The Rule of Three, page 17
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SILVESTRI
As we watch Laura pass the nurses’ station and disappear into the hallway leading to the elevator bank, a woman I recognize as the doctor attending to Gil Mathers approaches us, looking back in Laura’s direction with a concerned expression before returning her attention to us.
“Dr. Mitali,” I say. “Nice to see you again.”
“You too,” she answers distractedly. “Everything okay there?” She hikes her thumb behind her.
“Mrs. Mathers seemed a little agitated,” I explain. “Said she was going to get some air.”
She sets her jaw. “Detectives,” she says sternly. “I understand that you have a job to do, but I would respectfully ask that you please be careful not to rile up anyone in Mr. Mathers’s vicinity. He’s in something of a tentative state, and he needs all of the positive energy he can get. It’s critical to his recovery.”
“We were as gentle as could be,” I assure her. “Mrs. Mathers seemed overtired, and rattled by the sudden change in her husband’s condition earlier.”
“Oh my,” she says, and rolls back on her heels, her shoulders dropping. “That was a nasty surprise. Poor woman. This must all be so much for her.” I notice the doctor nervously working the tip of her thumbnail with her forefinger.
“Have you had much of a chance to interact with Mrs. Mathers?” asks Wolcott.
“I have,” she says. “Yes.”
“And how would you characterize her response to everything that’s happened so far?”
“Well, Detective.” She considers the question for a moment. “There’s the inevitable shock to consider, as well as her lack of sleep. And that’s not even taking into account whatever this has done to her psychologically. She’s seemed agitated at times, as you said. A little pushy, maybe.” She curls her lips inward. “But no worse than anyone else I’ve had to deal with under similar circumstances. And I noticed that her sister was here earlier, relieving her from bedside duty and giving moral support, so hopefully she’s utilizing her family and network of friends, and not going at this alone.”
“I see.” Wolcott nods gently. “And can you give us some idea of Mr. Mathers’s progress at this point?”
“Well,” she begins, “we were all surprised that he regained consciousness temporarily. That was an unexpected blip on the radar. But we’ve been monitoring him closely, and his vitals and brain activity have been encouraging. So, I remain cautiously optimistic. For now, we’re continuing to keep an eye on Mr. Mathers’s progress to determine when we can safely bring him out of his comatose state.”
“Huh,” I say. “So, you’re essentially controlling his condition right now?”
“As best we can, yes. When a patient suffers this sort of traumatic injury, it’s of paramount importance to maintain consistent blood flow to the area and to allow the brain time to properly heal. Once we deem Mr. Mathers to be out of the woods, so to speak, we can bring him back out of his current state safely.”
“That’s good to know,” I say, looking at my partner before returning my attention to the doctor. “Well, we certainly appreciate your time.”
“No problem,” she says as she hands me a card. “And this is the number to my direct line. Please feel free to give a call if there’s anything else I can be helpful with, okay?”
* * *
We’re outside the cafeteria on the lower level of the hospital heading toward the exit when a familiar figure rounds the corner, walking in our direction. Wolcott stops just as I do, and the nurse approaches us, an eager look on her kind face.
“Good morning,” I say, all sunshine and rainbows. I see her attention shift to my partner and take the opportunity to cheat my eyes to her ID badge. “Lila,” I continue. “I’m Detective Silvestri and this is my partner, Detective Wolcott. We noticed you passing by Gil Mathers’s room a little while ago.” We’d been speaking with Laura in the hallway, and I’d clocked the nurse slowing her pace as she passed us, trying to catch any tidbits from our conversation. I’m hoping she might be able to shed some light on the situation. “Are you attending to Mr. Mathers?”
“I am, yes,” she says, eyes wide. “What a poor, poor man.”
“A terrible turn of events.” I offer a solemn nod. “Listen,” I say, dropping the volume of my voice and my head slightly, to take her into our confidence. “My partner and I are concerned about Mrs. Mathers’s well-being, in light of her husband’s condition.” I notice Lila subtly flinch at the mention of Laura. “Have you had a chance to observe her while she’s been visiting with him?”
“Some,” she says tentatively, then takes a short step to close the distance between the three of us. “I have to admit, I’m a little intimidated by that woman.”
“Is that so?” I ask.
“I mean, I feel so bad for her, obviously.” Her brow furrows as she takes on the weight of the thought. “But she just seems like someone who’s used to getting what she wants, so I guess this is probably even more frustrating for her.”
“Huh,” I say. “That’s a very insightful observation, Lila. Could you give us any examples of the behavior you’ve seen from her?”
“Well,” she says. “She’s been bugging the staff about getting her husband moved to a private room, which is kind of beside the point, considering his situation. She keeps asking for a larger bed, which we don’t physically have access to. And she’s just generally short with the staff. I mean, I feel like she’s trying to make an effort, but there’s a volatile energy underneath everything.”
“I see.” I nod encouragingly.
“And even when she was interacting with her husband, when he woke up for a few moments this morning, she seemed aggravated with him.”
“That’s interesting,” says Wolcott. “You were in the room when Mr. Mathers regained consciousness?”
“Oh no,” she clarifies. “I was walking past on my rounds when I overheard her talking to him, and then suddenly he groaned and said something back. I was surprised to hear his voice, obviously, and I went to get the doctor to bring her back to check on him, so I only really heard a snippet of their conversation, but she definitely sounded annoyed.”
“Lila,” I say. “Can you remember any details of the exchange at all?”
“Well,” she considers, “he was trying to get out a name, but he was just kind of moaning it. You could tell he was struggling. Then she was trying to explain that she was his wife, because I guess he was disoriented and mistook her for someone else? But she kind of went up on the ‘wife’ when she said it, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” says Wolcott. “How do you mean, ‘went up’?”
“Like, uh, her voice jumped in pitch. ‘I’m your wife.’ Like she was annoyed that she had to explain who she was to him. And then she said his name sharply, but that sounded more like she was concerned. And by then I was halfway down the hall.”
“This is all very helpful,” I say. “And could you make out the name that he called her by mistake?”
“Let me see,” she says, squeezing her eyelids together. “It was a woman’s name . . .” She nods rhythmically, as if performing some sort of mental excavation. “Probably why his wife was pissed, come to think of it . . .” She opens her eyes, still flashing a look of deep concentration. “Sorry,” she says. “My memory’s not the best.”
“Here’s what helps me,” volunteers Wolcott. “Start with the letter A, and then cycle through the alphabet. Sometimes when you land on the first letter of the name, it jogs your brain into remembering.”
“Huh,” she says, and closes her eyes again. “He said it slowly. Pronounced each syllable.” Her mouth moves absently, trying to retrieve the sounds tucked somewhere in the crevices of her mind. Suddenly her eyes shoot open and a satisfied smile takes over. “I got it,” she states proudly. “ ‘Monica.’ He definitely said ‘Monica.’ ”
* * *
“So,” I say. “Maybe we’re looking at some funny business? A little love triangle?” We’re back in the unmarked in the lot outside the hospital. This big metal box has been sitting on an open, unshaded stretch of asphalt collecting heat, and I’m blasting the AC to try to keep from melting into the seat leather.
“That’d certainly add a new layer of intrigue,” says Wolcott, pulling the heel of his thumb across his damp brow.
“And if there was an affair going on, it might help to explain the double-cross in the clearing out by the woods.”
“Good point,” he says. “Maybe Mathers knew that Nichols was on to them, anticipated the ambush, and beat him to the punch. Or, you know, to the gunshot.”
“I can get with that,” I say, throwing the transmission into drive and pulling up behind an outgoing ambulance. I enjoy a burst of cool air from the vent next to the dashboard as I pull out into traffic. “Well, partner. I guess there’s the one way to find out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
MONICA
For the first time in days, I’m completely alone in my house without constant phone notifications alongside a soundtrack of unrelenting doorbell chiming.
The intrusions have been a mix of allegedly concerned neighbors and shameless reporters coming right up to the door and peeking into my windows, their cameras and phones aimed in my direction like loaded weapons.
The house feels completely different without Spencer here. I expected things would be heavier and more somber, but they aren’t. I should feel guilty for feeling so liberated without him here, but I don’t. The absence of him has released a pressure valve and the air feels lighter, even though everything is so dire. My brain flickers with sparks of ideas and a renewed sense of energy, which I suspect may have something to do with evolutionary coping mechanisms. Without Spencer to give me a tutorial about the human psyche during crisis, I’m only left to wonder and possibly google.
I know underneath the shock of him really being dead, there is grief to attend to, and a well of emotional backlog that will overflow when the time is right, but I can’t seem to tap into anything other than numbness. Every few hours, like a preset alarm, I have the thought Spencer is dead. Spencer is dead. Spencer is dead. And I feel a rush of something, but I’m not sure it is what I’m supposed to be feeling.
I’ve touched nothing of his since the news of his death, so all the objects related to him are still easily found in well-organized drawers and behind the doors of pristinely arranged closets. But his passing has made me realize how little of ourselves exists out in the open around our house. As I absorb my surroundings on my way out to the patio, I don’t find myself destroyed by a favorite coffee mug of his left out unwashed, or well-worn slippers that still bear the imprint of his feet, lying in my path. They aren’t there; he would never stand for random out-of-place items. These would be the relics of a lived-in home, not the sterile house where we’ve been laying our heads for the last year.
Outside, I settle onto the chaise with a glass of lemonade, my book, and a pad of Post-it notes. I’ve begun writing down quotes to put around the house to keep my spirits up. It was a regular practice I had before I was with Spencer, and now that he’s gone, I’ve decided to rediscover some of the ways I used to self-soothe.
Being outside is another way to stay grounded. I take in the sound of the chirping insects and the dueling lawn mowers to the left and right of me, our neighbors on the same landscaping schedule. I trace a heart into the side of a frosted plastic mug I keep in the freezer for Spence’s beer. The tart and sweet juice is refreshing in the afternoon heat, and I close my eyes and let the solar warmth spread through my body.
I’ve stumbled into a forgotten aspect of myself: complete independence. After a long period of dormancy, I am once again able to make my own decisions, and my head begins to swim with a multitude of possibilities. I have to close my eyes because the world begins to spin around me, the concept steadily piling anxious thought upon tense realization. I try to focus on the reddish light of the sun through my closed eyelids and feel the cradling heat.
After a period of time, the light I’m basking in is eclipsed by a looming darkness. I open my eyes to the sight of the two detectives obscuring the sun.
I sit up abruptly and knock over my lemonade, the plastic mug clattering to ground, its full contents of liquid and ice spilling out and in between the cracks of the wooden planks as the mug rolls lazily to one side.
“Oh shit!” I blurt, and the detectives barely flinch as I jump to a stand and grab the beach towel from the back of my chair and throw it over the spill. Wolcott steps aside to make room for me, while Silvestri walks slowly around the patio and takes in the surroundings.
“Sorry,” I say, flustered. “You scared the hell outta me.” My twang is in full effect.
“Apologies for sneaking up on you, Mrs. Nichols. We tried the bell. The side gate was open, and your car was in the garage, so we took a chance.”
“You weren’t picking up your phone, so we thought we’d swing by to check on you,” Silvestri says to the sky as he keeps looking up and around the yard, a mix of awe and wonder across his face.
We are standing awkwardly next to the spill and I gesture toward the glass table surrounded by cushioned chairs. “Why don’t we sit over here?” I suggest. They look at each other and nod and I lead the way. They both watch me as I unfurl the umbrella to block out the three o’clock sun hanging high in the cloudless sky.
“Better hose that spot off so you don’t get ants,” Wolcott advises.
“I’ll do that,” I say, feeling annoyed. “Can I get you any lemonade or maybe an iced tea or coffee?” I ask, feeling myself beginning to disassociate from the scene and forcing my focus on the men.
“Lemonade sounds lovely,” says Wolcott through a warm smile.
“Sure does.” His partner nods.
“Be right back,” I tell them as I exit into the house. I wipe my palms on the front of my dress out of their sight.
When I fill the glasses with ice and juice and place them on the drinks tray, I watch the men from the window and try to decipher their expressions. Neither is saying anything, and their lack of conversation makes me feel even more agitated. I head back out.
“Here we go,” I say brightly as I hand them each a glass. I place a plate of brownies on the table between them. “And here are some baked goods, to go with your juice.” I suddenly feel like a mother offering her waterlogged children refreshments after a long day in the pool.
The detectives eyeball the brownies but neither makes a reach for one.
“Are you a baker?” Wolcott asks.
“No, not at all. These are from the next-door neighbors.”
“That’s thoughtful of them.”
“Not really,” I say wearily. “They’ve never come over the entire time we’ve been here.”
“That right?” Wolcott asks.
“Not until yesterday, when they walked right up to the front door to check on ‘how I’m doing.’ ” I throw a look of disdain in the direction of the brownies.
“Not a chocolate fan?” Wolcott asks.
“No appetite,” I say softly.
“I gather that this was more of a baked Trojan horse than a genuinely concerned neighbor?” Wolcott asks.
I shrug.
“People’s curiosity often clouds their basic consideration for the people who are living through tragedy,” he says thoughtfully.
“Apparently,” I respond.
“Has the press been bothering you?” Silvestri asks, glancing in the direction beyond the gate, where there were at least two news vans parked the last time I checked.
“Yes, but they seem to have thinned out. Mercifully, they’ve stopped coming up to the door and the windows after I threatened them. I haven’t said anything aside from ‘I’m calling the police,’ so I think they’ve gotten bored of me.”
“We also had a word with them. They should be keeping their distance,” Silvestri says.
The detectives both sip their drinks quietly. I have a thousand questions for them but remain silent.
Silvestri leans back in the sunlight and moves his head around like an overstimulated owl. “You’ve got an impressive variety of trees. A person could get utterly lost back here in all of this beauty,” he says appreciatively, if not a little oddly.
I hesitate, not knowing if this statement is some kind of trick.
Wolcott chuckles. “You’ll have to excuse my partner, Mrs. Nichols. He’s a bit of an amateur arborist, among other things.”
“That’s me. I’m a real tree hugger,” Silvestri quips back.
I nod politely, unsure of what to make of their banter.
“Mrs. Nichols, we know that this has been an incredibly difficult time and we don’t want to add to any of your stress, but the first days following a homicide are the most critical in solving it,” Wolcott says carefully.
“Of course. I want to find out what happened to Spencer and why,” I say.
“So do we, Mrs. Nichols.”
“We have some more questions for you, and we hope you can provide us with as much information as possible, and to the best of your ability,” Silvestri adds.
