One Murder More, page 15
There was ample evidence that Sean had been in a relationship with Tamara, which would explain his possession of her childhood photo album. Although doubtful he would have his former girlfriend’s consent, Tamara likely left it at his place, and he’d failed to return it. Part of the unintended custody agreements of clothing, random kitchenware, and photos that always occurred in sudden breakups. It’s not like it was a weapon, she reflected, reliving her relief when she’d discovered that the bag under the waste can in her bathroom did not contain a knife. Plus, Maren really did expect Sean to be exonerated, and if she turned over the album to police storage, it might be damaged or hard to get back. In his grief, Sean deserved to have some memories intact. The heart-shaped locket, however, was different. If it was the one Tamara had on the day of her death, how and when did Sean get it? Did he remove it at the scene, or did he see Tamara before that, despite his denials? On a hopeful note for Sean’s defense, the “BC” engraved on the back might be the killer’s initials, or at least a clue to who he was. But altogether, there had been too many unknowns for Maren to feel comfortable keeping it to herself. So she’d called Lana Decateau and left a message about the necklace, omitting any mention of the photo album. She hoped she’d done the right thing.
When she reached the Saniplaz address, Maren followed signs to parking and navigated the narrow, circular ramp up three floors, only to find that all were full. Circling back down to the basement floor, she maneuvered her Beetle between two SUVs that had no business parking in spots marked “Compact Only.” Taking off her scarf, she checked her hair in the mirror. Rather than being flattened into compliance, her dark curls rebelliously popped up in all directions. She settled for putting on lipgloss, grabbed her satchel, and squeezed out between one of the behemoth vehicles and her car. Her legs needed stretching after the two-hour drive, but otherwise she felt good.
Looking around to determine how to get access from parking to the Saniplaz plant, she saw four exit doors, one in each corner of the garage. They were each a different color—muddy brown, muddy blue, muddy green, and muddy purple—with no labels. She felt like a Let’s Make a Deal contestant. The brown door to her left was the most worn. Assuming that meant it was also the most used, she chose that. Bingo. Inside was an elevator and a small brass-colored sign indicating “Saniplaz, Inc. 2nd Floor.”
The modern lobby, high-ceilinged and constructed primarily of gleaming metal and glass, stood in stark contrast to the dismal featureless garage. The lobby walls were punctuated by videos on big screens heralding the joys of plastic. It looked like Walt Disney had designed the space, a possibility reinforced by a smiling Snow White look-alike receptionist at the front desk.
Maren was signing the log in exchange for a visitor’s badge and a bright-green carryall bearing the Saniplaz logo when Caleb Waterston came hurrying toward her.
“Maren, so glad you made it.” He extended his bony hand to shake hers. She was struck again by how much the man needed an infusion of at least ten thousand calories.
“Caleb, hello. I didn’t realize you would be here.”
“I didn’t want to have a VIP like you negotiating the complexities of a corporate carrot without me, heh-heh-heh.”
A corporate carrot? She was trying to figure out what that could possibly mean when Waterston continued.
“Unfortunately, Senator Joben had other canyons to climb so he won’t be with us today.”
Maren hoped her expression remained appropriate—she was going for minimally let down. She wondered if Alec not showing up was a message to her, that just when she’d decided to roll the dice and see what might happen, he’d gone sour on the idea of dating a lobbyist. Only a few months into his first term, deciding against it—against her—would be the politically smart thing to do.
“We could start,” Caleb said, “but I thought your brother was joining you.”
Maren couldn’t believe she’d forgotten about Noel. She’d turned her phone off on the drive since sound through the TalkFree hands-free speaker system was hopeless when the convertible top was down. Sure enough, there was a message from Noel saying he was stuck in traffic. She figured he must have chosen to take one of the more interesting but less favorable routes. He told her to start the tour without him, that he would call when he got there. There was also a message from Garrick Chauncey. They hadn’t spoken since their lunch together and she still didn’t know what to say to him. She hit Save without listening and turned back to Waterston.
“Noel’s delayed. Since we have a minute, I’d like to ask you about Senator Rickman’s cell phone legislation. I understand why TalkFree opposes, but can we—”
A monster of a man molded into a white coat and holding a clipboard interrupted them. “Ms. Kane, Mr. Waterston, good afternoon. The plant closes in an hour. If we want to see any of the action, we need to move. I’m Dr. Samuel Jones, vice president of the Go-Green Initiative here at Saniplaz.”
At six feet four, three hundred pounds, he was bald, with thick side-burns and a goatee, and looked like a bouncer at a hip club, not a plastics executive. Given the difference between Snow White’s puffed-sleeve dress and hair bow at the desk and this guy, Maren had to give Saniplaz points for letting employees express their individuality. She tabled her thoughts about the cell phone bill and determined she would get back to Waterston about that later.
Dr. Jones began the tour’s narrative as they walked. “What you will see today is the cornerstone of the Saniplaz Go-Green Initiative. As you no doubt know, most plastics are produced using petroleum. That is accomplished in increasingly eco-friendly ways in our main facility. But Saniplaz is always looking for alternatives that can be eco-effective and provide our customers with the quality and durability they need.”
Eco-effective? He may look different, but he sounds the same, Maren thought as she listened to what appeared to be a standard corporate spiel. He should try telling the people in the gulf at ground zero for the BP spill that oil is increasingly eco-friendly.
The trio passed through several hallways that fed into offices before reaching a large set of double doors emblazoned with a life-size image of a stick figure with a line through it and the words “Danger, Industrial Production Area.” Maren thought privately that the stick figure was a pretty good rendering of Caleb Waterston. Dr. Jones reached into a side locker and pulled out a hard hat and safety goggles for himself and handed similar gear to Maren and Caleb. He reminded them to check that their phones were off for the tour. Then he swiped a card through a keyless entry. There was a click as the doors unlocked and he pushed one open, gesturing for them to go in.
The space was cavernous, filled with pulsing machinery dominated by three huge steel cylinders. There were only three workers in sight, all in white coats and safety gear, checking various dials and panels. Jones shepherded Maren and Caleb to one side.
“As I noted, most plastics are made of nonrenewable petroleum. However, in this new Go-Green facility our plastics are all corn-based. We purchase the raw materials—resin pellets distilled from corn—from a plant in Iowa, ship them here, and then use that as the basis for biodegradable plastic. Not only is the source renewable, the end product is biodegradable.”
Caleb was smiling smugly, proud of his client’s achievements. Maren had to admit she found the idea of corn-based plastics pretty cool. Jones walked them through the various stations of production and introduced them to staff along the way. Maren was sorry Noel was missing this. Not only would he have enjoyed it, he could have asked the hard questions about by-products from corn processing, including how much energy it took and why the chemical BPA was still needed. She had tried but was unable to decipher the technical responses.
Back in the entryway, Maren thanked Dr. Jones and Caleb Waterston, promising to follow up with any questions Senator Joben, author of the BPA bill, might have. She also asked Caleb to give her a call about TalkFree and the cell phone legislation as soon as he could. When they had left, she turned her phone back on and checked for messages. Only one—Noel again. She felt a moment of disappointment, realizing she was hoping for the call from Lana Decateau that would tell her there was a break in the case, that the police knew they’d made a mistake and Sean was being processed for freedom.
Maren hit Play.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Four hours for what should have been a two-hour drive. Please call me.” Noel was clearly frustrated.
She tapped the Callback icon on her phone screen. He picked up on the first ring.
“Noel Kane here.”
“It’s me. Where are you?”
“Saniplaz. There was a four-car pileup, injuries, ambulances.” He paused. “I’m here now, parked on a side street a few blocks from the plant. I couldn’t figure out the maze of one-way streets to get to the entrance. I’m walking. Wait, that looks like the parking garage.”
“Great. Meet me at the lowest level—my car’s near the brown door. I can drive you to your car and we can have dinner. I’ll tell you about the tour. I have lots of questions for you.”
Noel hung up and walked around the block until he saw external stairs down to the garage. The complex was nearly empty. Clearly, most of the Saniplaz employees had gone home for the day. Maren’s VW was parked against the opposite wall. He took out his phone to let Maren know he had located it. But mid-dial he sensed something and looked up to see an ominous figure dressed head to toe in black, including a black ski mask, crouching behind Maren’s car.
At that moment Maren entered the garage, head down. She was rummaging to get her ringing phone from her bag as she walked, oblivious to the imminent threat less than ten feet away. Noel shouted at her to stop as he dropped his phone, ignoring the cracking sound as it hit the concrete.
He took off at a sprint toward her, his long legs covering the space quickly, his trench coat billowing behind him. The dark figure rounded the car toward Maren and rose to standing, a knife held high in one black-gloved hand. Noel threw himself the last few feet into the narrow gap between his sister and her attacker. He knocked Maren backward as the cold steel of the knife blade drove deeply into his side. Maren’s landing was cushioned bottom-first on her soft satchel, but Noel hit hard, free-falling, arms outstretched onto the unforgiving cement floor.
The assailant shifted Noel’s limp body, quickly patting the trench coat pockets, pulling a wallet from one.
“What’s going on?” Caleb called, seeing the tangle of bodies as he entered from the opposite end of the lot near a shiny white Volvo, his car key in hand.
The figure in black dropped Noel’s wallet at the sound, backed away, then turned and ran. Maren managed to sit up and crawl toward her brother. He lay face down on the ground, his head turned toward her. She saw the protruding knife and felt his warm blood as it stained his coat and flowed onto the concrete, fast. Too fast. His eyes were closed, his breathing rapid and shallow.
Caleb reached them. “What the hell is happening?” he said, his voice shaky.
“Shut up, Caleb. For once, shut up. Call 911. And give me your jacket.” Caleb pulled his suit coat off and dropped it next to Maren as he fumbled to get to his phone.
“No reception.” He waved his phone helplessly.
“Go outside. Now!” Maren ordered, pressing the jacket to Noel’s side in an effort to stop the bleeding.
CHAPTER 21
Maren’s eyes ached, her throat was dry, and she felt stiff from her fall. She had been at Santa Clara Valley Medical Center for three hours, watched over by a police officer, a small pudgy man with a body odor problem who, despite his uniform and badge, looked like he would have a hard time subduing any assailant. San Jose police had said the attack in the garage appeared to be a random robbery attempt—parking structures were a popular target. Perhaps that was why they didn’t send their top man. Still, any attack with a knife started gears whirring in Maren’s brain these days. She would think about that later. For now, her head only had room for Noel.
She tucked her feet underneath her on the hard vinyl chair and pulled the blanket the hospital staff had given her up to her neck. She couldn’t stop shivering. There was that awful hospital odor. Not a clean smell, although a mixture of pine and chemical disinfectant was dominant. Beneath it Maren felt she was breathing in something primal, the desperation of sickness and death. She thought of her mother’s last days in intensive care after her heart attack, then willed herself back to the present.
The ambulance had come to the Saniplaz lot quickly, paramedics barking at each other in code, taking action to stabilize Noel. She’d ridden in the back, crowded alongside Noel’s stretcher with an attendant who had fiddled with dials and an IV while they traveled at what felt like Mach speed through the San Jose city streets, sirens blaring.
“Noel, I’m here. It’s okay.”
Maren had held Noel’s hand in hers and continued speaking to him throughout the transport, although she’d had no sign he could hear. His fingers had felt icy cold and he never opened his eyes. The feeling inside her had been like an acid wash, the pain beyond anything she’d ever experienced, the “what-ifs” simply too terrible to consider.
At the hospital the paramedics had maintained their pace, wheeling Noel away on a gurney through two double doors. Maren was told to wait at the entry. After fifteen minutes she got in line at the intake desk behind a short, thick-waisted man in a T-shirt and plaid pants, a business type who looked like he’d been golfing, although Friday night didn’t seem the time for it. He leaned against the counter and drawled lazily, giving a long, detailed description of the barriers he encountered when he tried to pick up his wife’s medications at the hospital pharmacy. He seemed neither angry nor frustrated, just intent on a full, calm hearing of his grievance. It appeared to have nothing to do with emergency care and the staff tried to tell him so, but he persisted, never checking over his shoulder to see what kind of line might be forming behind him as the minutes ticked by. When he was finally done to his satisfaction, the man turned and walked out, failing to make eye contact with those he had kept waiting, including Maren.
What, you think if you don’t look at us, we don’t exist? Maren fumed. She wanted to smack him, but she couldn’t remember ever having punched anyone. Except Noel, when they were kids. The memory of her brother made her need for information more urgent. All she could get out of the harried desk staff was that Noel had been taken for a CT scan and evaluation. She returned to her seat, occasionally moving around to stretch or pace. The magazines on the table beside her were out of date, and she had no ability to focus anyway. She checked twice more at the counter; no news of Noel. Nearly an hour passed.
“Ms. Kane?”
The doctor who called Maren’s name was young and tall, with bright red hair pulled back in a clip. She wore the requisite physician’s white coat over mint-green surgical scrubs.
“Over here,” Maren said, standing as she spoke.
The doctor crossed the waiting area and suggested they sit down, but it had taken all Maren’s energy to stand up—she didn’t feel she could reverse the process.
The physician introduced herself. “I’m Doctor Eliza Wheaton. I’m in charge of your brother’s case. I have good news and bad news about your brother.”
Seriously, good news and bad news? Maren thought. Can’t you come up with a more reassuring opener than that?
But she didn’t trust herself to say anything, so she waited.
“The knife nicked a small branch artery, rather than a major line. The blood loss seemed a lot, but it was not enough to be life-threatening. Also, the blow to the head as your brother fell does not seem to have done any significant damage. His brain function is normal.”
Maren didn’t think she would ever hear anyone describe Noel’s brain function as normal.
But yes, that was good.
And the bad news?
“The intake report said he was running and leapt up to block the assailant from striking you?”
“Yes,” Maren confirmed.
“When he landed, your brother’s head was up since he was focused on you. That meant his chest hit first. It’s the reason his head injury was minor. Like when someone is diving and does a belly flop. Because of the trauma when his chest took the impact of the fall, he sustained a small tear in his aortic artery. It’s not from the knife, it’s from the fall. The bad news is that’s a potentially serious injury. The aorta might tear further, and the wound could become life-threatening. We will try to fix it to prevent that, but we need to first be certain no other organs, such as his liver, kidney, or spleen, have been compromised. Then we’ll see if surgery can be done to repair the tear in his aorta.”
Maren felt numb. She hugged herself tightly. She asked the doctor in a childlike tone, “My brother has injured his heart?”
“Yes.” Dr. Wheaton responded gently. “You can see him if you like, though he’s heavily sedated since we must keep his blood pressure low so the aortic tear is not exacerbated. After that, you should go home and rest. Come back tomorrow. We won’t do anything more until he’s stable for at least twenty-four hours.”
The doctor would try to fix it...
It could be life-threatening...
Those statements were unacceptable. Maren filed them accordingly, out of conscious reach.
When she got to his room, Noel was asleep. Deep-purple bruises spread from the right side of his face down his chest, and both his palms were torn and discolored. But the biggest shock for Maren was seeing him without his fedora and trench coat. In his white hospital gown, he looked so vulnerable—unprotected and unarmored. At least the knife had been removed, and his wound was wrapped in gauze.
Twenty minutes later, Maren started awake, realizing she’d fallen asleep in the chair. She decided it would be best to follow Dr. Wheaton’s instructions and get some rest, though there was no way she was going home, two hours away from Noel. She located a nurse and let him know she would be at the nearest hotel. He was an older man, very nice and patient. She found herself telling him she and Noel were alone in the world, without parents or siblings. The nurse took her number and said he would phone her if there were any updates, no matter how minor.
