Insidious
Page 57
Daniel said, “So who’s the fool who pissed you off?”
“No, I’m not pissed off. Confused is more like it. That was David Elman, the LAPD supervisor of Homicide Special Section. The administrator at Children’s Hospital in Santa Monica called to tell him there was a private investigator asking questions about the surgical staff’s working hours and schedules on Tuesday night, when Deborah was killed. Elman said it was Gus Hampton, a P.I. with a good rep for being thorough and very expensive. When Elman had Loomis confront him about it, Hampton freely admitted he was working for Theo Markham. Hampton said Markham believes Doc killed Deborah and that we—the cops—wouldn’t take him seriously. He used my name, as lead investigator, and that Doc had fooled me with his grief routine, had us believing his alibi about being in the hospital all night. He said Mr. Markham doesn’t think the cops will ever take him seriously unless Hampton proves him right.”
Missy called out, “I’m sorry, but I heard you. I don’t care what Markham thinks. You know it can’t be Doc, Cam. I mean, he saves lives, he’s a surgeon. It’s not possible. Listen, I talked to him, held him while he cried. Doc was nuts about Deborah. You’ve met him, you’ve talked to him, you know he’s devastated. Deb meant everything to him. I never heard a word about her dumping him or being afraid of him. Afraid of Doc? That’s stupid. Markham’s got this all wrong.”
Murray said slowly, “Why would Markham care enough about Deborah Connelly’s murder to hire an expensive P.I.? He barely knew her from what he told you and Daniel. Where does that interest of his come from? And why focus on her boyfriend, this Doc? It’s obvious Markham hates him. My question is why?”
“Good questions, Murray,” Cam said. “I don’t know the answers, but could he be that upset because Deborah couldn’t finish her role in his movie? That sounds lame to me. I’m going to try to find out. Do you think I’m wrong about Doc, Daniel?”
“No, you can’t be,” Missy said when Daniel remained silent. “Listen, I can ask around, see who else spent time with him and Deb together.”
Daniel got in her face. “No way you’re going to ask anybody anything, Missy. You’re already too involved in this.”
Missy cocked her head at him. “But I’m already in the case, Daniel, Cam asked me to be. It won’t hurt to ask. What could happen?”
“No,” Daniel said.
Sheriff Murray said, “Ms. Devereaux, Daniel’s right. You’re a civilian, you should keep out of this.”
Cam was shaking her head. “I still have a hard time picturing Doc planning to slit Deborah’s throat, covering his tracks. I saw him, I spoke to him, saw his grief. Like Missy, I’d swear to my last breath it was real. He was raw with pain.”
Daniel rose, “Unless he’s the one who’s the fine actor. I’ll call Arturo, tell him to dig deeper at the hospital, put him on the hook—he’s got to prove or disprove Doc’s whereabouts on Tuesday night. Definitively. The last thing he wants is to have a private cop find out things he didn’t. Arturo doesn’t deal well with civilians sticking their noses in his business. This will fire up his burners.”
46
* * *
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY
It was a beautiful day in Washington, not too hot, perfect for another walk she really didn’t want to take, but Delsey had no sooner gotten back to Griffin’s condo than he’d called her, told her he knew if she stayed inside she’d only brood. Take a taxi back into the middle of Washington, get out and walk, he’d suggested, look at all the monuments, enjoy all the people, and while she was walking he suggested her best payback was to write a song about how rotten Rob Rasmussen was.
So here she was, on K Street, walking with hordes of tourists and government employees, humming a few bars of her new song, spinning words and notes in the back of her mind, her step lagging now and then as she let her mind worry the line about a two-timing dog.
When she stopped at the corner for a red light, a dozen people quickly filled in behind her. There was a lot of traffic, but it was moving right along. Her eyes were on her silver sandals—she needed a new coat of polish on her toenails. Maybe a deep purple?—when something hit her hard in her back, hurling her into the path of an oncoming black limo.
Delsey saw her mother’s face clear as day as the big car bore down on her. She heard screams and shouts, felt strong hands under her armpits literally jerking her off the ground and backward. The big car’s brakes screamed like a banshee, and the front end spun into the oncoming traffic as it slid past her. There was a tremendous crash and the sound of metal rending as several cars slammed into one another. People were yelling, horns blaring. It was pandemonium.
She stared up into Rob Rasmussen’s face. “Delsey, are you all right?”
Was she all right? When she’d nearly met her maker? Had he saved her? “I’m not dead,” Delsey said, “so that’s something.” She couldn’t quite grasp what had happened. She knew she couldn’t stand on her own yet, so she let him hold her up. People crowded in beside them, some asking if she was okay, others seeing if people were all right in the crashed cars. Someone called 911, not for her, but for the mad jumble of cars smacked together in the middle of K Street. Drivers were getting out of their wrecked cars, some of them angry, screaming for the cops, others dazed, wondering what had happened. It seemed like only a second had passed when she heard sirens.
Rob said, “You’re white as a ghost. Are you sure you’re okay?”
She tried to pull herself free, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She sagged against him. “What happened?”
“You fell into the street, right in front of a black limo.”
An older guy wearing cowboy boots called out, “I’ll bet she can’t walk a straight line!”
That straightened her back and her legs. She pulled away from Rob and rounded on the man. “I’m not drunk. Someone pushed me. Did anyone see who it was?”
There was a punch of shocked silence, then voices, talking over one another so she couldn’t make out what they were saying.
She felt light-headed, and, admittedly, a bit crazed as she looked at the faces around her, wondering which of them had pushed her. More than likely that person was long gone now. She’d nearly died. Someone had tried to kill her. The shouts from the wrecked cars in the street stopped when a cop car arrived on scene. An officer leaped out, called for quiet and calm.
“No, I’m not pissed off. Confused is more like it. That was David Elman, the LAPD supervisor of Homicide Special Section. The administrator at Children’s Hospital in Santa Monica called to tell him there was a private investigator asking questions about the surgical staff’s working hours and schedules on Tuesday night, when Deborah was killed. Elman said it was Gus Hampton, a P.I. with a good rep for being thorough and very expensive. When Elman had Loomis confront him about it, Hampton freely admitted he was working for Theo Markham. Hampton said Markham believes Doc killed Deborah and that we—the cops—wouldn’t take him seriously. He used my name, as lead investigator, and that Doc had fooled me with his grief routine, had us believing his alibi about being in the hospital all night. He said Mr. Markham doesn’t think the cops will ever take him seriously unless Hampton proves him right.”
Missy called out, “I’m sorry, but I heard you. I don’t care what Markham thinks. You know it can’t be Doc, Cam. I mean, he saves lives, he’s a surgeon. It’s not possible. Listen, I talked to him, held him while he cried. Doc was nuts about Deborah. You’ve met him, you’ve talked to him, you know he’s devastated. Deb meant everything to him. I never heard a word about her dumping him or being afraid of him. Afraid of Doc? That’s stupid. Markham’s got this all wrong.”
Murray said slowly, “Why would Markham care enough about Deborah Connelly’s murder to hire an expensive P.I.? He barely knew her from what he told you and Daniel. Where does that interest of his come from? And why focus on her boyfriend, this Doc? It’s obvious Markham hates him. My question is why?”
“Good questions, Murray,” Cam said. “I don’t know the answers, but could he be that upset because Deborah couldn’t finish her role in his movie? That sounds lame to me. I’m going to try to find out. Do you think I’m wrong about Doc, Daniel?”
“No, you can’t be,” Missy said when Daniel remained silent. “Listen, I can ask around, see who else spent time with him and Deb together.”
Daniel got in her face. “No way you’re going to ask anybody anything, Missy. You’re already too involved in this.”
Missy cocked her head at him. “But I’m already in the case, Daniel, Cam asked me to be. It won’t hurt to ask. What could happen?”
“No,” Daniel said.
Sheriff Murray said, “Ms. Devereaux, Daniel’s right. You’re a civilian, you should keep out of this.”
Cam was shaking her head. “I still have a hard time picturing Doc planning to slit Deborah’s throat, covering his tracks. I saw him, I spoke to him, saw his grief. Like Missy, I’d swear to my last breath it was real. He was raw with pain.”
Daniel rose, “Unless he’s the one who’s the fine actor. I’ll call Arturo, tell him to dig deeper at the hospital, put him on the hook—he’s got to prove or disprove Doc’s whereabouts on Tuesday night. Definitively. The last thing he wants is to have a private cop find out things he didn’t. Arturo doesn’t deal well with civilians sticking their noses in his business. This will fire up his burners.”
46
* * *
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY
It was a beautiful day in Washington, not too hot, perfect for another walk she really didn’t want to take, but Delsey had no sooner gotten back to Griffin’s condo than he’d called her, told her he knew if she stayed inside she’d only brood. Take a taxi back into the middle of Washington, get out and walk, he’d suggested, look at all the monuments, enjoy all the people, and while she was walking he suggested her best payback was to write a song about how rotten Rob Rasmussen was.
So here she was, on K Street, walking with hordes of tourists and government employees, humming a few bars of her new song, spinning words and notes in the back of her mind, her step lagging now and then as she let her mind worry the line about a two-timing dog.
When she stopped at the corner for a red light, a dozen people quickly filled in behind her. There was a lot of traffic, but it was moving right along. Her eyes were on her silver sandals—she needed a new coat of polish on her toenails. Maybe a deep purple?—when something hit her hard in her back, hurling her into the path of an oncoming black limo.
Delsey saw her mother’s face clear as day as the big car bore down on her. She heard screams and shouts, felt strong hands under her armpits literally jerking her off the ground and backward. The big car’s brakes screamed like a banshee, and the front end spun into the oncoming traffic as it slid past her. There was a tremendous crash and the sound of metal rending as several cars slammed into one another. People were yelling, horns blaring. It was pandemonium.
She stared up into Rob Rasmussen’s face. “Delsey, are you all right?”
Was she all right? When she’d nearly met her maker? Had he saved her? “I’m not dead,” Delsey said, “so that’s something.” She couldn’t quite grasp what had happened. She knew she couldn’t stand on her own yet, so she let him hold her up. People crowded in beside them, some asking if she was okay, others seeing if people were all right in the crashed cars. Someone called 911, not for her, but for the mad jumble of cars smacked together in the middle of K Street. Drivers were getting out of their wrecked cars, some of them angry, screaming for the cops, others dazed, wondering what had happened. It seemed like only a second had passed when she heard sirens.
Rob said, “You’re white as a ghost. Are you sure you’re okay?”
She tried to pull herself free, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She sagged against him. “What happened?”
“You fell into the street, right in front of a black limo.”
An older guy wearing cowboy boots called out, “I’ll bet she can’t walk a straight line!”
That straightened her back and her legs. She pulled away from Rob and rounded on the man. “I’m not drunk. Someone pushed me. Did anyone see who it was?”
There was a punch of shocked silence, then voices, talking over one another so she couldn’t make out what they were saying.
She felt light-headed, and, admittedly, a bit crazed as she looked at the faces around her, wondering which of them had pushed her. More than likely that person was long gone now. She’d nearly died. Someone had tried to kill her. The shouts from the wrecked cars in the street stopped when a cop car arrived on scene. An officer leaped out, called for quiet and calm.
