Killer Market

25

« ^ » “In the progress of civilization, the tendency of which is to secure for mankind better conditions of comfort and health, there is no special department the advance in which presents a more satisfactory record than medicine and the modern inventions which are allied to it.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

The first intensity of Market must have been wearing off. How else explain that I found a legal parking spot within two blocks of the GHFM building on my first pass?

I managed to evade the shoe shine offers from kids lining both sides of the street, but I wasn’t quite as skillful at avoiding all the leaflets thrust upon me by college students dressed as everything from space aliens to purple dogs. (It reminded me of trying to get past the skin shows in Times Square without accepting a flyer.)

Chan’s death had moved to the inside pages of Market Press and Furniture/Today both, but when I got off the elevator at Dixie’s floor and passed the swing where I’d found him, I saw two exhibitors staring at the cushion.

“Wonder if it’s the same cushion?” asked one man.

“If it is, whatever they’re using for fabric protection is really effective,” the other replied in utter seriousness. “Want me to ask? It could solve some of the problems we’ve been having with our current system. If it’s not too expensive per unit, of course.”

Dixie was too busy to take a break, but she recommended a coffee bar a couple of floors up, across from the Fitch and Patterson showroom. “Pell and Lynnette were there with Drew a little while ago, but they were going on to Mulholland. He had to pick up a fax and Lynnette loves to play with the toys.”

I found the coffee bar with no trouble. It was the most popular spot around at the moment and I didn’t see an empty chair at first, nor Pell and Lynnette; but Heather McKenzie was there alone, looking like a small dark cloud. She brightened marginally when she saw me and gestured for me to bring my espresso over and join her.

The little round metal tables and airy wire chairs were finished in a shiny white enamel. They mimicked those of an old-fashioned ice cream parlor and, according to a bold sign, were sold by the same company that sponsored this coffee bar. Some people got up from one of the tables and I confiscated a chair, which I carried over to Heather’s table where she was finishing off a latte.

“Having any luck?” I asked.

“Do I look like it? I’m thinking of staking the Princess Patterson out in a field somewhere like a goat and see if that’ll bring Savannah out into the open.”

I was startled by the bitterness in her clipped New England accent.

“What’ve you got against Drew Patterson?”

“Not a goddamn thing.”

“No?”

“No! And could we change the fricking subject?”

“Okay. We could discuss your real reason for stalking Savannah. And please don’t hand me that ‘profile’ tale. You’re not a real reporter. You run a newsletter-publishing firm in Boston.”

She stared at me blankly. “How the hell do you know that?”

“I’m a judge,” I said. “Judges hear things. And I’m still waiting to hear your answer.”

“She’s my mother.”

“Your mother? I was told that your mother’s in Boston.”

“My adoptive mother,” she said glumly. “Savannah’s my birth mother.”

Now it was my turn to stare. The heavy black hair, the dark eyes, the short stature? Yes, this could be Savannah’s daughter. And I suddenly knew where that broad nose came from, too. Pell said Savannah had disappeared for four months when Jay Patterson dumped her after Elizabeth announced her pregnancy with Drew. She hadn’t just gone off to lick her wounds, she’d gone to Georgia to have a baby and then immediately give it up for adoption. No wonder she’d fixated on Drew when her mental illness grew worse. Drew was Jay’s legitimate daughter, unlike her own child, the child she could never acknowledge.

“Can you say ironic, boys and girls?” Her Mr. Rogers imitation was dispirited. “I’m trying to get her to sit still long enough for the big discovery and reconciliation scene and all she wants is ten minutes of Drew flicking Patterson’s time.”

Ironic was the word for it. Clearly Heather had no idea that Drew was her half sister.

“What’s so goddamn bloody awful is that she’s probably got her medications totally screwed—if she’s even taking them. If she’s not taking anything, her doctor said she should be okay physically, but if she’s taking them without getting her blood levels monitored, she could wind up killing her fricking self. And why the hell should I care?”

She put her head down and the long thick hair swung down on either side of her face to hide the sudden tears.

“And here I thought Bostonians were always so proper in their speech,” I said, trying to lighten the moment.

It didn’t work. And to make things worse, wouldn’t you know that Drew Patterson would pick that moment to stick her pretty head out of the Fitch and Patterson showroom, spot me and come strolling over through the crowds to say hello?

She immediately noticed how upset Heather was. “Is something wrong?”

“Not a damn thing.” Heather fumbled in her purse for a tissue.

I handed her a paper napkin for her nose and started to introduce them, but Drew said, “It’s Heather McKenzie, isn’t it? You interviewed my dad about Savannah.”

Tactfully, she pretended not to see Heather’s tears.

Unfortunately, Heather was past pretending. “I should have interviewed you!” she snarled. “That’s as close as I’m ever likely to get to her as long as you’re around.”

Drew recoiled as if she’d been slapped and looked at me in bewilderment. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, hell,” Heather said wearily. “Sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“You know,” Drew said brightly, “there are lots of celebrities here at Market. I could introduce you to a dozen even more interesting than Savannah. And they’re not crazy either.”

“She’s not crazy,” Heather told her. “If she’d take her medications properly, she’d be as sane as you or me.”

Drew’s blue eyes went from Heather’s face to mine. “Am I missing something here?”

It wasn’t for me to say. Instead I glanced at Heather, who said abruptly, “She’s my mother, okay? Not yours. Deborah can explain. I’m going to go wash my face and when I come back, maybe you’ll tell me how I can find her.”

She got up and headed for a restroom down the hall.

By the time I finished explaining that Savannah was Heather’s birth mother, Drew looked even more stunned than I had felt a few minutes earlier. But then I knew her father’d had an affair with Savannah years ago and I rather doubted that it was something anyone had ever told her. Although how she could spend five minutes looking at a woman whose nose was slightly broader but otherwise identical to her own and not notice was beyond me.

“Savannah once had a real daughter?” she whispered.

“Evidently.”

“I thought it was part of her craziness. She talks so much rubbish. No one listens to the rantings of a mad person, do they?”

“She talked about having a baby?”

“Indirectly.” Drew twisted the end of one blonde tress and her blue eyes were worried. “She seems to think the reason I won’t admit that Lynnette’s my child is because I’m afraid of scandal. She keeps saying that it was shameful back in her day, not in mine. That she couldn’t keep me back then, but things are different now.”

“She thinks you’re that baby.”

“But she knows that Dad’s my—” Her eyes widened in sudden dismay. “Oh, my God! Is he—? He is, isn’t he? Oh, sweet Jesus! Does Heather know?”

I shook my head, “I don’t think she knows anything. And neither do you, if it comes right down to it. Look, forget about who her father might be. All Heather wants to do is find Savannah and talk to her. Savannah trusts you. Will you help? It’ll help Savannah, too. Heather seems to feel responsible. If she can establish a relationship, she can probably help Savannah get the mental treatment she so desperately needs.”

But I had overlooked how young Drew still was. As bright and poised as she may have been under normal circumstances, she was not handling this very well. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

We both saw Elizabeth Patterson come to the front of their showroom and scan the passing crowds. She held two purses, one of them probably Drew’s.

Drew stood up abruptly. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but don’t you see? How could I—? I have to—I promised Mother—”

She seemed to hear herself gibbering and somehow managed to get her tongue under control. “Give me some time to think about all this. I really do have to go. I’ll call you tonight at Dixie’s, okay?”

As Heather returned, I saw Elizabeth hand Drew her purse, then mother and daughter disappeared in the direction of the elevators. From behind they were almost indistinguishable, both tall and blonde, both in white silk slacks and navy blazers.

Golden.

“Did I shock the crap out of her?” asked Heather, who now had her Yankee tough-girl defenses back in place.

“You could say that.”

Her sturdy shoulders drooped for a moment. “Well, then, the hell with her. I’ll find Savannah myself and put her in a hammerlock.”

I had a feeling she probably could.

“Let me buy you another latte,” I said.

As I stood in line to give my order, I tried to decide whether or not it was all right to tell Heather about Savannah’s hiding place. Underwood had asked Dixie and Pell to keep it quiet, but he hadn’t exactly sworn me to secrecy.

“A technicality and you know it,” scolded my internal preacher.

“On the other hand,” argued the pragmatist, “think about it: Underwood’s gone out of his way to tell you things even Dwight might not have. What’s his game?”

And why didn’t he have an APB out on Savannah? Market was crowded, yes, but surely he could have reached out and touched her if he’d really wanted to. Especially if he thought she was a killer.

Ergo, he didn’t fully suspect her.

Why?

She was there with my tote bag, my penicillin tablets, my—

Well, damn!

After all the time I’ve listened to DEA agents testify as to distinguishing a yellow Dilaudid tablet from a yellow Elavil, the differences between a green-and-white Donnatal capsule from Robins and a green-and-white Librium capsule from Roche? Every capsule or tablet has a stamp or imprint, a color combination, shape or size that’s unique to the company that makes it.

That’s why they weren’t after Savannah: the fragments of the tablets they found in the baggie with my fingerprints weren’t the same kind listed on my prescription bottle.

Underwood must have been snickering up his sleeve when I blustered that every medicine cabinet in America probably had leftover penicillin tablets.

And what were the odds that, in that stash of pills he’d found by Savannah’s bed, four of them would be mine?

Neither preacher nor pragmatist wanted to bet against me.

In my mind’s eye, I could almost see it happen: Chan takes the elevator down to Dixie’s floor. He’s going to bum a ride home with her. She’s not there, but a note on her door says she’ll be back for me at ten. He sits down on the swing to wait, remembers he has chocolate brownies in his pocket and swallows one down in two bites.

Immediately, his throat starts to close up as his breathing passages react to the penicillin. He gags, vomits, tries to get up, but already his brain is screaming for oxygen. It screams once more and then cuts out and all further struggle for air is lost in merciful unconsciousness.

Along comes Savannah, intending to return my tote—minus its loose change and pills—and finds Chan already unconscious. She drops the tote behind one of the chairs and flees.

And who had been with him only minutes earlier and had the opportunity to slip some brownies into his jacket pocket? Who was known to have had penicillin tablets at hand just last summer?

And who had a good reason to want Chan dead?

Right.

I stepped away from the coffee line, took out my flip phone and dialed Underwood’s pager. At the beep, I said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I think I know whose tablets they were. I’m going to take Heather over to Mulholland to see if we can find Savannah and then I’ll swing by your office. We really need to talk.”