Hush (14 page)

“We always take precautions, as you know. But we’ll be extra careful.”

“Thanks, Bob,” she said and hurried past him.

As soon as she entered the apartment, she went through the rooms again, looking for anything askew, her new ritual. Then, after scooping up Smokey, she flopped on the couch and shut her eyes tightly. She needed to turn on the AC but wanted to sit and collect herself for a moment. She felt like she was in some horrible limbo without any sense of what to do next. Smokey nuzzled her hand with his nose, urging her to pet him. His furless body looked unbearably sad to her. Who
did
this to you? she wondered for the umpteenth time. And why?

The intercom buzzer pierced the silence, making her body jerk. She scooted Smokey off her lap and hurried to the hallway.

“Yes,” she blurted.

“Mrs. Warren?” the doorman said.

“Yes, Bob, what is it?”

“The police are here to see you.”

“WHAT?”
LAKE ASKED.
She’d heard him, but his words had nearly knocked her over.

“Two policemen. Detective Hull and…um, Detective McCarty. Oh, and I checked their IDs.”

She stood frozen in place, terrified. Had they managed to place her at Keaton’s apartment? she wondered. Were they going to arrest her? Then she remembered the keys. They would want to follow up with everyone at the clinic about the keys in Maggie’s desk. Please, please, let it be that, she begged silently.

“Uh, you can send them up, Bob,” she said.

Her legs felt like lead but she forced herself to the living room and let her eyes sweep over the room. It was essential, she knew, for her to come across as perfectly normal—a homebody, even hopelessly dull. But since the kids had been away at camp, many of the trappings of family life had been tucked away, and with its melon-colored silk drapes, ceiling-high bookshelves, and wood-
framed landscape paintings, the room looked like it might belong to someone sophisticated and perhaps even posh. Quickly she pulled several books down from a shelf and tossed them onto the bare coffee table. Through the doorway into the family room she could see a Uno box on the card table. She darted in there, grabbed the box, and went back to drop it next to the books. She tossed one of the throw pillows onto the floor and scattered the others around the sofa.

What else? she thought frantically. But just then she heard the doorbell sound. It was too late for anything else.

She walked out into the hall, bracing herself. Suddenly she felt something soft on her bare calf. She glanced down to find Smokey wrapping himself around her leg. Lake clasped her hands to her mouth. She’d forgotten all about him.

She grabbed the cat and raced down to her bedroom.

“Good kitty,” she whispered, dropping him on the bed.

She was shutting the bedroom door when the buzzer rang again, insistent, irritated by the wait. As she made her way back down the hall, she closed her hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

When she opened the door, she almost didn’t recognize the two detectives. Hull had worn his hair slicked back today, maybe because of the heat. McCarty’s face was coated with a sheen of sweat—and there were wet half-moons under each arm of his khaki suit jacket.

“Sorry to disturb you at home,” McCarty said. “But we have a few more questions we’d like to ask you.”

“Of course,” she said, as friendly as she could muster. “Please come in. Can I get you some water—or something else to drink?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hull said brusquely. His tone implied her friendliness was wasted on them.

She led them to the living room and gestured for them to sit
down. They each took an armchair, which left her the couch. As she perched on the edge of it, she saw McCarty take in the Uno box. Did it look calculated, she wondered, like a prop in a play?

“You mentioned the other day that you’d been with the clinic for just a short time,” McCarty said, flipping open his notebook. “How long exactly?”

She lowered her eyes, trying to calculate. It should have been easy to remember, but she was so distracted she could barely think. As she struggled she could hear Hull’s breathing grow louder, as if he were prodding her with a stick.

“Um, sorry,” she said. “Sometimes one day just seems to blur into the next. This is my fourth week.”

“Have you got a calendar here?” McCarty asked. “To double-check it?”

“No, I’m sure of it—I’ve been there just over three weeks. I’ve never worked a whole day there, though. I usually go in for a few hours in the morning—to interview the doctors, read through material, that sort of thing.”

She caught herself overexplaining. Stop saying so much, she scolded herself.

“Anyone there you’ve gotten to know very well?” McCarty asked.

“Not really. I’ve chatted a bit with Maggie, one of the nurses…and the medical assistant, Rory. Also Harry Kline, the therapist. We grabbed a cup of coffee together the other day.”

She felt she should tell them that—they might learn about it from Harry and it would seem odd for Lake to have omitted it.

“What about the doctors?”

“Well, like I said, I’ve interviewed them, and there was the dinner—but that’s all.”

“What’s your impression of Dr. Hoss? Have you spent much time with her?”

Why were they asking about Hoss? she wondered.

“No more than anyone else,” Lake said. “We talked for a few hours one morning about embryology and some of the procedures she’s been doing in the lab.”

“So you haven’t gotten to know any of the doctors personally?”

“No. Oh, wait, I’m forgetting Dr. Salman,” she added clumsily, as if she’d just knocked over a glass of water. “He’s the one who suggested me for the job. His sister and I are old friends from college and I’d known him for years, but not super well.”

Hull sighed, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

“Is that it, then? You’re not suddenly going to remember that someone there is your long lost cousin?”

“No,” she said. She wished she could have walked across the room and squashed something in his face.

McCarty cleared his throat, directing attention back his way. She remembered then that she hadn’t yet switched on the air conditioning and the apartment was warm, almost stifling. The sheen on McCarty’s face was practically glistening now. She wondered if she should jump up and turn it on now—but that might only encourage them to stay longer.

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard the news,” McCarty said, “but it turns out that Maggie Donohue had a set of Dr. Keaton’s keys in her desk drawer. We’re trying to determine if anyone saw them there and took them.”

“Yes, I heard. It’s so upsetting.”

“What is?” Hull asked.

“That someone might have taken them,” she said. “That someone from the clinic could be…the killer.”

“Does it surprise you?”

“Well, yes. I didn’t have much contact with Dr. Keaton, of course, but Maggie told me that everyone seemed to like him.”

“What do you mean, ‘of course’?” Hull asked bluntly.

“Excuse me?” she said. Her heart seemed to stop in her chest.

“You said
of course
you didn’t have much contact with him.”

“Well, like I mentioned, I never worked a full day there. And…since he hadn’t officially joined yet, I hadn’t interviewed him.”

“Did you ever see anyone other than Ms. Donohue going into the drawer?”

“No, not that I recall.”

Hull eyed her as if he found her idiotic.

“Well, if you remember anything, will you let us know?” he said. There was the hint of a smirk on his face.

“Of course,” she said, forcing a polite smile.

“And you never saw Keaton have a confrontation with anyone there?” McCarty asked.

“No.”

If only she could reveal what Keaton had told her about the snag—but she didn’t dare. They would know instantly that she’d been more familiar with him than she had let on.

“How about several months ago?” Hull asked.

“What?” she asked.

“In the late winter. When Dr. Keaton was at the clinic before.”

“But I’ve only been at the clinic for a few weeks,” she said, carefully.

“You weren’t consulting when Dr. Keaton was there back in March?”

“No.” Her head was spinning. It seemed like they were trying to lay traps for her, leading her to the edge of a cliff.

“Let’s switch gears a minute,” McCarty said. “You mentioned the other day that you and Dr. Keaton had spoken about the clinic he’d worked at in L.A. Did he say anything particular about it?”

Where was this going? she wondered fretfully.

“We only spoke about it for a few moments. He said that they had some great marketing strategies.”

“No complaints?” McCarty said. “Nothing negative?”

“No, nothing like that.”

The heat was starting to get to
her
now. She could feel trickles of sweat running down the back of her neck, one chasing the other. But she just sat there, her posture as straight as possible, waiting for the next question. None came. McCarty thumbed back through endless pages of his notebook, perhaps for the notes he’d taken when she was first interviewed. Was he trying to find a contradiction, some new way to trip her up? Hull just sat there, staring at her. She’d heard about this technique. It was called the pregnant pause, wasn’t it?—or the let-them-stew-in-their-own-juices-and-then-see-what-they-spill strategy? Give it time and she would confess to anything, like operating a terrorist cell out of this very apartment.

“You have kids?” Hull said finally.

“Yes. They—” She was about to mention they were away at camp but realized it would be insane to reveal that they hadn’t been around last week. “They’re nine and eleven.”

Hull rose then without a word, as if suddenly bored. McCarty closed his notebook and stood as well. She couldn’t believe they were actually going. She followed them out into the hall, letting a breath finally escape from her lungs.

“Is there anything else?” she said. She regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken them, but relief had left her light-headed.

“Actually, yes,” said Hull.

She almost smiled at how damn stupid she’d been to ask.

“Someone at the clinic mentioned that you’ve been awfully upset since the murder,” Hull continued. “Not yourself. I’m surprised the murder would have disturbed you that much—I mean, since you hardly knew Dr. Keaton.”

Her legs felt suddenly deboned, too soft to stand on.

“Who—who said that?” she asked weakly.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Hull said.

She remembered the ploy she’d used with Harry and decided she had no choice but to try it here, too.

“I
have
been upset—but not just about the murder. I found out last week that my ex is going to fight for full custody of our children. I’ve been beside myself about it.”

Both detectives looked at her without saying a word. She could feel that the entire back of her cotton blouse was soaked now—and there was perspiration above her lips, too. She had to resist the urge to wipe it away.

“That’s gotta be tough,” McCarty said finally.

“Yes. It is.”

Just then a long meow emanated from her bedroom. Followed by another. And then the sound of claws scratching at the door. In unison the two men jerked their heads in that direction.

“Someone doesn’t sound very happy back there,” McCarty said.

“Oh, it’s…my cat. I put him back there when I heard you were coming up.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” McCarty said. “We aren’t allergic, are we, Scott?”

“No. In fact, we’re real kitty lovers,” Hull said with a smirk.

She held her breath. Were they just going to stand there and wait until she let the cat out?

“Maybe you could put the AC on for him at least,” Hull said, shrugging and turning toward the door. “I bet he’s hot as hell.”

A minute later they were gone. She watched through the peephole to make sure they boarded the elevator and then she let Smokey out of the bedroom. He shot down the hall as if his tail had been set on fire.

Lake felt completely spent, and yet frantic, too. She tore off her wet blouse and let it drop in a heap on the bedroom floor. After
flicking on the AC, she hurried to the kitchen and rifled through a drawer for a pad and pen. Then she began to scribble down notes. She didn’t want to forget a word the cops had said.

It was clear from the questions that they were seriously focusing on the clinic—obviously in light of Maggie’s revelation about the keys. But they’d also asked about Keaton’s work at the clinic in L.A. That seemed to mean that they were pursuing other theories simultaneously. And surely by now Levin must have told them about the gambling issue. As she scratched down these notes, Lake recalled their question about Dr. Hoss. What had that meant? she wondered. Did Hoss have a short fling of her own with Keaton—and was it possible she murdered him because he’d dumped her? She didn’t look like the type to accept rejection easily.

But the most disturbing thing had been what they’d said at the end: that someone had reported that Lake had seemed upset since the murder, not herself. The only person who had appeared to pick up on that was Harry. She couldn’t understand why he would have betrayed her. Did he really suspect her? Had he just been pumping her on Sunday, not really concerned about her well-being? She wondered if the cops had bought her explanation for her display of nerves. Or did they already suspect her of having been the one in Keaton’s bed that night? They’d seemed intent on rattling her, going in circles with their questions.

She had to reach Kit Archer. If there was something going on at the clinic, there was a chance he knew what it was. And who else could she ask? She reached for the phone but this time she knew she had to leave a message and pray he called back. So it was a total shock when after three rings, a smooth, deep voice said, “Archer.”

“Mr. Archer,” she said, caught off guard. “My name is Lake Warren. I read the piece you wrote on fertility clinics. Do you have a minute?”

There was a pause as he digested what she’d said.

“Okay,” he replied. “What can I do for you?” He sounded mildly receptive, like a reporter who knew that sometimes leads came from cold calls like this one.

“I was hoping to speak to you—about the same topic.”

“Are you a patient at a clinic?”

“No, I work at one—as a marketing consultant.”

As soon as she said the words, it hit her. She was violating the trust of her employer. But she had no choice, not if she wanted to learn the truth.

“Which one?”

“I—I’d rather not say over the phone. I was hoping we could meet in person.”

“But what exactly do you want to talk about? You’ve got to give me a little more to go on here.”

She hadn’t thought this far ahead. What
did
she want to talk about? Simply the fact that she’d come across his article in a file? That would sound silly.

“You brought up some interesting points in your article,” she said, scrambling. “I’m just worried that there could be irregularities at the clinic I’m working at.”