The Missing Year (12 page)

“
That’s
what you call helping me?” Lila grimaced.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” Ross wasn’t used to talking about Sarah and lacked an important filter.

“What do we do now?”

“We talk,” he said.

“About?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with. How about what you’ve been thinking about this past year for starters?”

“The year before the shooting, mostly,” Lila said. “There was so much I missed. I could have stopped him—”

Ross assumed Lila meant that she could have kept Blake from going into that store that night. Survivors often felt guilty under similar circumstances. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Lila hugged one of the three pillows that had been piled up behind her. “That would have been our tenth wedding anniversary, I think.”

Ross settled into his chair, ready to listen.

“Blake had set up a picnic at the park to celebrate.” A grin tugged at the corner of Lila’s mouth as she detailed the memory. “It was one of those perfect, bare feet, gingham blanket kind of days. Blake was sitting on the grass, leaning against the trunk of an Oak tree, his pants rolled up from walking in the stream, a book in his hands. I was lying with my head in his lap, talking to him about how we met and spotting shapes in the clouds.”

Ross remembered working up the courage to pass Sarah a note in class. It wasn’t their first interaction, but it was the first he admitted that he liked her. Even nine-year-old Ross knew Sarah was his soul mate.

“How
did
you meet?”

“Lady,” she said. “My pug mix. I think the shelter named her that as a joke. She was no lady. She wheezed and drooled, sneezed on everything, and
loved
to chase.”

“That’s strange for a pug.”

“We used to say she was part greyhound. Ross was running in the park that day. Well, more like circling, though he would have never admitted it. He nearly tripped twice while staring at me. I was reading, trying to relax, but I couldn’t get through a full page of my book without Lady tugging at her leash. The clip broke and she took off after him.”

“The clip broke?” Ross smiled.

“Now you sound like Blake. I
swear
I didn’t let her loose. Anyway, Lady chased Blake down, I went after her, and the rest is history.”

“Two people, one dog.”

“More like one
traitor
. Lady might’ve started off as mine, but by the time she died, she was definitely his.”

“How old was she?”

“Not sure. We guessed around twelve. Hard to know with rescues, but Blake and I had her for eight years. We did everything we could to save her, but it was her time. We decided that day that Lady was irreplaceable. Blake couldn’t bear the thought of another dog taking her place,” she said. Ross waited for the part of the story having to do with Blake’s shooting. “So there we were, reminiscing in the park, when Blake’s mother, Ruth, strolls up with a puppy on a leash. I hadn’t noticed her. The dogs could have been Lady’s twin.”

Princess.

Ross remembered Ruth calling for her when they were on the phone.

“Blake and I named her Princess,” Lila said. “In hindsight, what struck me wasn’t that Blake was suddenly ready for a dog after almost two years without one, but that it seemed he was worried about moving on from Lady, about
me
moving on from her. He said, ‘Just because we loved Lady, doesn’t mean we can only
ever
love Lady.’ I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I wonder if he wasn’t trying to tell me something about how I should be after he was gone. He didn’t want me pining for him. He knew his days were numbered, even then.”

Lila’s speculation seemed a bit of a reach, but she had the benefit of the full picture.

Shootings were unpredictable, an act few might expect as their final end. For Blake to have been leaving hints a year before his death meant either he was clairvoyant, which seemed unlikely, or Lila was making something out of nothing.

Neither explained her guilt.

Ross headed out the front door of Lakeside to find Camille leaned against his car, his keys dangling from her outstretched finger and her blond hair swept into two French braids at her hairline. The unseasonably warm day had her wearing a pair of Capri-length skinny jeans, a tank top, and a button-down flowered shirt that, combined with the braids, had her looking every bit the farmer’s daughter or girl next door fantasy.

Ross smiled. “Cute outfit.”

Camille gave him a shot in the arm. “I’m so wasted on you.”

“You really are.” Any other man would have been salivating. Ross opened the passenger’s side door for her and did a casual once over for dents or scratches as he made his way to the driver’s seat. “What’s all this?” His back seat was covered in plastic bags full of groceries.

“Least I could do after the other day. You didn’t even have enough food to make bachelor’s spaghetti.”

He laughed. “I thought I was the only one who called it that.”

“What? You think you cornered the market on dinner-for-one?”

“Not for a minute.” Ross turned the key, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the parking lot.

“How’d it go today?”

“Could’ve been worse.”

“You’re not fired, right?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Where to?”

“Your place.”

His expression must’ve given him away because without him saying a word, she jumped all over his case.

“Seriously, Ross? I didn’t mean it
that
way. God, give me a break. Your car is full of groceries, some of which need refrigerating. Let me make you dinner before you drop me off at my place. You can tell me about your day and I can feel like less of a creep for last night.”

“Deal,” he said. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I need you to make a phone call.”

* * * * *

Camille wasted no time making herself at home as she unloaded enough groceries for a family of four into the cupboards of Ross’s outdated motel room. The fridge bordered on overflowing, the non-perishables that wouldn’t fit in the cabinets covered the counters.

“You expecting company?” Ross said. “Considering moving in, maybe?”

“You didn’t even have salt and pepper. How about saying ‘thank you?’”

“Thank you.”

“That’s better.” Camille poured herself a glass of lemonade. “Now, tell me about this phone call.”

Ross powered up his computer and searched for Merrick Memorial’s main phone number. “I need information on a patient I’m treating.”

“And you need
me
to make that call?”

“Well, not exactly my patient … her husband. Her
dead
husband.”

“I see.” Camille added two ice cubes and a long splash of gin to her lemonade, stirring it with her finger. “Am I breaking some kind of law here?”

“Not exactly. You don’t work in healthcare. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You tell me.”

“Worst case scenario, you plead ignorance.”

“That wouldn’t be a lie. So what is it you need me to be ignorant of?”

Ross considered asking her to try and get a copy of Blake’s records, but thought that might be pushing it. There was no safe place to have them sent to and, with Blake being deceased, Ross couldn’t come up with an explanation why anyone would need them. He went with the next best thing.

“I need you to find out who the admitting physician on record was for his hospitalization last year.”

“That’s it?” Camille picked up the motel room handset. “What’s the number?”

“What are you going to say?”

“Write his name down and let me handle it. These people were well off, right?”

Ross shrugged. “He was a surgeon with a trust fund, so I’d think so. Why?” He wrote “Blake Wheeler” on a piece of motel stationary and handed it to her.

“Do you have a date of birth? My doctor’s office always asks for my date of birth, like there are a ton of Camille McKenzies around. I want to make it sound official.”

Ross shook his head. “Maybe I ought to wait.”

“Can you find it online?

“Hang on a minute.” Ross shuffled the stack of papers on the desk. “October 18, 1979.” Blake’s date of birth had been listed in his obituary.

“Number, please?”

Ross handed her a piece of paper with the number written on it. “Ask for Medical Records.”

Camille dialed. “I’ve got this.” A brief silence passed before she asked to be transferred in a southern accent, her voice at least an octave higher. “May I speak with the Medical Records Department, please?” Pause. “Yes, this is Mirabelle calling from Physician’s Life Insurance. I’m doing a claim review for a patient of yours by the name of … Blake Wheeler … date of birth October 18, 1979. I’m having some trouble reading the fax in the file and I need to get in touch with the admitting doctor on record. Could you be a doll and confirm the name for me please?” Another pause. Camille scribbled something on the pad. “That’d be great, if you have it.” Ross guessed that not only had Camille gotten the doctor’s name, but their phone number as well. “Thanks so much, sugar. Y’all have a great day now.” She hung up the phone and gave Ross a “cat that swallowed the canary” smile.

“That was pretty good,” he said. “Physician’s Life Insurance, huh? You know that’s a real thing, right?”

“Two years of Community Theater and an internship as a law clerk. I was playing a hunch.”

Ross grinned. “I had no idea you were so qualified when I asked for your help.”

Camille handed him the notepad and when he read the name she’d written down he froze.

“What’s the matter?”

“Dr. Jeremy Davis,” he said. “Either there’s a clerical error or something’s not right here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s the wrong kind of physician. Blake Wheeler was shot. I’d have expected a neurologist, a critical care guy, hell, even an emergency room doctor to have admitted him, but there’s no logical reason a family physician would have unless ….”

“Unless what?”

“Unless for some reason the victim’s wife had asked him to.”

Ross arrived at Lakeside two hours early for work to find the parking lot half-full with vans and work trucks. Mark’s black SUV and Eddie’s Jeep were among them, but there was no sign of Guy. Ross hurried inside, the air cold enough that he could see his breath.

“Mark? You here?” The sound of banging pipes muffled his voice. “Mark?”

The place was like a ghost town.

The first floor lights were off except for one over the reception desk and an emergency exit sign at the far end of the hall. Ross debated hanging his coat, but the cold made him change his mind.

He turned his head at the sound of the descending elevator.

The rickety Otis whirred to a stop and the door opened. Eddie stumbled out wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and dark circles of exhaustion visible through his glasses.

“Casual Tuesday?” Ross asked.

“
Ha. Ha.
” Eddie wheeled a train of space heaters one at a time into the hallway. “No, I wasn’t planning on a crack of dawn wake up call. I’m here to help out and I’m going home to go back to bed.”

“What happened?”

“The heat’s out.”

“Obviously. It’s freezing in here. Where’s Mark?”

“He’s in the community room. Are you going to be in your office anytime soon?”

Ross started up the stairs.

“Dr. Reeves, do you need one of these heaters in your office?”

“Yes, please,” Ross said, readying his keycard. “And turn it on high.”

“Hope we don’t blow a fuse,” Eddie muttered as he walked away.

“Me, too.” Ross entered the secure area, the second floor only slightly warmer than the first. “Mark? Where are you?”

“In here, Doc.”

Mark’s black hair hung loose and was longer than Ross would have thought. He wore a pair of stained scrubs and worked on disassembling the radiator.

“What are you doing?” Ross asked. “Where are the patients?”

“In their rooms, and I’m helping bleed radiators. The heating crew is in the basement and this will get fixed faster with more manpower.” Mark placed a bucket under a leak and mopped up a small spill. He opened the vent with a screwdriver and set it on the floor.

“Is there anything you can’t fix?”

“Lila Wheeler.”

“Join the club,” Ross said. “Where’s Guy?”

“On his way.”

“Any luck with that thing we talked about?”

Mark wiped his wet hands on a rag. “The thing we talked about
yesterday
?”

“It’s soon, I know, but I have a week.”

“You can’t expect me to have an answer that quickly, Doc.”

“I do.”

“Do what?”

“Have an answer. I found the admitting doctor, like you suggested. It’s a family physician by the name of Jeremy Davis, a friend of the Wheelers’. A
close
friend by the look of things. Explain to me how a shooting victim gets admitted to a hospital under an outside general practitioner’s care.”

Mark shook his head. “I wish I could.”

“Me, too, and it’s not the kind of thing that slides easily into conversation, if you know what I mean.”

“You don’t think Lila was having an affair, do you?”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Ross said. “You have to admit it looks suspicious. Lila pulls the plug on her husband. She feels guilty about something and in every photograph I could find, this Jeremy character’s eyes are glued to her. Then he turns up as her husband’s admitting physician, completely outside the scope of his medical practice? I need those records, Mark.”

“I’m a little busy right now, but I’ll work on it.”

“You’ll work on what?” Lila appeared in the hallway, her dark hair wet from the shower leaving a ring around the neckline of her oversized sweatshirt.

“The heat,” Mark said, quick with a comeback.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No. Nothing.” Ross unbuttoned his coat. “But since you’re here, can we talk? I have a space heater.” It was all he could offer.

“It’s tempting—”

“But?”

“Nothing. Give me a few minutes to pull myself together, okay?”

Ross nodded. “Doors are locked. Mark, see that she gets down to my office?”

“Will do, Doc.” He waited until Lila was out of earshot and said, “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Ross said. “I’m going to need it.”