Every Kind of Wicked (A Gardiner and Renner Novel Book 6)

Monday, 5:25 p. m.

That girl, at the moment, would have agreed, since she had already withstood a solid ten minutes of the pit boss ripping her a new one over the entire day lost to her tardiness, her lack of a work ethic, and overblown estimates of how much money she had forfeited by refusing to do the job she had so generously been granted, as well as his grave pity for any children she might bear in the future since they would not make it past their fifth birthday under the care of such a thoughtless and uncaring mother.

Nine hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars, she reminded herself. Nine hundred and—

He finally accepted that he would never wrench a properly remorseful apology from her and snapped, “Get to your phones.”

She went to her desk and slid into her chair. The legs creaked and a piece of duct tape covering a tear in the seat padding tried to stick to her pants instead of the upholstery, but right then it felt as familiar as a mother’s comforting arms.

With the pit bull’s gaze burning a hole between her shoulder blades, she picked up the call as soon as her red button lit up and played the enthusiastic employee until he wandered away. Then her words became lackluster and she mumbled the script by rote, barely aware of what she said. She’d get that nine hundred thousand plus. She’d gather all the evidence they wanted, absorb all the names and faces and numbers, all those details she’d largely ignored, until now.

And the cops would get none of it until they coughed up her money. She’d hold the information hostage, keep those notes and the tiny recorder to herself and say, you want this juicy, high-profile conviction? Then we’re going to make a deal. They couldn’t arrest her—it wouldn’t do their case much good to have a convict as their star witness. They’d have to deal.

But she hadn’t gotten off to a stellar start. The guy on the phone had begun to squawk, saying he was an unemployed student and not required to file an income tax return at all, much less pay any tax, and then she felt a hand on her shoulder and the acrid aftershave. Her heart went into triple time. Could he feel the wire? No, it snaked around her waist, not near the shoulder—

The pit boss leaned down, and she waited for a combination come-on and threat, something along the lines of how she needed to show her gratitude to him for not firing her.

What he actually said was much, much worse.

“Mr. Hawking would like a word.”

Monday, 5:25 p. m.

If the building had a cleaning staff, Maggie could see no sign of it, either in the hallway or inside the office of Dr. Sidney Jeffers. The nurse at the desk, “Wayne” according to his name tag, told them that they were about to close and the doctor had already left for the day. He had been doing a little cleaning himself, wiping the counter around what must be the sugar glider’s cage with a wet-wipe and latex gloves. Then he noticed Maggie, his gaze traveling over her from curls to boots and back again, lingering as if she had appeared before him in a bikini instead of three layers of cold-weather clothing. He didn’t even protest as they walked through the door he had propped open and into his workspace.

Jack said, “Actually we’re here about your pet.”

That got his attention off her, Maggie saw. A frown creased the guy’s brow. “Rambo? What’s the matter with him?”

“It’s his fur.”

“What about it? You allergic?”

“We need a sample of it.”

Wayne, Maggie surmised, was no slouch. He knew right away there could be no explanation for this request that would not be disastrous. He made up his mind about that immediately. The decision regarding what to do about it took a bit longer, calculating the odds of two armed cops and an unknown woman against one guy on crutches. Cooperate until a better solution appeared. Stay calm and reasonable and innocent.

Calmly and reasonably, Wayne asked, “Why?”

“Exotic pet fur has turned up at a crime scene.”

Calmly, reasonably: “So . . . you’re inspecting every pet in the city?”

“No,” Jack said. “There’s also this.”

He held up the deposit receipt, which looked quite official in the plastic folder sealed with red evidence tape.

“Are you Wayne King?” Riley asked.

“Uh, no. Hamilton, Wayne Hamilton. Why?”

“You’re not associated with Hawking Enterprises?”

“No. I’m not.”

Oh yes, he was. That could be seen in living Technicolor from the widening of the eyes, the way the foot—the injured foot—began to tap. But Maggie left him to the cops and crossed over to the pet cage. The cute bundle of black and gray and white, had curled into a ball in the shavings, its tiny sides rising and falling with each quick breath. Wayne demanded to know what she planned to do.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt him. I’m only going to use a piece of tape to pick up his loose fur.” She spoke as soothingly as if Wayne were the animal, but couldn’t stop from asking if Rambo tended to bite.

Still frowning, Wayne said, “No, he’s super easygoing. Spends most of the day riding around on my shoulders. The kids love him.”

“Where’s Dr. Jeffers?” Jack asked.

“Told you. He’s already gone home.”

“What about this guy?” Maggie glanced behind her. Jack held up a picture of Marlon Toner and asked, “He a patient of yours?”

Maggie considered her task. She planned to slap—gently—a piece of tape on the small creature and when she removed it or Rambo wriggled away, whichever happened more quickly, she would have a sample of his fur. She had also planned to collect some from the bottom of its cage or ideally a brush or some sort of grooming tool his owner might have, but doubted that had ever been thought necessary, as short as the fur seemed. Her main goal remained thus: Don’t get bit. She suspected anything in the squirrel family would have sharp teeth and might not like waking up to a strange hand in its personal space.

“You know I can’t tell you anything about our patients.” She pulled out her own leather gloves. They weren’t terribly thick, but still better protection than latex. Then she borrowed a pair of examination gloves from a box on the counter, conveniently sized Large, and pulled them on over the leather. Aqua colored, they slid on easily. Next she ripped off a piece of clear fingerprint tape, heavier than household transparent tape, about two inches long.

“You don’t have to tell us what’s in his medical file. We know it’s all fake, anyway. You do have to answer a direct, non-medical question—have you seen this man in this office?”

“No,” Wayne said.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to answer? Dr. Jeffers has been dealing pills out of this office, using his ex-partner’s name. There’s no way you could be his right-hand man here and not know that. So you can cooperate and make some points with the state’s attorney, or you can go down with him.”

Maggie angled her arm so that it could reach to the other end of the cage and still allow her some range of motion, moving slowly and quietly. Then she lay the tape, ever so lightly, across the animal’s back and haunch.

Riley said, “Or maybe it was you. Who else would be able to find his ex-partner’s medical license number and have access to the prescription pads? Who else but the admin assistant would know all the codes and forms needed to file fictitious claims for fictitious conditions?”

So far so good. Maggie laid her fingers on the small, warm body, petting but also making sure the tape made good contact and would pull away plenty of loose hairs when she removed it. It wouldn’t hurt any more than brushing him would, but still she half expected it to wake, turn, and bite in a flash so rapid that she wouldn’t have time to react, and then she’d have to explain to Denny how she not only bled all over the evidence but needed to file a worker’s comp claim as well.

“It would be a lot easier for your customers to make contact with you. They could walk through that door, come up to the counter, exchange money, receipts, bottles, and no one would bat an eye.”

Maggie needn’t have worried. Rambo’s eyes opened as she pulled the tape off, but remained unconcerned. He even gave a tiny yawn, exposing the razor teeth he hadn’t, to her relief, used.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a nurse. I prep the rooms and do the patient billing. That’s it!”

“Fine, kid,” Riley said. “Good luck with that defense.”

She folded the tape back on itself and dropped it into an envelope. Then, staying at the unoccupied end of the cage, brushed aside the shavings and used a second piece of tape on the cage bottom. She hoped it would have more dander, both the distinct guard hairs to the fine, nearly invisible undercoat. These two samples should give her enough to compare to the fur she found on Rick’s parka.

The animal rose and tottered over to the cage door, grasping it with tiny claws and peering out at the visitors. The door had been open when she arrived, so Maggie left it for Wayne to manage.

In the doorway, Jack stiffened. “Is there a rear entrance to these offices?”

Wayne said no.

Jack walked out of sight, and Maggie heard him open a door.

“Hey!” Wayne said. “You can’t wander around in here.”

Riley said, “We’re just going to make sure we’re alone, kid. Relax.” And he followed his partner. Maggie heard another door open, elsewhere in the offices.

Abruptly eager to get out of there, Maggie packed her samples into her kit and turned around, peeling off the latex gloves. Wayne stood by the doorway, torn between wanting to stop Jack and Riley from looking around, and knowing he couldn’t.

Maggie looked at her hands. The leather now appeared dusty and ancient, with white caked into the seams. She could see why the latex had slid so easily over the heavy gloves—Dr. Jeffers’s office still used the type with a dusting of powder inside each glove. They slid onto hands every time, unlike the non-powder type that could stick and grab. But only in removal did one discover the disadvantage.

She remembered the thin slice of aqua rubber under Jennifer’s credenza. And that spray of powder along her dead ex-husband’s shoulder.

Suddenly, she stared at Wayne Hamilton.

“It’s you. You killed him.”

It made no sense—yet she knew, knew to her core, that it was true. And if she had any doubt, the look on the nurse’s face erased them completely.

Wayne Hamilton recovered first.

He dropped his crutch and came at her, one hand upraised. “Just shut up until—”

She never discovered what he had intended to do once he got there—probably keep her from screaming until he could get to the outer door, perhaps use her as a hostage. But before he had a chance, she swung the sugar glider’s cage at Wayne’s head with every tendon in her upper body, spraying the small office with wood chips and food pellets. The lightweight item couldn’t do much more than scratch him, but it broke up his stride and let her see what he had in his fingers.

Wayne hadn’t dropped his crutch, he’d pulled it apart. He now grasped the bottom part of the tubular crutch, the round rubber foot on one end, and at the other, a long, pointed dagger. The crutch wasn’t a crutch at all but a very large, and innocent-looking, sheath.

This weapon had killed Evan Harding, Jennifer Toner, and Rick.

All he had to do was bring it down, or thrust it up, getting behind the rib cage and directly into her heart. No ambulance would be able to arrive in time to save her; she’d be dying as she hit the ground.

Blood dripping from cuts on his cheek, hatred flaring from his gaze, his arm sliced downward through the air.

One relevant point regarding an ice pick-type weapon, Maggie thought: while the tip was sharp, the sides were not. And she was wearing leather gloves.

She grabbed the shaft, willing all the strength in her body to move to her fingers.

It didn’t work. She felt the tip enter her flesh, piercing her skin and her muscle.

And there it stopped. Wayne’s face flashed his fury and he said nothing, only intensified the force. She could feel the ice pick in her body as she tried to move down, back, away from the pain but she already arced over the counter’s edge, which left her nowhere to go. She didn’t speak, didn’t shout. All her focus remained on that shiny metal pick.

The sugar glider, safe on the counter, protested the theft of its cage with a raspy trill, like a cross between a cicada and a parrot. Wayne’s gaze flickered to his pet, and that was all she needed.

She pulled up one thigh and slammed the sole of her right foot into Wayne’s right knee.

He screamed.

Maggie took a step forward but didn’t let go of the crutch-dagger.

Then Jack was there and leapt on the younger man, punched him hard so that his head rebounded against the linoleum twice and Maggie heard the crack of bone. Jack drew back his fist to hit him again but Maggie grabbed his arm, feeling the muscles quiver like molten steel under his skin.

“Jack,” she said, “we need him alive.”