Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(14)

“I been feelin’ you out, Foster,” Lonergan said, a sour look on his face. “So far, I’m not likin’ what I’m seein’.” He turned and walked away down the hall. Where to, she didn’t know or care.

“Same here,” she muttered. She walked over to the nurses’ station and flagged someone at the desk. “Would you mind paging Dr. Santos, please?”



When Santos returned, he didn’t look overjoyed to see them again, and he appeared even more fatigued than he had an hour earlier, his hooded eyes bloodshot and tired but still sharp, like he’d gotten used to running on empty.

Foster pulled out her notebook and searched for a pen in her bag, readying herself for as much as Santos could give them on Ainsley’s status.

“So what can you tell us?” she asked.

Lonergan sniffed and adjusted his belt. “Yeah, what the hell’s he on? And how soon can we drag him out of here?”

Santos frowned. “Drag him out?”

“You expect us to call a limo?”

Santos turned to Foster with a look of disbelief. “A quick report,” she said. “A discharge, if he’s ready, and then we can take it from there.”

Santos begrudgingly pulled up the details on his iPad. “Keith Ainsley, nineteen. Black male, A-one condition, no seizure, no TIA. BAC 0.02, so not a factor.” He looked up at Lonergan. “That’s blood alcohol content, by the way.”

Lonergan flushed. “Do I look like some rube to you?”

Santos opened his mouth to answer, but Foster jumped in. “Please, continue.”

“The only drug we found in his system was Klonopin, which explains the unconsciousness, the grogginess, and now the confusion afterward. He told me he’s premed at Feinberg. Klonopin or something like it isn’t uncommon, given the workload. The stress. The kids call it K-pin. It’s clonazepam. In the benzodiazepine family of drugs. Used as an antiseizure med but also prescribed for panic attacks. It calms the brain, the nerves. Highly addictive after long use.” He sighed. “He denies taking it, but everybody who comes in here high on something denies taking whatever they took.”

“Sounds about right,” Lonergan quipped.

Santos slid him a look. “I’ve seen Klonopin used to combat insomnia too. Not what it was intended for, but that never stops anyone, ever. It’s like Ambien or similar type drugs. But I couldn’t find any reason why he’d need to take anything. Like I said, he’s A-one. All tests negative for anything else.” He punched the iPad, his bit done. “That’s what we got. He’s awake. He’s coming out of his brain fog. He’s all yours.”

“Now was that so hard?” Lonergan poked.

Foster looked down at her shoes, at the thin layer of mud around the toes and heels, and then leveled her gaze. “Doctor, when they collected his clothes, did you notice if there was mud on his shoes?”

“I didn’t see any mud.”

Lonergan’s eyes narrowed. “You answered pretty quick. You sure?”

“I’d remember mud if there’d been any.”

She’d squatted next to Birch’s body, her heels sinking into the damp earth. There was mud on her shoes now. She glanced over. And on Lonergan’s. She quickly ducked back into Ainsley’s bay, Lonergan right behind her. The kid’s eyes were puffy. He’d been crying.

“One more question,” Foster said. “Were you prescribed Klonopin, or did you take it on your own?” For a moment, it looked like he wouldn’t answer, but Foster moved closer to the bed, waiting. “Keith?”

He turned his head away from her. “I don’t do drugs.”

“When they brought you in, there was alcohol and Klonopin in your system. How do you explain that?”

He laid his head back against the pillow, utter despair clouding his face. “I think I had a beer? I think I was at a place?” He lifted up forcefully. “But I don’t do drugs. And I’m not saying anything else until I talk to my parents.”

The two stepped out of the bay again, moving away from the curtain. Santos was still standing there.

“He coulda knocked the mud off his shoes,” Lonergan said. “He coulda wiped them on the grass or rinsed ’em off in the river.”

Foster put her notebook away. “Or he was nowhere near Birch’s body.”

“We’ll settle it in an interview room. He’s conscious; he’s ours.” Lonergan cocked a thumb toward Santos. “Unless the good doc here would like to run him a nice, hot shower? Bring him a cookie?”

“Unbelievable,” Santos muttered as he stormed off. “Cops.”

“What’s his problem?”

Assuming the question was rhetorical, Foster ignored it and instead asked one of her own. “Can we help Peggy Birch now?”





CHAPTER 7


She plopped down into her desk chair, not liking the setup any more than she had several hours ago when she’d first laid eyes on it. The chair squeaked and was set a bit too high, so her knees bumped the underside. Not a big deal but a deal she didn’t have time for now. Keith Ainsley was in an interview room waiting for them to come in, but she’d needed a moment to decompress. He’d called his parents. They were on their way in. The blood on his jacket and the lack of mud on his shoes didn’t go together. Unless he’d wet the shoes? If so, maybe Lonergan, as ham fisted as he was, had pegged it right. But could Ainsley, under the influence, have had the time and wherewithal to rinse his muddy soles in the river?