“That wouldn’t be in our computer system.”
“But someone must know whether she’s there or not.”
“Her shift supervisor. Do you want me to call him?”
“Please.”
“I’m going to put you on hold.”
“Thank you, Abby.”
Five minutes passed. When she finally reconnected with Gurney she sounded worried. “Chalise Creel didn’t show up for her shift this afternoon, she didn’t show up yesterday, and she didn’t call in either day. Her supervisor tried to reach her yesterday. When he tried again today he got an automated message saying her voicemail was full.”
“She’s been reliable until now?”
“Apparently. No red flags in her file. But the fact that you’re asking about her—is that something we should be concerned about?”
“Too soon to tell. Did you know that she has the same address as Blaze Jackson?”
“The same address?” The worry in Abby Marsh’s voice went up a notch.
“Yes. And the same landline number.”
Marsh said nothing.
Rather than ask whether Jackson had resigned or been terminated—a question that Marsh might not be able to answer for privacy reasons—Gurney employed the presumptive approach detectives often used in dealing with similar situations. “When Jackson was terminated, were there any repercussions?”
“What kind of repercussions?”
“Did she deny what she was being accused of?”
“Of course. Until we showed her our pharmacy security video.”
Gurney decided to continue his presumptive approach. “She had the propofol in her possession? And the midazolam?”
“The propofol was right there on the video. The midazolam would have been harder to prove. Bottom line, she agreed to resign, and we agreed not to press charges. There would have been no point. Propofol is not technically a controlled substance like midazolam, so legally the charges wouldn’t have amounted to much. But who gave you all this information?”
Gurney was tempted to tell her that she just did. But revealing that he’d tricked her would do no one any good. And he wasn’t particularly proud of it. He said instead, not untruthfully, “The truth has a way of leaking out.”
She paused. “Can you tell me why you’re looking for Chalise Creel?”
He worded his answer conservatively. “She may have been in the vicinity of the ICU at the time Rick Loomis was attacked.”
Abby Marsh’s dead silence indicated that she got the point.
The first thing Gurney did after thanking her for her help and ending the call was to check Creel’s landline and cell numbers and place calls to them both. Both calls went to voicemail, and both mailboxes were full. He placed a call to Jackson’s cell number. That call also went to voicemail, and that mailbox was also full. He sat back in his chair and gazed out the rear window at the hillside, now almost entirely enveloped in darkness.
Somewhere in the high pine forest a coyote pack began to howl.
He thought about the link between Blaze Jackson and Chalise Creel. He thought about their unwillingness or inability to accept phone calls, about Jackson’s drug-related exit from Mercy Hospital, about Creel’s access to the ICU.
After a quarter of an hour of indecision he called Torres.
“Mark, there’s a situation we need to look into.” He related his conversation with Abby Marsh and asked Torres to get over to the Jackson-Creel apartment as soon as possible. “If either one of them is present, hold on to them. I’ll meet you there.”
He drove well above the speed limit all the way to the White River exit on the interstate, then relied on his GPS to lead him through the city’s maze of one-way streets. His destination turned out to be in the middle of a ragged block in the Grinton neighborhood.
In the light of the sole functioning street lamp, the side of Borden Street on which number 115 was located appeared intact. On the opposite side only burned-out shells remained. Torres’s Crown Victoria was already there. Gurney pulled in behind it.
Getting out of his car he was struck by the sharp odor of wet ashes and underlying decay. Like the adjoining structures to its left and right, number 115 was a grimy four-story tenement with a steel door. A man and a woman were sitting in plastic lawn chairs in the semidarkness in front of the building. The man was small, wiry, and brown-skinned, with an unkempt gray Afro. The woman was blond and remarkably rotund—creating an impression of having been inflated. Her face was illuminated by the cold glow of her phone screen.
The man watched Gurney approaching. “Apartment you want’s on the fourth floor,” he announced in a loud voice. “Man who came before you has been up there awhile.”
Gurney stopped. “Do you happen to know the women who live there—Blaze Jackson and Chalise Creel?”
The man grinned. “Everybody knows Miss Lovely. She’s famous.”
“What about Chalise?”
“Chalise don’t talk to nobody.”
“Have you seen either of them in the past few days?”
“Don’t believe so.”
Gurney looked at the woman. “How about you. Do you know either of the ladies on the fourth floor?”
She showed no sign of hearing the question.
The man leaned forward in his lawn chair. “Brenda only knows what’s on her phone.”
Gurney nodded. “Do you know if the ladies had any recent visitors?”
“Brothers comin’ and goin’ all the time.”
“Anyone else?”
“Man in the big car, couple days back.”
Gurney pointed to the Crown Vic. “Big car like that?”
“Taller. More shine. Cowboy kind of name.”
“Durango?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure. Durango.”
“You saw the driver?”
“White man. Saw him from my window.” He pointed toward the second floor.
“Can you describe him?”
“I just did.”
“Tall? Short? Thin? Fat?”
“Regular size.”
“Type of clothing?”
“Dark.”
“Hair color, length?
“Dark hat, didn’t see no hair.”
“And this was when?”
“Had to be night before last.”
“Do you know what time he arrived?”
“Nighttime. Maybe ten, eleven.”
“Do you know how long he was here?”
“The man came in the night, is all I know. Car was gone in the morning.”
Gurney was considering his next question when he heard his name being called. He looked up and saw Torres at an open window on the top floor.
“Dave, you need to come up here!” The strain in his voice gave Gurney a hint of what to expect when he reached the apartment.
Gurney entered the building and bounded up through the stairwell two steps at a time. The fourth-floor apartment door was open, held that way by Torres, who stepped back to let Gurney into a narrow foyer lighted by a single ceiling fixture. He handed Gurney a pair of latex gloves and Tyvek shoe covers.
Gurney put them on without asking any questions. He knew he’d have the answers soon enough.
“They’re in the living room,” said Torres.
The sickening smell that intensified as Gurney passed through the foyer was one he knew well but had never gotten used to.
Two African American women in short skirts and satin tops were sitting on the living room couch. They were leaning against each other—as though, instead of going out for the evening, they’d fallen asleep in the middle of an intimate conversation. Looking closer, Gurney could see on their skin the characteristic sheen of autolysis. In addition, there were signs that the first gases of decomposition were beginning to bloat their bodies. But the faces were still recognizable. He was sure the one on the left belonged to the fiery woman he’d seen on RAM-TV’s Battleground Tonight. And he had a feeling that the face on the right belonged to the almond-eyed cleaning woman he’d seen in the ICU visitors’ lounge.