“No.”
“He’s a billionaire financier from this area.”
Driving such a nondescript car? “What was he doing on that little road?”
“He owns an estate—one of many across the country—up on Skyline. Overlooks the ocean.”
He’d been so close to home. The thought saddened me more.
“So what do you want from me?” The two men still stared, and I glared right back. They were leading up to something, I could feel it. And I didn’t care for their games.
Samuelson’s head moved, just the slightest. “Mrs. Shire, Morton Leringer did not die as a result of wounds sustained in an accident.”
“No?” I frowned at him.
“Not at all.” Samuelson laser-focused on my face. “The man was murdered.”
M
urdered?
Air left my lungs. “What? How can that be?”
Samuelson’s stare was unyielding. “Leringer was stabbed in the back.”
“When? You mean at the hospital?”
“No.”
I waited for more, but they sat like stone. “
What
then?”
“He was stabbed before the ambulance arrived, Mrs. Shire.” Samuelson’s tone was flat.
I blinked. “You mean, when I was with him, he’d been stabbed?”
Samuelson nodded.
Coldness trickled through my veins. All that time I’d been with Morton, he had a
knife wound
in his back? “I . . . can’t believe it. Why didn’t he tell me?”
“We thought he may have.”
“No. He never said . . . I just can’t believe this. When was he stabbed? Who could have done it?”
“It was a single wound. It hit his pericardium—the sac around the heart.”
My head lowered. After all my years of working in a cardiologist’s office, I knew what that meant. Morton’s pericardium would have filled with blood while causing little external bleeding. No wonder he’d had such trouble breathing. He’d have gone into shock. Meanwhile the paramedics, fearing spinal injury, couldn’t move him enough to find the wound.
I focused on my lap, trying to choose between a dozen questions to ask next. “Did he make it to the hospital?”
“He died in the E.R.”
This was beyond sad. “The doctor must have discovered the stab wound.”
“Yes. But it was too late.”
“In Raleigh
. . . Find.”
Morton had known
he was dying. Struggling to breathe, in terrible pain, he’d chosen those final words, rather than tell me he’d been stabbed. Or who had done it.
How could that message be more important than his own life?
I raised my head. “I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me or give any indication.”
“Did you see anyone in the area?”
My mind fled back to the scene. The car overturned, driver’s window open. I’d assumed Morton had crawled out of it. Had someone dragged him out, then killed him? “No. Just him. And his car on its side.”
Samuelson jotted in his notebook.
“How long had he been lying there before I came?” The E.R. doctor might have some idea of the time it would take for that kind of wound to lead to death. “Long enough for someone to drive away?” It chilled me to the bone to think a killer had been in the area while Mom and I were there.
Samuelson shook his head. “It appears the stabbing occurred shortly before the ambulance came.”
In that instant their taciturn expressions made sense. My fingers curled around the rocking chair’s arm. For a moment the words wouldn’t form on my tongue. “Are you saying you think
I
did this?”
“Did you?” Samuelson’s tone signaled his suspicion.
“No! Are you—” I leaned forward, hands spread. “You have got to be kidding me. I work in a doctor’s office. I help save people.”
“Then what were you doing there?”
“I saw an accident! I stopped to help.”
“Did you know Morton Leringer?”
“No. I still don’t know anything about him.” My voice rose. “Besides, I had my mother with me. In her state I have to be careful not to upset her. There is
no way
I’m responsible for this.”
My vehemence ran out. I flopped back in the rocking chair.
The men’s expressions did not change. Then Rutger gave a slow nod. “We may be inclined to believe you.
If
you tell us everything that transpired between you and Leringer.”
“What have we here, company?” My mother’s voice, laced with childlike excitement, came from behind me. “How nice.” She came into the living room, hand extended. One side of her hair stuck out, a crease in her cheek from her pillow.
I jumped to my feet. “Mom, maybe you should—”
“I’m Carol Ballard.” She smiled at Samuelson.
He shook her hand but didn’t rise from the couch. “Samuelson.”
Mom shook Rutger’s hand next. He didn’t bother to rise either. Such rudeness.
“Goodness, you have nothing to drink.” Mom turned to me. “Have you offered them something?”
“It’s okay.” Samuelson raised a hand. “We’re fine.”
“Mom, you want to go back to your room?” I reached for her arm. “We’ll be done here soon.”
“No, I want to stay.” She looked around for a place to sit, then lowered herself onto an ottoman near the small fireplace. Mom looked at the three of us expectantly. “What are we talking about?”
I hesitated, wishing I could persuade her to leave, knowing she wouldn’t budge. “You want to sit in your chair, Mom?”
“No, no, this is perfect.” She patted the ottoman.
With reluctance, I sat back down in the rocking chair.
Samuelson eyed Mom as if sizing her up. Or should I say—down? His lip curled. I shot him a disdainful look. How dare they treat my mother like this! FBI or not, I wanted them out of my house—
now.
Rutger caught my glare. He raised his chin, eyes narrowing. “As we were saying, Mrs. Shire—”
“I remember very well what you were saying.” I pushed to my feet again. “I want you to leave.”
Mom gasped. “Carol, how impolite you’re being.” She turned to the men. “I apologize for my daughter. She’s had a hard afternoon. We were driving and saw a—”
“They know, Mom. That’s why they’re here.”
“Oh, really?” Anticipation flitted across Mom’s face. “How
is
Morton, Mr. Samuelson? Can we go see him?”
I shook my head at Samuelson—
don’t tell her
. He ignored me, focusing on my mother. “Mr. Leringer died in the hospital.”
Mom’s expression froze. “He . . .
died
?” She turned to me, her eyes filling with pain. “He’s dead?”
I wanted to strangle the FBI agent. What was
wrong
with him? “I’m sorry, Mom.”
Her hands laced together tightly. “Oh. Then we can’t . . .” She caught herself, and her face shuttered.
Rutger honed in on her. “Can’t what?”
“Nothing.” Mom placed both hands on the ottoman, struggling to rise. Her sudden blank look and open mouth signaled how upset she felt.
I helped her up. “You want to go to your room now, and we’ll talk about this later?”
“We need to question her first,” Samuelson said.
I swiveled toward him. “You’re not questioning her at all.”
Mom waved a weak hand in the air. “Yes, Hannah, I’ll go . . . lie down.”
Rutger shook his head. “She needs to stay.”
“No, she doesn’t.” I didn’t even try to keep the anger from my voice. “I’m going to take her to her room, then I’ll bring you what you clearly came for.” Anything to get rid of these two ogres.
Mom allowed me to lead her out of the living room. “What do they want, Hannah?” Her voice sounded plaintive, wavery.
“I don’t know. Let me find out while you rest.” In her room I pointed to her bed. “You want to lie down?”
“I’ll sit in my chair.” She made her way to her stuffed armchair in the corner. “It’s where I . . . deal with things, you know.”
“I know.”
“‘Those who mourn are blessed, for they shall be comforted.’”
Leaving her room, I shut the door behind me. Anger still fueled me. I hurried to my own bedroom to get the flash drive, then stilled as I saw it sitting on my desk. For a long second I stared at it. Why had I been so quick to tell those men I had something for them? Their attitudes, most of all toward my mother, didn’t warrant me giving them anything.
But—too late.
Would Morton have wanted these men to have the video?
“Don’t tell . . .”
On impulse I yanked open my desk drawer and snatched up one of my own, empty flash drives. I inserted it and the original drive into two ports in my computer, and copied the video file over. Then I carried the copied version out to the agents. “Here.” I thrust the drive toward Samuelson, my voice still edged. “I found it in my coat pocket when I got home. Morton must have put it there when I was trying to help him.”
Samuelson took it from me. “What’s on it?”
“I have no idea.”
“You didn’t look at it?”
“No. I’ve been too busy trying to keep my mother calm since we got home.”
God, forgive me for the lie.
Both men eyed me.
“You have what you want. Now leave.”
Samuelson put the flash drive in his jacket pocket. “What did he say to you?”
“Very little. He could barely breathe.”
“I think he said something.”
I disliked these men more by the second. “Whatever would make you think that?”
“Why would your mother say to him, ‘I remember. We won’t forget.’”
I stared down at Samuelson. So they’d known about my mother before they ever came here. They’d acted like they didn’t know she’d been with me at the scene. They’d even talked to the paramedics.
“My mother felt very sorry for Morton. He was trying so hard to speak. To breathe. When they put him in the ambulance, she wanted him to know she’d remember him.”
“She said ‘we.’”
I shrugged. “I was there too.”
Rutger unbuttoned his jacket and leaned back against the sofa, stretching one arm across its back. Allowing me a clear view of the holstered gun around his waist.
My breath hitched. Rage and fear swirled through me. The rage won. Now these men were
threatening
me? What if he’d showed that gun in Mom’s presence?
I knew my rights. I didn’t have to talk to any law enforcement if I didn’t want to. “Get out.” I stepped back and pointed toward the door.
Rutger tapped a finger against his knee. “We think you know something else, Mrs. Shire.”
“I don’t know
anything
. And I told you to leave.”
“If you—”
“I want a lawyer.” My eyes locked with Rutger’s. “I refuse to talk to you anymore.”
“Why would you think you need a lawyer?”
“Because I no longer want to talk to
you.
” I’d tell some other FBI agent what Morton had said. And give them the original flash drive. But I was through with these two. “Now
leave.
”
The agents stared at me, faces like granite. I didn’t budge.
Rutger let out a long breath. Then made a show of rebuttoning his jacket. His head tilted. “As you wish, Mrs. Shire.” His Southern drawl now sickened me. “But if you’ve withheld anything from us, I can assure you we’ll be back.”
A lot of good it would do them. I would never open my door to these men again. What I
would
do is inform their superior of how they’d treated me.
The two men stood. I strode to the door and opened it wide. They stepped through it without a word. The minute they were out I shut the door and drove home the lock with a loud
click
. A sound I knew they heard.
Through the living room window I watched them head for their vehicle. Not until then did I realize how hard my heart was beating. I leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
Outside two car doors slammed. An engine started. The agents drove away.
Weak-kneed, I sat down hard on the couch, waiting for my pulse to slow. A minute, maybe two ticked by. Then with a deep breath, I listed in my mind what I had to do. Comfort Mom. Call the nearest FBI office and complain—loudly—about the two men. Offer the further “Raleigh” information to another agent who’d show some respect. Make dinner. In that order.
I rose to head toward Mom’s room—and the phone rang. I veered into the kitchen and picked up the receiver, too distracted to check the ID. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Shire, this is Deputy Harcroft from the Sheriff’s Department Coastside Patrol. We met this afternoon at the scene of the accident.”
Great, the man I’d lied to. Now I’d have to fix it. Maybe in the midst of his accusing me of murder. “Yes, I remember. Two FBI agents just left here. They told me Morton died at the hospital. That he was stabbed. I don’t know anything about that.”
Silence pulsed over the line. “FBI agents?”
“They weren’t nice at all, I can tell you that. I had to practically throw them out of my house.”
“What were their names?”
“Samuelson and Rutger. They didn’t give me first names.”
“Did they show you badges?”
“And name tags with their pictures on them.”
“What did they want?”
“They demanded to know what I’d seen at the accident. What Morton had told me, if anything.”
Harcroft paused. “I need to check this out and call you right back. Will you be home?”
Good grief, what now? “Yes. Okay.”
I hung up the phone—and heard Mom calling my name. She sounded distraught.
“Coming!” On the way to her room I pushed aside my own feelings. No need to upset Mom more. I nudged open her door and found her still sitting in her chair. “You all right?”
She nodded. “Just sad.”
“I’m sad too.”
“Now we can’t visit Morton in the hospital.”
“No, afraid not.”
“Now we have to find his daughter all by ourselves.”
Oh. I was hoping she’d forgotten. “We don’t know he was talking about a daughter, Mom.”
“Of course we do. He said so.”
“He only said—”
“She lives in Raleigh. North Carolina.”
I sighed. “Yeah. I know.” Maybe by tomorrow morning she’d forget this.
She pushed up her lower lip. “I’m getting kinda hungry.”
“I’ll make dinner, okay?”
“Chicken sounds good. And some potatoes. A good potato always make me feel better.”