Web of Secrets (Agents Under Fire) (10 page)

“Right in here.” The nurse opened the door to a small conference room.

A man wearing a clerical collar who Becca assumed to be the hospital chaplain sat next to Elise. She was dressed in a professional suit, not something she wore unless she had to go to court for one of her kids. It was rumpled, and her eyes were red and puffy. Becca expected her husband Buck to be here, but he was probably home with the other kids.

Elise shot to her feet and hurried over to Becca. “Thank goodness, you’re here. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’s you.”

“What happened?” Becca asked.

“Frankie’s appendix ruptured, and they gave her an antibiotic. Cefoxitin.”

Becca shot a glance at Connor. His relieved expression matched her inner feelings that floated away when a tortured sob slipped from Elise. There was no relief when Elise was suffering so much.

She twisted her hands together. “Why didn’t I know someone had stolen her identity? Why? I was supposed to protect her. Now she’s gone.” She started sobbing, and Becca put aside her questions about the stolen identity comment and drew her former foster mother into a hug.

Becca, who’d had so little human touch as a child, often felt awkward hugging others, but not Elise.

“Shh.” Becca rubbed Elise’s back until her sobbing slowed, and Becca led her to a chair.

Connor moved closer and leaned against the wall.

Becca sat next to Elise. “This is Detective Connor Warren with PPB.”

Elise looked up at him. “Did the hospital call you?”

“Connor was with me when I left to come here.”

Elise arched a curious brow for a moment then shook her head. “The hospital is probably dragging their feet until they can get their attorney to weigh in, since they had a part in this.”

Becca’s curiosity was piqued. “Tell me what happened, Elise.”

“It’s terrible. So terrible and senseless.” She sniffled and grabbed a tissue. “Buck and I were in court for a hearing today. Frankie got violently sick at basketball practice after school and passed out from the pain. The substitute coach couldn’t get hold of us, so she called 911. The hospital continued to try to contact us, but you know you can’t have a phone turned on in court. We got the message as soon as we got out of court and we called. By that time, Frankie’s appendix had burst. They gave her the Cefoxitin and took her to surgery.” She shuddered and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Frankie’s allergic to several antibiotics and Cefoxitin is one of them.”

“She wears an alert bracelet, though, right?” Becca asked.

“Yes, but she takes it off for practice, and the sub didn’t know about Frankie’s allergy.”

“What about emergency cards? Didn’t the school have one for Frankie?”

“The sub couldn’t find them by the time the ambulance arrived. She rode along with Frankie and called the school, but it was after hours and no one was working in the office.”

“What I want to know,” Connor said, “is if the hospital didn’t know about her allergies, why on earth did they give her any antibiotics?”

“Standard procedure is to look at past records when no one can update the medical information. They claim she was seen here two weeks ago when she completed a patient information form. Her record indicated there were no known allergies.” Elise shook her head hard. “She’s never been treated here.”

“Never?” Becca asked. “Then how does she have a record?”

“That’s what I asked and demanded to see the paperwork. And it was there. Right in her file. It said Frankie was treated for bronchitis and it also showed no known allergies.” Elise slumped lower, and Becca took her hands for support. “The hospital believes someone used Frankie’s social security number and insurance information to impersonate Frankie and get free medical care. That person had no known allergies, so Cefoxitin wasn’t added to Frankie’s record.”

Connor scowled. “That’s taking identity theft to a whole new level.”

“Theft of medical records and insurance information is on the rise,” Becca said. “Nina recently worked a similar case where a woman’s information was stolen from her doctor’s office. Thankfully, she didn’t die, but her entire identity has been compromised.”

Elise reversed their hands and clutched Becca’s with a death grip. “That’s why I called you. I want this person found and prosecuted for murder. They will do that, right?”

“It depends,” Connor answered for Becca. “If this information was obtained through computer hacking, the hacker is complicit in Frankie’s death. If the person who used Frankie’s ID wasn’t the hacker, identity theft in Oregon is still a felony. A death as a result of committing a felony is considered murder, accidental or not, but it will be up to the DA to determine the actual charges once he sees the circumstances.”

Elise nodded and stared at Becca. “I figured that the local cops would take on the case because of all the jurisdiction stuff you tell me about. But I’m worried about the safety of my other kids.” Tears started flowing again, and she grabbed another tissue. “If the thieves got Frankie’s information from our house somehow, then all the kids might have a problem, and it’s all my fault.”

“Don’t start blaming yourself,” Becca said. “There’s a good likelihood that the security breach occurred at one of Frankie’s doctor’s offices or even at DHS where records for foster kids are held.”

“You really think so?” Elise asked, a bit of hope in her tone.

“Absolutely. The healthcare industry and government are still reliant on aging computer systems that can be easily hacked. And believe it or not, medical records are worth more on the black market than stolen credit cards. That’s why this type of theft is on the upswing.”

“Why are these records worth more?” Connor asked.

“Credit cards get cancelled quickly. Health insurance companies aren’t as quick to react or may never even know the records were stolen. A criminal can bilk an insurance company for a long time before the problem is caught.”

“You know all about this. That’s why I need you.” Elise grabbed Becca’s hand. “You’ve got to look into this for me, Becca. You just have to. Please.”

Becca looked at Connor. “Since we’re in your jurisdiction, I assume you’ll be opening a case file.”

He nodded. “I’ll get it started, but with my caseload, it will likely be reassigned.”

Becca turned back to Elise. “Can you excuse us a minute?”

“Sure.” Elise grabbed a fresh tissue. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Becca gestured for Connor to join her in the hallway. She looked up at him. Exhaustion hung in his eyes—not necessarily physical exhaustion, but the fatigue that came with working such mentally and emotionally draining cases.

“I know you’re swamped. Just working Van Gogh would tax any detective. And you have other cases, too.”

“But you want me to take this one?”

“Yes.”

“Back at your place, it sounded more like you wanted me to stay far away from this.”

“I did, but it was strictly for personal reasons. You know . . . this whole attraction thing. But Elise and her kids trump all of that.” She rested a hand on his arm. “I wouldn’t ask, but she’s very important to me. I’ll get my team working the ID theft if you could take the hospital investigation.”

“I’ll have to hand off tasks to others, but I can oversee the case if Vance allows it.”

She squeezed his arm. “You’re a good man, Connor Warren. I won’t ever forget your help.”

He grinned. “So you owe me, then?”

“Yeah, I owe you big-time.”

His grin widened. “You know I’ll collect, right?”

She laughed and shook her head.

“No, I mean it.” He stepped closer to her, his scent filling the air. Her heart started beating harder.

Step away, now.

She should move, but she was mesmerized by the shade of blue in his eyes. By the unfettered interest she saw in them.

He raised a hand and softly brushed a thumb over her cheek. “I’ll collect, Becca. But be aware, it may not have anything to do with the job.”

Chapter Eleven

“I’LL WALK YOU TO your door,” Connor said in the parking lot of Becca’s apartment.

“Thanks, but I can take care of myself.”

“I get that, but I was hoping to talk you into a cup of coffee and a bit more information about Van Gogh.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he could almost see the thoughts racing through her head. “I’ll give you thirty minutes. Then I’m kicking you out.”

He wanted to argue, but he’d take what he was offered and try to renegotiate later.

She slipped her key in the lock, took a single step inside, then backed out and hastily pulled the door with her, as if she had something to hide.

“You know,” she said. “I’m more tired than I thought. Can we do the Van Gogh thing in the morning?”

“You said you wanted to accompany me to talk to Dr. Williams in the morning.”

“I know, but . . .” She shrugged, but didn’t look at him.

“You’re not a very good liar, Becca.” With a quick palm to the door, he shoved it out of her hand, revealing a living room filled with boxes and a murder board.

“Whoa,” he said as he studied the space.

Poster boards with notes scribbled in various colors of marker were posted next to pictures and other documents. A laptop sat on a table next to open folders spilling out papers. File boxes stood in three rows, four high near the far wall.

“Van Gogh,” he said. “This is all Van Gogh?”

She crossed her arms. “You didn’t think I’d quit thinking about the case just because your lieutenant sent me packing, did you?”

He stepped past her, his focus going from item to item. “You keep this stuff out all the time?”

She stared at him. “I may be interested in Van Gogh, but I’m not some crazy obsessed person.”

“No, wait. I don’t think that. Honestly. You’re normal. I think, I mean I don’t know you
that
well, but . . .”

She eyed him for a moment, then laughed. “You should see the look on your face. Mr. I-have-a-response-for-everything is at a loss for words.” Her smile widened. “Priceless.”

He probably should feel embarrassed for wondering if she was a nut case, but instead, he grinned. “Hey, even if you do have a screw loose, I’d like to hear your take on the investigation.”

“Then have a seat, and I’ll make the coffee.” She closed the door and motioned to a leather club chair.

“I’d rather look around.”

“No,” she said firmly. “It’ll all make more sense if I explain it to you.”

“Ok-a-a-y,” he said.

“If you’re not going to sit, then come help make the coffee.”

“That I can do.” He followed her to the kitchen, but he’d rather be digging through her information. Her reaction just now had been over the top. It seemed like she was hiding something from him. Or maybe he was being overly suspicious, and she was just trying to protect years’ worth of case files.

In the kitchen, he spotted another stack of boxes in the corner where a table should be. “More files?”

She looked up from grinding coffee to shake her head. “I haven’t fully unpacked.”

“When did you move in?”

“Move in?” she said absently as she spooned coffee grounds into a filter. “I guess it’s been about a year now.”

“And you haven’t unpacked?”

“Old habits die hard.” She grabbed the carafe and took it to the sink to fill.

He joined her, inching closer. “What habits?”

She didn’t seem to want to answer.

He nudged closer, eyeing her until she sighed.

“Fine.” She planted her hands on the countertop. “Foster kids never fully settle in because they don’t know when they’ll have to move again. And I was one of those kids. After a while, it just gets easier to leave some of your stuff packed and dig it out if you need it.”

He could see her as a kid. His tough, strong Becca, keeping things packed. Keeping a part of herself packed, too. People had let her down, over and over, obviously.

He slid his hand across the counter and covered hers. He waited for her to jerk away, but she didn’t. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. That kind of life must have been hard.”

She said nothing.

“How did you end up in foster care?” He pushed, but he suspected she’d clam up or redirect the conversation.

“My mom was an alcoholic,” she said softly. “She crashed the car. Killed herself, nearly killed me.”

“And your dad?”

“I never knew who he was. After Mom died, the police spent like half a second trying to figure out his identity, but my mother freely slept around, so it was an impossible task.”

He took her hand and turned her to face him. “And I whined about my family today when I should just be thankful for them.”

“Hey, it’s no biggie.”

As a cop, Connor knew the conditions of some foster homes. Given Becca’s unwillingness to unpack, he suspected she’d run in to some of them and carried the damage with her.

He looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. I really am.”

She peered at him for a long moment, then freed her hand and turned to the coffeepot. “It was a long time ago and belongs in the past.”

She was right. It did belong in the past. But as much as she claimed she was over it, it was clear that she wasn’t. He was suddenly very glad that Vance had sent her away today. Otherwise, she’d have been there to see the cadaver dog light on death time after time. To see Dr. Williams carefully dig around the flags to prove that one more terrified girl had lost her life. To prove that the shocking number of seven, maybe eight, lives lost to Van Gogh was seeming more likely by the minute.

“Your time is ticking away.” She raised her shoulders into a solid wall that seemed impenetrable. “You want to spend your half hour dissecting my past or talking about Van Gogh?”

“Both,” he said, surprising himself.

She looked over her shoulder at him, studying him for a tense moment before a monster of a frown claimed her face. “I can’t do both. You’ll have to choose.”

“Message received. Your past is off limits. I’ll take Van Gogh.”

She spun and headed for the family room. He traipsed behind her, his disappointment in her unwillingness to talk to him a physical ache. He’d let his guard down around her and let her get to him. Really get to him. And he had no idea what to do about it.

She gestured at the club chair. “Have a seat.”

He did as asked, but couldn’t help wondering why she felt such a need to control the situation. He dug out his small notepad, then shook his head. “With all of the information you’ve dug up, this little thing isn’t going to cut it.” He tapped the table that looked like an office supply store had thrown up on it. “Mind if I borrow one of these legal pads?”

“Go ahead.” She took a deep breath and started. “I know we’ve covered part of this, but I’m going to start at the beginning of the timeline so I don’t miss anything. On Valentine’s Day in 1999, a fifteen-year-old girl, Lauren Nichols, was found huddled in the doorway of a storefront.”

She shared the exact address, and though it would be in the case files he’d review tomorrow at the office, he jotted it down so he could look it up on the Internet as soon as he got home.

“She was dressed in a white gown like the one Jane Doe is wearing.”

“Can I see the pictures of Lauren?”

Becca shook her head. “There aren’t any in the case file.”

“None?”

“None.”

“Don’t you find that odd?”

“Perhaps there are some in the official files, but I don’t have access to them.” She took another breath and continued. “Lauren told a story of a madman who’d abducted her and Molly and held them in a basement. He’d cut off the ears of three girls, had preserved them in canning jars that Lauren saw on the shelf, and he was trying to cut hers off, too.” She paused and swallowed hard. “Then she said that he was holding my foster sister, Molly Underhill.”

“And the detectives believed Lauren’s story?”

“Mostly. She showed them the slice behind her ear where Van Gogh had started his cut before Molly interrupted him and the number engraved on her stomach. She also had contusions around her wrists consistent with being tied up and trying to escape.”

“And your friend? This Molly? Did Lauren show the police where to find her?”

“Lauren was so terrified when she ran that she’d gotten turned around and couldn’t lead the police back to the house.” Becca jutted out her chin as if she felt a need to defend Lauren’s action. “That put some question in the detective’s mind, but a few days later, Van Gogh’s first victim was found, minus her ears.”

“Since you’ve worked this investigation over the years, do you have a current address for Lauren Nichols?”

Becca shook her head. “We have the old foster home address, but she didn’t stay there after the abduction.”

“And you’ve looked for her?”

Her eyes widened. “You have to ask?”

“No. I guess not. You wouldn’t let a chance to talk to Van Gogh’s only eyewitness pass you by.” He made a note on the legal pad to try to locate Lauren.

Becca took a sketch down from the wall and handed it to him. “They did a rendering of Van Gogh in ’99. It was on the news, but you may not have seen it.” She retrieved another drawing. “I had another sketch done with his age progression. He’d look like this today.”

“You had someone draw this just this afternoon?” Connor studied the sketch.

“No, I have one made every year on the anniversary of Molly’s disappearance.”

He wanted to say that was all kinds of crazy to be so obsessed with the case to commission an annual sketch, but he’d seen law enforcement officers consumed by cases that they were unable to solve, and they weren’t crazy by any stretch of the imagination. They also didn’t have personal connections to their cases, the way Becca did.

He studied the picture. “Burn scars?”

She nodded. “Lauren said his entire face and hands are covered with them. She thought he was in his mid-twenties at the time of abduction, and she said the scars looked old. Detective Orman jumped all over that. He had his team scour hospital records for anyone with severe facial burns, but found nothing. They even got the FBI involved in nearby states, but there were no leads.”

Connor held up the sketch. “You would have thought that, with this extensive facial disfigurement, someone would have recognized him from the news, back when the first girl’s body was found.”

“I always thought it was odd.”

“I suppose he could be a hermit, not getting out of the house except to stalk these young girls.”

“He has to eat and do all the regular things people do.”

“He could have his groceries delivered, though. Today, a person can get most everything he needs from the Internet. And he could work from home.”

“Sure, that’s likely today, but not so much in the nineties. People didn’t work at home as much then.”

“But it wasn’t unheard of.”

“True, but to never leave the house? I guess it’s possible. It just seems like a stretch, unless he had someone living with him. But if that’s true, why didn’t they turn him in?”

“Maybe he lived with his parents. Parents rarely report their own children.”

“Lauren said he often talked to his mother, like she was in the room with him. I initially thought that meant she was dead, but maybe he was still living with her.”

Connor handed the sketches back to her. “Can I get a copy of the current drawing?”

She nodded. “So what else do you want to know about the investigation?”

“Prime leads that fizzled and why. Your opinion of the lead detective. Did he do his job well? Sloppy, thorough? What did he share with you that’s not in his case file? That kind of thing.”

“What makes you think I talked to him?”

“Really?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “You’re a pro. You’d leave no stone unturned.”

“Okay, fine, I did. It took me four years of pestering him before he agreed to see me. Then, out of the blue, he called and said he was ready to talk about the case. I later learned that was when he received his cancer diagnosis.”

“He’s dead?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Vance just said he wasn’t the same after that case. So when he retired, he didn’t stay in touch with the guys and no one at the precinct could tell us anything about his current life. I was planning to try to locate him tomorrow.”

“The closest you’ll come is his daughter, Eva Waters.”

“The TV reporter?”

Becca nodded. “Start by asking her questions, and you’ll find your name as a headline on the six o’clock news.”

“Did you ever talk to her?’

Becca relaxed against the wall. “We talked for a few minutes back when her dad was sick.”

“So if you questioned her now, she wouldn’t think much of it. She’d just think you were trying to run down Van Gogh.”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s even more of a reason for my lieutenant to add you to the team.”

Her body stiffened. She blinked a few times then looked at him. “Is that what you want to happen? Me on the case?”

That’s the big question of the day.
“Do I want you all wrapped up in a horrific serial killer case? No.” He continued to look at her, her expression softening and morphing into something he couldn’t read from across the room. Something he’d have to see up close to decipher.

He got up. Started for her.

Don’t do it.

He ignored his brain’s feeble warning and crossed the room. She drew in a shallow breath and held it, her eyes glittering with something he’d never seen there before. Keeping his eyes on her, he planted his hands on the wall on either side of her head. “Do I want to have your input on this case and see you on a regular basis? Yes.”

“Don’t go there, Connor,” she chastised, then licked her lips.

It was nearly his undoing. “I get that we agreed to put aside our personal feelings, but Bex, I gotta tell you, instead of making it easier, I think it’s making it harder for me. You know, the forbidden fruit thing.”

“You’ll just have to try harder then. I mean it, Connor. We need to focus. Now more than ever.” She pressed on his chest, trying to push him back, but he refused to budge.

“Um-hm,” he said, but for some reason, he couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth as she talked.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re starving, and I’m the last morsel of food on this earth.”

“I am starving, honey, and I’m starting to think you’re about the only satisfying thing on the menu.”