Fractured (23 page)

“Me either. Besides my job I take a few night classes because I want to get my MBA.” She wore dark eyeliner tonight that gave her eyes a slant and he could see under the low-hanging light either her lotion or foundation had a faint hint of glitter in it. When she removed her coat she wore a tight top in a deep purple and the plunge of the neckline nicely showed off her curves.

Completely different from the other two times he'd been around her. It sparked a certain curiosity.

Of course, the first time she'd just been in a car accident, and the second was at a fancy, formal dinner, so maybe this was more the real her.

He gave her cleavage the appreciative glance it deserved, but was subtle about it, though he was pretty sure she noticed from the deepened dimple in her cheek. “It sounds like you keep busy.”

She thanked the bartender nicely for her drink as he set it down on a little napkin. “I do. What about you? What do you do in your spare time, Mr. Detective? Do you have family around here? What's your story?”

*   *   *

Eventually every woman
asked that. He was just never sure how to answer it.

“City kid, no picket fences in our neighborhood, and the only dogs were the ones who tipped over the trash every Wednesday. No family around here.”

“Street boy, eh?”

“Pretty much.”

“With a good sense of humor. I like it.”

She had one too, he decided as they sipped and talked, and after he paid for their drinks—she tried but he insisted—they walked back to his apartment building. Even though it was weird as hell to just have her show up, it really had been a welcome distraction.

“I'll walk you to your car,” he insisted, noting the ice crystals on the windshields. By now it was getting close to ten thirty and the parking lot was quiet.

“Over there.” She pointed at her expensive car that had evidently been repaired because it looked sleek and polished. She turned and offered him her hand. “I had a nice time, Detective Jason Santiago. Would you mind if we did it again sometime?”

Would he? No, it had been a nice diversion. Why not? “I'd mind if we didn't.”

“Let me give you my number.”

 

Chapter 22

Georgia was in the bathtub when the phone rang, neck deep in bubbles, a cup of tea on a small stand. It was her one true indulgence—a long hot bath at least twice a week in contrast to the quick showers she usually took in the mornings before heading to her office. It gave her time to think, and of course, that usually involved her patients and their problems. She really needed to do something about her dead-end personal life.

She'd been reflecting on how she was looking forward to her next session with Ellie. It was a bit of a muddy spot ethically to be seeing both her and Santiago even though the department had done the initial referral. Ellie obviously didn't know he'd decided on private therapy past that one initial evaluation, and if he chose to keep that to himself, Georgia couldn't violate his privacy. If they were just two ordinary people who worked together it was hardly an issue, but Jason's deepening feelings put her in a somewhat tenable position.

She had to admit she was extremely curious to see if Ellie would mention the kiss.

Drying off her hand, she picked up her phone and listened to the message from her service, and then called them back. “This is Dr. Lukens. Did the patient mention suicide?”

“No, just was extremely insistent she see you right away.”

That was interesting. Rachel was unstable, in Georgia's professional opinion. However, any mention of possibly treating the symptoms with medication was firmly rejected, so she'd left it alone. “I do know my ten o'clock canceled, so tell her I can see her then. Thank you.”

All hopes of catching up on her notes were now gone, so she'd better get to the office early. Reluctantly getting out of the bath and wrapping herself in a fluffy towel, she had to wonder what Lea had done now. It seemed that more and more the focus of their sessions involved Lea's problems much more than Rachel's issues with trust and men in general. Georgia had treated asexual patients before—it was more common than people realized—and she was fairly sure Rachel fit the category, but whether it was a simple matter of a hormonal imbalance or some past trauma, she still couldn't say.

She doubted the emergency included a male, so Lea or her work seemed the logical choices. As devoted as Rachel seemed to be to her job, if she was in a panic over something, losing her position would be paramount, but Georgia found out she was wrong when Rachel walked in precisely at ten, her face drawn.

She sat in her usual fussy manner, brushing off the chair first, settling down, and crossing her legs. Very rarely did she set her purse on the floor but preferred it in her lap, and this morning her fingers clasped it tightly. “Dr. Lukens … I … I…”

Behind her desk, Georgia said calmly, “Take a breath. I admit I am curious over the urgency when we have an appointment in two days, but if you need to talk to someone, that is exactly why I am here.”

“I know Lea's secret.” Rachel leaned forward earnestly, and her eyes glistened with tears. “I have to talk about it. I think I now understand why she is the way she is, promiscuous and selfish and taking risks that could hurt other people, even those she loves.”

How to handle this was a delicate question. There were breakthrough moments in all therapy that worked, and Georgia took a second but not too long, because she didn't want her patient to back away. “She told you?”

“I discovered it.”

At least the snow was melting a little, she could hear the swish of the spraying slush as cars went by on the street outside the office. “Maybe you could define for me what that means exactly.”

“I usually respect her privacy.” Rachel took off her coat in a gymnastics exercise that still did not involve her setting her purse on the floor. “But I was looking for something of mine since we frequently share—remember the shoes?—and I found some pictures in a drawer. So I asked her about them.”

It was a measure of progress to have Rachel stand up to Lea. Georgia asked, “And how did she react?”

“She doesn't like me in her room, and I don't like her in mine, so I respect that, but truly, she had not returned something that belonged to me, and though we argued a little she finally admitted she'd thrown it away just like the shoes.”

Their bizarre relationship wasn't the most unusual Georgia had ever dealt with, but it was certainly beginning to climb to the top. “Did she explain why?”

Rachel did that thing with her head when she bent forward enough so her hair hid her face. “Not exactly. We talked about the pictures instead. She said she'd been waiting to tell me for a long time.”

“Tell you what?”

“There's a little boy in the photographs. About ten or so. He was her big brother.”

Was
had an ominous sound to it. As Georgia watched, Rachel actually dropped her purse down on the carpet and wound her hands together. “This is so awful … I knew there was something in her past that explained why she is the way she is, but this is
shattering
.”

*   *   *

Grasso's desk was
a lot neater than hers, but then again, the man spent a lot of time at it. Not that she didn't spend time at hers as well, but not like him. His gray eyes were as direct as usual when he glanced up and saw them coming and his faint smile was full of triumph.

Next to her, Santiago muttered, “Oh shit, he looks smug, or as smug as he can ever look. If he breaks this case instead of us, I'm going to be extremely pissed off.”

She murmured back, “You're always extremely pissed off.” To Grasso she said, “You rang, Lieutenant? I take it that means you've got something.”

Grasso leaned back in his leather chair, the one he'd purchased himself and brought from home. “You were right, Peterson was having an affair. It took two glasses of expensive scotch to get his lovely wife to admit it, but according to her, and I quote, ‘That asshole was cheating.' You owe me by the way, because I was then subject to the history of their marriage and how she still couldn't believe it, because in her objective opinion, she's pretty wonderful. They met in college. I can tell you the rest if you'd like.”

“No thanks. Okay, so let's powwow.” Santiago motioned Ellie to the chair by the desk and went over to drag one from the desk of another detective who shot him a reproving look. He sat down with the back forward, his arms resting on the top. “So who is this siren who could possibly lure the esteemed professor away from his charming wife?”

“Siren? Have you been watching PBS again?” Ellie asked caustically, turning to give him an incredulous look.

“I'm a cultured kind of guy.”

“Yeah … well, that's debatable.” She asked Grasso, “Despite how it was originally phrased, that's my question too. Got a name for the mistress?”

“Only a first, I'm afraid. Mrs. Peterson never saw them together either, so no description. She thinks they met when he was doing some research for a professional article on the economic impact of health care reform, hence the tie to biology. I am told a lot of his students go on to med school. But that's a dead end since I checked with their personnel department and there is no employee there with that first name.”

“Health care again,” Santiago murmured not quite under his breath.

She ignored him. “In other words, a dead end. Did she cooperate enough to at least offer the name of a
few
close friends who might know who this woman is? You sure got more out of her than we did.”

“Therein lies the problem. She doesn't want us questioning their friends in case this shameful secret leaks out.” Grasso looked frustrated. “So, the answer is no. She claims none of them would know anything anyway.”

“How did
she
find out?”

“Eavesdropping on a phone call. She called it accidentally listening, but let's face it, eavesdropping.”

“I suppose she's far too ethical to nab his phone later and get a number?” Ellie's opinion of Mrs. Peterson wasn't very high. “Surely if it made her suspicious enough to think it was the other woman, she would.”

Grasso said, “She did. I asked, and she says she called it and got the hospital's main desk, that's where she got the idea it might be someone from there. But he was doing an article so he had a legitimate reason to call there and if he was smart, he deleted the number anyway.”

“And our killer has his phone and has probably disposed of it.” Santiago looked reflective. “But we could check with the phone company that handles the hospital and see just
who
he called during the course of his research.”

“I'm on that one already. They are going to get back to me.”

Of course he was, Grasso was thorough. Ellie sighed. “Just because the brilliant Mrs. Peterson thinks it is someone at the hospital, it doesn't mean it is. It could be anyone, and completely unconnected to the murder. He worked at a university with pretty coeds everywhere, and since she's been so uncooperative, I'm kind of skeptical of any information coming from Peterson's widow anyway.”

“I think going back to the university, questioning the other people in his department and maybe getting a roster of names for the classes he taught would not be a bad idea now that we have a first name.” Santiago stood decisively. “Please tell me it isn't Mary or Susan or something else pretty common.”

Grasso said, “No. Lauren.”

“We'll go check it out but let us know about the hospital lead.” Ellie also stood but when she looked at her partner, he had a very strange expression on his face. She asked slowly, “Something wrong?”

“I don't know.” The words were measured and his eyes had that abstracted look she had come to know pretty well. “Before we go to the university, I want to look at the autopsy reports again, okay?”

 

Chapter 23

The walk across campus was cold as an unforgiving wind had started to pick up around noon and the snow was a gentle fall but it swirled around them in small waves. Jason wasn't a big believer in scarves any more than gloves but at the moment wished he had both. “I wonder what the damn wind chill is.”

“For the last time, get over it,” Ellie replied, wearing her snowflake cap. “This is Wisconsin, we don't do wind chill here. Real temperature usually scares you enough.” She pointed. “I think that's the building we want.”

“This place is a maze.”

“Every big university is.” Huddled in her coat, she went up the steps in front of him. It wasn't until they were in the hallway of the student center building that she turned to him. “Are you going to tell me what was new and enlightening in those autopsy reports or not? You've been very quiet.”

“I'm still trying to decide if I am drawing a very crazy conclusion—which we are not supposed to do without enough evidence.”

“True, but—”

“Ellie, you have your process and I have mine,” he interrupted, his voice brusque. “Let's sniff around here again and I'll tell you this much, what we find might sway the vote on whether I tell you or just decide I have a naturally suspicious mind.”

“All cops have suspicious minds.” She stopped in front of a door with an opaque glass panel. “It defines who and what we are.”

“Great news. Some of us are assholes,” he murmured, following her inside into the office of admissions.

The person at the desk initially sent them an unfriendly stare until informed they were police detectives, and then her broad face reflected dismay but also curiosity. “What can I do for you?”

“We haven't talked to you specifically before, but we are the ones investigating the death of Professor Peterson and would appreciate the cooperation of the university in following a lead. Could you give us a list of any students who took his classes in the past year? We are especially interested in anyone who might have been taking one of his lectures or worked directly with him in the biology curriculum.”