26. Wrong Place, Wrong Time

26

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Brighton

Friday, June 2 nd

9:47 p.m.

It's eerie walking through the silent hospital. The place usually feels like it has a heartbeat of its own. But not this late. The drive did little to distract me from my disappointment and frustration. It was supposed to clear my mind from the latest murder, but as I step off the elevator onto the oncology floor, I still wipe tears from my face.

I don't know what it was, but something told me it was Jessie. And I was right.

The dim lights over the nurses' station draw my attention to the hall leading toward my office. I need to get Liam's chart and lock myself away before I run into anyone.

A head full of brown curls appears behind the counter, and my hopes drop to the pit of my stomach. The night shift nurse smiles over the computer screen, pushing her horn-rimmed glasses higher on the crook of her nose.

I get a sleepy nod, reciprocate the gesture, and am thankful there's no pretense of being more friendly. Why I care about the acceptance of the nurse, I don't really know. I continue past her toward the hall.

Ah, crap. Liam has chemo on Monday, and his chart is probably up here. So much for no contact.

I stop short of the door and return to the counter. The nurse lifts her head at the sound of my footsteps.

"Do you have the files for chemo next week?" I whisper.

She rolls her chair across the linoleum to the opposite side of the counter and rummages through a few piles of charts. Her brow creases, and she turns to face me, shaking her head. "I don't have any of yours."

I offer a tight-lipped smile and a sigh, returning to the hall. "They're probably still on my desk. Thanks."

The look she gives me sets me on edge. Something is nagging me. Something is off. Something is different. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense—I'm missing something big. And Kline doesn't want me to find it.

A quick swipe of my badge, and I'm in complete darkness in the doctors' hallway as my eyes try to adjust. I run my hand across the wall in search of the switch and take a few steps until I find it. I hate how the automatic sensors only work half the time.

I head along the hallway and past the doctors' lounge before I stop in front of the records room. I flip on the light and explore the shelves, running my finger over the alphabetized files.

There's a chance Liam's chart is in with the others to be re-shelved. But it's not here. That means it has to be on my desk. I pull a couple more patients' charts to compare and grab a specific one to ensure I didn't miss anything the last time I went over it.

I skim the findings like I have a million times as I continue the length of the hall, stop at the conference room, and try the handle.

That's weird. Some paperwork from the chart is missing, but I can't put my finger on it. A scan? I've stared at the contents of this file more times than I care to remember. Why can't I figure out what's missing? I push the doubt out of my mind and try to ignore the intrusive thoughts.

I stare at the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, undoubtedly the obvious place to find answers. I don't know where to start. I scan the spines and grab three textbooks from random shelves and a few medical journals from the cabinet near the door.

I retrace my steps to the hallway, and my phone vibrates. I fumble with the books as I try to finagle it from my back pocket.

It's an unknown hospital number.

My heart seizes, and my lungs constrict. The screen goes black before I can answer. I lean against the wall and re-situate the books in my arms. A lump lodges in my throat as I wait to see if I have a voicemail. The longer I stare at my phone, the harder it is to admit I'm waiting for no reason.

There's no message.

With the nagging feeling in the back of my mind, I don't hesitate. I tap on the unknown number and put it on speaker, setting the phone on the books as I continue to my office. Someone picks up and mumbled voices fill my ear. I fumble, trying to push end.

I'm at a loss for words.

What the hell?

Was that Kline?

I walk down the rest of the never-ending hall before turning the corner. I take a few steps and see a sliver of light coming from his office across from mine.

Muted voices drift through the silence.

I freeze.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

What's he doing here? Who the heck is he talking to?

The hair on my arms stands on end, my intuition telling me something's not right. Kline's voice raises, and the sound of a fist connecting with a desk causes a break in the conversation.

I press myself against the wall, and the voices pick back up. I can't make out who it is. Maybe Luca? Or one of the night shift nurses? I edge along the wall, trying to be quiet, when my shoe squeaks along the linoleum.

My heart plunges to the pit of my stomach as the heated discussion stops. My ears perk up, hoping this is a normal lull versus me giving myself away.

The voices return, and my heartbeat resumes a normal rhythm. I let out a steadying breath and continue the trek to my office as Kline's door swings open, and he steps out.

I halt. Pinch my eyes closed. And send up a silent prayer, hoping he doesn't see me.

But a book tumbles from my arms in slow motion and crashes to the floor.

"Brighton? What are you doing here?"

I readjust the books and grimace when another one somersaults to the floor. "Sorry," I whisper-hiss. "I need to look over Blakely's file." And a couple of others. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's fine. We're almost done." He glances over his shoulder and pulls the door behind him until it's barely open, guarding whoever is inside from my curious gaze. His eyes travel over me as he crosses his arms over his chest and watches me.

I bend to grab the book as I try to back away. "Good night. Sorry."

He grabs my elbow as I turn to leave. I stumble into him, and his eyes flicker from my face to the crack in the doorway. He gulps when he sees he still has a hold of my arm. He clears his throat and lets go, avoiding direct eye contact as he presses his lips into a straight line.

"What's going on?" I whisper.

"Huh? Everything's fine. Why are you here?"

"I need to go over Liam's chart."

"Oh, right." He glances over his shoulder, grabs the handle to his office, and furrows his brow. "Blakely's?"

I nod.

He pushes the door open and enters, focused solely on whoever is inside and not on our conversation. I follow him, curious about who is behind his strange behavior. It's Hudson and a squatty man, who I can only assume is his partner.

The looks on their faces confirm I've interrupted.

I get unwelcoming sneers from where they sit in front of Kline's desk. Hudson slides his chair back and stands, reaching for the books in my arms.

"Here, let me help." He grabs the wobbly stack, silently asking for my forgiveness with a sideways grin.

"Thank you." I shake out my arms and give him a brief smile before I direct my gaze to Kline. When our eyes meet, heat rises into my cheeks.

The other man inches to the edge of his seat and watches my interactions.

He clears his throat. Gazes at his partner. Stands.

His greasy comb-over falls into his eyes, and he sweeps it into place, groaning something inaudible under his breath.

"Where are my manners?" Kline steps between me and the detective, taking the books from him and setting them on his desk. "Brighton, you remember Detective Roark, and this is . . ." He trails off, gesturing to the stubby little man in the corner as he sniffles and rubs his eyes.

"It's Dardson," the detective inserts with a heavy Brooklyn accent. "Detective Eric Dardson."

"Yes, Detective Dardson," Kline confirms, wiping his palms down the sides of his dress pants. He gives both men a tight smile, gazes at the stack of books, and sits behind his desk. "Brighton and I run the oncology floor, partners in crime, if you will." His lip twists to the side, and he tosses a weary glance in my direction. His play on words doesn't go unnoticed.

Hudson extends a hand, and I take it. "Nice to see you again."

"Same," I say with a smile. A couple of seconds tick by, his firm grip still crushing my fingers as things become awkward. He gives me a conspiratorial grin and drops my hand.

"I think that's all we needed," Hudson says, turning his attention to Kline and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pleated khakis. He leans on the heels of his Oxfords while he nibbles on the inside of his lip, his eyes gliding back to me with a pensive smile. His brows crease, and he clears his throat. "We'll be in touch."

Detective Dardson bumps into the chair between us, sending it into the back of my legs, and I teeter forward. I glance over my shoulder, steadying myself with the corner of Kline's desk, and watch as the detective pulls on the lapels of his brown tweed coat. His round belly protrudes beyond his belt, and he coughs, stuffing a spiral notepad into his breast pocket, eyeing his partner with a critical scowl.

"You know where to find me." Kline stands behind the desk and motions toward the door.

Hudson dips his chin at Kline and turns his attention to me. "You two have a good night."

The detective exits, signaling for his partner to follow. When they step into the hall, Detective Dardson stops. He turns and lifts his chin, making eye contact with Kline. "Don't go too far, doc."

"Dardson," Hudson warns, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's late."

The plump detective wipes his forearm across his brow and leaves Kline's office. I glance out the doorway and watch as he follows Hudson. Before they turn the corner, Detective Dardson stops and turns to stare at me. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head as he walks backward until I'm out of view.

I whirl around and find Kline with both hands on his desk, hunched over and pale.

"What is going on?"

He massages the back of his neck and drops into his chair. He moves a pile of charts from one corner of his desk to the other, flips through a few papers, and grabs a pen beside his keyboard. His red-rimmed eyes meet mine, and he drags a finger inside his collar, loosening it as he clears his throat.

A frown forms on his lips as confusion wrinkles his brows. "Why are you here?"

I close my eyes and let out an exaggerated breath. When I open them, Kline's staring into space. I snap my fingers in front of his face. "Blakely's chart."

His eyes glaze over, and his face goes blank. He swallows and groans, leaning back in his chair and covering his face with both hands. He pushes back in the chair, rolling it across the linoleum before he stands and walks over to me, stopping in the doorway. His head swivels in one direction and then the next.

"They're gone," I say, focusing on his face.

He pinches his brow as he leans against the doorjamb and closes his eyes.

"Are you okay?" I lean into his field of view, unsure why he's out of sorts, and make sure his eyes meet mine.

"Yeah." He shoves his fingers under his glasses, rubbing his eyes as he yawns.

"What did they want?"

"They had some questions"—he pauses, waiting longer than is acceptable before he continues with his train of thought—"about the doctors who work—worked—here."

"Carrie and Jessie?" My brain scrambles to keep up.

He drops his gaze to his shoes. "They had questions about Carrie . . ." His voice trails off, and he leaves the doorway to glance into the hall again.

"Why did they want to talk to you?" The memory of his reluctance to give them information resurfaces, and I try not to overthink it.

"Technicalities."

"But you have nothing to do with it." It's not a question. I need him to confirm what I want to be true.

But he doesn't.

His face hardens, and he frowns, brushing a hand through his messy hair.

He stares at me. And I don't know how to keep my emotions from spreading across my face like wildfire. I swallow the lump in my throat and step away from him.

"Of course not." The words tumble from his mouth two seconds too late. The corner of his mouth perks up, but the tremor in his voice deceives him. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. "They have no leads."

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and nudges past me, leaning against his desk.

"But why you? Why now? It's been weeks."

"I figured they had questions about the malpractice litigation, but it was something else." He muffles a yawn with the back of his hand and takes a seat as he grabs his phone from the desk. He offers it to me, and I make my way to the chair, sitting before I take the phone from his hand. The title across the top of the video reads:

Manhunt in Mysterious Murders

And low-and-behold, there's Christopher Jenks' name again, right below it, with the date and time. He has impeccable timing. I open the video and listen as he stares into the camera.

" This afternoon, reporting investigators H. Roark and P. Dardson were dispatched to the site of the body discovered at The Pond in Central Park. Investigators are not releasing the victim's name, but she is a known physician at Mount Sinai West, five blocks west of where the body was found."

Could he be any more obvious about selling us out? He has to add this to all the flak from the malpractice.

" The chief medical examiner sat for a press release stating, ‘It has not been ruled out that the incident at the park is related to the murder at Mount Sinai West. The findings at the scenes are consistent with the possibility of one suspect. At this point, we cannot rule out a homicide.'"

There's something in the way he gives the information. It's more of a gloating that he knows it and only wants to share certain parts. The cocky grin needs wiped off his face.

"All evidence was turned over to the FBI, and they are asking for assistance in the case. If you have any information, please contact them at the number below . . . "

I stop listening and hand Kline his phone back.

Two murders. Two women. Both doctors.

And they're questioning Kline.

"I don't think they have anything better to do," he says, tearing my attention from the phone.

"But why do they want to talk to you?"

He waves off my question with wild arm motions, ripping his phone from my hand. "I couldn't care less. This whole murder thing is taking the heat off the malpractice suit. It's unfortunate, but I hate to ignore good timing. If they ask you anything, you know to direct them to me, right? You want Blakely's chart?"

I tighten my hands into fists at my sides. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Hasn't he listened to a word I've said?

He continues to stare as he waits for an answer.

"Yes, you have it?"

"Week two of chemo is next week."

"I know."

He chuckles. "Is he sick yet?"

I straighten my spine, curious if he has Liam's chart. "Not as far as I know."

"Yikes. You might get ahead of that."

"I'm not worried about it."

"Whatever you think is best. I'm glad we had this little chat." He leans forward, dismissing me as he looks me square in the eyes. " Partner ."