Cavanaugh on Duty(14)

Well, that certainly narrows it down, Kari thought. After all, what are the odds that there’s more than one hospital in the area within walking distance?

“Hey, Hyphen,” Esteban called to her. “Come look at this.”

She saw that look of curiosity flicker in Meyers’s eyes. However, she was not about to enlighten the stranger about her deplorable nickname.

Instead, she told the man, “Thanks. If we need anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Meyers dug in his heels. “That’s okay...I can hang around for a while,” he told her, craning his neck to see what it was that the other detective had found.

Some people, Kari decided, had to be beaten over the head before they took the hint.

“No, you can’t,” Kari informed him with a smile. “We’ll take it from here.” She left no room for argument, although Meyers did look as if he really wanted to convince her to let him stay.

But after a moment, the man sighed and retreated.

Only once the man was out of the apartment did she turn to go and find her partner. But by then, Esteban had evidently grown tired of waiting and had returned to the living room to show her what he’d found.

He was carrying a small black binder that looked as if it had seen years of wear and tear. When he came closer, she saw that the spine appeared to be slightly cracked down the middle.

“Find a secret diary?” she asked, only half joking.

On the job only a few years, she’d learned not to be surprised by anything. The man thought to be a saint could very easily turn out to be a sinner of the highest caliber.

But not today, she learned as Esteban answered her question.

“No, I found his address book.” He held it out to her. “From the faded ink and coffee stains on it, I’d say it’s probably a few decades old, if not more.”

She took the book from him and perused a few pages. “A lot of the entries are crossed out,” she noticed, then raised her eyes to Esteban’s. “People he’s not speaking to anymore?”

“Or people who’ve moved or died” came Esteban’s reply.

Kari thumbed through a few more pages, then threw out a few far-out ideas. “Maybe he ‘helped’ those people to die. His murder could be someone’s idea of payback—or justice,” she pointed out. “That could explain the crude drawing of the scales of justice on his shirt.”

Esteban inclined his head. “It’s possible,” he allowed, although he didn’t look all that convinced. Taking back the book, he picked up where she’d left off paging through it. “Looks like he’s got a relative in New York. A Sandra Reynolds.”

“Could be a daughter or a sister,” she speculated. “If Reynolds worked for the post office, we can get next of kin information from them. Nice work,” she commented, nodding at the address book.

Rather than welcome the compliment, Esteban shot her a derisive look. “I don’t need to be patted on my head like an overeager, wet-behind-the-ears recruit every time I do something you approve of.”

Wow, she thought. That’s some chip you have on your shoulder.

“Fine,” she told him out loud. “Next time I’ll just hit you with a stick.” She tucked the book into her oversize purse, planning to go through it more thoroughly once she had it logged in as evidence. “Meanwhile, I thought we’d go pay Little Sisters of Mercy a call.”

He maintained an apartment here, but it had been years since he’d lived in the area. The terrain, which had undergone changes, was somewhat unfamiliar to him now.

“You mean the hospital?” he asked, trying to place a location in his mind.

“No, the strip club,” she quipped. “Of course the hospital. From what I could ascertain from Meyers, our dead former mail carrier volunteered there. Maybe hospital personnel could enlighten us about any relationships he had that might have caused him to wind up being gift-wrapped in a rug.”

“Worth a try.” Esteban gestured for her to lead the way out of the apartment. “You’re the one driving,” he reminded her.

It almost sounded to her as if he didn’t want to get behind the wheel. That didn’t jibe with the macho image she recalled, so she decided to bait him just a little.

“Yes, but I’m not a fanatic about it. Anytime you want to relieve me and drive for a while, just say the word.”

When he looked over at her, she had the impression that he’d guessed at her elementary strategy.

“I’ve got no problem with you driving,” he informed her mildly.

Yes, but I have a problem with you not having a problem, she mused to herself, heading toward the elevator.

* * *

Patty Simon, the older woman in charge of keeping track and scheduling the hospital’s volunteers, looked somewhat leery when they asked about William Reynolds’s work history. As it turned out, she was a self-professed procedural-TV junky who had logged in hundreds of hours watching every program devoted even in some minor way to the field of forensic science. Patty initially answered all their questions without incident, but then she suddenly burst into tears midway through the interview.

“Something happened to him, didn’t it?” Patty cried, figuring out the reason behind all the veiled questions about William Reynolds.

Her interest instantly piqued—this could all be an elaborate performance—Kari asked, “What makes you say that?”

Instead of a direct answer, Patty sobbed, “It’s all my fault. My fault.”

Kari exchanged looks with Esteban. Could it be this easy? She sincerely doubted it, but sometimes the gods did smile down on poor, hardworking detectives.

“Go on,” Kari coaxed the woman. “Why is it your fault?”

“Then he is dead,” Patty lamented. Fresh tears slid down her rounded cheeks. “It’s my fault because he’d finally asked me out. We were going to that new restaurant on Von Karmen this Friday.” Rolling her eyes heavenward, she made no effort to stifle her sobs. “I have the worst luck with men. The last man who asked me out was in this awful car wreck. And another man canceled his date with me because he was suddenly facing a major audit by the IRS.”

Stifling a hiccup, Patty dug into the pocket of her pink smock and pulled out a crumpled tissue. She used it to wipe her eyes. “I’m like Typhoid Mary. I’ve got to find a way to discourage men from asking me out....”

From where she was standing, the older woman did not appear to be a femme fatale. It really did take all kinds, Kari thought.

“You work on that,” she told the other woman. “Meanwhile, is there anything you can tell us about Mr. Reynolds?”

“Only that he was a sweet, wonderful man who always had a smile. Can you tell me what happened to him?” she asked, her eyes all but eagerly begging for details. She looked from her to Esteban, hoping one of them would tell her.

“I’m afraid not,” Kari said gently. “We can’t give out any details on an ongoing investigation.”

There was desperation in the woman’s deep-set brown eyes. “But he is dead?”

With all her heart, Kari wished it wasn’t so, not just for Patty Simon’s sake, but mostly for Reynolds’s sake.

“Yes, very,” she told the older woman.

Patty sighed. Her tears drying, she got back down to business. “I’m going to have to find someone to fill in William’s spot on Thursday,” she said. “It won’t be easy,” she confided.

“Then we’ll leave you to your work,” Kari said. Handing the woman her card, as she’d done with the others, Kari encouraged her to call if she remembered any further details.

“Everyone you deal with that crazy?” Esteban asked her after they had left the hospital’s main lobby and were headed back to where they had parked the car. “A man’s dead and all that woman thinks about is her own bad luck. Her bad luck?” he questioned incredulously. “What the hell about Reynolds’s luck? Or is that just considered collateral damage?”

Kari paused to flash him an amused grin over the roof of the car. “Welcome to the wonderful world of homicide,” she cracked.

She was about to get into the vehicle when her cell phone rang.

“Cavelli-Cavanaugh,” she answered briskly. It was obvious from her expression that she was unhappy with whatever was being said, and he felt a rush of adrenaline course through his veins in anticipation of what was to come.

“Yes, we’ll be right there,” Kari told the person on the other end of the line before terminating the call. The connection broken, she slipped the phone back into her pocket.

“Let me guess,” Esteban said. “It’s not good news.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” she told him. “We can stop looking at the case as an isolated incident....”