Chapter 4 - The Detective Who Knew Too Much
Claire backed away from the door.
Her first instinct was to run, but the room had only one window, and it overlooked a narrow courtyard enclosed by brick walls. The stairs were outside the door. Whoever was standing there could block her exit before she reached them.
“Mrs. DeLuca,” the man said, “I understand you're frightened. I'm not here to hurt you.”
Claire almost laughed.
Everyone who wanted something from her seemed to begin with that promise.
“Show me your badge,” she called.
A small rectangle slid beneath the door.
She waited several seconds before picking it up. The badge looked legitimate, but she had learned that a convincing document could be manufactured more easily than the truth.
“Put your identification against the peephole,” she said.
A pause.
Then the man did as she asked.
Claire looked through the peephole. The badge matched the photograph on his identification. The man was in his early forties, with tired eyes and a dark coat. He stood alone.
She opened the door only a few inches, keeping the chain engaged.
“Detective Ortiz?”
“That's right.”
“Who told you I was here?”
“I can't discuss that in the hallway.”
“Then we don't have anything to discuss.”
She started to close the door.
“Your daughter's medical records were altered,” Ortiz said quickly. “I think someone used your husband's company to pay for it.”
Claire stopped.
“Who?”
“That's what I'm trying to establish.”
“Then you should be investigating Adrian.”
“I am.”
“Are you?”
Ortiz glanced down the stairs.
“May I come inside?”
“No.”
“Fine.” He lowered his voice. “I have a copy of a report showing that the brakes on your husband's SUV were tampered with before the crash.”
Claire felt the floor shift beneath her feet.
Daniel Mercer had told Adrian about the brake report. Had he also contacted the police? Or had someone taken the report from him?
“Who tampered with them?”
“We don't know yet. But the work was done at a garage owned by one of your husband's business partners.”
“Did Adrian know?”
“That's the question.”
Claire looked at him carefully. “You said Sophie's records were altered. What does that have to do with the accident?”
“I don't know if the two events are connected. But the same consulting company appears in both investigations.”
“Vivian Cole.”
Ortiz's expression changed.
“You've seen the records.”
“Who is she really?”
“Her employment history is inconsistent. She has worked under at least three different names. We believe she was paid by a company called Meridian Clinical Solutions.”
Claire remembered the spreadsheet.
“What does Meridian do?”
“Officially, medical billing and patient-data management. Unofficially, it may have been used to move confidential information between private clinics and corporate clients.”
“Why would anyone want my daughter's information?”
Ortiz looked at her for a long moment.
“Did Sophie ever receive treatment outside her regular hospital?”
Claire thought back to the previous year. Adrian had arranged a private consultation after Sophie fainted during a school assembly. He had taken her himself, telling Claire the clinic was discreet and the specialist was excellent.
Claire had been unable to attend because her mother had suffered a fall and needed help getting home.
Adrian had returned with Sophie asleep in the back seat and a prescription in a white paper bag.
He said the doctor had diagnosed migraines.
“Once,” Claire whispered. “My husband took her to a private clinic.”
“Do you remember the name?”
She did.
Northlake Pediatric Research Center.
Ortiz wrote it down.
“Did you keep any of the paperwork?”
“Adrian handled it.”
“Of course he did.”
The words carried no accusation, but Claire heard one anyway.
She had spent years allowing Adrian to manage the details of their life because he was busy, wealthy, and powerful. She had mistaken his control for competence and his confidence for care.
Now she wondered how many warning signs she had ignored.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
“Because your husband has been asking questions about you, and somebody in my department has been leaking information about the investigation. I don't know who I can trust.”
“And you think I can trust you?”
“No,” Ortiz said. “I think you have information I need, and I think someone may try to kill you before you can share it.”
Claire stared at him.
Before she could respond, a phone vibrated in the detective's pocket. He checked the screen, and the color drained from his face.
“What is it?” Claire asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he looked at her.
“Your husband just reported you missing to the FBI.”
“I've been missing for days.”
“He's claiming you may have been abducted. He's also offered a substantial reward for information leading to your safe return.”
Claire's throat tightened.
“He wants me back.”
“Maybe.”
She heard the warning in his voice.
“What does that mean?”
Ortiz slipped his phone away. “It means your husband is telling the public that he loves you and wants you safe. But someone has also been contacting private security firms, offering money for your location. One of those messages included instructions to bring you in alive, regardless of your condition.”
Claire felt sick.
“Who sent it?”
“The account was registered to a company owned by Adrian DeLuca.”
For a moment, she saw the man she had married: handsome, attentive in the early years, carrying Sophie on his shoulders through the park. She remembered how he had cried when their daughter was born and promised that nothing would ever hurt her.
Then she remembered his voice in the hallway.
Maybe she just wasn't meant to stay.
“I'm not going back,” she said.
“I didn't ask you to.”
“Then what do you want?”
Ortiz held out a business card.
“Give me the original files. I can protect them and submit them to an independent prosecutor. But I need you to understand something: if your husband is involved, the people around him may be more dangerous than he is.”
Claire thought of Mercer. Of the anonymous messages. Of the hospital records.
She could hand over the memory card and hope the police did their job. Or she could keep it and risk being hunted indefinitely.
“What happens if I give you the evidence?”
“I investigate. You get a lawyer. And you tell the truth about the crash, the records, and everything you know about Vivian Cole.”
“And Adrian?”
Ortiz didn't hesitate.
“If the evidence points to him, I'll arrest him.”
Claire looked down at the card in her hand.
Then she opened the door.
“Come in.”
Ortiz stepped inside and immediately locked the door behind him.
Claire frowned. “Why did you do that?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he drew his weapon and moved toward the window.
Outside, a black sedan had stopped at the curb.
Two men were getting out.
Ortiz's face hardened.
“Claire,” he whispered, “get away from the window.”
One of the men looked up toward the boardinghouse.
Then he raised his phone and took a photograph.
May you like
Ortiz pulled the curtains shut.
“They found you.”
