Dead Ringer: Chapter Twenty-One
Go here to read Chapter Twenty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I left Weston Roper a badly shaken man and called Mark from the car, threading my way through early evening traffic.
“Hey,” he said.
“Have you talked to Will?”
“I haven’t.”
“He confirms Rachel’s death as a homicide.”
Mark let out a long, slow breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
“Fentanyl overdose most likely administered through her IV.”
“God, that’s awful. How is Weston taking it?”
“About how you’d imagine. I think he’s pretty blown apart,” I said.
“So what are you thinking?”
“Well, I feel like the key to all this is probably Rachel’s daughter, you know? And I’m thinking someone didn’t want the truth about her coming out.”
“You mean someone who fathered a child with a drugged-up fifteen-year-old he’d raped,” Mark said.
“Or somebody close to him? Whoever it is would have a lot to lose if the truth comes out. And it’s definitely someone who knows their way around medical procedures.”
“So…doctor, nurse, EMT,” he said.
“Yeah, although not necessarily. An orderly or custodian could learn just by watching. I mean, I could probably do it, stick a needle into the silicone port and push. But this was also someone who had access to fentanyl, that might be another story. There’s extremely strict protocol with those controlled substances.”
“Unless it was gotten illegally.”
“True,” I said.
“What’s your plan?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m going to catch up with Will and see if he has any other discoveries or insights. And I want to at least touch base with Chad Miller. Not looking forward to that conversation. And then I guess I start looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack and see if I can find Rachel’s daughter.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what to tell you about that. Those adoption records are kept sealed tighter than Fort Knox. And, sorry about Chad. We had a bit of a run-in last year. But be sure to let me know if you need anything from me. And good luck. You’ve got this, Blainey,” he added.
I don’t mind saying I was grateful for his ‘atta girl.’ I was having a hard time keeping my emotions from interfering with any rational thought processes. Rachel’s death had triggered a whole truckload of guilt about Tari’s suicide, which in turn was connected to feelings of guilt about my parents dying and my brother’s addictions. I know, I know, but it doesn’t have to make sense, right? Rationally, I was fully aware those feelings were in part due to the magical thinking that we are somehow in control and can stop bad things from happening to people we care about. I should know better by now.
And yet, I remained stubbornly haunted by the suspicion I could have, should have done more — for my mom and dad, for my brother Sean. For Tari. I knew what Weston was feeling, because I’d felt it, too. “If I’d only…”
It was nearly six-thirty and too late to call Chad Miller. I’d have to catch up with him in the morning, a task I was glad to put off. In the meantime, I had some questions for Will Keating. Nothing that couldn’t keep, but…I had to admit, I wanted to see him again. He carried some kind of spark, some energy I wanted to be next to. It wasn’t sexual. Well, at least not totally, not like what happened when Guy Trubiano turned his warm gaze on me.
No, Will Keating didn’t generate body heat. But he did set something humming. I slid the Civic into the garage and decided to call him before I lost my nerve.
Dropping my tote bag and a handful of mail on the kitchen table, I dialed his number and stood twirling the phone cord through my fingers like a schoolgirl as I pressed the handset against my ear.
“Hey,” he answered on the third ring.
“Hey, it’s Blainey. Where are you?” I asked.
“None of your goddamn business,” he said, and I could hear the wicked little smile on his face.
“Are you free right now? Can you meet me for a drink?”
“Fuck off.” He revved a motor that sounded like a drill or a saw blade.
I laughed. “Okay, Sicko, I’m going to take that as a yes.”
“Where and when?” He did not sound disappointed to hear from me.
I gave him the address for McGill’s. “Meet me there in an hour,” I said.
Catching glimpses of my body in the mirror as I changed into jeans and a tank top, I paused to look myself in the eye. “Stop it,” I said.
“Mind your own beeswax,” the reflection snapped back.
The sun was still high when I backed out of my driveway, although shadows were beginning to lengthen. I’d left some outside lights on. I planned to be home well after dark.