Читать книгу Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow: A gripping new thriller for 2018 with killer twists and turns - Сидни Шелдон, Sidney Sheldon - Страница 21

‘Tell me please, Mrs Roberts. How long did you take off work after your husband passed away?’

Beneath the interview room table, Nikki dug her fingernails hard into her palms and counted to ten. I must not let this man get under my skin. I must not let him provoke me. That’s giving him what he wants.

‘Again, Detective Johnson, it’s Doctor Roberts.’ She used her softest, most patronizing tone to correct him. ‘You seem to be having a tough time remembering that. Have you always had trouble with your memory? Or is it something age-related?’

Johnson’s jowly face reddened to an ugly puce as his partner suppressed a giggle. Unlike Dr Roberts, Goodman noticed, Johnson showed no self-control when provoked, rising to Nikki’s bait like a starving fish.

‘Oh, I’m not having a tough time remembering anything, lady. I merely choose not to dignify your bullshit profession with a title that actually means something to some people. We both know you aren’t a real doctor.’

Mick looks like an overcooked hotdog about to burst out of its skin, Goodman thought, wincing at his partner’s crassness. Johnson had issues around women in general, but for some reason this particular woman seemed to bring out the absolute worst in him.

Goodman couldn’t understand why. In his opinion, Dr Roberts was looking particularly beautiful this afternoon, in a taupe pencil skirt and matching silk shirt. The outfit was the same color as her tanned skin, giving an exciting, if fleeting, impression of nakedness. Her calm, collected manner was attractive as well, at least in Lou Goodman’s eyes. He liked a woman who could handle herself.

‘Answer the question. How long were you off work?’ Johnson snapped.

‘Around six weeks,’ said Nikki.

‘Seems a long time.’

‘Does it?’ Nikki deadpanned.

‘Yeah, it does. Then again, most of us need to work to live. Unlike you. You just dabble as and when you please, don’t you, Mrs Roberts? You had no money problems after your husband died. He left you a wealthy woman.’

Despite herself, Nikki stiffened. What was this bozo implying?

‘I was perfectly well off when Doug was alive, Mr Johnson. His death didn’t change anything.’

‘Hmmm,’ Johnson grunted dismissively. ‘And when did Treyvon Raymond start working for you?’

Nikki sighed sadly. She hadn’t had time yet to process the reality of Trey’s death, and she certainly didn’t relish talking about him with this slob of a policeman.

‘I don’t remember exactly.’

‘Was it after you came back to work, or before your husband’s accident?’

‘It was not long after,’ said Nikki. Turning to Goodman she added, ‘I don’t understand what any of these questions have to do with the murders. Shouldn’t you be out there trying to find who killed Lisa and Trey, instead of grilling me about employment dates?’

‘That’s exactly what we are trying to do. Find the killer,’ snapped Johnson. ‘Working on the theory that it’s the same perpetrator, first thing we need is a link between the two victims. And guess what? We have one.’ Leaning back in his chair, he jabbed a pudgy finger at Nikki. ‘You, Doctor Roberts.’

‘You think I killed Lisa? And Trey?’

Nikki addressed the question to Johnson, who’d already opened his fat lips to respond when Goodman jumped in, cutting him off.

‘Of course not,’ he said evenly. ‘But you are a link. A common factor, if you will. There’s a good possibility, a likelihood even, that this killer has some connection to you personally or to this practice. A former patient, perhaps? Or even a current one? In your line of work, you obviously come across some deeply disturbed people. Might one of them have become obsessed with you and those around you? Perhaps violently so?’

Nikki conceded it was possible, theoretically. But nobody leapt to mind. Unlike many of her colleagues and peers, she’d never had a patient attack her, although one or two had probably formed unhealthy romantic attachments. Fantasies about one’s therapist were incredibly common. Rarely, if ever, did they result in two mutilated corpses and a homicide investigation.

‘We’re going to need your patient records, past and present,’ Goodman informed her gently.

‘Right,’ Nikki muttered, lost in thought for a moment.

‘All of them,’ Johnson added aggressively. ‘No editing. And no “doctor–patient confidentiality” bullshit either.’

‘Although it may not be a patient,’ Goodman said quickly, before things descended into a slanging match between his partner and their most crucial witness. ‘Do you have any enemies you can think of, Doctor? Anyone who might want to hurt you or people close to you?’

‘No.’ Nikki rubbed her eyes, like someone trying to wake up from a bad dream. ‘No. I really can’t. I mean, that’s ridiculous. What sort of enemies?’

‘Former lovers?’ Goodman proposed tentatively.

Nikki shook her head, not offended but firm.

‘No. There was only ever my husband.’

‘Disgruntled business associates?’

‘No!’ she said, frowning. ‘No offense, Detective, but someone’s out there torturing people to death with a hunting knife. That’s not a business deal gone wrong. That’s a psychopath.’

‘Who said it was a hunting knife?’ Johnson, who’d sat quiet as a mouse since Goodman cut him off suddenly came back to life.

Nikki hesitated for a moment.

‘I don’t know,’ she said eventually. ‘You must have, I suppose. Or maybe I heard it on the news.’

Johnson looked knowingly at Goodman but said nothing.

Goodman continued with his good-cop routine, asking Nikki more questions about her relationship with Trey Raymond. She answered confidently and naturally, explaining how first Doug and Haddon, and then she, had taken the boy under their wing. And how proud they all were of the way Trey had turned his life around.

‘Especially Doug,’ Nikki added, tears stinging her eyes for the first time since Haddon had broken the awful news of Trey’s death. ‘We couldn’t have children, you see, my husband and I.’

Goodman’s kind blue eyes seemed to invite confidences. Nikki appeared to have forgotten Johnson was even in the room.

‘I think Doug looked on Trey as a surrogate son. After Doug— When he died, I tried to keep the connection going. That’s when I offered Trey the job here, in the office. He was good at it,’ she added, with a sad smile.

‘OK,’ said Goodman. ‘Thank you, Dr Roberts. I think that’s all we need for now.’

‘Don’t leave town,’ snarled Johnson, as Nikki slipped on her coat.

She didn’t dignify the comment with a look, let alone a response.

‘One last thing,’ Goodman said casually, walking Nikki to the interview room door. ‘Did you ever treat a client by the name of Brandon Grolsch?’

‘No.’ Nikki looked blank. Not a hint of recognition. ‘I don’t know that name.’

‘OK.’ Goodman smiled, masking his disappointment. Both men were disappointed. A direct link between Nikki Roberts and Brandon Grolsch would have helped a lot right now, especially since Jenny Foyle, the Medical Examiner, had texted Johnson earlier to confirm that two hairs found embedded in one of Trey Raymond’s many wounds was a DNA match for Grolsch. The way Johnson saw it, that meant either the kid was alive after all; or – more disturbingly, but a closer fit to the evidence – whoever murdered Lisa Flannagan and Trey Raymond had also handled Brandon Grolsch’s corpse.

‘Thank you for your help anyway, Doctor,’ said Goodman. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

Nikki had left the building and was halfway across the parking lot when she heard Detective Johnson call breathlessly after her.

‘Wait!’ he panted.

Nikki stopped and turned, trying to quell the unpleasant pounding sensation in her chest. What now?

‘Your coat.’ Johnson gestured at the classic, sand-colored raincoat Nikki was wearing.

‘What about it?’ Nikki asked.

‘Isn’t that the coat you told us you loaned to Lisa Flannagan?’ Johnson wheezed. ‘The night she was killed?’

Nikki looked at him curiously.

‘You described it exactly in your statement,’ Johnson went on. ‘Full-length raincoat, waterproof canvas, sand-colored, buckled belt. That’s it.’ He nodded at the coat again.

Nikki allowed her gaze to linger for a moment on this obnoxious, rude, sweating, accusatory pig of a man. Clearly he believed he was catching her out at something, that he’d outsmarted her in some way. As if that could ever happen. Smiling, she said simply, ‘That’s right, Mr. Johnson. I have two.’

‘“That’s right, Mr Johnson. I have two.” Patronizing bitch.’

Johnson’s impression of Dr Roberts, complete with exaggerated, hip-swaying walk and nonchalant flick of the hair, had not been improved by his third tequila shot.

He and Goodman were at Rico’s, a dive off Sunset popular with the homicide division. Rico Hernandez, the eponymous owner, was ex LAPD himself and enjoyed hosting his former colleagues for their game nights and late-drinking sessions. Tonight Goodman and Johnson were at a table with two other teams, Hammond and Rae, aka Laurel and Hardy, the division jokers; and Sanchez and Baines, one of the few male–female pairings in the department. Although Johnson questioned whether you could call Anna Baines a woman.

‘I’m telling you, Lou,’ Johnson groused, ‘the good doctor’s in this shit up to her pretty little neck!’

Goodman rolled his eyes. ‘No, she isn’t.’

‘You don’t think the therapist lady could be involved, Lou?’ Bobby Hammond asked, taking a contemplative sip of his Corona. ‘I mean, Mick does have a point.’

‘And what point is that?’ Goodman demanded.

Bobby shrugged. ‘A lot of people close to her do seem to be droppin’ dead.’

‘Starting with her husband,’ Davey Rae chimed in. ‘Let’s not forget him.’

‘That was an accident!’ Goodman almost shouted. What was this, the conspiracy theorists’ association annual drinks party?

The fact was that, ever since the ME found those bizarre ‘dead cells’ under Lisa Flannagan’s fingernails, the entire homicide department had become hooked on the ‘Zombie Killings’. Most of these detectives’ regular cases involved either gang shootings or over-zealous domestic battery, or drug deals turned sour. Few if any had the glamour of this one: a beautiful shrink-to-the-stars, her young black protégé, and her patient – a billionaire’s model mistress. Add to that the mysterious zombie DNA found on the first victim, and you had a full-on thriller on your hands. It wasn’t right for Goodman and Johnson to keep the thing solely for themselves.

‘I hate to be the boring grown-up here and rain on your parade with the cold hard facts,’ Goodman drawled. ‘But the facts are: a) Nikki Roberts had no motive for either murder. None whatsoever. And b) she’s five foot three and can’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds. Treyvon Raymond was six two and a hundred eighty-six pounds of solid muscle. You’re telling me she overpowered, kidnapped, stabbed and dumped that boy? I don’t think so.’

‘Maybe she had help,’ said Johnson. ‘Maybe she hired someone.’

‘Yeah, and maybe Angelina Jolie’s about to walk in and ask you out on a date, Mick,’ Anna Baines observed wryly as she drained her beer. ‘Theoretically possible, but not exactly likely.’

There were snorts of laughter all round.

‘Lou’s right,’ Anna added. ‘You got nothing on this shrink woman.’

Johnson stood up, pushing his chair back with an angry clatter.

‘Not yet I don’t,’ he snapped at Anna. ‘But I will. She’s got no alibi, and I think she’s lying through her straight white teeth. So you can all go screw yourselves.’ And with that he stormed out.

‘Jeesh.’ Anna turned to Goodman, open-mouthed. ‘What’s with him?’

‘I was hoping you guys could tell me,’ Goodman sighed. ‘You’ve all known him longer than I have. Mick’s obsessed with Dr Roberts. He hates the woman’s guts, but he won’t tell me why.’

‘I might have an idea,’ Pedro Sanchez said quietly.

Sanchez was a man of few words, unlike his partner Anna Baines. He rarely offered an opinion, but when he did it was usually worth listening to.

‘The Roberts woman used to get called as an expert witness from time to time.’

‘She gave psychiatric evaluations, you mean?’ asked Goodman.

‘Right. Usually on narcotics cases,’ said Sanchez. ‘She and her husband were involved with the junkies downtown – needle exchanges, counseling, all that shit. They were big-time bleeding-heart liberals.’

Mick is ex drug squad, Goodman thought. ‘Did she testify in any of Johnson’s old cases?’ he asked Sanchez.

‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. But I do know the lady wasn’t a big fan of the force in general, which wouldn’t have endeared her to Mick. You know what he’s like with holding grudges.’

Without another word, Goodman left a twenty on the table and ran outside after Johnson. What Sanchez had told him was interesting, but it was another thought entirely that had just occurred to him.

‘Mick!’ he called into the darkness.

Johnson turned around. Thankfully, he’d got no farther than the parking lot, where he was swaying drunkenly in the breeze, waiting for his Uber.

Goodman cut straight to the chase. ‘Let’s say Dr Roberts is involved.’

‘She is,’ Johnson slurred. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘But what if it’s not in the way you think. What if the Doc was the intended victim?’

Johnson rolled his eyes. ‘Not this again. We’ve been over this.’

‘Lisa Flannagan was wearing her coat when she left the office that night.’

‘According to her,’ muttered Johnson. ‘Look, I was excited as you about that raincoat being a lead, but we’ve found nothing. All we have is Dr Roberts’ word for it.’

‘Yes, and why would she lie about something like that? Admit it, you can’t think of a reason.’

Johnson grunted. It was true, he couldn’t. Yet.

‘It was dark. It was raining. Lisa was leaving Dr Roberts’ office, wearing her coat. They’re the same height. Same hairstyle. If the killer approached from behind …’

‘OK, OK,’ said Johnson wearily. ‘I get it.’

‘It’s possible,’ insisted Goodman.

‘Fine. It’s possible. But what about Treyvon Raymond? Your theory doesn’t work so well with him, now does it? Six foot two, male and black as your hat?’

‘Maybe Trey was killed because he was close to Nikki,’ said Goodman. ‘She used to testify on drug cases, didn’t she? That must’ve made her a lot of enemies. Her, and her husband.’

Johnson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who told you about that?’

‘I’m a detective, dude,’ Goodman dodged. He didn’t want to land Sanchez in it. ‘I find shit out. Maybe a disgruntled dealer, someone Dr Roberts testified against, killed Lisa accidentally, thinking she was the Doc. And maybe Trey figured out who that dealer was.’

Johnson raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘He was a detective too?’

‘Come on,’ Goodman urged. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it, Mick?’

Johnson brooded silently. The last thing he wanted was to re-frame Nikki Roberts as a victim. But he had to admit Goodman’s theory was at least possible.

‘Can we keep an open mind on this? That’s all I’m asking,’ Goodman pleaded.

‘OK,’ Johnson conceded grudgingly. ‘But open minds gotta work both ways.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that we don’t know Roberts wasn’t behind this. She’s still a possible suspect,’ Johnson insisted. ‘How about this scenario? Roberts secretly hated Lisa Flannagan.’

‘Why?’ Goodman asked, genuinely baffled.

‘Lisa was a gold digger. A homewrecker. Maybe Roberts disapproved of her lifestyle.’

‘Come on, man,’ said Goodman. ‘That’s weak.’

‘Is it? We know Lisa aborted Baden’s baby. Roberts can’t have kids, remember?’ Johnson went on. ‘That’s a big deal for women.’

‘In your vast experience of female emotion,’ Goodman quipped.

‘Maybe she’s so jealous, so mad about the baby thing it drives her over the edge,’ said Johnson, ignoring him. ‘Makes her crazy. Homicidal.’

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Goodman decided to end the conversation before Mick’s conspiracy theories got completely out of control. ‘OK, OK, open minds on both sides. What do you say tomorrow we start talking to Dr Roberts’ patients? I’ll take half, you take half?’

‘Fine.’

Johnson’s car finally pulled up. Goodman waited as he heaved his unfit frame into the back of the Toyota.

Deciding to strike while the iron was hot in this rare moment of accord between them, Goodman stuck his head through the open window.

‘One last thing, Mick. Is there any personal history between you and Nikki Roberts?’

Johnson grinned. The question seemed to amuse him.

‘Anything I should know about?’ Goodman pressed.

Leaning back in his seat, Johnson closed his eyes, an amused smile still playing on his alcohol-flushed face.

‘Goodnight, Lou,’ he said, closing the window. ‘Sweet dreams.’

Nikki drove for a long time after she left the police station.

She didn’t want to go home, but she didn’t know where else to go, so she took the 10 freeway all the way down to the ocean and cruised blindly up the coast. Memories of Trey played through her head on a continuous loop.

The first time Doug brought him home, whippet-thin and as dirty as a stray dog, shivering from withdrawal. Nikki’s heart had gone out to him right away, just as Doug had known it would.

‘Hey, Nik. This is a friend of mine, Treyvon. D’you think the chicken can stretch to three?’

From the beginning, Trey had drawn Doug and Nikki even closer together, their common compassion for this poor, broken boy strengthening their love bond and cementing them as a team.

She thought back to Trey’s graduation ceremony out in Palos Verdes, after he’d completed his full sixteen-week detox program, dancing with Nikki to Nina Simone’s ‘Feeling Good’.

Nikki had caught Doug’s eye over Trey’s shoulder and smiled. Doug smiled back, and she’d felt so happy, so full of love for him and the miracle he’d helped happen for this sweet boy he’d come to love as his own.

It was a beautiful memory. But it had been ruined by what had happened since, slashed and mutilated and destroyed, just like Trey. And Lisa.

A million tiny cuts. Then one, final, fatal stab to the heart.

Doug’s death, and the shock of everything she’d learned afterwards, had been the final stabs to Nikki’s heart. So deep, so wounding, she’d believed for a while that she wouldn’t survive them. But she had. She’d survived, and picked herself up and carried on. And she was still carrying on, even in the midst of this new nightmare.

Torture and terror.

Murder and lies.

I ought to call Trey’s mother, Nikki thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her own grief was still so raw, so real, she couldn’t cope with anyone else’s. Perhaps that was selfish, but it was the truth. She knew her own limits.

She drove on for a long time. By the time she got home it was late, very late, and she couldn’t remember where she’d been. That was happening a lot lately. The driveway lights were on, triggered by a timer, twinkling merrily as if all were right with the world. Locking her car, Nikki walked up to the key panel by the front door and was about to tap in her code when she noticed that the door was ajar.

She froze. Today was Monday. Her housekeeper, Rita, came on Mondays. Had she forgotten to close the door properly when she left? It had never happened before. Not once in six years. Rita was extremely reliable.

Someone must have broken in.

Nikki’s heart pounded.

What if they were still inside?

She contemplated getting in her car and driving away. Calling the police. Asking for help. But then an unexpected emotion took over: anger.

This is my home. My sanctuary. I’m not going to be afraid here. I refuse.

Pushing the door open wide, she turned on the hall lights. ‘Hello?’ she called loudly. ‘Is anybody here?’

She walked from room to room, making as much noise as she could, like a hiker hoping to scare away mountain lions. ‘Hello?’

After a few minutes, she exhaled. No one was here. And as far as she could tell, nothing had been taken or touched. In fact, the house looked spotless. It must have been Rita after all.

Pouring herself a large nightcap from the whiskey bottle in the pantry, Nikki went up to bed, proud of herself for not having given in to her fears. Only once she was undressed and slipping between the sheets did she notice.

Her wedding photograph.

The silver framed picture of her and Doug she kept propped on her nightstand, despite the pain it caused.

It was gone.