she walked around to the back. The house had blocked the breeze from the lake, and it felt cool and welcome.
“That dock was there then,” Harney said, pointing out a short wooden pier. “Glass had a speedboat he tooled around in. And that’s the path to the tennis court where I first saw Miss Wingate.”
Ami looked at the dock for a moment before turning her attention to the path that led to the tennis court. She imagined Vanessa Wingate wandering out of the darkness in her white nightdress.
“The path goes past the tennis courts to a narrow rocky beach you can swim off or picnic on. We think Rice put it there.”
“It’s all so peaceful, so beautiful,” Ami said. “It’s hard to imagine a murder happening here.”
“It’s our first and only one, thank God.”
Ami wandered back across the lawn. The curtains were closed, but there was a slit between the curtains and the sill. She looked into the kitchen.
“That’s new,” Harney said. “The Reynoldses put in the island and the convection oven. Those marble countertops weren’t there either.”
Ami wondered how much remodeling you would have to do before the ghosts left you alone. She turned away from the house.
“Thanks for the tour.”
“Did you learn anything helpful?” the sheriff asked.
“No. Maybe there’ll be something in the files.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The file for the Glass murder was waiting for Ami when she and Sheriff Harney returned from the lake. She went through everything, including the pictures from the crime scene. Ami had never seen a murdered man, and the way Glass had been killed was so horrible that she felt light-headed after looking at the photographs.
The only new information Ami gleaned from the file was that no army records were inventoried during the search of Glass’s house. Either Vanessa was lying and she had never brought the files to Glass or Rice had taken them with him when he fled. One thing in Vanessa’s and Rice’s favor was the fact that they had both told the same story about the records, and Ami was certain that they’d had no opportunity to talk since Carl had been arrested. Of course, the fact that Vanessa had found records of military personnel, including Carl, in her father’s safe didn’t necessarily mean that the secret unit existed.
Ami had just finished her review when her cell phone rang. It was Mary O’Dell, the friend who was watching Ryan.
“Thank God I got you,” Mary said. “You’ve got to come home.”
“What happened?” Ami asked, terrified that Ryan had been hurt.
“The police were here. They’re looking for you.”
“Me? What for?”
“That man who was staying with you escaped. It’s all over the news.”
Ami raced to the San Francisco airport and caught the first flight to Portland. Detective Walsh had left a number with Mary, and Ami had phoned him while she waited for her flight to leave. Walsh confirmed that her client had escaped from the security ward but was unwilling to give Ami any more information over the phone.
Walsh had sent a policeman to the airport and he was waiting at the gate when Ami landed in Portland. TV crews and a larger than normal contingent of police cars had ramped up the usual chaos that was endemic to any hospital. Ami’s escort led her through the media mob in the lobby and into an elevator. Their car stopped and Ami walked into a crowd of forensic experts, uniformed officers, and men in suits. She spotted Brendan Kirkpatrick talking to a police officer near the door to the security ward. He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Ami.
“Mrs. Vergano. Nice to see you,” he said coldly.
“What happened?”
“Your lodger escaped with the help of a woman. You’re lucky you were in California, or I’d have you in custody.”
Ami’s eyes widened with fear and her breath caught in her chest.
“I don’t know anything about this. I didn’t help him escape.”
“Who didn’t you help escape, Mrs. Vergano? What’s your client’s real name, and who is the woman?”
Ami felt awful. “I can’t answer your questions, Brendan. My client told the answers to me in confidence. They’re privileged.”
“We’ll see about that. I’m going to haul you in front of a judge first thing in the morning.”
“You have to believe me,” Ami pleaded. “I’d help if I could.”
Kirkpatrick’s shoulders sagged and he let out a deep breath. “There I go yelling at you again. I’m sorry. I’m just exhausted and frustrated.”
“Believe me, I’d cooperate if I thought I could. I’ll tell you everything I know if the judge orders me to talk to you.”
It suddenly dawned on Ami that Carl had been locked in the ward and guarded by a policeman and at least two orderlies.
“Was anyone hurt?” she asked.
“Your client pistol-whipped one of the orderlies. He had to have some stitches. Everyone else is okay.”
“How did he escape?”
“The woman posed as an aide to a television producer and conned Dr. Ganett into taking her into the ward. I guess he didn’t learn anything from his experience with you.”
Ami flushed.
“The orderlies were so excited about being on TV that they didn’t search her. She had two guns in her purse. Rice and the woman locked everyone in an empty room and disappeared. As of now, we have no idea where they are or what they’re driving.”
Kirkpatrick was starting to say something else when Detective Walsh walked out of the elevator. He looked upset.
“Excuse us, Mrs. Vergano,” Walsh said as he pulled the prosecutor out of earshot. As Walsh spoke, Ami could see Kirkpatrick getting more and more agitated. She heard him swear. Then the two men strode back to her.
“No more games, Ami,” Kirkpatrick said, his temper barely under control. “We need the name of the woman, and anything else you can tell us, now.”
“What happened?”
“Dr. George French is dead, murdered,” Walsh said.
Ami blanched and her legs gave out. Kirkpatrick grabbed her arm to keep her from falling.
“Get her some water,” the DA told Walsh as he helped Ami to the chair at the orderly’s station. By the time Walsh returned with a cup of water tears were coursing down Ami’s cheeks.
“He was such a good man,” she sobbed. Kirkpatrick looked at sea but Walsh knelt next to Ami and helped her sip from the cup.
“You’ve got to help us, Ami,” the detective said. “Do you know who the woman is? Do you have any idea where they’re going?”
“What makes you think my client killed Dr. French?” Ami asked. The question sounded more like a plea for help.
“We don’t, but this is a hell of a coincidence.”
A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Ami. “How…how was George…?”
Walsh seemed reluctant to answer her. “It looks like he was kidnapped from his home and taken to his office,” he said.
“Was he shot?” Ami asked, hoping that Walsh would say that this was the way that the psychiatrist’s life had been taken.
“No.” Walsh hesitated again.
“Please, it’s important.”
“He was tortured, then his throat was cut.”
