decades of policing and fifty-eight years of living made him a pretty good reader of people. But he couldn’t grab a clue off the woman sitting across from him. And he needed to know her connection to Buchner.
“What’s in it for you?” he asked.
Lydia kept her eyes on him. Solid and assured. “I can help.” She bit her lower lip. “I’ll keep my reasons to myself.”
His cell rang before he could respond. His eyes stayed riveted on Lydia as he answered. “Grant.” Three seconds passed. “Good enough.” He closed his phone. “Your car’s back. Zeke says I got five minutes to sign off or he’s locking it up.”
Lydia pulled on her coat, reached for her purse, and slid out of the booth. “What do you say, Detective?”
Mort tossed a twenty on the table and waved goodbye to Francie. “I’ll think about it. And call me Mort, will ya?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You’re late.” L. Jackson Clark offered his deepest basso sotto as Mort sat down and proffered a pint of Guiness in penance. “Had I any life or pride beyond Thursday crossword puzzles with you I’d have left an hour ago.”
“You didn’t want to brave the snow. Besides, weren’t you the one on the television three nights ago? Teaching Charlie Rose the subtle distinction between poly and pan theism?” Mort took a long sip of his beer. “You’ll get no pity from me, Larry.”
“A wonderful man, that Charlie. Always punctual.” The professor of religious studies tapped his completed puzzle. “You’ll enjoy today’s theme. Subterfuge and skullduggery.”
“I was helping a damsel in distress.” Mort loosened his tie and recalled the clues his shirt gave Lydia.
Larry tossed his Times aside. “Tristan and Isolde. Antony and Cleopatra. Bogey and Bacall. How I love a save-a-dame story. Speak.”
“Nothing much. Some shrink sticking her nose into one of my cases. Got her car towed.” Mort glanced around the room. The wholesome after-work crowd was being replaced by more dedicated drinkers. He wondered when Mauser would get around to taking down the neon Santa over the front door. “I drove her to impound and got it signed out.”
“A psychologist, you say?” Larry’s grin was subtle. The type that never failed to irritate Mort. “I don’t suppose she had any insights into your warped and nefarious character.”
“Some. Kind of scary what she knew just by looking at me.”
Larry’s grin grew. “You wear your heart, your liver, your spleen, and nearly everything else on your sleeve, Mort Grant. Don’t be surprised that someone reads you. Doctor or no.”
“I’m not a man of mystery is what you’re saying?”
“Not even of riddle.” Larry leaned back. “For example, right now I can tell you’re working a calculation that’s not adding up. Anything to do with the damsel you just rescued?”
Mort reached into the bowl on the table and tossed back a handful of peanuts. “She’s not being straight with me, that’s for sure.”
“What’s her interest?”
“Says she’s writing a book.”
“And you don’t believe her.”
“No, I don’t.” Mort washed the peanuts down with another pull of Guiness. “But something is telling me to stay close.”
“Something cosmic perhaps?” Larry re-donned his half-grin.
Mort scowled. “Save it for the students, Dr. Clark. Pass me my puzzle and let me enjoy the skullduggery.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was nearly nine o’clock by the time Lydia pulled into her driveway. The winter storm made the drive down Interstate Five long and slow. Too much time to think about the happenings of the day. She wanted a hot shower and a hard workout. Something told her a good night’s sleep wasn’t an option.
She heated a can of soup and thought about Mort Grant’s kindness. She’d send him a bottle of scotch in the morning. She needed him and the investigative resources of his department to help her find the truth behind who killed Walter Buchner. Lydia shook her head and hoped the trail wouldn’t lead to Savannah.
She was putting her bowl in the dishwasher when her phone vibrated along the kitchen counter. She glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock straight up. She reached for it and felt a wash of relief to learn it was the hospital calling.
“Dr. Corriger?” A familiar male voice. “It’s Darrell Johnson from Black Hills E.R. I thought you might like to know we’ve got your girl down here again.”
“My girl?” Lydia held the phone to her left ear.
“Savannah Samuels. I called a few nights ago. The cops found her wandering the park?”
Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to quench the fire of fatigue and fear. “Yes, Dr. Johnson. I remember. Savannah’s back?”
“She is, but she won’t be for long. Ambulance brought her in about an hour ago. Barely a pulse when she arrived.”
Lydia took a deep breath. “What happened?”
“Police found her. You’ll be getting a call from them, too.” Johnson’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought I’d give you a head’s up.”
“Why would the police want to talk to me?” Lydia’s stomach muscles clenched. She didn’t like the idea of answering any questions about Savannah.
“A patrol car making the rounds found her hanging from the rafters of your office porch.”
Lydia’s legs dropped from under her. She grabbed the counter for support. The screams of the six year old Greta echoed in her brain. She replayed the last time she saw Savannah, running out into the winter twilight, so convinced she was beyond saving. Lydia summoned every ounce of will to sound professional. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s intubated. Unconscious. On her way to intensive care. I’m afraid there’s no way to know how long she’d been hanging. We can’t know the extent of damage until she wakes up. Doctors will be with her all night. Tomorrow’s better.”
“I’ll be there first thing. Thank you for calling, Dr. Johnson.” She closed the phone without waiting for his goodbye, stumbled to the breakfast nook, and collapsed into a chair.
Lydia knew that as a psychologist, it wasn’t a matter of would a patient suicide, but when. Her training had prepared her to accept the reality of her profession. Through the years several of her patients made less-than-lethal attempts, but she had never lost one.
And Savannah wasn’t merely a patient.
Lydia’s mind raced backward in time. She was just thirteen. Was it her fourth foster placement or her fifth? She remembered the day the social worker dropped the timid little girl with black curly hair and sad blue eyes into the care of Lenny and Cindy Huntsman, who fawned over her in the presence of the county worker and assured the harried woman that Greta would be fine. The social worker smiled at Lydia and told her she was counting on her to take the tiny girl under her wing.
Lydia remembered nodding, wishing she could tell the social worker what went on when Cindy passed out after her twice-weekly bottle of gin. Lenny’s stare kept her quiet.
Lydia rubbed a hand over her face. The memory of a hot summer night six days after Greta arrived materialized. They shared a bedroom. She’d been stupid enough to allow herself the fantasy that she could keep
