“Mother, I-”
“So. You need to find out the truth for me. You do the investigative reporting, sweetheart. So investigate. And Lord knows if people are dying after cosmetic surgery, well, I’ll simply have to leave. Immediately. And that’s not all.”
“But Mother, might that not be jumping to conclusions? Seeing the worst? There are a lot more reasons people might be hurrying. It’s a hospital.”
“And what’s more,” Mom continues, “I know you spoke with Dr. Garth, of course. But now I believe we’ll have to find you another surgeon. I’m not going to be responsible for putting my own daughter in danger. I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
I blink, staring at my mother, who continues to talk as if I’m listening to her. I’m not. My mind is about twelve miles away, in a now-empty home in Swampscott. Where another mother, and another daughter, faced potential life-and-death decisions of their own.
A knock on the door, and Mother’s mouth clamps shut. She narrows her eyes at me, then in a quick motion, pretends to be asleep. She quickly opens her eyes again, checking to make sure I’m in on the ruse. Then she goes back to “sleep.”
I go to the door and open it quietly. The nurse is back, but I block his entrance to the room, sliding out into the hall and closing the door behind me.
“Mother is napping,” I say pleasantly. “And she seems to be on the mend. Might I ask you a somewhat strange question? And forgive me, I’m sure everything is fine. But Mother seems to think, well, was there a problem? Was there some sort of bad outcome in someone’s procedure?” I’m expecting the nurse to hedge, or more likely, just deny there’s anything unusual.
Surprising me, though, the nurse glances down the corridor. I follow his gaze. There are only closed doors.
“I can’t tell you what’s happening,” the nurse whispers. Another furtive hallway recon. “It’s all private. You’re a TV reporter, you certainly know the federal privacy laws regarding hospital patients. But you know the center has an impeccable record, you can look that up. And I can have a doctor reassure your mother.” He purses his lips. “I can promise you no one died,” he finally says. “Or got into-trouble. If that’s what she’s worrying about.”
He steps away from the conversation. “I’m on duty,” he says, turning away. “I’ll go check on your mother later.”
He takes one step, then turns back with an expression I struggle to read. Like a teenager with a juicy secret. Dying to tell.
“I’d tell you if I could,” he says. “Honestly, nothing’s wrong. I mean, would I be here if something was wrong?” And he pads away down the hall.
My hand on the doorknob, I’m torn about which way to go.
In? What if Mother’s in danger? What if there’s a big story here at the hospital?
Or out? Because I think I have the answer to the murder of Ray Sweeney. I think I know who did it. And if I’m right, it’ll be the story of the year.
CHAPTER 15
I can’t leave my mother. I don’t think there’s anything actually threatening her, but I can’t just run out when she seems to be so upset and fearful. I go back into her room, where she’s now sitting up, hands clasped, eyes wide open, staring grimly at the muted television. She’s changed the channel away from home improvement. Now she’s watching Forensic Files.
“Mom,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “I did a little research with that nurse. You know, your chocolate guy?”
Mom looks at me, waiting. Her stretchy white bandages, still wrapped around her face, make her look like an owl. An owl with two black eyes.
“And you know, I really think you might have misinterpreted something.”
Even in owl mode, Mom’s face sets, like it used to do when I was pleading to stay up later or explaining why I was reading Mad magazine instead of doing homework. Not what she wants to hear.
I touch her arm, insisting. “Really, Mom. Don’t worry. And I’m sure I can find out what’s going on. If there’s something going on. But I’m convinced it’s nothing dangerous. Really. But I have to call Franklin, okay? I’ll stay with you as much as I can, I will, but I’m supposed to be at work So I’ll have to explain where I am. And I can’t use my cell phone in here, so-”
Mother waves at the vintage princess phone on her nightstand. “Perfectly good phone right here,” she says. “Is it not?”
It is, but I’m going to be discussing murder. And dead husbands. And I don’t want to do that around her.
I back out of the room, talking all the way. “I’ll be back in a flash,” I say. “Nothing is going to happen. Watch TV. Just stop watching those forensics shows. They’re making you paranoid. Watch something upbeat instead. Positive. You love Martha Stewart, right?”
And before she can answer, I’m out of the room and down the hall. I pull my cell phone out of my bag as I almost run to the front entrance. By the time I power through the revolving doors, the phone is ringing.
“Franko,” I say. I begin to pace the sidewalk in front of the surgery center. “It’s me. It’s the daughter. I mean, the daughter did it.” I gulp, knowing I’m talking too fast for Franklin to make sense of it. Still, I have to spill this. “Dorinda knows her daughter-Gaylen something? The one who was asleep at the time of the murder? You know. Did it. She’s guilty. Her mother is protecting her. We’ve got to track her down.”
Silence on Franklin’s end of the line. I can almost hear his brain churning through the evidence we’ve uncovered so far. “Oh, man,” he says. “And that could explain why the tapes and the time sheets seem correct-they are. Dorinda was actually there. At work.” He pauses. “Okay, Charlotte. I think I’m with you. But devil’s advocate, okay? Why did the bartender and those witnesses pick her out of the photo lineup? Dorinda, I mean?”
“Well, here’s the easiest answer,” I say. “They’re just wrong. A bunch of drunks, late night, dark bar. And you know people don’t really look at strangers, especially if someone’s arguing. They try to stay out of it. Pretend it’s not happening. And the photos weren’t even shown until the next day, remember? So they were probably hungover, too.”
Still pacing, I flutter a little “no problem” wave to a curious security guard. “Still,” I continue, “someone didn’t want me to get those lineup pictures from the evidence box, that seems clear. Maybe it’s Tek. Maybe it’s Oz. There’s something wrong with those photos-and there’s something wrong with the witness ID. We just have to find out what it is.”
“We should take the photos to Will and Rankin,” Franklin suggests.
“But here’s the thing, the main thing,” I say. “Dorie is innocent. She’s protecting her daughter. She confessed to protect Gaylen. And that means our story would be revealing Gaylen’s guilt. No wonder Dorie doesn’t want to talk about it. Talking to us is the last thing she’d do. She doesn’t want us, or anyone else, to prove she’s innocent. Because it means sending her daughter to prison.”
I can hear Franklin tapping on his computer. “I’ll see if I can find Gaylen,” he says. “And I’ll check our archive video again, see if there’s a recognizable shot of her on tape.”
“And hey, I’ll call Will Easterly. Maybe he knows where she is.” I stop pacing, and plop down on a green wooden bench in front of the hospital. The security guy is eyeing me again, like no one talks on cell phones in front of hospitals. I grit out a smile, signaling there’s still no problem. Which, I realize, is completely not true. I’m supposed to leave for the Cape in-I look at my watch-four hours. I’ve got to explain to Mom that even though I’d love to, I can’t stay with her every minute. And I really, really want to check with Will Easterly about Gaylen’s whereabouts. My conscience is killing me and all I’m trying to do is the right thing. Whatever that is.