Fatal Hearts (25 page)

Next question. Presuming it was suicide, what had Gunn done that was suicide worthy? Yes, the whole reputation thing. And who knew? Maybe the doctor had just been handed a pancreatic cancer diagnosis or something. Maybe he was ready to check out anyway and wanted to do it before any blemish on his career could surface.

Or . . .
Jesus Christ—maybe he’d killed Arianna Duncan!

Boyd leapt up from the table, almost knocking his laptop to the floor, catching it at the last second.

He pushed the computer farther back on the desk, out of harm’s way. His blood pumping, he forced himself to sit down and think about it.

Okay, if Gunn had killed Arianna Duncan, or caused her death somehow, that would ratchet up the guilt levels. But if he’d lived with it this long—thirty-five years—why now? Did he think his actions were about to be outed? That would be ironic, since Josh’s notebook had disappeared and neither Boyd nor the police had anything to tie Dr. Gunn to Arianna Duncan, let alone tying Boyd and Josh to Arianna.

What if Gunn killed Josh?

He couldn’t believe he was even thinking that. The idea was insane.

Unless it wasn’t.

Maybe it made a sort of sense. If Gunn had been his mother’s physician and knew she’d died of cardiac arrest, maybe he’d taken a gamble that Josh had inherited the same susceptibility. Maybe when Josh went to see him, Gunn had slipped him some noxious agent—or aggravating agent, as Sylvia had called it—in the hopes that Josh would meet the same end as their mother had.

Boyd forced himself to sit down again.
Think it through, man.

Okay, if Gunn had slipped Josh something, surely the forensic toxicology report would uncover it. Depending on what that agent was, of course, it still might look like an unfortunate natural occurrence. But if it was some esoteric substance, or some prescription drug that couldn’t be explained away, surely that would be enough to establish foul play. As long as it wasn’t so esoteric that the forensic techs wouldn’t even think to check for it.

But if Gunn had done it, how could they prove anything now?

And damned if that didn’t leave him in waiting mode again. Waiting for the tox report. The genetic testing seemed superfluous now, but eventually it would land, no doubt confirming long QT syndrome or some other genetic problem with the heart’s electrical wiring. And now they were waiting for the coroner’s ruling on Dr. Gunn, either confirming suicide or suggesting something else. At this point, he hoped suicide would be a slam dunk. Only because if someone had killed Gunn, that meant a killer—likely Josh’s killer—was still out there.

Whether it was the cast of his thoughts or the fact that he’d had all that extra sleep earlier, he was suddenly restless. So restless he couldn’t stay in this room a minute longer.

Sylvia would be in bed by now. So would Mrs. Garner. He could creep down to the kitchen and make some of that warm milk like Sylvia had done. Or better yet, maybe there’d be a bottle of opened wine in the refrigerator or maybe a beer or two he could replace.

After easing out of his room, he closed the door softly behind him and started along the landing toward the stairs. But the sound of coughing stopped him. Male coughing, he realized. He waited to see if anyone would respond, but when no one moved in the house, he backtracked. For the first time since setting foot in Stratton House, he made his way down the hall past his own suite. At the end of the hall in what had to be a sunny corner room in the daytime, he found Senator Stratton.

CHAPTER 24

No nurse sat in the room, which surprised Boyd. He’d gotten the impression the Senator was never left alone. Of course, the rails on his hospital bed were probably rigged to alarm if he tried to crawl out, if he could even move. Hell, he was probably fully wired to alarm if his heart faltered or respirations dropped. For all Boyd knew, Sylvia’s room might be as well equipped as an ICU nurses’ station.

The Senator coughed again. Glancing behind him and seeing no one, Boyd entered the room. The man in the bed had probably been a big man once. Even now, he was clearly tall and large-framed, but he looked like he’d suffered muscle wasting, either from age or from his confinement in the bed, or both. Boyd moved into the pool of light around the bed.

“Sir?”

The Senator looked up and his eyes widened. Then he coughed again. Boyd glanced around and saw a Styrofoam cup of ice chips, largely melted now.

“Can you have some ice chips to ease that tickle?”

The old man gave a slight but distinct nod.

Boyd took the spoon from the cup, gathering the largest of the remaining ice chips. The Senator opened his mouth obligingly.

After a few seconds, Boyd offered him more. The old man nodded again. After a few more repetitions, the Senator declined more ice with a shake of his head.

Boyd put the cup back down. “I guess you’re not able to talk?”

Another shake of the head.

“I should go. I’m not supposed to be in here. But when I heard you coughing—”

The Senator shook his head, much more vigorously this time, and his eyes begged Boyd to stay.

Boyd looked back at the empty door, sighed, and pulled up a chair. “Your wife will be perturbed if she finds me here.”

The Senator nodded gravely.

Boyd smiled. “So you can’t sleep either, huh? Right. You probably get way more sleep than a body can stand.”

The Senator lifted his eyebrows.

“What’s keeping me awake?”

He nodded.

“The same thing that keeps me awake most nights since Josh—that’d be my identical twin brother—died last month.”

The old man’s face suffused with obvious emotion.

“Had you met him?” Boyd asked. “He was staying here, but I thought Dr. Stratton’s rules forbade visitors. Of course, here I am, right? I guess Josh might have wandered in too.”

The Senator nodded.

“That sounds like Josh. He was too curious for his own good. I don’t know whether he talked to you or not, but he’d come to Fredericton from Toronto to look for our birth parents. From a message he left me on my phone, I gather he’d found the answer, but, unfortunately, he didn’t leave me the details. Then he died.”

The Senator’s face contracted.

“Are you okay, sir?” Boyd bent closer. “Should I call for someone? Your wife?” At his vehement head shake, Boyd subsided. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have raised the topic. It’s sad, a man so young dying. Not that he was super young. Thirty-five, and lots of miles on him. He had a good job—he was an award-winning investigative journalist. Great career, great friends, a great life. It’s just . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “It just ended too soon. And though I hate to say it, I fear it wasn’t natural causes.” Boyd dragged a hand through his hair. “But that’s in the hands of the coroner now. We’re waiting on forensic toxicology and genetic tests.”

The Senator raised his eyebrows again.

“The genetic testing? That’s because he died of sudden cardiac arrest. Sitting in his car after a lunch-hour jog, actually.”

Boyd wasn’t sure why he was volunteering all this information, but it felt good. Maybe because the Senator couldn’t talk back or repeat anything. Or maybe because he seemed so interested. With the old man’s eyes imploring him to continue, Boyd obliged.

“He was really healthy—fitter than me, probably, because he had a better diet. The thing is, today I found out who our mother was, but apparently she died in a similar way within months of giving birth to us and giving us up for adoption. Which makes a genetic link look pretty inescapable.”

Or a killer had poisoned both of them to keep his dark deeds from the past from coming back to haunt him. But Boyd didn’t suggest anything like that to the old man. He looked upset enough. In fact—
shit
—he looked to be getting more agitated by the moment. Maybe more of the ice chips—

“What on earth are you doing in here?”

The voice from the door arrested Boyd’s reach for the ice chips. He swiveled to see a middle-aged nurse or personal care worker of some kind standing in the doorway, holding a steaming mug. She must have left her post just long enough to put the kettle on and brew some coffee or tea.

“Sorry, I was on my way downstairs when I heard him coughing and coughing. When no one turned up to help him, I came in and give him some of the ice chips.”

The woman bustled over to the other side of the bed, put her beverage down on a wheeled tray, and turned to the Senator.

“Oh dear, he looks agitated. Dr. Stratton will be so upset.”

Boyd blinked. “Surely he’ll be calm by morning?”

“Just leave.” She whipped out a blood pressure cuff, put it on the Senator’s unresisting arm, and started pumping it up. “And please stay away. Dr. Stratton forbids anyone else being in here. I could lose my job for this.”

“Sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t know you were downstairs or I’d have gone down and fetched you. He just sounded so—”

She took the stethoscope out of her ears and removed the blood pressure cuff briskly. She gave him a dark look. “Go.”

He went.

Geez, what was wrong with visiting the old man? Okay, the subject matter he’d raised wasn’t all that uplifting, but he’d have moved on to better things. The poor bastard, confined to that bed with nothing but a procession of nurses. Probably not one of them a hockey fan. No doubt the old guy pulled for the Ottawa Senators. Boyd could have razzed him about that. Everyone knew anyone with heart was a Maple Leafs fan. Well, heart and a lot of long-suffering patience. And maybe a wide streak of masochism.

And baseball. Boyd could at least read the old guy the game summaries or box scores. Hell, why wasn’t there even a television in the room?

Wait, maybe there was. He hadn’t really inventoried the room. But if there was one, he bet it never got tuned to the sports channel or the news feed or frickin’ C-SPAN or CPAC. And that was just wrong. There was life in the old guy’s eyes. He was in there.

Maybe he should ask Sylvia’s permission to visit.

Right.
And maybe she’d carve him a new one.

He made his way downstairs. There was no wine or beer in the refrigerator, so he warmed some milk in the microwave and drank it right there as he distracted himself by flipping through the headlines in the day’s newspaper. He rinsed the cup and stashed it in the dishwasher, hoping he wouldn’t incur Mrs. Garner’s wrath for cleaning up after himself.

Back in his room, his brain immediately fell back into the rutted groove. Josh—natural causes or foul play? Dr. Gunn—suicide or foul play? Arianna Duncan—natural causes or foul play? And was there anything he could do besides freaking waiting on other people’s investigations? Unless . . .

He brought his computer out of sleep mode and Google searched “Arianna Lynn Duncan.” Nothing. He tried “Arianna Duncan” and “A. L. Duncan” too and got some hits on the latter. Unfortunately, they didn’t relate to his mother. Looked like his first impression was right—the death was just too old for the obituary and news articles to go digital and get interwoven into the fabric of the Internet.

He pushed the computer away, turning his focus to Dave Bradley. His turning up was likely nothing. Sylvia had explained the family connection. Bradley was a reporter, and Dr. Gunn’s death was newsworthy in this small city. Boyd didn’t like it, though. Didn’t like hearing the other man’s name at all.

Damn, the warm milk wasn’t doing anything for him. He felt manic. Anxious. Like he’d come out of his own skin if he couldn’t do something.

His phone made a soft trill, announcing a text. Smiling, he reached for it, knowing it could only be Hayden. It was.

Are you as wide awake as I am?
she’d written.

Instead of texting her a reply, he called her.

“I guess that’s a yes,” she said.

As soon as he heard her voice, the crazy, frustrated energy morphed into something else. Something he knew how to deal with.

“That’s a hell yes,” he said. “I was hoping to talk you into some phone sex.”

She laughed. “That would also be a hell yes.”

CHAPTER 25

The next day, Hayden directed Boyd through light morning traffic to the library, a spot she’d visited a time or two to borrow audiobooks. The staff was extremely helpful, showing them how to use the equipment. Actually poring through the material was a little laborious, but Detective Morgan had given them a time frame—July 1979. After about twenty minutes, Boyd found it.

“This is it. Arianna Duncan, aged twenty, July 17, 1979, at the Dr. Everett Chalmers Regional Hospital.” He glanced up at her. “That doesn’t sound right, does it? If she died of sudden cardiac arrest, that kinda precludes getting to a hospital, doesn’t it?”

She shrugged. “They probably transported her by ambulance and a doctor declared her dead on arrival. Even if she was dead on the scene, she’s not declared until she hits the hospital. That’s where she died as far as the record is concerned.”

“Jesus, twenty years old.”

“Oh, that’s so sad.”

“Listen to this—she was predeceased by father, Robert Duncan, and mother, Gladys Duncan (née Carrier), of Saint Andrews, New Brunswick, and survived by a brother, Sheldon, also of Saint Andrews.”

Hayden smiled. “You have an uncle.”

“Well, I had one thirty-five years ago.”

Her smile faded. She couldn’t blame him for his pessimism. If Arianna Duncan was a full sibling to Sheldon Duncan, he could have long QT syndrome. And with their parents dying when they were so young—or at least when Arianna was young—luck did not seem to follow the Duncan family.

“Do you suppose they’d have done an autopsy? Would the coroner have investigated that kind of death back then?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll drop by and fill out the request.”

She gestured to the microfilm. “In light of that obituary, do you think you need a death certificate too?”

“It’s probably overkill, but yeah. I actually did it last night, at the Service New Brunswick website. Same as I did for Josh.”

“Does the registrar of vital statistics check to see if there’s a paper trail confirming that you’re really next of kin?”

“We’ll soon see.” He raked his hair off his forehead.

“Okay, get that thing printed off so we can get around to the coroner’s office.”

There was no lineup at the coroner’s office. Boyd told the front-office clerk that he was in town for a limited time and hoped to pick the report up soon. The woman assured him she would personally see that it was expedited. He asked for a sticky note, on which he wrote his name and cell phone number. Yes, yes, of course, she’d be happy to call him when it was available. It would possibly be as early as Tuesday.

Tuesday?
As in tomorrow?
Hayden rolled her eyes. Josh used to get the special treatment too. Of course, for Josh, it was that crooked smile and the sparkle in his eyes. For Boyd, she suspected it was more that they wanted to tear off his shirt.

From there, they’d gone to the police station. Boyd had wanted to have a private word with Detective Morgan to see what more, if anything, he might be able to share about Gunn’s death.

Hayden chatted with Detective Sean Hayes while Boyd went off with Ray Morgan to sign his statement. When he and Morgan emerged from the interview room, they bumped into someone, a tall, solid-looking man. The other guy wasn’t quite as a tall as Boyd, but he managed to seem bigger somehow. And not in a bodybuilding, no-neck kind of way. He just had a sort of physicality that was hard to ignore.

Boyd stayed to talk to the big guy, but Ray Morgan came over to join Hayden. As soon as he arrived, Detective Hayes excused himself, picked up his coat, and walked away.

“I hope I wasn’t keeping him from anything important,” she said as she watched the younger detective’s retreating back.

“Hayes?” His gaze flicked toward the exit. “Nah. If he had somewhere he needed to be, he wouldn’t have stayed to keep you company out of politeness.”

She lifted her eyebrows.

He laughed. “I guess you could take that a couple of different ways, but all I meant was Detective Hayes is a nose-to-the-grindstone guy. Never seen him dog it on the job. If he hung back to chat, it was because he wanted to, and it wouldn’t have been at the expense of an investigation.”

“Good.” She glanced up at Detective Morgan. “Any news you can share about the investigation?”

“I just gave McBride what I felt comfortable telling him, which is that it’s looking like a pretty cut-and-dried suicide. But, of course, he had to give me his theory about someone rendering Dr. Gunn unconscious in his chair, then approaching him from behind, positioning the scalpel in the victim’s own hand, and making the fatal slash.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

Morgan’s good-looking face screwed up in a frown. “Every thing’s a conspiracy with that guy.” He seemed to become aware of his frown and forced his features to smooth. “And you can tell him I said that. He won’t be surprised, considering I already said it to his face.”

Hayden smiled. “What’s the saying? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”

He sighed. “I know. And I plan to call the pathologist and ask him to take a real close look at the angles, see if there’s anything there in the physical evidence to suggest he had help opening that artery. And the forensic toxicology should turn up something if someone rendered him unconscious.”

“Will it, though? Will they look for anesthetizing agents?”

He pulled out a small black book and jotted something down. “They will now. And maybe they do it anyway. I’m pretty sure they’re going to find alcohol in his system.”

And possibly some cirrhosis of the liver, if what Sylvia had told Boyd was true. She seemed to think her friend indulged a little too much. Of course, by Sylvia’s exacting standards, that could be one or two drinks a day. But instead of saying that, she remarked that she hadn’t smelled any overwhelming alcohol smells.

“Due respect, Doc, it can be pretty hard to focus on much else when the victim is lying in a puddle of his own blood. That’s pretty much all you tend to see or smell.”

“True,” she acknowledged. She picked up her purse. “Did Boyd tell you what we found out this morning?”

He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“Just that we were able to get the death certificate for Arianna Duncan, and that he’s filed a request for the coroner’s investigation records.”

“Oh, yeah. He mentioned that. It’s encouraging to see that detail, at least, seems to be as billed.”

“Do you think Boyd’s right? That this Dr. Gunn had something to do with helping adopt those kids out, then obscured or falsified the record to keep the truth buried?”

“I do. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” He rubbed his forehead. “Look, I know McBride has a whole collection of alternate theories, but he knows as well as I do that the obvious explanation is usually the one that proves to be true. It’s good as an investigator to keep an open mind to other possibilities, but McBride seems to be working overtime to make this Dr. Gunn thing anything but suicide.”

She tightened her grip on the strap of her purse. “You’re wrong there, Detective. I’m pretty sure he’s praying that it was suicide and that the coroner can establish that beyond a reasonable doubt. Otherwise, this isn’t anywhere near over, and he needs it to be over. I don’t even know if he appreciates how badly he needs that, but he does.”

And when it was over,
they
would be over. Boyd and Hayden. He’d go back to Toronto, and Hayden would go back to life as it used to be. The idea made a hollowness rise in her chest.

When she’d convinced Boyd to embark on this relationship, she’d known it wouldn’t be easy to give up. She’d still been adjusting to the loss of Josh when Boyd had come along and filled up that void to a degree. Then, by moving their relationship into the sexual realm, she’d let Boyd occupy an even bigger space. When it was over, which could be sooner rather than later, she would be left with a hole in her life. She’d miss him like crazy. Miss the sex, miss those serious, guarded eyes.

Oh, she’d get through it. The demands of the job didn’t leave much time for wallowing. Work had always been her panacea. And there was no point ruining the here and now by anticipating the loneliness to come. Instead, she would focus on enjoying as much of this as she could.

“You know, before I got the call yesterday about Dr. Gunn, I was supposed to call you and invite you and McBride to dinner,” Detective Morgan said. “Grace was bummed about this coming up, since it meant canceling those plans.”

“Right,” she said. “We’re witnesses in your case now.” She offered her hand to him and he shook it. “Tell Grace we’re disappointed too.”

“I will. And let me walk you over there and break up that huddle. I need my sergeant back.”

Hayden’s breath caught as they crossed the detectives’ bull pen. Both men—Boyd and Ray Morgan’s sergeant—were leaning against the edges of different desks. The unknown guy sort of slouched there with his legs crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over a broad chest, while Boyd sat near the end of another desk, one leg braced on the floor, the other sort of swinging. He looked so comfortable, so at home. This was his world, or an approximation of it. Funny how little time she’d spent thinking about that.

Boyd caught sight of her then, and his eyes seemed to light up, which helped dislodge that hollow feeling.

“There you are.”

“Here I am.” She reached his side, then turned to look closer at the big guy.

“Hayden, this is Sergeant Quigley. He was very helpful when I came to town the first time.”

“Miss.” The sergeant held out his hand.

She shook it. And, oh, yeah, this guy definitely had an extra something about his physical aura. “Good to meet you, sir.”

Boyd shoved off the desk. “Well, we should get out of your hair. I know you’ve got work to do.”

“We’ll keep you posted on your brother’s file, McBride,” Ray Morgan said. “Sarge here has put in a request to get the reports expedited, given the probable intersection with this new case. We’re hoping that means the tox report, at least, should pop free a little sooner than it might have otherwise.”

Boyd’s gaze shot to Sergeant Quigley. “Thank you, sir. That’s much appreciated.”

“No problem.”

Outside on the street, Boyd took Hayden’s hand as they walked the short distance to where they’d parked Boyd’s rental behind city hall.

“So what are you going to do with the rest of your day?” he asked when they’d climbed into the car.

“I’d made no plans.” She rolled the window down for some air while the A/C got up to speed. “I was kind of wondering if there was anything more we could do on the case.”

He looked over at her. “Which one?”

“Either. Both.” She shrugged. “I know you must be going crazy waiting on those reports. And how about Sergeant Quigley putting that call in? I could have kissed him.”

“You and me both,” he said with feeling.

She grinned. “You didn’t answer my question. Is there anything we can be doing?”

“I was thinking about trying to locate Arianna Duncan’s brother.” He pulled from his pocket the folded paper with the copy of the obituary they’d printed at the library. “I thought I’d go home, dig out my laptop, and do a little sleuthing, see if I could find this guy’s address or number.”

“Sheldon was the name, right? From Saint Andrews.” She glanced at him. “Do you suppose he’s still alive? And still in the Saint Andrews area?”

“We’ll soon see.”

When they got to Stratton House, Sylvia was nowhere in sight, for which Hayden was grateful. Boyd had told her about his impromptu visit with the Senator and the nurse’s horrified reaction. He had no idea whether his transgression had been reported or not. Since he’d emerged unscathed from breakfast, she suspected not. As Boyd had pointed out, perhaps the nurse and Dr. Stratton hadn’t yet connected. Or maybe the nurse wasn’t planning to report it at all. She’d seemed to think she could lose her job over it.

They hurried up the steps to Boyd’s room. He went straight to the table to flip his computer on, while she went to flop on the couch.

She glanced over at his computer and saw that he had the search engine loaded. While he worked, she let her mind drift. Naturally, it went back to last night and their playful lovemaking. His focus and intensity in bed she’d totally expected. The playfulness, not so much. It was—

“Got it!”

His declaration pulled her back. “You found him?”

“Yep. Still in Saint Andrews, according to this phone directory.” He looked over at her. “Wanna take a drive?”

“Sure. But shouldn’t you call ahead? Make sure he’s home or that he’ll see you?”

He frowned. “How far away is Saint Andrews?”

“Hour and a half, maybe,” she estimated.

“Then, no, I’ll risk a wasted drive. I’d rather not get into it on the phone.”

“And you’d rather not risk him telling us not to come?”

“That too,” he confessed.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

“Excellent.” He pulled out his phone and plugged the contact information into it. He looked up at her. “Need to go home for anything, or can we get on the road?”

“I think I’m okay.” She looked down at her cargo pants and blouse. “Unless you think I need a change?”

He crossed to the couch and picked her right up off it. She squeaked and grabbed him around the neck.

“I think you look good enough to eat.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer when we get back to town,” she said huskily.

He put her down so she could slip her feet back into the sandals she’d kicked off. They made their escape without seeing Sylvia, although Hayden felt a little guilty about it. Boyd had said that Sylvia had been a close friend of Dr. Gunn’s and was about as devastated as he imagined she was capable of getting, short of losing the Senator.

She forgot the guilt quickly, though, as they got iced coffees and hit the road. The sun was shining, it was a Monday, and she was off work.

She hadn’t taken a road trip since she and Josh had gone to Grand Manan for two days. The island was rugged and beautiful. Josh had loved it. Boyd would love it too. She found herself wishing they were headed out for a weekend themselves, instead of a quick trip to visit a man who almost certainly was Boyd’s uncle. Arianna Duncan’s younger brother.