Fatal Hearts Page 11
“No big deal,” she said. “It’s not like I look for things to worry about.” She pretended to drink a last swig from the can and put it back on the table. “It really wouldn’t have driven me crazy with anxiety if Josh hadn’t agreed to check in. It’s not like I’d have lost sleep or anything. I don’t know how to describe it. I guess you could liken it to some kind of little program running in the background of my brain. It’s just there. When he checked in to say he was home, it could shut off, you know?”
He rubbed his jaw, and the distinctly masculine rasping sound of a calloused hand running over beard stubble sent a shiver through her.
“I can’t say I do,” he admitted. “I guess we don’t have the same software.”
She laughed. “I think that’s a safe bet, Detective.”
His answering grin was her reward. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth, and she stopped smiling. So did he.
“Well, I should shove off and let you get your rest,” he said, pushing to his feet.
She jumped up too, busying herself by picking up the plates and napkins. Boyd collected the four empty cans and followed her to the kitchen with them.
A moment later, she walked him to the door. He had his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave, when he turned back. Hayden’s heart took a bounding leap, then fell to hammering in her chest. Was he going to kiss her?
“I almost forgot to ask,” he said. “Do you recall ever seeing Josh with a leather-bound notebook? It would have been camel-colored.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s a very specific description.”
“One of his coworkers, Grace Morgan, confirmed he carried one like that sometimes. I figure that’s gotta be the journal he was keeping about his investigation into our birth parents.”
She frowned. “I was going to say I hadn’t seen it, but actually I might have. It was fairly compact and definitely leather-bound. Soft leather. Although the one I saw I would have described as more buttery yellow than camel. Of course, it was night . . .”
“That sounds like the one,” he said, his expression tightening with eagerness. Not such a poker face after all. At least not when it comes to Josh. “Where’d you see it?”
“In the glove compartment of his car. We were coming back from supper on a holiday weekend and got stopped at one of those routine checkpoints. You know, where they look for impaired drivers, seat belt infractions, inspection stickers, and the like. Anyway, he asked me to dig the registration out of the glove box. That’s where I saw it. I hauled it out along with road maps and the car’s manual and napkins and everything else that was in there.”
“Have you seen it since?”
“No, I never saw it again.” She hated to have to say it, watching that new hope fade from his eyes. “Odd that the cops didn’t find it.” She didn’t add, “Since he died in that car.” She didn’t have to.
“He wouldn’t have stored it there permanently,” he said. “Too easy to break into a car. Or steal the whole car, for that matter.”
She blinked. “Someone would steal a notebook out of a car?”
“These are usually addicts. Typically, a ‘car shopper’ will grab whatever they can—loose change or anything small enough to shove in their pockets or put in a backpack. Stuff they can sell quickly. If it’s small enough, they’ll grab it, then evaluate it when they’ve put a little distance between themselves and the crime. We always tell people to search the immediate neighborhood when their car gets broken into. The bag the thief thought might contain something they can sell for drug money turns out to have a wet bathing suit and a soggy towel, or diapers and baby wipes. Or the stuff they scooped out of the glove box or console turns out to be a leather-bound notebook, not a wallet. The thief often dumps the unwanted stuff within a few blocks.” He sighed. “Guess I’ll go back to looking at Dr. Stratton’s.”
“You’ve checked his room?”
“As thoroughly as I know how,” he said. “If Josh hid it there, he did a damned good job of it.”
“You know, Josh might have locked it in his glove compartment that day, especially since he was only going for a short jog. And if he did, maybe his car got broken into while he was off jogging. That would account for the missing phone. You said there was a market for stolen phones, right? And maybe they thought the notebook was one of those wallets that hold a passport and wads of money or something. I know it’s a stretch to think something like that happened at just the right time before his death, but I’ve heard of weirder things.”
“There was no evidence of a break-in, though, and we know Josh always locked his car. While that probably rules out straight theft, it doesn’t rule out foul play. Someone could still have killed him just as he got back inside his car, then made off with his phone and journal.”
Hayden’s heart contracted painfully. “Do you believe that?”
“That’s what my gut is telling me.”
“But how?”
Boyd sighed. “They could have come upon him when he’d unlocked the car and got in, but hadn’t yet turned the ignition on or engaged the locks.”
“Oh, God.” She put her hand to her mouth.
“He probably reached for a bottle of water and a towel to mop his sweaty face. That would give them some time.”
“To what? How could they cause him to arrest on the spot?”
His lips thinned. “Stun gun.”
She flinched.
“Sorry,” he said. “This is gruesome, I know. But I’ve been racking my brain and that’s what I keep coming back to.”
“They’re considered a prohibited weapon here, aren’t they?”
“Absolutely. But we seize more and more of them every year. They’re easy to order online, and if they’re not properly marked on the customs declaration, they can slip past the border.”
Hayden blinked. “Wait . . . if they Tasered him, wouldn’t it have left marks to be found on autopsy? I’ve seen exactly two Tasered patients come through, and they always have puncture wounds from the darts.”
“Police incidents?”
She nodded.
“Most people who go in for these things tend to carry small, easily concealed stun guns, not police-type TASERs. Some are as small as a cell phone. None of them use darts. They’re for close-up self-defense. You pull the trigger to make electricity arc between the metal prongs, then apply it directly to the attacker’s skin or clothing. That kind of contact stun doesn’t leave puncture wounds or bruises, and unless it’s applied directly to the skin, it probably wouldn’t even leave a mark.”
“What kind of mark? A burn, I suppose?”
“Yeah, when it’s used directly on the skin, it can leave a minor burn the same width as the space between the prongs.”
“Because the electricity arcs between the two prongs.”
“Exactly.”
“But not if it was applied through clothing?”
He nodded. “I suppose there might be a bit of a red mark, but not necessarily. And unlike the TASER, it doesn’t make the muscles seize up and immobilize the target, but rather relies on overwhelming pain.”
“Omigod.” She placed her hand on her chest, wondering what that kind of shock would feel like. If Josh were sitting in his car and someone opened his door and applied that shock to his chest . . . “Could the stun gun be fired repeatedly?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I know the literature is inconclusive on electroshock weapons, but I would think that a jolt like that, especially if delivered close to the heart, could easily cause a fatal arrhythmia in someone with LQTS or some other kind of electrical problem. Maybe even someone with a perfectly normal heart, especially if they’d been jogging. Josh would have been hot and tired after his run, needing to replace electrolytes . . .” She looked up at him, horrified. “That could really have happened.”
“Yeah.” He raked a ha
nd through his close-cropped hair, leaving it standing up. “It’s getting harder and harder to believe anything other than foul play. The missing phone is really troubling. And now there’s been definite confirmation of the existence of a journal, which we’ve yet to be able to locate.”
“Have you raised the stun gun possibility with Detective Morgan?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Nor have I told him that both his wife and you can attest to having seen that journal. But I’ve got a call in to him.”
“I’d so much prefer to think it was natural causes, and that someone stole that stuff out of his car. I know that can’t be, because he’d have locked—” Hayden’s eyes widened.
“What?”
“The back door on the passenger side—the lock wasn’t working consistently. We noticed it not long ago when I opened the back door and threw my gear in the backseat before he clicked the locks open. He said he’d make an appointment to get that fixed, but I don’t know whether he ever got it done.”
“I’ll have Morgan look into that, whether the lock works. The car is still at the impound lot.”
She looked up at him, trying to decipher his expression, but she couldn’t tell whether he thought that was good or bad news. “If it’s still on the fritz, doesn’t that mean someone could have stolen his things while he was running?”
“Or someone might have slipped into his backseat.”
Her heart jumped. Oh, God, he was right.
“But it does raise the possibility that it was a simple theft,” he said. “And if so, once the thief realized it was a notebook and not a wallet, they’d probably dump it before they got too far away. When Morgan calls me back, I’ll see what they can do. They already used the police K-9 to search the trails for his phone in case he dropped it during his run, but they wouldn’t have searched the park exits or treed perimeters. Maybe they’ll agree to do another search to see if the notebook turns up.”
“I hope that’s what happened,” she said, hearing the tremor in her voice. “It’s bad enough thinking Josh might have died from natural causes. If someone killed him . . .”
Boyd swore softly. “I’ve upset you again. I shouldn’t have brought that stuff up, especially just before bedtime.”
“It’s okay.” She shook her head. “I mean, if someone killed him—”
“If someone killed him, I’ll see them brought to justice. You can bet on it.”
Looking at him just then, Hayden was inclined to believe him.
“Good night, Hayden. Try to think of more pleasant things.”
“I’ll try.”
He held out his hand. Hayden automatically extended her own hand and it was swallowed in his larger one. He shook it once, then released it. She knew it was more than a good night. It was a promise. If someone were responsible for Josh’s death, he’d find them.
“Good night, Boyd.”
Fifteen minutes later, with her apartment tidied, face washed, and teeth brushed and flossed, she was ready to crawl into bed. Then her phone buzzed. Picking it up off the charger pad, she looked at it.
It was a text message from Boyd. And it read, Home safe.
She laughed out loud and texted back a Thx!
CHAPTER 9
“Thanks, Morgan. Meet you there in twenty.”
As Boyd terminated the call and put his phone down on the polished walnut table, Dr. Sylvia Stratton came up by his right elbow. “Orange juice?”
“Please. That fresh-squeezed stuff is amazing. But you don’t have to wait on me. I can serve myself.”
“No problem. I was getting a refill myself.” After filling his juice glass, she topped up her own, then sat. “Did you enjoy the eggs?”
“I did, ma’am. And you might be onto something with the free-range thing. Much tastier.”
“No surprise that a healthy free-range hen produces a superior egg.” She slipped on her reading glasses and picked up the newspaper, although she made no move to go back to reading it. “And it’s not just tastier, but more nutrient rich and antibiotic-free. Same with grass-fed beef. The beef is actually much richer in omega-3 fatty acids than its grain-fed counterpart.”
“What about free-range pork?” he said hopefully, although he already knew there was no bacon, ham, or sausage available. Dr. Stratton probably frowned on those things. “Is that superior too?”
She lowered her head to slant him a reproving glance over the black-framed reading glasses. “No doubt, but I don’t serve smoked or cured meats, Mr. McBride. The nitrates are very bad for one’s health.”
“Of course.”
“Have you tried the fish? It really is excellent, and the punch of omega-3 gets you off to a good start.”
He managed to suppress a grimace. “I haven’t quite developed a taste for fish at breakfast yet.”
“Yes, it’s a bit of an acquired taste,” she allowed. “Your brother wasn’t much of a fan of it either.”
Boyd went back to eating his breakfast, but he noticed Dr. Stratton still hadn’t gone back to her paper.
“So, how’s it going? Your . . . investigation, for lack of a better word, of your brother’s last days?”
“Fine.” He tossed back the orange juice, then reached for his coffee. If he was going to meet Morgan on time, he’d have to haul ass. “I’m getting to know his friends and coworkers. And you, of course. This house. Sort of reconstructing his time here.”
“And was the Morgan you were arranging to meet just now Detective Morgan?”
He looked up, surprised. “Yes.” He put his coffee cup back down. “I guess he interviewed you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did. He seems a very respectable sort.”
She didn’t add, “For a policeman,” but Boyd heard it just the same. And he could see where she’d be favorably impressed by Morgan’s hundred-dollar haircut and tailored suits. And something told Boyd that Morgan could turn on the charm when he chose.
“Yes, he seems to be a good man,” Boyd said. He thought about telling her what they were going to do this morning, then reeled himself back in. The fewer people who knew, the better. According to Ray Morgan, even the employees at the park had only been told it was a routine training exercise for the K-9. No point getting people stirred up. “He’s indulging me by going over Josh’s file again.”
She smiled. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He swallowed the last of his coffee and stood to go.
“Detective?”
He turned back to the table.
“Would you care to take coffee to your meeting? I have takeaway cups, and I do seem to recall Detective Morgan was partial to my organic coffee with almond milk.”
Ha! He was right. The lofty Dr. Stratton might be devoted to her ailing husband, but she’d obviously taken a shine to Pretty Boy Morgan. Not that he could blame her. Plenty of women went in for that refined, urbane look.
He grinned. “Are you kidding me? He’d love that.”
“Then go get ready. I’ll put on fresh coffee and dig out a pair of take-out cups.”
“Could you stretch it to three?” he asked. “I think one of Morgan’s colleagues will be there.”
“Of course.”
Her smile never faltered, but he sensed she wasn’t pleased he didn’t offer more explanation. Or maybe she wanted an explanation of who the third party was. Too bad for her.
“Almond milk for Detective Morgan, cream for you . . . And how shall I make the third one?”
Boyd suppressed a smile. Yep, she was dying to know who the other party was. Had Morgan brought someone else with him when he’d interviewed her? Well, someone other than a uniformed cop? Sylvia Stratton would never take notice of a mere patrolman. Maybe it was Morgan’s sergeant, John Quigley. And if she had met Quigley, she’d have formed an entirely different impression about him than
she had for Morgan. The sergeant’s suits weren’t just off-the-rack, they looked like they’d been trampled under the rack.
When Boyd came back downstairs seven minutes later, she had three coffees in cardboard cups with tight-fitting covers. In lieu of a take-out tray, she’d stood them in a tall plastic storage container, the kind Boyd used to store plastic lids in until he got so frustrated by never being able to find the right lid that he threw them all away and started again with new containers.
“Be careful with that,” she admonished. “That’s a lot of hot liquid.”
Had Dr. Stratton fussed this way over Josh? And how had he received it? Graciously, no doubt. Boyd would make an effort to do the same. “Yes, ma’am.”
Fifteen minutes later, he rolled into the parking lot at Odell Park. The K-9 unit, a big Ford Expedition, sat idling in the lot, air conditioner running for the dog, while Ray Morgan and a tall, lean woman in summer uniform stood several feet away in the shade.
“You’re late,” Morgan said.
“Yeah, but you’ll forgive the five extra minutes when you see what I brought.”
His eyes lit up. “Starbucks?”
“Better.” Boyd opened the rented Altima’s back door and retrieved the container with the coffees from where he’d propped them behind the driver’s seat. “Sylvia Stratton sends her regards.”
“Organic custom grind,” he breathed reverently. “With organic almond milk?”
“Yeah, she remembered.” Boyd handed Ray the cup with the lid marked A for almond. “You must have made an impression on her.”
He shrugged. “She just appreciates people who appreciate quality.”
“Quite,” he mimicked Dr. Stratton’s voice.
Morgan laughed. “That’s a pretty good imitation of her.” Then he turned to the officer at his side. “Anders, this is Detective Boyd McBride of the Toronto Police Service Homicide Squad. McBride, this is Constable Lori Anders, our K-9 handler.”
She nodded at him. “Sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” He shook the hand she extended to him. Her grip was firm, lacking any bullshit. He liked her right away. “How do you feel about black coffee, Anders?”