Читать книгу Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe - Nancy Bush - Страница 19

Chapter 11

Laurelton General Hospital sat on a hillside, its north side sporting two more levels than its south. The main entrance and emergency were on level three, which was street level except for the north end where the slope added two levels beneath it. September and Gretchen walked toward the main front doors together. The outer glass doors slid back to allow entry and started closing behind them while the inside set whispered open.

A middle-aged woman sat at a semicircular desk. She looked up at the two women and September could practically read her thought: Cops. Maybe it was the way they walked, she thought. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Determined. No emotion visible. Maybe it was something more indefinable.

“May I help you?” she asked. Her hair was short, dyed dark and thinning.

Gretchen took the lead, explaining who they were and what they wanted. Both Kurt Upjohn and Jessica Maltona had been whisked into surgery at Laurelton General; Upjohn for two bullets through the abdomen, Maltona for a shot to the chest that, surprisingly, hadn’t killed her outright. Both were stabilized and had brief moments of lucidity, though the jury was still out on their long-term prognosis. No one was saying anything but September sensed it boiled down to two words: “not good.”

“Dr. Denby’s on rounds,” the receptionist told them, as she pushed a button on her phone. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

With extreme patience, Gretchen said, “He’s expecting us. Which room is Mr. Upjohn’s? We’ll meet him there.”

“North wing,” she answered sourly. “Fourth floor.”

Gretchen gave her a cold smile of thanks. Knowing she was bound to get in trouble for it, September pointed out, “You set out to piss people off.”

“Not consciously.”

“Consciously,” she argued.

Gretchen slid her a look. “I’ve been the only woman on this team until you, Nine. I’ve developed a style that works. Watch and learn.”

September didn’t respond. She’d been watching and she’d been learning, and she knew that Gretchen pissed people off, coworkers and witnesses and perps and victims alike.

Dr. Denby met them at the fourth-floor elevator. He was a short, slight man with a pencil-thin, blond beard that traced the length of his jawline and made his head look a little too large for his body. His brown eyes were stern and when they locked onto Gretchen’s blue cat-eyes, they grew sterner.

September suspected Gretchen was about to piss him off as well and braced herself.

“Dr. Denby?” a woman’s voice asked, before a word was spoken. All three of them turned to the nurse approaching in the pink uniform.

“Yes,” Denby snapped out.

The nurse gave Gretchen and September a harried look. “Four-twenty-seven. Mr. Upjohn? You said to tell you when he woke up?”

“Good timing,” Gretchen said, and Denby simply brushed past the nurse and strode with short, fast, irritated steps to Upjohn’s room, with September and Gretchen following behind. At the door to the room, Denby blocked their entrance. “Wait here,” he commanded, before going the rest of the way inside.

“Prick,” Gretchen said. She waited about a minute and then walked in the room anyway. September slipped in behind her—watch and learn—and caught the fulminating look on Denby’s face, but mimicked Gretchen, who’d already turned her attention to the patient. Denby bit back whatever he’d planned to say, though it was hard for him.

Kurt Upjohn looked at them through bleary eyes. His skin was sallow and his hair stuck out from his head. The blankets covered everything but a hint of bandage by his neck. If she hadn’t known about the surgery, September might think the man had been on a bender. She’d seen his corporate image picture: big smile, smoothed bald head, something was a little feral about his smile. Now, he just looked fragile.

“Mr. Upjohn, these women are from the Laurelton police,” Denby said tightly. “They would like to have a few words with you. If it’s too much of an effort, we can postpone it.”

Gretchen said, “These women are Detectives Sandler and Rafferty.”

Denby blinked, a bit shocked at Gretchen’s open hostility. September guessed not many people took him on, certainly not many women.

Upjohn’s tongue rimmed dry lips, then he croaked out, “Ask away.”

“The big question on everyone’s mind is why Zuma?” Gretchen began without preamble. “Why did this guy attack your company?”

“Don’t know.” With a pained twist of his lips, he rasped, “My son . . . is dead?”

Denby cut in, “Your wife was here. Do you remember?”

“Um . . . Camille, yes . . . she told me.”

“Can you think of one reason . . . any reason . . . for this to happen?” Gretchen persisted. “Sour business dealings? Anything personal?”

“No . . . Are they . . . is the second floor still working? The gamers?” he clarified.

“The business is shut down,” Gretchen said.

“Where’s Berelli? What happened to Berelli?” His eyes rolled around as if loose in his skull.

“He’s fine. We’ve spoken with Mr. Berelli,” Gretchen assured him.

“I want to see him.” He focused on the doctor. “I want to see him.”

“Mr. Berelli . . .” Denby repeated, nodding.

Gretchen intervened, “I can contact Mr. Berelli and tell him you wish to see him.”

“I want to see Phillip today,” Upjohn said. His voice was fading out and he cleared his throat with an effort.

Denby said, “It’s time to leave.”

“I have a few more questions.”

The doctor practically stepped on Gretchen, who stood her ground for a moment, but Upjohn’s eyes had closed and Denby didn’t look like he would be put off. She finally acceded, and September and Denby followed her into the hallway.

“Is Camille Dirkus still here?”

“I don’t know. His wife was here this morning.”

“She’s not his wife,” September said.

“Ex-wife.” He looked irked that she’d corrected him.

September wondered if they would get anything further from the officious doctor, but Gretchen wasn’t intimidated.

“What about Jessica Maltona?” she asked Denby.

“I’m not responsible for her. She’s under Dr. Egan’s care.” He seemed delighted to be able to throw that out.

Gretchen didn’t hesitate. She dropped Denby cold and strode to the fourth-floor nurse’s station, asking for Jessica Maltona’s room number. Denby was torn between the desire to charge after her and get in her way some more, or turn on his heel in a show of pique and disgust.

He chose the latter, practically clicking his heels as he stalked down the hall in the opposite direction.

“Dr. Egan is Ms. Maltona’s doctor,” the nurse at the station said.

Gretchen showed her badge. “I need to talk to her. Just tell me which room.”

The woman bristled, but another, older nurse dropped the file she was perusing and came to the first one’s rescue. “That’s for Dr. Egan to decide.”

“Then find him.” Gretchen stared at her and she stared back. After a moment, she picked up the receiver, practically shoving the younger nurse aside, and punched in a number. “Please call the fourth-floor nurse’s station,” she clipped out.

“There’s a policewoman insisting on seeing Ms. Maltona.” She hung up and said, “It’ll just be a moment. . . .”

A moment turned into five minutes and Gretchen said, “You can turn this into a war, or you can work with me. Either way I’m going to see Ms. Maltona.”

The younger nurse was gazing at Gretchen with a sort of fear mixed with awe. “Dr. Egan usually answers his page fairly quickly.”

The older nurse flashed her a look of fury, as if she’d given away state secrets. Gretchen simply nodded and turned her back on them.

A few minutes later a good-looking doctor with dark hair and eyes came their way, his lab coat billowing behind him. He had a smile on his face and he looked at Gretchen, then September, then back to Gretchen. “You wish to speak to my patient, Ms. Maltona?”

“That’s the plan.” Gretchen’s eyes narrowed as she sized him up. He appeared more genial than Denby and she was feeling her way.

“She’s in room 505. We’ll take the elevator.” He’d already turned toward the bank of elevators, which was a short walk further down the corridor. “I’m not sure what good this’ll do you. She’s surfaced once or twice since yesterday’s surgery, but she hasn’t completely come back to consciousness.” He gave them a considering look as they crowded into the elevator car. “The bullet did extensive damage to her heart. You understand she may not recover.”

September’s stomach did a slow somersault. She swallowed and nodded as Gretchen said soberly, “We understand. We just want to see her.”

The elevator dinged and the doors opened and Dr. Egan led them down a hall and around a corner to Jessica Maltona’s room. She lay white-faced against the white pillowcase, barely a shade’s difference between her flesh and the pillow. A bandage wrapped around her chest was visible as the gown gapped in the front. Her eyes stayed closed and her breathing seemed low and faint.

She’s not going to make it, September thought.

They only stayed a few minutes then headed back to floor three, street level and out to Gretchen’s Jeep. Once inside, September asked, “What do you think?”

“I got nothing. Upjohn’s sad about his son and worried about his company. He wants to talk to his accountant, and maybe there’s some book-cooking, or something, but he didn’t act like a man who felt real danger.”

“He doesn’t think whoever did it is going to strike at him again, while he’s laid up in the hospital,” September clarified.

“That’s my hit. What about you?”

“I don’t know. If Camille Dirkus doesn’t call me back soon, I’m going to have to track her down.”

Gretchen made sounds of annoyance low in her throat.

“What did you think about Jessica Maltona?”

Gretchen sent her a sideways look as she drove out of the lot. “What did you think?”

“Doesn’t look good.”

“If the shooting had anything to do with her, she’s paying a heavy price. Maybe her squirrelly boyfriend got her into something. I don’t know.”

“Could the boyfriend have done this, do you think?”

“My opinion? Not a chance. Jaffe’s hiding something, though. I don’t know what yet. I’ll figure it out, but it doesn’t feel like it’s germane to the killings. We’ll see.”

“So who does that leave?” September asked.

“I don’t know. De Fore? One of the gamers? Olivia Dugan?”

“Auggie’s with her.” September felt that same faint touch of betrayal that her brother hadn’t contacted her. “And what about Trask Martin?”

“Somebody killed him right outside her door.” Gretchen considered that. “I don’t believe in coincidence, do you?”

“No,” September said.

“Then Martin’s death is related to the Zuma shootings, too. You said the girlfriend blamed his death on Dugan.”

“Jo. Yeah. But D’Annibal doesn’t believe that.”

“Only because your brother texted him that he was with Dugan,” Gretchen said. “Man, Auggie sure didn’t get any time off between the task force and this job, did he?”

“No.” September felt irrationally irked.

“Huh,” Gretchen said, “I asked D’Annibal about him, but he fobbed me off some more.”

September didn’t want to talk about Auggie. He was her twin and she sometimes felt closer to him than anyone else in the universe, but at other times he was beyond annoying. What the hell was he doing? She’d known his work with the task force was winding down. Though his cover hadn’t been blown, he’d said he needed to get out while the getting was good, and besides, he’d gathered as much intel as he could, or so he’d told her.

She knew Gretchen had hoped he would come back and partner up with her, but she’d gotten the feeling that would never happen. September suspected Gretchen had a little bit of a thing for him, but she kinda thought Gretchen wasn’t his type. As if she’d asked the question, September said aloud, “My brother tends to go for damsels in distress.”

Gretchen made a retching sound. “Sounds like Olivia Dugan’s right up his alley.”

“Yeah . . .”

Detective August Rafferty was in a quandary. He’d managed to plug in his car charger for a few minutes while Liv was inside Hathaway House and text his lieutenant, but then Liv had come out and he’d scrambled to hide the evidence, to no avail. The wires had been in plain sight.

She hadn’t said anything about it much, and he’d driven them both back to the “safe” house after filling the Jeep’s tank and now . . . what? What should he do next? He wanted to follow along the path of Liv’s zigzag investigation because this whole thing seemed to be morphing into something different than what it had first seemed. Did he think it was all about her? Not completely. But he did believe something was going on. Whether it was part of the massacre at Zuma Software, or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t truly the investigating officer on the Zuma case; D’Annibal had told him his sister and Gretchen Sandler were in charge.

He was just an extra player. He wasn’t even really supposed to be working. This time was supposed to be his own, a decompressing period after the infiltration of Cordova’s gang. In a perfect world he’d be back at his duplex, getting ready for football season and evicting his aggravating next-door tenants.

But instead . . .

He glanced at Liv, who was sitting at the kitchen table. He’d asked her if she’d like a sandwich, but she’d shaken her head and was just staring straight ahead, involved in some inner pathos. He’d made a sandwich for himself and felt like he’d been eating them forever, even though it had only been a few days. Even this morning’s Egg McMuffin hadn’t been much of a break.

“Maybe I’m wrong and it doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Liv said as Auggie grabbed the seat across from her and bit into a mouthful of turkey and mustard. “Maybe Kurt Upjohn’s involved with military games, or his company’s in debt, or he’s a gambler or a thief, or something. Or, maybe they were after someone else there. Paul de Fore, or Aaron . . .” Her throat closed. “Or Jessica, or one of the computer wizards. Or Phillip Berelli.”

“Phillip Berelli?” Auggie mumbled, reached for a napkin to wipe his mouth. “There’s a name you haven’t mentioned.”

“He’s the firm’s accountant.” She waved an arm. “Oh, yeah. It’s definitely him. He’s probably laundering money and hiding it in the Cayman Islands, or something.”

He fought a smile and took a couple more bites, making short work of the sandwich half. Then he wiped his fingers and looked squarely into her hazel eyes. There was mistrust there, and a kind of simmering rebellion, as if she felt he were going to school her for her actions.

“Okay, let’s say it is about you. For argument’s sake,” he added quickly when she looked about to protest his sudden change of tactics. “You think someone’s after you and you ran from Zuma because you think this someone—the shooter—found you and your place of work.”

“The lawyers found me. They called me on the phone,” she reminded him. “I don’t know how the shooter found me, exactly.”

“Well, how did the lawyers find you?”

She spread her palms upward. “Trial and error. They were looking for Olivia Margaux Dugan and they got my home number. It probably wouldn’t be that hard. I mean, I have a phone . . . electricity . . .”

“Did the package come to your apartment?”

“No, I asked them to send it to the office. The lawyers messengered it to Zuma.”

He thought about that a moment. “And you’re pretty convinced the package set off the massacre.”

“I . . .” She exhaled, thought a moment, then said, “Convinced . . . I don’t know. But it’s the one thing that’s different in my life.”

“What was in the package that would have threatened the killer?” He could hear how carefully he was choosing his words and hoped she wouldn’t think he was simply humoring her. He wasn’t. Not really. But he also wanted to lead her down a logical path. Maybe there was some truth buried in what she was saying. If so, he wanted to mine it.

“Nothing, really. There were just some things there that my mom apparently wanted me to have when I turned twenty-five.” She made a sound of impatience. “The more I talk about it, the more I realize how crazy it was to run. I was just—scared.”

“I know you don’t think so, but the police will get that.”

“I’m not ready to go yet,” she said firmly.

He picked up the other half of his sandwich. “Back to the package. Your mother put it together and set it up so that you’d receive it when you turned twenty-five. That’s a lot of foresight . . .”

“Yeah.” She half-laughed. “What was she trying to tell me? What was happening in her life, that she felt the need to put the package together? I’ve asked myself these questions, believe me.”

“What was in the package, specifically?”

“Pictures. A personal note from my mother. My birth certificate with the names of my birth parents.”

“You were adopted.” She nodded, and he added, “You knew you were adopted. It wasn’t a secret.”

“It wasn’t a secret,” she agreed.

“What were the pictures of?”

“People. My mother. And my father. And some other strangers who looked like maybe they were my parents’ friends? There’s one man who was stalking angrily toward the camera who I think is the doctor my brother was remembering. I showed the photos to Hague, and he said the man in the picture was the zombie.”

“Zombie?”

“It’s what he called him when he was two. He talked about the zombie. And then . . . last night, when he saw that picture, he said he was the zombie. Maybe this guy is a doctor, who either treated him, or me. I went to Hathaway House this morning to see if I could talk to my old doctor, Dr. Yancy, but she’s no longer there and Dr. Knudson, the director, won’t be in till Monday.”

He munched on the second half of the sandwich and asked, “You sure you don’t want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“Something to drink?”

For an answer she got up to pour herself a glass of water. “I can get it. Want a refill?” she asked him, as he’d nearly finished his drink.

“Sure.” She picked up his glass, filled it from the tap, then set it down in front of him as she retook her seat. Her own glass was full and though she placed it in front of herself, she didn’t immediately take a swallow.

“Who else saw the pictures?” Auggie asked.

“My father and his wife, my stepmother, Lorinda. And Della, she lives with Hague.” She paused, thinking a moment. “And my neighbor saw the picture of the stalking man, too.”

“Your neighbor?” he asked.

“In the apartment next to me. He stopped by at lunchtime on Thursday and I had the pictures out. He just noticed the guy looked angry and that the pictures were old.” She finally picked up the glass and took a delicate swallow. “Trask,” she said.

Auggie lifted his brows, and she added, “My neighbor. He lives with his girlfriend, Jo, in 21B. They were there before I ever moved in. They’re not involved with this.”

Auggie finished his sandwich, then carried the plate to the sink and rinsed it off. Turning around, he leaned against the counter, curling his hands around the edge. “Did the lawyers say when they originally received the package from your mother?”

“Umm . . . no, I guess not. I just assumed it was right before her death. I don’t know. . . .” She trailed off, her brow furrowing.

“What?”

“It was the blouse. She’s wearing the same blouse in one of the pictures that she was wearing when, when she died. I think she got it for her birthday. Or, maybe she was just wearing it on my birthday. . . .” She shook her head, as if trying to clear out the cobwebs. “But it was around the same time, so she must have given the package to the lawyers right before she died.”

“You’ve never really believed her death was a suicide.”

“No. At Hathaway House they really tried to get me to believe. I think beneath all the therapy, that was the real goal: Liv Dugan needs to face the awful truth of her mother’s suicide. I finally pretended like I did believe it. It’s what it took to get out of there. But it was a lie.”

“You think the serial strangler hanged her.”

She pulled her shoulders in when he put it like that. “There were some things that just didn’t seem to add up. The timing was such, that I’ve thought, off and on, maybe the killer had something to do with my mother’s death. Maybe he strangled her first and then made it look like a hanging. . . .” She shook her head. “But apparently there was no evidence to support that.”

“Your mother’s death doesn’t follow his m.o., at least not in the strictest sense.”

“Maybe they never really looked to see,” Liv said. “The police just took her hanging as a suicide. Maybe they never checked for other evidence. I don’t think they wanted to add her to their homicide list. They had their hands full and a lot of public pressure building.”

“Or, it wasn’t a homicide,” he pointed out.

“My mother’s death doesn’t fit the pattern,” she agreed. “She was inside the house and so was I, and so was my brother. And she wasn’t killed and left in a field. She was . . . hanged.”

“After her death, what happened to your family?”

“We moved to another part of town. Dad met Lorinda and they got married. Nobody talked about Mama anymore. And then we moved out of Rock Springs and then I went to Hathaway House, and later, Hague went to Grandview.”

“And your family didn’t talk about your mother’s death after that.”

“They didn’t talk about it at all. Until I got to Hathaway House, then it seemed like it was the only subject we talked about. Dr. Yancy thinks I saw something that I’ve repressed.”

“What do you think?”

She lifted her hands. “Sometimes I think, if I could just reach a little further, I might get it. I don’t know.”

He thought that over, then asked, “Your neighbor, your father and his wife and your brother and his girlfriend were the only ones who saw what was in the package? That’s it?”

“Della’s my brother’s caretaker, not his girlfriend. Well, maybe she is. That distinction’s kind of fuzzy. But I don’t think any of them would say anything. And my neighbor, Trask, wouldn’t even know what he was looking at.”

“You’re completely sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“And your brother’s caretaker, Della?”

“Well . . . no . . .” she admitted. “Della’s been with Hague for years and she’s devoted to him. She’s older than he is, by about a decade. I think she met him at Grandview, and then later, when he was out, they kept in contact and he needed help and . . . there you go. Maybe she is just his caretaker. I really don’t know what their relationship is, but I do think, overall, she’s good for him.”

“You just don’t like her much,” he said, reading between the lines.

“I like her better than Lorinda,” she admitted honestly. She sighed heavily. “Maybe I should just go with the prevailing theory that the shootings were because of Kurt Upjohn. It was a massacre, for God’s sake. All of my stuff . . . is just maybe . . . my stuff.”

“I don’t know if you’re right, exactly. About Zuma. But I think with the timing of the package, and your own history . . .” He pressed his lips together a moment, not wanting to give her too much to believe in, but also needing to bolster her trust. “Count me in on the investigation.”

Liv’s eyes searched his face. He could see she didn’t trust him one iota; she couldn’t figure out his motivation. “Who are you?” she asked.

He thought about telling her. The words leapt to his tongue. But her mistrust of the authorities stopped him. “You picked me,” he reminded her. “I’m in between jobs. My ex-girlfriend’s still in Canada. Not a wife, but close enough. We lived together quite a while.” The lie tripped off his tongue. Lies he’d used when he was Alan Reagan. “We broke up and I’m starting a new life.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “Tell me from beginning to end, who saw the package.”

She inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “I got it at work. I took it to my brother’s apartment.”

“After your neighbor saw the pictures.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Then my father and Lorinda stopped by Hague’s. They thought it was strange that my mother had sent me the photos and documents, and we talked briefly about the strangler. I told them I was going to do some investigating on my own, that I never believed Mama had committed suicide. Della was mostly concerned about Hague, who had gone into one of his fugue states, a trance, so I don’t know how much she was really paying attention to the package contents. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t.”

“This was how long before the attack on Zuma?”

“The night before. Thursday.”

“Go on,” he said, when she stopped.

“There isn’t much more to tell. I went to work, went to lunch, came back and saw—the bodies. Then I ran and eventually got in your Jeep and held you at gunpoint.”

“Is there anything else—anything—that would make you suspect the Zuma killings had to do with you?”

She shook her head and gave him a resigned look. “No. I told you, it’s just a feeling I’ve had for a long time. All my life really, since my mother’s death. Like there’s something out there. Someone out there, who means me harm. Yes, I know. This could probably be the result of finding my mother’s body. I’ve heard it all before. It just doesn’t go away and it doesn’t matter how rational I am, or how much I try to talk myself out of it, it’s always there.”

“So, if the strangler had something to do with your mother’s death, and the Zuma killings are related to that, you think he struck again now because you got the package?”

“He came into Zuma shooting,” Liv said. “That doesn’t follow his m.o. I know. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Been a lot of years,” Auggie said. “Anything’s possible.”

“Are you playing devil’s advocate?”

He couldn’t tell her that he’d seen a lot of criminals whose crimes morphed from one thing to another for various reasons.

“He killed three more women after my mother’s death,” she said. “Most of them were prostitutes out of the Portland area, but not all. There was a woman from Malone, the town over from Rock Springs.

“It just feels like someone’s after me,” she went on. “Maybe they think I now know something about my mother’s death. The doctor . . . if he knew what Dr. Yancy thought, that I’d repressed something, something I’d seen . . .” She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “And then the package contents scared him. Jump-started him, or her, or whoever. If it’s not the strangler who’s after me, it’s still somebody. That’s what I feel.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?” she asked suspiciously.

“I know you’re not going to, and I’m not going to make you, but I still think you should go to the police.”

“No.”

“Then, I’m a part of your team. You chose me, and you’re stuck with me.”

He could tell his declaration almost relieved her, but she said with ill grace anyway, “Sounds like I don’t have any choice.”

“You could still hold me at gunpoint and threaten to shoot me.”

She lifted her brows in that way people do that silently asks, “Really?”

“Of the people who saw the package, which one do you think it is? The one who acted on it?”

“None of them. I don’t know. Maybe it was someone at the lawyer’s office?”

“Was the package opened?” he asked. She shook her head. “Move past the lawyers for a moment. Go back to the people you know who saw the contents of the package.”

“Like I said, it’s none of them. I don’t like Lorinda at all, and my father’s a cold fish, but Della . . . or Hague . . . they just . . . wouldn’t. I mean, why? Hague was a baby when our mother died, and Della wouldn’t care. . . .” She trailed off and Auggie’s attention sharpened.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s nothing. It’s just . . . Hague orates. In a corner of the bar below his apartment. He holds court and just talks about everything. Rants, really.”

“About?”

“Political stuff, mostly. He has followers. They come and listen to him, or argue with him, or just come to feel like they’re part of a crowd.”

“You think he brought up the package to his listeners?” Auggie was skeptical.

“He said he did . . . but I don’t know if it’s true. I upset him and he reacted. Hague gets things confused.”

“If you had to put a finger on what item specifically, from inside the package, would send a killer to Zuma, what would it be?”

“The photo of the stalking man,” she said. “The zombie-doctor. That picture stands out. He stands out.” She made a sound of disbelief. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long. Do you want to see the package contents?”

Auggie was happy with this show of trust. “Sure.”

She dragged her backpack up from beneath her chair, dropped it on the tabletop, then dug inside it and lifted out a manila envelope. Wordlessly she handed the package to him. He slipped the contents onto the table and arranged each piece so he could see each one, feeling like an intruder when he read the personal note.

“I think he was a visiting doctor at Hathaway House, but I have to wait to talk to Dr. Knudson. I don’t even know if that’ll work. Knudson wasn’t on staff when I was there, so will he even know him?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Auggie said positively. “We’ll go see him together.”

“On Monday . . . today’s Saturday . . . ?”

“I can wait.” He smiled and she just looked at him. Eventually, she nodded her agreement as she slid the items back inside the package and set it to one side.

Now, he just had to figure out a way to talk to D’Annibal without Liv Dugan overhearing.