Don't Go (29 page)

Mike had to call Don about the bangle. He could have called from the house, but he had practically fled. He reached for his BlackBerry, but he didn’t start the car because he couldn’t negotiate driving and dialing with one hand. He pressed in Don’s number and composed himself while the call connected. “Don, how are you doing, buddy?”

“Hanging in.” Don sounded better than last night. “How’re you?”

“Fine, thanks. Did you hear anything new from the cops?”

“No, or the ADA either. I called twice about MacFarland, and they said they’ll look into it.”

“Good. Listen, I found something else that could help.” Mike told him about the bangle, which was in its Kleenex inside his parka. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but it’s possible there’s fingerprints on it, or they can investigate stores that sell them.”

“Great job.” Don perked up. “Call me and tell me what they say about it.”

“Will do. You need anything? I’m out and about.”

“No, thanks, I’m about to leave. My sister’s in from Switzerland, and we’re going to buy a casket. You know how that goes.”

“Sure, it’s good you have family with you.”

“It is?” Don chuckled, sadly. “I can’t pee without someone asking me how I am. Plus there’s reporters out front.”

“Jerks.” Mike felt terrible for him, especially with the kids. “Want me to come run ’em over? The cops can put it on my tab.”

Don snorted. “Well, I gotta go. Stay in touch, buddy.”

“You too. Take care. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Don said, and Mike hung up.

Later, Mike hurried up the walkway to Clifton Police Administration Building with his head down, passing the media camped out on the sidewalk. He reached the entrance and went inside the lobby, where two young girls in sweats texted away on iPhones. He went to the window on the right, where a police officer was reading the newspaper.

“May I help you?” the officer asked, looking up. He had dark hair, a strong nose, and round brown eyes with dark circles underneath. His nameplate read Ofc. Garabedian.

“Yes, my name is Mike Scanlon and I have some information about the Sara Hambera murder. I was here last night, meeting with Jane Marcinko, and I’d like to see her or someone else about it.”

“So you have a tip?”

“No, I have evidence. Is Ms. Marcinko here?”

“Their offices are in the municipal building. Are you claiming the reward?”

“No, I don’t want any reward.” Mike hadn’t realized there was one. “I want to turn in the evidence and talk to whoever’s on the case about it. Can I come in?”

“Hold on a sec, be right back. I gotta see who’s assigned.”

“Thanks.” Mike watched as the officer left the window. The squad room looked almost empty, with two officers at their cubicles. One was on the telephone, and the other was looking toward the reception window. In the next moment, Mike recognized him. “Officer Torno?”

“Dr. Scanlon.” Officer Torno rose from his desk chair, hitching up his thick utility belt, heavy with a radio, gun holster, and black baton. He walked to the window with a slight smile. “You feeling better today?”

“Yes, thanks.” Mike wasn’t sure what he meant, but took it at face value. “Aren’t you with the Wilberg police? How come you’re in Clifton?”

“This is my home department. I’m only there part-time. Most of the smaller districts around here share police, if they can’t justify the expense of a full-time force.” Officer Torno cocked his head. He wasn’t wearing his hat, and his hair was in a brush cut. “So what brings you here today?”

“It’s about Sara Hambera’s murder. I was here with Bob Ridgeway, my lawyer, last night. We met with Jane Marcinko, the Assistant District Attorney, about the case.”

Officer Torno looked surprised. “You met with her here, after you were booked?”

“Yes, and now I found something I think might be evidence.”

“Really.” Officer Torno moderated his tone, as if Mike were a nutcase.

“Yes, I wanted to turn it in, talk to somebody about the case. Do you know who’s assigned?”

“We don’t give out that sort of information, Dr. Scanlon, sorry.”

“Officer Garabedian went to find them, I think.” Mike was starting to worry about time. He didn’t want to be late for Jim. “Unfortunately, I have to get going. I have an appointment.”

“How about I receive the evidence? I’ll give it to the assigned officers and have one of them call you.”

“Thanks so much. Want to buzz me in?” Mike went to the door, pushed it open when it buzzed, and took the bracelet out of his jacket pocket. Officer Torno fished through one of the desk drawers, found a large manila envelope and a white slip, then met him at the desk.

“Okay, what do you have?” Officer Torno opened the manila envelope, and Mike handed him the bangle in its Kleenex.

“It’s an eighteen-karat gold bracelet that I found in my wife’s jewelry box. I’m hoping that it could be evidence, if it was given to her by the man who killed Sara Hambera.”

“I see.” Officer Torno picked up the bracelet by the Kleenex, put it in the envelope, and sealed it then gave him a form and a pen. “Please sign the slip to establish the chain of custody and write down your contact information. Include your operator’s number from your driver’s license and your cell number.”

“Will do.” Mike dug in his pocket, produced his wallet, and copied his operator’s number from his ID, then flipped the wallet closed and put it away. He handed the completed form to Officer Torno. “Here we go. I’ll expect a call from the assigning officers.”

“Take care, Doc.”

“Thanks.” Mike left the squad room, walked out of the waiting room, and pressed through the glass exit door, where reporters and cameramen swarmed him, holding videocameras to their shoulders, the black lenses pointed at him.

“Dr. Scanlon, Dr. Scanlon!” they shouted, all trying to get his attention at once. “Dr. Scanlon, what is the evidence you just turned in on the Hambera murder? Is it the murder weapon? What information do you have? Are you claiming the reward?”

“What? Huh?” Mike stepped back, confused. He had no idea how they had this information, much less knew his name. Klieglights went on behind the videocameras, and he put up his hand to shield his eyes.

“Dr. Scanlon, why did you talk to the police? What is your involvement in the Hambera case? It was the knife, wasn’t it? Where did you find it? How did you find it?”

“No comment, I have no comment.” Mike edged back from the throng, and his mouth went dry when he spotted two young girls at the fringe. They were the ones who’d been in the waiting room, texting on their iPhones. He had assumed they were teenagers, but they must’ve been freelancers or stringers.

“Dr. Scanlon, where do you live? Who are you? What is your involvement in this case? What evidence do you have?”

“Please, move.” Mike tried to press his way through the crowd, but they blocked his path, surrounding him. A panic he couldn’t explain tightened his chest. “Excuse me, I have to go. You’re in my way.”

“Dr. Scanlon, was it the knife or something else?” The reporters closed in. “You have information about the Hambera murder? Please, it would just take a minute!”

“Move, please!” Mike felt trapped, and his heart beat faster. He broke a sweat despite the cold. Cameras zoomed only inches from his face. “Hey, watch it. Move!”

“Dr. Scanlon, where do you work? Where do you live? Did you know Sara Hambera? Do you have any leads in the case?”

“Let me go!” Mike turned to try to go forward, but somebody shoved a camera in his face and he batted it away. “Get the camera out of my face. I said I have no comment. No comment!”

“Dr. Scanlon, look this way! Just a minute, please!”

Mike charged forward, putting his hand ahead of him. His heart thudded in his chest. He was having a full-blown panic attack. He barreled down the sidewalk, but the reporters ran backwards, filming him and shouting questions.

“Dr. Scanlon, what evidence do you have in the Sara Hambera murder? Please, a comment!” A photographer jostled Mike’s left side, and agony arced through his stump, reverberating all the way to his neck.

“Get away from me!” Mike swung back reflexively, knocking a camera to the snow. He broke free of the crowd and raced down the sidewalk, his empty sleeve flying.

Chapter Fifty-four

Mike headed for the back door of his office building, which they left unlocked when they worked on weekends. The drive had given him time to compose himself, though his shirt felt clammy from flop sweat under his parka. He’d taken an Oxy, which helped. He entered the building, expecting a hallway, but it was gone. In its place was a large door with gold lettering that read
LYON & HAGGERTY, SPECIALISTS IN ADOLESCENT SPORTS MEDICINE
. Above was a laser-printed sign,
WELCOME HOME, MEDAL-WINNER DR. MIKE! WE SALUTE YOUR COURAGE AND SERVICE!
Mike twisted the doorknob and went inside, where even the half-sized waiting room for Suburban Foot & Ankle had disappeared. The new one was spacious and sparkling, its peach-colored walls lined with team photos.

“Hi, I’m Carly. May I help you, sir?” asked a youngish receptionist.

“I’m Mike Scanlon, and Jim is expecting me. You’re working on a Sunday?”

“I come in to catch up, and so do the docs. It’s the only time we get anything done.” Carly smiled. “Hang on a sec, I’ll take you to Jim’s office.”

“Thank you.” Mike went to the door and followed Carly past walls blanketed with team photos from Pop Warner, peewee football, and travel soccer. “Hitting the youth market, huh?”

“Pardon?” Carly turned her head around, and her ponytail swung.

“Nothing,” Mike answered, as she led him to the door at the end of the hall.

“Jim?” Carly knocked on the door. “Dr. Scanlon is here.”

“Come in!” Jim called out, and the door opened quickly, “Mike, welcome! Carly, this is the famous Mike Scanlon, who worked here before his deployment. He’s a genuine war hero, did you realize that?”

“Oh no!” Carly grimaced. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were just a friend.”

“Stop with the hero stuff, Jim.” Mike never felt less of a hero than now, after he’d fallen asleep on Emily and gotten spooked by a couple of reporters.

“Come on, you got two medals!” Jim steered him into the office and gestured at a cushy blue chair across from his new desk, a glistening slab of glass atop a walnut pedestal.

“So you got your office back. Way to go.” Mike took a seat and unzipped his jacket, but didn’t unstick his sleeve from the pocket.

“Right, so how’re you doing?” Jim crossed in front of a wall of diplomas and an array of commendations, above bookshelves crowded with medical journals and plastic models. He flopped into his desk chair, opened a drawer, and produced a bottle of Scotch with an elegant black-framed label. “Here’s my new hobby. The Macallan Estate Reserve, a limited edition bottling, notes of citrus and wood, with a spicy finish. Guess how much it cost. Two hundred bucks a bottle.”

“What?” Mike scoffed. “Macallan’s like fifty bucks.”

“That’s not the good stuff. I’m a collector now, I don’t drink anything else, and it’s
The
Macallan. You have to say the
The
. And you sip it, you don’t guzzle it.” Jim took a glass tumbler from the drawer, blew in it, then uncapped the bottle. “Join me. Lyon will be late, he’s always late.”

“No thanks. I’m on meds, and I wouldn’t taste the difference anyway.”

“You would, too.” Jim poured himself some, sipped it, and smiled with satisfaction. “Mmm, that’s so good. I want to go to Scotland, see where it’s brewed, in the Highlands.” His expression changed, growing serious. “I heard about Sara’s murder and I couldn’t believe it. I was like, in Clifton? That’s the safest place ever.”

“I know, it’s awful.”

“What do the police say? Do they have any suspects?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s a helluva thing to come home to, as if you didn’t have enough on your plate. Sheesh.” Jim sipped his Scotch. “So what’s going on? You okay, after Chloe, or is it tough? Laura’s dying to fix you up.”

“You want to know the truth?” Mike realized he needed to confide in someone. “While I was away, I found out Chloe was cheating on me. She was even pregnant when she died.”

“
What?
” Jim’s eyes flared, and Mike told him about the autopsy report, the Mac702 emails, Pat MacFarland, and his own arrest.

“They
booked
you? You can’t hit a guy for sleeping with your wife? What’s this country coming to?”

Mike couldn’t manage a smile. “So what do you think? Do you think Sara’s murder and Chloe’s affair are connected? Do you think Sara was killed to keep her quiet? I think I’m onto something, with that bangle.”

“I’d leave it to the police, if I were you. You got your own problems. I can’t believe that about Chloe. Man, you must be sick over it.”

“I was, but now I know why she did it. She was depressed because I was away.”

“I was over there when they did the article, and she seemed fine.”

“What article?”

“There was an article we ran to promote the practice, talking you up. We had a freelancer interview Chloe and take some pictures. Didn’t she mention it?”

“No, not that I remember.”

“Anyway, I didn’t see any liquor around and I never heard about any guy, other than Bob.” Jim paused. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but is it possible that Bob was her, uh, boyfriend?”

“My brother-in-law?” Mike recoiled, incredulous.

“Why not? He’s still a guy. Chloe was the pretty one, and he’s not blind.”

“You think Chloe would sleep with her sister’s
husband
?”

“Look don’t get all bent out of shape.” Jim leaned back, putting up his hands. “Stranger things have happened. It’s the suburbs.”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and Jim rose as Rick Lyon came in, extending a hand to Mike.

“Hi, you must be Mike Scanlon. Welcome back, and thank you for your service to our country.” Lyon was short and stocky, with wire-rimmed glasses, dark brown eyes, and a head of thick black curls. “I’m proud to meet a real war hero.”

“You still haven’t.” Mike could feel his face aflame, and Lyon turned to Jim with a smile.