Family Practice (6 page)

“By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Did your wife phone you at any time?”

Talmidge shook his head.

“Miss Barrington,” Parkhurst said, “did you get a call from your sister?”

Ellen jumped as though she'd forgotten he was there. “Yes. At home. My house.”

“What did she say?”

“She wanted me here this evening.”

“Just you?” After Susan's soft questions, Parkhurst sounded harsh and accusing.

“No. Everybody.”

“Everybody being?”

“Willis and Marlitta and Carl.”

“Why did she ask you to come here?” Susan took over the questioning again.

“Something that needed to be discussed.”

“What?”

“She said we'd discuss it this evening. She had patients.”

“No idea what this was about?”

“No.”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“My place.” Ellen explained where she lived and told them about the plumbing. “I just got here a little while ago.”

“Mr. Talmidge, do you know what this was about?”

“No. I didn't even know she'd called them.”

“Does either of you own a gun?”

Talmidge said no, in a somewhat bewildered way. Ellen went totally still; when Parkhurst repeated the question, she shook her head.

“Mr. Talmidge,” Susan said, “we need you to make a positive identification. If you feel up to it, Officer Yancy will take you to the hospital.”

He nodded.

*   *   *

Susan left Parkhurst to execute the search warrant. They were looking for the murder weapon; a handgun was small enough to enable them to search virtually everywhere in the house, grounds, and outbuildings. She was headed for Brookvale Hospital to meet Jen's mother.

Doubts nagged at the edges of her mind when she slid the Fiat into a parking space. Cops needed to stay objective, otherwise they didn't function efficiently. They had to build protective walls around their emotions and keep them neatly inside. Her emotions were exposed and raw. The worry was, did it affect her competency?

The hospital doors slid open as she hurried up. The seriousness of Jen's condition, which she'd tried to push aside while she concentrated on her job, came rushing back. Damaged heart still beating? An irrational thought zinged through her mind; concentrating on the crime scene, questioning suspects, had deprived Jen of some crucial life force.

She jabbed the elevator button. Jen's mother was upstairs. Terry Bryant had gone with a friend to Topeka for the weekend, boyfriend actually, silly word for an adult.

As a cop, she'd had occasion to inform a parent about the death of a child. Nothing was worse. She'd rather collect a floater three weeks in the water, bloated and reeking of putrefaction. With chunks falling off.

Jen is not dead.

She jabbed the button again, swore to herself when the doors opened and the arrow pointed down. She took the stairs.

Terry Bryant stood by the high-railed bed where Jen lay with a sheet draped across her. Wires and tubes ran in all directions, a respirator hissed air into her lungs, peaked lines flickered and bleeped on the monitors above. Terry lifted her stricken face to look at Susan, and fury flashed in her eyes.

A nurse, rightly expecting an outburst, spoke up in a soft voice. “It's been five minutes.”

Terry turned on the nurse as if she wanted to scream.

“You can come back every hour for five minutes,” the nurse said calmly. “But really, there won't be any change for some time. You might want to go and get something to eat. Or even go home and get some rest. We're taking very good care of her.”

Susan took Terry's elbow to draw her from the room. Terry jerked her arm away. She stomped across to a waiting area where three anxious-eyed people sat rigidly on vinyl and chrome chairs, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups.

She strode four paces, sandals clacking on the tiled floor, spun with flowered skirt swirling, and strode back to plant herself, face lifted, in front of Susan. “Don't worry! Have a good time! She'll be fine!
Fine!
” Terry looked far older than her thirty-two years. Usually twinkly and bubbly, her face was slack and gray, except for the two red spots of anger on her round cheeks. Mascara was smeared, lipstick was chewed off, brown hair that fell in waves to her shoulders was tangled.

“You call that fine? That's my baby in there! She's dying. Oh, my God, my baby is dying.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She buried her face in her hands.

The waiting trio avoided looking at them, faces drawn in what sympathy could be spared from the relief that at least my spouse, child, relative, friend isn't dying.

Susan clamped down hard on her back teeth; her throat closed, and tears pushed at her own eyes. She wanted to offer comfort, put an arm around Terry, but knew that would simply make Terry angrier.

Terry rubbed the heels of her palms over her eyes, distorting her face. Susan offered a tissue.

Terry snatched it and blew her nose. “How could you let this happen? Shot! Jen! I don't— I can't—” Tears spilled over again.

“I'm sorry,” Susan murmured. Stupidly inadequate. Throw out a few more meaningless phrases. Don't worry, everything's going to be all right.

Terry's anger was understandable. In her grief and despair, she needed someone to blame. Susan was handy for sloughing off guilt.

“She's still alive,” Susan said softly. Another meaningless phrase. Stupid as it was, she felt they had to cling to it. If they didn't, she feared in that same irrational way, their despair would permeate through the air into the intensive-care unit and leach away the thin spark of life pulsing through Jen's inert body.

Rage burned in Susan's chest. Jen should have a life, she should have it all, the good things and maybe even some not so good, but not this. Not at eleven years old.

Murder investigations didn't afford the luxury of rage. Homicide demanded total focus and clear-thinking logic. Rage would have to wait. Right now, she'd better shove aside her personal import and start asking routine questions. Who killed Dorothy, and why.

“Tell me what happened,” Terry demanded.

“Terry—”

“Tell me!”

Susan led her out to the hallway. Briefly and calmly, she explained Jen's sore throat, the fever, and the doctor's appointment.

Terry cried with gasping, choking sobs. Susan went in search of a doctor. If Terry didn't get some kind of sedative, she was going to develop raving hysterics.

The nurse at the desk gave Susan a harried look. “I'm afraid there's no one available right now.”

“Find someone. Right now.”

One glance at Susan's face and the nurse picked up the phone, spoke a few words, and hung up. “A doctor will be up in a few minutes.”

“Thank you. Where can I find Dr. Sheffield?”

The nurse looked at her, then sighed and picked up the phone again. Dr. Sheffield was on the floor below.

He sat at the nurses' station, muscular shoulders and broad chest straining the seams of the scrub greens, making notations on a chart. His thick, curly, dark hair was in need of a trim. After a final scribble, he slapped the chart shut and shoved back the chair.

“I need to ask some questions,” she said.

A hand rasped over a stubble of beard as he rubbed his heavy jaw. “Nothing I can tell you yet.”

“I'll try not to take too long.”

He stood up. “I could use a cup of coffee anyway.”

In the cafeteria, he put two Styrofoam cups on the Formica table and sat down across from her. “Caffeine. Just what I need. With all the adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream, I probably won't sleep for two days as it is.”

Although it was only six-fifteen, the cafeteria was nearly empty. A family group lingered over the remains of a meal, three nurses spoke quietly to each other, two or three people sat alone with a soft drink or cup of coffee in front of them.

Susan took a sip of hot, bitter liquid. “Does Jen have a chance?”

Picking up his cup, he looked at her carefully, as though judging her ability to handle what information he might feel like doling out. She put on her official expression: working cop. She could see he wasn't impressed. It must be too apparent she had more at stake here than professional interest.

“I don't know what her chances are,” he said. “I'm not sure what kind of life she'll have even if she lives.”

Susan felt suddenly cold. “What do you mean?”

“A piece of lead ripped through her heart, tore through a lung, and ended up embedded in the sternum. The insult to her body might have been too much.”

Susan heard his words, but couldn't grasp meaning through the buzzing in her mind.

“She might be a cabbage,” he said bluntly.

Jen. With her sunshine smile, quick mind, endless capacity for anything new. In the brightly lit, almost empty cafeteria, Susan started to shiver. She clenched her hands, digging fingernails into her palms. Don't lose it.

“There's a more immediate problem,” he said.

“What problem?” Her voice sounded far away.

“She's running a fever. ER isn't the best place to slice open the human body. It's not exactly what you'd call a sterile environment.”

“She had a fever. Before. That's why she was at the doctor's office.”

He looked at her sharply. “Other symptoms?”

“Sore throat.”

He took in a breath and shook his head.

“Makes it worse,” she said.

“Sure doesn't help.”

Do your job. “How well did you know Dorothy Barrington?”

“What?”

“She was also shot this afternoon. Fatally.”

“I heard about that.” He tilted the cup back and forth and studied the black liquid as it sloshed.

“How well did you know her?”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “It's complicated.”

“Is it? If you speak slowly and use words of one syllable, I may be able to follow along.”

His hazel eyes, warm and intelligent, regarded her with a hint of amusement. “Is there something I'm missing here? You implying I had something to do with her death?”

“Did you?”

“Not me. I only kill people with scalpels. Have you checked with her brothers and sister?”

“You think one of them killed her?”

“Now there you're beyond me. You need a shrink. Family ties. They're all bound up together and can't get loose. All of them want to.”

“You sound like you know them very well.”

“Maybe I do at that,” he said with a wry smile.

Likable smile, pretty teeth, nice face; altogether a likable man. “Doesn't Dorothy have two sisters?”

“Yes.”

“Which one did you leave out?”

He shot her a sharp look, then tipped the cup and swallowed the rest of the coffee. “Would you believe me if I told you I went to see Dorothy about a patient?”

“Did you?”

He chipped a small piece of Styrofoam from the cup. “She wanted to see me, actually.”

“What about?”

With a thumbnail, he flicked the chip across the table. “Ellen.”

“The youngest sister. What about her?”

“Dorothy announced that she wouldn't have me upsetting Ellen. I was to leave her alone.”

“Were you upsetting Ellen?”

“I don't do well with orders. Played hell when I was in medical school. I pointed out that what I did was none of Dorothy's business and I'd do what I damn well wanted.” He tipped his head and gave her another quick smile. “At the time it sounded right. Only in the retelling does it seem silly and childish.” He suddenly sobered. “I'm sorry she was killed.”

“How have you upset Ellen?”

“That's the complicated part. Ellen and I— Well, a few years ago we were all set to get married. Dorothy didn't approve of me. Happiness reigned when I left.”

“Where did you go?”

“Back East. Broken heart. Surgical residency.” He shrugged. “Now I've returned.”

“To see Ellen? She's happy you're back?”

“Remains to be seen.” His beeper went off and he stood up. “That Jen is still alive is a good sign. We'll know a lot more in the next day or two.”

She watched him hurry off. I hope you're as good as you think you are. I want Jen in good hands.

6

A
T SHORTLY BEFORE
seven, Susan poked the doorbell of Dr. Willis Barrington's house on Longhorn Drive, five blocks from the victim's. Osey had already questioned him when Willis was brought in to check the drug supply, but as Dorothy's second-in-command he deserved close scrutiny, and she wanted a personal look at the man.

He lived in an expensive area: tall trees, hedges, large homes, well maintained, with carefully tended gardens. But even the largest and most expensive was only a fraction of what the same house would cost in San Francisco's Pacific Heights district.

This one was brick, two-story, in a French-country-home sort of style, roof peaked in three or four places, shrubs along the front, beds of flowers. The air was still sticky with heat, but the sky was a deeper blue with the lengthening rays of sun. The evening was quiet, only an occasional breeze, and filled with the sound of crickets and the sweet scent of something blooming. Hyacinths maybe. Flowers weren't her strong point.

Vicky Barrington, Willis's wife, opened the door, a slender blonde in a flowered dress with narrow shoulder straps and a full skirt. Her makeup was expertly applied, and her hair, shoulder length in a cascade of chestnut curls, looked newly styled. Everything about her suggested a label that read “outfitted by money.”

She seemed startled to see Susan, and her manner was awkward. “Yes?” she said uneasily. Behind all the makeup, it was difficult to read her expression.

Susan asked if she could come in for a few minutes.