Wicked Release (24 page)

39

S
everal hours and a nap later, nerves jittered in her belly as Jess left her house, dressed and ready for Elliot's yacht party. Her parents' medical records were tucked inside her clutch—after what happened the night before, she wasn't about to let them out of her sight. Even if they were seemingly unimportant, someone out there was willing to kill for them. And she wanted to know why.

She only had one stop to make before heading over to Elliot's.

She walked into the hospital and went up to Zooey's room. The guard's chair was empty, a book resting where he or she should have been. Jess waited, looking around before knocking quietly in case Zooey was asleep.

From inside the room she heard voices—women's voices. She cracked the door, peeking through. “Hello?”

“Jess? Is that you?” Zooey's voice sounded close to normal and she looked a whole lot better than she had during Jess's last visit. One of her wrists was still bound to the bed, but her hair was brushed and it looked like she even had some lipstick on.

“You're looking better.” Jess grinned and walked through the door, handing her the bouquet of flowers she had bought in the hospital gift shop. A woman sat beside the bed. She had the same dark hair and dark eyes, the same pert nose and bow-shaped lips as Zooey. “How are you feeling?” Jess asked Zooey.

“Not a hundred percent yet, but better,” Zooey said, and smiled shyly. The woman beside her cleared her throat, touching a string of pearls that rested on her delicate neck. “Oh, sorry. This is my mom, Evelyn. Mom, this is Jess—Cass's sister.”

Zooey's mother gave a quick nod and her lips pulled in something that resembled a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” said Jess.

“Exquisite dress,” Evelyn said, taking in Jess's gown, from the sweetheart neckline down to the flared hem. “Givenchy?”

Jess nodded. “Good eye.”

Evelyn's smile split wider—a real smile this time.

“You look beautiful. Off to somewhere special? What am I saying—look at you. Of course you are.”

“I have a party. But I hadn't heard from you in a couple days so I thought I'd come by and say hi.”

“Mom, could you go get me some coffee?” asked Zooey.

“It's four-thirty, you don't need—” said Evelyn.

“Decaf is fine,” Zooey interrupted.

With that, Evelyn nodded and stood, leaving the room. Jess waited an extra moment after the door shut behind her before sliding into her seat. “So how are you really feeling?”

Zooey's head fell back, and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “She's only been here a day and a half and it's already miserable.”

At least you have someone,
Jess thought, but stopped herself before she could become bitterer. “So, I wanted to give you an update, but you cannot tell anyone, okay? A few of us down at the station know you're innocent in this and we're working to clear your name. I'm not going to let you take the fall for this if I can help it—”

“They're claiming I premeditated Rich's murder. That I . . . I . . . like drugged his drink or something insane. Yes, I followed him to the bar, but I was angry and I just pushed him.
Barely
pushed him and he went down and hit his head. I didn't go anywhere near his drink, I swear.”

“I know. We know. And because he was drugged by someone, that's why he went down so easily and so hard when you pushed him. This wasn't your fault.”

“And Cass?” Zooey's eyes welled up with tears, her voice rising into a different octave. “I could never. She was my friend.”

“You don't have an alibi for the night she died?”

Zooey shook her head. “I was home. Alone.”

Jess clasped Zooey's hand. “We're getting close. Just hang in there. And—” Jess looked behind her to make sure no one was near the door, and dropped her voice. “Try to stay here in the hospital as long as possible. As soon as you're well enough, they'll arraign you and transfer you to a jail.”

Her face drained of color and her eyes settled on the wall across the room. “Oh, God. I might go to jail, Jess.”

It was quiet for a moment while Jess worked up the nerve to ask her the uncomfortable question. “Zooey—you said that Rich and my sister were friends, right?”

She nodded, shaking herself out of a daze. “Yeah, but Rich obviously wanted more.”

“Did you ever overhear their conversations?”

“Once or twice, maybe. Why?”

“I think Dr. Brown knew something . . . something about Cass's death or even my parents' deaths. And I think it's what got him killed as well.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I found a note. From Rich to Cass that he had mailed to her the day before she died. He seemed scared. And it included . . . medical records.”

“Medical records?”

“My parents' medical records to be exact.” The silence was thick and seemed to suffocate her. Jess sighed, her shoulders slumping as much as they could with the boning in the gown. “I sound crazy, don't I? I'm sorry—”

“What did they say?”

“What did what say?”

Zooey rolled her eyes. “The medical records. What'd they say?”

“That's the thing. They said nothing important. Just that my dad was dead on arrival to the hospital and my mother had no brain activity. She started to crash and they operated, salvaging her organs for donors before she died. That's it. Oh . . . and apparently it included information on the recipients of her organs. I guess that's a huge violation.”

“Um, yeah. HIPAA laws mandate that they can never release another person's medical records. Do you have the records with you?”

Ignoring the lump in her throat, she reached into her clutch, handing the papers to Zooey. “You know how to read medical stuff, right? Working in pharmaceuticals?”

Zooey took the stack of papers, eyes narrowing as they scanned left to right. “Yeah. I mean, I'm not a doctor or anything, but I know most of the abbreviations.”

The seconds seemed to tick by slowly, each click of the second hand from the clock on the wall like counting down a time bomb about to go off. Zooey got to the last page and flipped it over, looking through the stack once more. “This is all there is?”

Jess nodded.

“Huh.” Zooey clicked her tongue, nibbling on her lip. “Okay. So, what you said was mostly right. Except a couple pretty big details. Doctors do a series of tests when they suspect a patient to be brain-dead—your mother didn't respond to any of the tests . . . except one. Now, sometimes that can just be a discrepancy and mean nothing. Other times, it can mean she still had enough brain activity for it to be justified that she stay on life support.”

“What? You mean she—she could have lived? But why . . . why would they do that? Why would they ignore a test like that !”

“I don't know. Laziness? Arrogance, maybe? Who explained this to you?”

“A doctor at the precinct.”

“And she also said that your mom started crashing, right? That's why they began the operation?” Jess nodded and Zooey gave another thoughtful “hm,” her lips pressed tightly together in thought. “There's nothing in the notes here indicating any sort of medical crash. Her heart was stable, oxygen levels remained okay. She was in a coma, but that wouldn't have justified rushing her into surgery without first notifying the family.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“I don't know. But there's no paperwork with the organ recipients' information here.”

“There's not?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Maybe your doctor friend was mistaken? She got some of the other stuff wrong.”

“Or . . . Or she lied.”

40

J
ess gripped her set of keys so tightly that the jagged edges cut into her palm, leaving indentations. And she didn't even care. She didn't give a damn about the pain. What she did care about was the fact that Christine either lied about her parents' paperwork, stole some of it, or both.

With her free hand, she pulled out her burner phone, calling Sam. “Sam, something weird is going on and I think it's all connected. Call me back.” She hung up quickly, trying to keep her message vague. He claimed his cell wasn't bugged, but that didn't mean that someone wasn't listening in nearby.

The parking lot at the hospital was surprisingly empty for five o'clock on a Friday. She expected more of a hustle and bustle from staffers trying to escape for their weekends. But it was pretty much just her. As she slid her key in to unlock her car door, she glanced up to see a shadowed figure—a man's reflection in her driver's-side window.
Fuck.
Her pepper spray was attached to her keys, which were currently plugged into her car door.

She removed her keys slowly, preparing herself to strike if needed. But as she turned to run, a velvety voice greeted her in a French-Canadian accent.

“Bonjour, Ms. Walters.”

“Gilles.” His name came out in a breathy, panicked way that she quickly tried to recover from. “You startled me.” She hadn't seen the French-Canadian representative that her sister worked with since they ran into each other at Cass's office. And since he'd put in over a million dollar offer on her house.

“My apologies. It was not my intention.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Zooey. A terrible tragedy. It's so hard to believe that someone I trusted . . . worked alongside of for years could be a murderer.”

“Alleged murderer,” Jess corrected.

“I'm surprised to hear you say that. She's a suspect in your sister's case, is she not?”

“Innocent till proven guilty and all that. Don't they teach American law in Canada?”

He chuckled. “My entire knowledge of the American judicial system comes from episodes of
Law & Order
.”

“Sadly, it's probably the same for most US citizens as well. If you believe Zooey to be a murderer, why bother visiting?”

He adjusted the silk pocket square coming to a point out of his suit jacket pocket. “After working together for years, it felt like the right thing to do.” He paused, sliding that hand back into his pocket. “I hope there are no hard feelings about me pulling my offer on the house.”

“No, none at all. It was . . . awfully generous. Well beyond any asking price I would have started at.”

He shrugged, but there was a tightness to his movements. “Don't underestimate that house. Especially with the discovery of the tunnel beneath it. What a fascinating piece of Portland history you have there. Do you know the story behind the tunnels?”

Jess shook her head.

“Well,” he continued, “it was said that the very wealthy and some of the high-end hotels had tunnels built below their buildings that connected to various theaters and restaurants around the city. The reason being, that it was so cold in the winters, it was a way for the wealthy to get home from the opera and remain warm.” He smiled at this piece of history—one that Jess had never heard before. “It came back into use during Prohibition, too, as you can imagine.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting?” he asked incredulously. “No, my dear Jessica, it is
fascinating.
” Jess studied the man. A man her sister worked with at the pharmaceutical company. A man who worked as her Canadian rep and whom she would travel with frequently. What were the chances that this was exactly who she was looking for? The man in her house last night didn't have an accent . . . but who knew if Gilles's accent was even real? But even if he
was
the man she was looking for, all she had were worthless suspicions and zero evidence to support them.

“Funny, I just assumed the widespread news and discovery of the tunnel is why you pulled out of your offer.” If he was in the drug ring, that would be one hundred percent true. No access to the wharf means no easy transport for the drugs, therefore no justification for overpaying for her little pink house.

“You know . . . most people would think having a tunnel in their basement would be a safety issue.”

“Oh, no. Quite the contrary. I found the house rich with history and style. Your sister's renovation maintained its historical essence, but in such an elegantly modern way.”

“So, if you don't mind my asking . . . why did you pull your offer?”

A flush stained the apples of his cheek and for the first time since Jess had met this man, he seemed embarrassed. Unsure of himself, whereas he usually walked around with his nose in the air. He was so high on his horse, Jess was surprised he could see anyone else from way up there.

“I come from an affluent family,” Gilles admitted, dropping his voice. “I always have. But . . . my grandmother recently passed away. She left me most of her fortune. It's all perfectly well documented. But a couple days ago, my family filed a suit. They don't think it's fair that I got the entire inheritance. I visited her every week. I played bridge with her. I made sure she was well cared for in that home. The rest of those vultures only saw her twice a year on holidays. They couldn't even tell me when her birthday was if I asked them.” His lips thinned and anger flashed in his eyes. “They put a lien on my accounts. I can't access anything until this is all sorted.”

“I'm sorry,” Jess said. Either this man was a good liar, or he really was telling the truth. “You really cared about her.”

“I did,” he said, and nodded. “In any case, it seems my financial situation has changed. At least until my lawyer sorts all this out.”

“Well, if you want to resubmit a lower offer once you get your financials sorted, come back and we'll talk.”

“Yes?”

“Sure. Well, I should get going.” She gestured to her car. “And you should get up there to see Zooey.”

He nodded and turned toward the hospital.

“Mr.—um, Gilles!” Jess called after him. He paused, turning back toward her. “One more question. Why did you put in such a high offer in the first place?”

“Because I had plenty of money. It wasn't an issue to go over the asking price. What's an extra three hundred thousand dollars when you have millions?”

Jess left Sam another voice mail, this time asking if he had the ability to look up financial records for a Canadian citizen. She spelled out Gilles's name for him.
Dammit.
Why the hell wasn't he calling her back?

She threw her car into reverse and drove back to the precinct, pleased to find a spot right across the street. Just as she was about to shut off her engine, Christine exited the precinct. And clutched in her pretty, manicured hand was the insulated cooler from her exam room. The one in which she had organs on ice. Jess cringed at the sight.
What the hell is she doing leaving with that? Even if it was cleaned out and sanitized, why would you want to bring that home with you?

Christine slid it on the floor of the backseat of her car before getting in and driving off. Jess backed out of her space and slipped into the street, following a couple of cars behind.

Christine took several turns, but luckily it was rush hour and no matter what streets she went down, there was always a steady stream of vehicles on the road. Jess didn't think she was spotted. And her little Subaru didn't really stand out as anything flashy around town. In New England, nearly everyone drove an Outback.

Christine pulled into the Casco Bay Ferry parking lot. Jess made sure to drive past and then skidded into a parking lot across the street.

She threw her car into park and jumped out, rushing to keep Christine in her sight. Jess dodged a car, crossing the street and pressing herself against the wall of a neighboring pub, peered out from around the side. Christine grabbed the cooler from her backseat and then sat on a bench overlooking the water. She crossed her knees, pulled out a book and started reading.

What the hell was going on? Something was in that cooler; Jess could feel it.

Jess ran inside the pub, her heart skipping as she saw an empty table right next to the window facing Christine's bench. She tucked herself into the seat, careful to slide the chair back so that she could pull herself out of view of the window in the event that Christine looked up in her direction.

The watching and waiting grew tedious. Her eyes felt heavy and Jess found herself wishing she'd brought a book to read as well. Something to read; anything to keep herself awake. After almost twenty minutes, Christine put her book down and grabbed her cell phone from her purse. There was a lot of nodding from Christine and Jess squinted her eyes, wishing she could read lips. Christine's dark eyes scanned the dock and just before her eyes landed on the pub, Jess arched her back, stretching out of view. Was anyone in here? Had someone spotted her? Not a single person was on their cell phone, taking a call, though a couple people were texting. The casual pub was mostly filled with a young happy hour crowd. Jeans, T-shirts, a few business suits, but unfortunately nothing nearly as fancy as the gown she was wearing. Jess stuck out more than a hitchhiker's thumb. She glanced out the window again, just in time to see Christine leaving the bench and getting into her car. The cooler sat at the foot of the bench. It was a drop-off.

Jess grabbed her clutch, running for the door as soon as Christine's car sped away. She stumbled on the uneven sidewalk, cursing the beautiful Jimmy Choos Dane had given her, and then fell to her knees in front of the cooler. A note was taped to the top inside a six-by-nine envelope. Jess grabbed it, looking around at her surroundings before yanking the papers out of the envelope.

After reading the note Jess unfolded the rest of the papers.
Her
papers. Or more accurately, a list of the people her mother's organs had gone to.

Jess scrambled for her burner phone, nearly dropping it while dialing Sam yet again. “Sam McCloskey. You need to call me back. Now. Immediately. I'm down at the Casco Bay Ferry. Come now.” She hung up quickly, still clutching her phone as she scanned the names of the patients. Nothing was ringing any bells. Flipping through the pages, she read the log of doctors and nurses and interns who were a part of her mother's surgery. When she came upon a series of names she did recognize, her heart leapt into her throat and she could hear the whooshing of blood pulsing through her brain.

Dr. Adams had been her mother's surgeon that night. The surgeon who made the call to operate and harvest her organs. He had three interns on the case with him—two who scrubbed in alongside of him: Dr. Marcus Moore and Dr. Christine Lee. The third intern who did not scrub in was Dr. Richard Brown.

A wave of searing hot pins and needles pricked her body and stars flooded her vision. She scanned the donor recipient list once again.

And there it was. A name that she wouldn't have recognized without first looking at the names of the doctors: Nancy Adams. Adams—a shared last name. His wife or daughter?

“You motherfucker,” she said. “You killed my mother to get her organs.”

Jess shoved the paperwork into her clutch and, with shaking hands, opened the cooler. There, on ice, was Dylan's heart.

The smell of fresh blood slammed into her, rocking her senses and for a moment, Jess was certain she'd pass out. She shut the lid again, locking it. Her phone, still clutched in her sweaty palm, vibrated and she quickly answered it.

“Sam, where the hell have you been—”

But it wasn't Sam. There was heavy breathing on the line and then a song started playing. The lyrics and melody of “Witchy Woman” flooded her ears. As Jess pulled the phone back to look at the number, a needle pierced her neck. While everything around her faded, one thing was still clear—the sight of Elliot's yacht floating before her. Then the world went dark.