Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) (34 page)

“Sounds like they’ve got enough to hold him, at least for a while.”

She imagined the sea turtle necklace. It was enough, wasn’t it? “I hope so,” she said, the safest answer.

“We got a lead out here, too,” Hal said.

“You did?”

“Sarah Feld’s neighbor, Carol Fletcher, has a thing for guys doing hard time,” Hal said.

Schwartzman walked past the ambulance, away from the patrol cars and sat on the curb. “What do you mean?”

“Fletcher dates men who are incarcerated,” Hal continued. “She hooks up with them online. She’s had three or four long relationships like that—over messaging and the occasional phone call. We’re talking about relationships that have lasted years.”

“So Spencer pretended to be a prisoner,” Schwartzman guessed. “It worked because they’d never met.”

“We think so,” Hal confirmed. “She was at Folsom yesterday to visit a particularly nasty criminal named Charles Bollardi. Mr. Bollardi said he’d never seen her before, told her to get lost.”

“And Fletcher didn’t appreciate that?” Schwartzman asked.

“No she did not,” Hal said. “In fact, she pitched quite a fit. They called in Sacramento PD. Guy there thought it was pretty suspicious when Fletcher’s home address matched the address where Rebecca Feld’s daughter was murdered. He suspected there might be a connection, so he called us.”

“You think Carol Fletcher was Spencer’s accomplice?”

“Seems like a real possibility,” Hal said. “She lived across the hall from Feld. Would have made it easy to kill her. And to pretend to be you the night Macy was stabbed.”

Schwartzman exhaled. “Is she talking?”

“She’s in holding,” Hal said. “Hailey and I are going over there now, but I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Thanks, Hal. I almost can’t believe it could be over,” she admitted.

More than seven years she had waited.

“Yeah. Me, too.” There was a moment of silence before he asked, “What now?”

She watched Overby and Harper walk out to meet a crime scene van that was pulling to the curb. “What do you mean?” she asked Hal.

“What will you do?” Hal asked.

First she would take care of Ava. “My aunt’s service is in the morning.”

“And then?” he asked.

“Then I’m coming home,” she told him.

He exhaled. Relief. “I was thinking I was going to have to come down there and get you. Truth is, I’m a little afraid of the South.”

Schwartzman laughed, wincing at the pain in her temple. “A lot of people are.”

“But I don’t need to come down there because you’re coming home?” There was a question in his voice.

She smiled.

“Yes, Hal,” she told him. “I’m coming home.”

EPILOGUE

Three Weeks Later

Schwartzman stood in front of Ken Macy’s house. The house was a pale blue, the third in a line of identical homes with rounded terracotta roofs that looked like Chinese hats and front windows divided into five equal panes over a narrow, single-car garage.

She walked up the steps and took a full breath before ringing the bell. The house was quiet, and she felt sharp disappointment that no one was home. She shifted the box to her other arm and looked around for a spot where she might leave it. There were no plants or decorations on the porch, which was visible from the street.

It would probably be stolen.

But then the door swung open, and intense fluttering filled her gut. She had worried about how he would react to seeing her, but when he saw it was her, Ken smiled.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said.

“Not at all.” He stepped back. “Please come in.”

“Thank you.” She walked into the foyer as he closed the door behind them. He motioned to the front room. “Sit in here?”

“Sure.” It was tidy, simply decorated but stylish. The rugs in the entryway and the living room had large geometric patterns like something Native American. He crossed the room slowly but without limping or favoring one part of his body.

Did he have pain? Eighteen stab wounds in all. Because of her.

She started to sit and realized she was still holding the box. “I brought this for you.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

She held the box out. “Please.”

He took the box and sat down, turning the plain black box in his hands. He smiled and let out a low chuckle. “What is the appropriate gift to give the guy almost killed by your ex-husband?”

She gasped and pushed her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Ken. That’s so awful.”

“I’m teasing, Anna.”

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know he would go that far, that he would—”

Ken moved to sit beside her, set his hand on hers. “I’m serious, Anna. It wasn’t your fault. I’m alive. I’m going to be able to go back to work . . .” He hesitated. “I’m going to be okay.”

His eyes were sincere, open.

She pulled her hand slowly from his, returned it to her lap. “I can’t express how awful I feel for what happened.”

“I heard about your aunt.”

Schwartzman blinked against the tears.

“I am so sorry.”

She swiped her cheeks. “Open it,” she said, nodding to the present.

He drew out the bottle of Evan Williams. “Bourbon.”

“It was my father’s favorite.” She had inherited eleven bottles when her father died. It was one of her pleasures, sitting in her apartment with a glass of bourbon and a book or an old movie. Those bottles were gone. The one for Ken was the first bottle of Evan Williams she’d ever bought.

“Would you like a glass?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Another time, then.”

“Yes,” she agreed. A moment of silence passed between them; then Schwartzman rose. “I should be going.”

Ken remained seated. “I am grateful, you know.”

“Grateful?” she echoed.

“The doctors said I was very lucky that you woke up when you did.”

“I was lucky,” she said, thinking luck was a ridiculous notion to apply to her recent past. But that night, she woke before Ken died. She liked to think that her father and Ava helped her wake up.

“Well, I’m grateful.”

He was the same Ken, despite what he had been through—kind, caring. She hoped they would be friends. It would be a rough few months for them both.

Her mastectomy was scheduled, and she would have her own healing to do.

But maybe after that.

Hopefully.

“I can let myself out.” She wanted to ask him when he’d be back at work, but she was afraid to hear the answer. It had already been a month since the attack. How much longer would he have to wait?

Ken stood. “I hope I’ll see you soon.”

“I’d like that,” she said and knew it was the truth.

Walking down Ken Macy’s front steps, she was relieved. He was walking. There was no medical equipment in view in the apartment. He obviously made it up and down his own stairs. Maybe he really would be okay.

Would she forgive herself then?

As she got into her car, her cell phone rang. She expected Hal. He would be getting off work soon, and they planned to meet for dinner. But looking at the phone, she saw the 864 area code. Greenville.
Spencer.

She didn’t have to answer. But she did.

No more running from her fears.

“Schwartzman,” she said and held her breath, expecting his low raspy voice.

“Annabelle Schwartzman?” said a female voice.

“Speaking,” she confirmed. Her fingers found the “Lock” button on the car door, pressed down.

“I’m Laura Patchett, the assistant district attorney for Greenville and Pickens Counties.” The voice was succinct, no nonsense. Professional. Schwartzman was wary. “I wanted to talk to you about Spencer MacDonald. Or more specifically, the case against MacDonald.”

Against Spencer. The case for keeping him in prison forever.

Schwartzman pressed her eyes closed, leaned hard into the seat behind her. She fought to control her breathing, her pulse. Just his name sent her into fight or flight. “Yes,” she said, drawing slow breaths.
In. Out.

“We’d like you to testify in the preliminary hearing.”

She replayed the words in her head, listened to the response of her body. Absent was the clenched gut that came with thinking of Spencer. He was behind bars. He was going to jail. Forever. Her mother had been shocked at the news that Spencer had been arrested. Schwartzman heard the denial in her mother’s responses. Even when Schwartzman recounted the details of what he had done. The same as it had always been. Would her mother believe he was evil when he was convicted of killing Ava? Maybe. But maybe not. Schwartzman’s pulse slowed. She opened her eyes. Watched a jogger pass with a dog.

“Dr. Schwartzman?”

“Yes.”

“I was asking if you’d be willing to—”

“Yes,” Schwartzman interrupted. “I’ll testify.”

“Wonderful,” Patchett said, and Schwartzman could hear the relief in her voice. “We are looking at setting a date for two weeks from Wednesday.”

“Let me give you my e-mail address, and you can send me the dates so I can arrange my travel and get coverage at work.” Schwartzman recited her e-mail address, and Patchett thanked her again before signing off.

Schwartzman glanced at the dash clock. It was almost six fifteen. After nine in Greenville. Patchett was working late.
Good.
Putting Spencer away was a priority.
He’s never coming back. He can’t hurt you anymore.
Her shoulders relaxed and she started the car, felt her phone buzz.
Hal.

“I’m over in the Sunset, heading your way,” she told him.

“Great,” he said. “I’m about ten minutes away. I’ll get us a table. You want wine?”

“Actually, will you see if they’ve got Evan Williams bourbon? I think I’ve seen it behind the bar. If it’s there, I’ll take it neat.” The DA was building a case against Spencer. While he sat in jail, she was on her way to dinner with a friend. Reason to celebrate.
No.
Reasons
to celebrate.

“Bourbon? I’ve never seen you order bourbon.”

“I’ll tell you the story when I get there.”

“Look forward to it. Hey, and drive safe, Schwartzman.”

“Promise,” she told him.

Safe.
She did feel safe.
You are safe.

Finally.

She turned on the radio and pulled into traffic.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am incredibly grateful for the generosity of those who helped make this book possible. I take full responsibility for whatever errors remain and for occasionally bending the truth to fit the story.

For research, I am forever indebted to the invaluable resources at SFPD who have been answering questions since book one. Thank you also to Jacqueline Perkins, medical examiner, Guilford, Rockingham, Alamance, and Caswell Counties, North Carolina; Alison Hutchens, forensic services supervisor; and D. P. Lyle, MD.

A gigantic thank you to Meg Ruley, this writer’s dream agent, and to the team at JRA, who have offered me such an enthusiastic welcome. Thank you also to the extraordinary JoVon Sotak, who fell in love with Schwartzman, and to Sarah Shaw and the incredible team at Thomas & Mercer. I am so grateful to the phenomenal Mallory Braus, who pushed Schwartzman and me to be our very best.

I am endlessly appreciative of those who support the process of writing a book—my first reader, Randle Bitnar, who keeps me aimed in the right direction from page 1; Dani Wanderer, my star proofreader; and the friends and family who let me be reclusive when I need to write and who know to have wine at the ready when I emerge. Mom, Nicole, Steve, Tom, and Dad, I am so grateful, never more than this past year and a half.

To Chris, whose love and partnership make this life such a splendid adventure. And for Claire and Jack, always for you guys.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2012 Janie Osborne

Danielle Girard is the author of nine previous novels, including
Chasing Darkness
and
Savage Art
, as well as The Rookie Club series. Her books have won the Barry Award and the RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, and two of her titles have been optioned for movies.

A graduate of Cornell University, Danielle received her MFA at Queens University in Charlotte, North Carolina. She, her husband, and their two children split their time between San Francisco and the Northern Rockies.