“I know. I swear, Chief, if it’d been just me and Clare at the house when she got that call, I would’ve let you know right away.”
“Hmm.” Russ slowed and stopped at the intersection. “Here’s what I want to know now: Are you doing this because you got roped into it by Clare? Or have you decided you can’t work within the limits of the police department anymore?”
Eric let out a noise. “No!”
“No what?”
“No. God. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t be a cop anymore.”
“You didn’t file with your union representative. I’ve been waiting to hear from somebody.”
“I didn’t want to make a thing of it.”
“You broke a man’s cheekbone and fractured his skull, Eric. It’s already a thing.”
Eric stared at him. “I can’t lose my job, Chief. You can’t take it away from me.”
God, Russ hated this. He accelerated down North Elm, fallen leaves scattering to either side of his tires. “Don’t you think it’s time to come clean about what happened in that kitchen?”
“You know what happened.”
Russ sighed. “Here’s my problem, Eric. You’ve never been anything except an asset to this department. You’re the best investigator we have, excepting maybe Lyle. I want you on the streets. I need you on the streets. But I don’t know if you’re safe.”
“It was just once!”
“Was it?” Russ looked away from the road for a second and pinned Eric with his gaze. “Was it just one incident?”
Eric dropped his head and hunched his shoulders.
“Listen to me, Eric. If you had come back from your deployment with your foot blown off, we’d make accommodations for you. If you had popped an eardrum or lost an eye, we’d make accommodations for you. It’s no different if you’ve brought back something in your head. This department is ready to stand behind you and see that you get what you need to keep being the cop I know you can be, but you have got to come straight with me.”
Eric stared out the window as they drove past a three-storied Victorian framed by tatter-leaved horse chestnuts. He mumbled something.
“What?”
“I lost it.” Eric’s voice was barely audible. “He swung at me and I lost it. I hit him. I hit him with my gun. When Knox tried to drag me off of him, I hit her, too.”
Russ pressed his lips together tightly.
“I didn’t mean to.” Eric was louder now. “I swear, I didn’t mean to. I feel like shit about it. It’s like … it’s like…” He raised his head. “Like this feeling, this mad, gets so big it squeezes everything else out. I can’t think, I can’t wait, I can’t feel anything except…” He looked at his hands flexing, releasing. “I don’t want to hurt anybody. I don’t want to lose my family. I don’t know what to do. All I’ve ever wanted to be is a husband and a dad and a good cop. What’ll I do if I can’t do that anymore? What’ll I do?”
Russ slowed as he approached the curving loop of Church Street. The sight of St. Alban’s settled him, so that his voice was even when he said, “Nobody’s talking about you not being a cop anymore, but the first thing you need to do is get some professional help.”
“I’m in counseling!”
“In addition to the veterans group. You need somebody who deals with anger management issues and who can prescribe, if necessary. Our heath plan covers—”
“Drugs? For God’s sake. I can’t be doped up on the job.”
“Lyle has high blood pressure and high cholesterol. He takes drugs for both of ’em.”
“That’s different!”
“No, Eric, it’s not.” Russ stopped at the red light on Main. “He’s getting medical treatment that enables him to show up for work every day without stroking out. You need to do the same thing. You can go through VA, or you can go through our HMO, but you’re going to do it.”
“It’ll be on my record!”
“So is inappropriate use of force. I can guarantee you if I or your Guard commander had to choose, we’d go for the Zoloft over assault and battery.”
“Oh, God.” Eric stared out the window. The downtown merchants association’s Halloween window decorations—painted ghosts and cutout black cats—almost hid the fact that two of the stores on this corner had gone out of business at the end of the summer.
“Second, you’re going out with a partner for the immediate future. I’d prefer to team you up with Knox, but obviously, that isn’t going to work, so I’ll put you with Kevin on day shift and Paul if you have to work nights.”
“Not Paul. Jesus, all the guy does is eat junk food and talk about his porn collection.”
“So you can show him what good policing looks like. Which brings me back to Knox. I’m going to have a talk with her. If she wants to press charges against you, I’m going to do it.”
Eric didn’t object to this one. He simply nodded.
“If she decides not to—and believe me, I’m going to leave it entirely up to her—then you have got to make things right with her.” Russ turned onto Morningside Drive. “Have you spoken with her since the—since you hit her?”
Eric flushed a dull red. “No. I’ve been too … I couldn’t. I couldn’t face her.”
“It’s got to be done. We’re a small force. We have to trust one another, without second-guessing, without hesitation. Something like this, between two people, starts to poison the atmosphere for all of us. Believe me, I know.” He had carried a grudge against his deputy chief for months and months a couple years back, tending his bitterness and hurt like a hothouse plant. It had taken two .357 slugs in his chest and a near-death experience to snap him out of it.
Eric breathed out. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Russ eased the cruiser over the speed bump at the entrance of the Washington County Medical Offices. He spotted Clare’s Jeep. “Bring me the name of an anger management specialist and the date for your first appointment when you come in Friday.”
“You got it. I will.”
Russ found a space close to Clare. He threw the gear into park and turned toward Eric. “Lyle’s throwing me a bachelor party Friday evening at the Full Moon in Glen Lake.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I couldn’t talk him out of it. Anyway, everybody except the night shift guys will be there. You come, too.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’ll be a good chance for you to reconnect. It might not be a bad time to talk to Knox. Less formal than at the station, and I’m sure she’ll feel safer with a bar full of people around.”
Eric dropped his head. “Okay,” he said quietly.
“In the meantime, you can help me go though Ellen Bain’s papers. It’ll take some of the stress off the others—we’re way overscheduled as it is right now. If the case is still open three days from now, you’ll take lead.”
Eric stared for a moment, as if trying to gauge Russ’s sincerity. Finally, he said, “Thanks.”
“Don’t make me regret giving you a second chance.” They got out of the squad car. Russ was halfway across the lot, headed for the squat cement building, when he realized he was alone.
“Eric?”
His sergeant held up a hand and half turned away. “Can you spare me for a minute, Chief?” His voice was clotted. “I gotta call my wife.”
Russ found Clare at the Orthopedic Associates door. “Eric’s having a moment,” he said.
She bit her lip. “Is he all right? You didn’t jump down his throat because of this, did you?”
“Yes, he is, and no, I didn’t.” He opened the door and let her precede him into the check-in area. The receptionist glanced up as they approached her. Her professional smile fell away and her eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.” She clutched at her chest. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened.” Russ realized they must look like some sort of death notification team: the cop and the minister. “I need to ask Dr. Stillman a few questions. Is he available?”
The receptionist pointed at Clare. “T
hen what’s she doing here?”
“Good question,” Russ said. The woman who had been sitting behind the SCHEDULING sign a few desks down wandered over to see what all the fuss was about.
Clare shot him a glare before giving the woman her most reassuring smile. “I’m Clare Fergusson. I know Dr. Stillman socially.”
Socially? Clare’s reverence for confidentiality was reaching new heights.
The scheduling secretary perked up. “Clare Fergusson? You’re in the wrong building. Dr. Stillman’s scheduled your blood test at the outpatient clinic at the hospital. You don’t need a referral slip from us.”
“Blood test?” Russ frowned. “Why is Trip Stillman sending you for a blood test?”
“I’m sorry,” the scheduling secretary said. “Are you two together?”
“Ah,” Clare said. “Um.” She blinked several times. “We’re engaged.”
“You don’t need a blood test to get married in New York,” Russ snapped. “I know you don’t like doctors and hospitals, Clare, but if something’s wrong, you’ve got to tell me—” He faltered. He knew one reason she might need a blood test. His stomach sank. “You’re pregnant.”
“What? No! For God’s sake, I’m not pregnant.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw interested faces turning toward them in the nearby waiting room.
“We don’t do any pregnancy testing here.” The receptionist sounded worried, as if this were a failing for an orthopedist. “If you think you might be pregnant, and you’re due for X-rays, you should get confirmation first.”
“I don’t need a pregnancy test,” Clare hissed.
“Would you please page Dr. Stillman for me?” Russ said. If he could just get these women out of his and Clare’s faces for five seconds—
The scheduling clerk leaned against the counter. “Sir, engaged or no, you still don’t have the right to patient information from one of our doctors.”
“I’m here on police business,” Russ said, at the same time Clare said, “I’m not a patient. Trip is just doing me a favor.”
The receptionist put down her receiver. “He’s on his way.”
Russ wrapped a hand around Clare’s arm and dragged her to the middle of the lobby entrance, as far from the waiting patients and the staring staff members as possible. “Okay. You’re not pregnant. What’s going on?” Every other reason he could think of for a blood test was worse than pregnancy. “Are you getting screened for cancer?”
“What? Why would you think that?”
“Because your sister died of colorectal cancer.” Fear made his voice harsher than he intended. “That increases your risk of breast and ovarian cancer. And you hate seeing doctors. It would be just like you to hit up a friend for a favor if you were worried, instead of getting it checked out properly.”
“No. Oh, love, no. Honestly.”
“What is it, then?”
“Look.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to get into it right now, but I promise you, I’m not going to die, I’m not pregnant, and I’m not—” She paused.
“Not what?”
She jerked her head. Trip Stillman was crossing the waiting room toward them. “Chief Van Alstyne.” The doctor shook his hand. “Good to see you again. My receptionist said you have some questions for me?”
Russ gave Clare a look that said, We’re not done with this. “Yeah. I’m afraid we’re reopening the investigation into your sister’s death. New evidence has come to light—” He broke off at the sight of Trip Stillman’s face.
“My sister?”
Russ frowned. “Ellen Bain. I was told she was your sister.” Oh, hell. If Roxanne Lunt was wrong, he was going to look a complete fool. “If there’s been some mistake—”
“Yes. Yes. Ellen.” Stillman took several shaky breaths. His skin looked waxy.
“Trip? Are you all right?” Clare glanced toward the reception desk. “Do you need help?”
“No.” He cut her off with a sharp wave. “No. My sister is dead. She died this summer in a car accident.”
“That’s what we originally thought.” But we screwed up. Russ gritted his teeth and went on. “Evidence has been uncovered that strongly suggests her death wasn’t accidental, and there seems to be a tenuous connection to Tally McNabb’s theft of army property.”
“Wait—what?” Stillman lost his Madame Tussaud’s look. “Tally McNabb? From my therapy group?”
“That’s right.” Russ glanced around. They were out of earshot, but well within everyone’s line of vision. “Are you sure you don’t want to move this to your office?”
Stillman made an impatient gesture. “Tell me what the connection is.”
“Your sister’s car was sabotaged,” Clare said. “Both brake calipers were cut, which meant once she started down the mountain, she had no way to stop other than crashing her car.”
Russ nodded. If the MacVanes were right, it must have been done by somebody at the resort. Somebody good with engines. He pictured Lyle complaining about Wyler McNabb. Spent the afternoon working on his ATV. Kevin said he was trying to boost the performance so’s he could drive it faster.
Clare went on. “Three days after your sister died, Tally stepped into her job, giving her the ability to move or launder the large amounts of cash she and her husband stole in Iraq.”
Stillman blinked several times but didn’t comment.
“It’s possible—in theory—that the McNabbs may have gotten your sister to help them before she died,” Russ said. “Did Ms. Bain ever mention them?”
“I don’t”—Stillman swallowed—“remember.”
“Did she have any unaccounted-for funds when you settled her estate?”
Stillman spread his hands. “I don’t remember.”
Russ tried to tamp down his impatience. “I understand you’re holding her paperwork and records. I’d like your permission to take a look at them.”
“At Ellen’s paperwork.”
Russ glanced at Clare. “Yeah. Stuff Ellen Bain left behind that’s stored at your house.”
“All right. Let’s go.” Stillman dug into his pants pocket and came up with a business card and pen. He jotted down his address and handed it to Russ. “My address. I’ll meet you at my house.” Stillman pivoted and strode away without further farewell.
Russ pocketed the card. “Was that just me, or was he acting weird?”
“It’s not just you,” Clare said. She took her phone out of her skirt pocket and opened it.
“What are you doing?”
“Letting Will and Olivia know they should meet us at Trip’s house.”
“No. No, no, no. I’m grateful for their help, but this is police business now.”
She gave him a look.
“I mean it, Clare. This isn’t you and your buddies carrying Tally McNabb off the field anymore. We’re talking homicide.”
“I’ve been talking homicide the whole time. You’ve just started listening.” She held the phone up to her ear. “Hey, Will. It’s Reverend Clare.”
God. For the rest of his life. What was he setting himself up for?
She walked to the office door, listening to something the kid was telling her, and pushed it open. Looked back at him. Clamped her hand over the phone. “Well? Are you coming with me?”
He sighed. “All the way, darlin’. All the way.”
* * *
The Stillmans’ house was typical suburbiana, the sort of large and graceful home that fit in everywhere and was native to nowhere. The slim, leafless trees—some sort of ornamental fruit—were hung with tiny witches and black cats, and the entryway was festooned with cobwebs and orange lights. Two skeletons guarded the front door. Each of them had a large cast on one leg.
Clare parked behind a little green four-door with a SUNY GENESEO sticker in the rear window. As she was getting out of her Jeep, Russ’s squad car rolled into the drive, followed a minute later by Eric McCrea’s SUV.
“Do you need help?” she asked Will as he slid himself from the gre
en car’s passenger seat. The curvaceous auburn-haired girl bracing his wheelchair looked up. “We’ve got it, thanks.”
“You must be Olivia.” Clare walked up and shook the girl’s hand. “I’m Clare Fergusson.”
Russ and Eric joined them, and Will, panting, but in his chair, introduced everyone.
“I want to thank you two for what you’ve uncovered.” Russ straightened, as if he were standing at attention. “And Miss Bain, I’d like to personally apologize, for myself and on behalf of my department, for not thoroughly investigating your mother’s car earlier.”
Behind them, a BMW nosed into the last available inch of the driveway. Trip Stillman got out, squinting in the sunlight.
“Sergeant McCrea and I can take it from here,” Russ continued. “An officer is headed over to the junkyard right now to document the condition of the car and to take the MacVanes’ statements. I’ll be sure to let you know what we find after examining your mother’s records.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Stillman said. “Olivia, what are you doing here?” He picked up his niece in a toe-dangling hug.
“Will and I want to look at Mom’s papers along with the rest of you.” She darted a glance toward Russ. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is, sweetheart.” The doctor frowned at Russ.
“This isn’t a matter for civilians anymore. Sergeant McCrea and I will call in assistance from the department if we need any help in the investigation.”
Clare could tell Russ was trying to keep his temper. She shouldn’t feel so gleeful about that. “Russ?” She was a bad Christian. “Do you have a warrant to search Ellen Bain’s documents?” A bad Christian, and a bad fiancée.
“I don’t need one when I’ve got the permission of…” He trailed off. His eyes narrowed.
“Trip, Olivia, will you allow all of us to go through the papers?”
They nodded.
“Then let’s all go in, shall we?” She shivered. “I’m getting chilled out here.”
The detritus of Ellen Stillman Bain’s life was in the Stillmans’ finished basement, packed in a wall’s worth of 18″ by 22″ moving boxes. Clare read the marker-scrawl on the ends and sides: LP’S, WINTER COATS, WOODEN ITEMS, VANITY. She spotted some that would be of interest right away: PRIOR TAX RETURNS and BILLS and HEALTH/SS/INVESTMENT.