out.

“Mike, old man. Good to see you. It’s been a while.” Nestor Rodriguez, the dark-skinned barkeep, who was as wide as he was tall, waved Mike in, enticing him with a frosted glass of Sam Adams. The hard white light of the compact fluorescent bulbs that were a recent, if not gaudy, addition to the bar’s mismatched motif, emphasized the deep craters in Nestor’s face. He wiped down the scratched and faded bar with a formerly white bar mop, and collected Anthony’s empties.

Anthony looked up from his beer.

Mike, seeing no choice in the matter, took the seat next to him.

“Twice this week. Mike, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Anthony’s breath smelled of whiskey, beer, and peanuts. The half-empty bowl in front of him and the pile of shells on the floor at his feet said he’d been there for some time.

Nestor set Mike’s beer down, and moved casually out of earshot.

Mike took a sip. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t looking for you.” He looked at the open, empty ring box next to Anthony’s beer-soaked coaster. “But since you’re here . . .”

“I don’t know how things got this far.” Anthony turned the box over a few times in his hands. “It feels like one minute I’m being seduced, the next minute I’m getting divorced, and then I can’t take back any of it.”

“You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, right?” Mike could offer nothing more than clichéd wisdom.

“I guess. Knowing I can’t apologize puts things into perspective. Have you seen Ana? I was going to call her, or stop by her house, but what can I say to her? I’m probably the last person she wants to see.”

Mike nodded. “Probably. I can tell her you asked about her. Let her come to you if she wants to, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.” He waved for the bartender’s attention. “Nestor, another beer for Anthony, please.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I owe you one for the ruckus I caused the other night, don’t you think?”

“You mean Misty? She’s got a temper, but she’s harmless. The mention of Sydney’s name throws her over the edge. Alpha female nonsense, or something.”

“If I lived to be two hundred years old, I’d never figure women out. Speaking of figuring things out, something’s been bothering me since I left Misty’s place.”

“The scratches, right?” Mike hadn’t expected Anthony to be so forthcoming. “The story I told you about the fight at the diner was true, mostly. She didn’t break up a fight—she was in one.” Anthony closed the ring box and set it on the counter. “It was the damned ring. I told Misty we should wait until the divorce was final to get engaged, but you know how women are.” Mike shrugged, having relatively little experience in the matter. “Misty cried, I felt bad, and even though I knew better, I gave in and proposed. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to . . . but . . .”

Mike sensed Anthony’s withholding. “But?”

“Two nights ago, Misty was working the night shift at the diner, when Patricia Dentmore shows up, more than a bit tipsy. You know Trish, right? She’s been a friend of Sydney’s since grade school.” Mike nodded. “Anyway, she sees the ring I gave Misty and goes off. She’s screaming and yelling, calling Misty a home wrecker and God knows what else. Butch—he owns the diner—comes from around the counter and tries to get the two of them outside. He’s telling Misty to calm down and take it easy.” Anthony shook his head. “That woman’s anything but calm, or easy. Misty slapped Trish, and the two of them literally ended up rolling around on the floor, scratching and pulling hair. Butch pried them apart, but he fired Misty on the spot.”

Mike let out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding about her temper. So, she didn’t quit?”

Anthony shook his head. “No.”

“Where did Misty go after the fight?”

“I know what you’re thinking, Mike, but Misty’s not a killer. A hothead and an occasional pain in the ass, but she had nothing to do with what happened to Sydney.”

Mike held his hand open, palms facing up, and shrugged. “You can see how I’d wonder. Listen, you didn’t even have to tell me as much as you did, but right now, I either have to have something solid about where Misty was that night, or I’ll have to formally exclude her.” The implication was anything but subtle: cooperate, or I’ll haul her in.

Pool balls clicked together on the table a few feet behind them, and the bar was otherwise silent. Mike hadn’t realized how loudly they’d been speaking, but the men who had been going about their business had stopped to listen.

Anthony looked over his broad shoulder and sighed. “Nestor.” He patted the bar in front of him. Two shots, please. The usual.”

Nestor grabbed a bottle of rye, two shot glasses, and turned up the radio loud enough that everyone went back to what they were doing. He set the glasses in front of Anthony and filled them to the rim.

Anthony slid one to Mike and lifted his glass. “To life events.”

Mike pounded his shot, unsure of what, exactly, they were toasting.

Anthony wiped the rye from his lips and held the glass up for a refill. “What you’re asking for is an alibi, and we both have one. Butch called me down to the diner after the fight. He had Misty in the back room with an ice pack on her face. Trish was long gone. Misty was crying when I got there, and not ‘lost my job’ tears, something much worse. She must’ve told Butch before she told me what was wrong, or he wouldn’t have been catering to her the way he was. She started spotting. You know what I mean?” Mike shrugged. “Bleeding?” Anthony said, as if that made his point clearer. Mike still had no idea. “We spent the night in the County Memorial emergency room. Mike, Misty’s pregnant. With the fight, she was afraid the bleeding meant she was having a miscarriage. We were at the hospital from the time I picked her up at the diner until three the next morning. You can verify with the hospital. I never left her room.”

If Anthony was telling the truth, and Mike’s instinct said he was, there was no way either he or Misty could’ve had anything to do with Sydney’s murder.

Mike didn’t know what to say, and he let Anthony fill the void with his apologetic rambling.

“I’m sick over what happened, Mike. Sydney and I were fighting, but it’s what people do during a divorce. They hurt each other.” Anthony eyes glossed over. “I never meant a single threat. I’m just so
stuck
. I’ve got Misty all over me about the baby, and Sydney, you know how headstrong she is. She wouldn’t give an inch.”

“Was,” Mike corrected. “How headstrong Sydney
was
. And the pregnancy?”

“The baby’s fine.” Anthony said.

“And I guess that’s a blessing, but it’s not what I mean. Did Sydney know about the baby?”

“Oh God. No. It would kill her.”

Mike could see Anthony regretted his choice of words as soon as he said them, and he held up his hand to avoid another awkward apology. “I know what you meant.” He laid a fifty-dollar bill on the bar. “Nestor, we’re all set here. Can you call Anthony a cab for me?”

“Will do.”

Anthony kept his head down, sulking over his beer.

“You’ve got quite a mess to clean up.” Mike patted him on the shoulder. “I can’t say I envy you.” He fished his keys out of his pocket, and grumbled all the way out the door.

The news, shocking as it was, put him in the worst possible situation. Not only did he lose the single lead in Sydney’s case; he now had to break the news of Misty’s pregnancy to Ana.