Chapter Twenty-Three
Mort Grant barely heard his phone ring over the noise of his cappuccino machine. He glanced at the screen. Robbie was calling.
“What has you up so early?” He switched off the milk steamer.
“It’s an hour later here, Dad.” Robbie chuckled. “When are you going to get your time zones down?”
“That was your mother’s job.” Mort cradled the receiver under his neck as he blended the foamy milk with the rich espresso. “Hey, I’m using that fancy coffee pot you and Claire got me. I just made myself a latte.”
“You’re a true metrosexual. Next it’s weekly manicures.”
Mort glanced at the fingernails that allowed Lydia to conclude so much about him. “Not much chance of that. How are the girls?”
“Driving us crazy about their dollhouses. You should know better than to send pictures before you’re ready to ship them. You raised two kids, for God’s sake.”
“That was your mother’s job, too.” Mort took a long drink of coffee. “What good are grandkids if you can’t rile them up and turn them loose on their parents? Did Claire like that I’m making them chateaux?”
“She did,” Robbie said. “Said maybe you’re getting over the fact your son married an immigrant.”
Robbie’s dreams of being a trench-coated foreign correspondent climbing the ranks to CNN’s Paris Bureau Chief were thwarted when a semester abroad left him too homesick for an expatriot’s life. So he begged the lovely woman he’d fallen in love with to follow him home.
“Hey, only way a mope like you gets a good looking French woman is she’s looking for a green card. Count your lucky stars.” Mort smiled at the mention of his beloved daughter-in-law. “What’s new with you? That Halloway story shaping up? I want to see you with a Pulitzer before I’m drooling in the home.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Mind if I poke around in that detective head of yours?”
Mort pulled out a stool and took a seat at the breakfast counter. “You still leaning toward something more nefarious than a romp-in-the-sack turned ugly?”
Robbie blew out a long sigh. “Every bone in my body tells me it was a hit, Dad. I’ve learned Halloway loved hired help. I’ve spoken to a few of his favorites. They tell me he wasn’t into anything kinky. Wham, bam, get-off-me, ma’am. That was his style. And there’s still no lead on that hooker. A city that small, all the pros know each other. No one knew her. I’ve tried to track her down from her registration. Name’s Anna Galleta Salada. Credit card’s legit. Opened six years ago and only used once: to book her room where Halloway died. Paid in full with a wire transfer from a numbered account in the Caymans. Hasn’t been used since.”
Mort shifted his weight. “I don’t know many hookers with offshore accounts. You pull the original credit application? Gotta be a job or phone number. Social security.”
“I thought I’d be one step ahead of you.” Mort could hear his son smile all the way from Denver. “I owe someone big time, but, yeah. I got a look at the original application. Connects with a P.O. Box in Ohio. Secured with a five thousand dollar escrow account. No need to verify employment. Social security number matches up with someone named Sela O’Brian.”
“And since you’re not telling me that Sela O’Brian turned out to be Anna What’s-her-name, my hunch is Sela’s dead.” Mort reached for the pen and paper Edie always kept on the counter by the phone.
Robbie was quiet for a moment. “Died sixteen years ago. Charleston, South Carolina. Drowned at her seventeenth birthday party. How the hell did you know that?”
“Easiest way to get a phony birth certificate is to request it in the name of someone who won’t find out. Dead people are your best bet. Get the birth certificate, you have easy access to a social. Simplest form of identity theft. Comb the obituary archive for a name and you’re off to the races.” Mort tapped the pen to the tablet. “You’re looking for someone in her early to mid-thirties. Age of the social should match up close enough to pass eye inspection. What was the hooker’s name again?”
“Anna Galleta Salada. S-A-L-A-D-A.” Robbie sounded excited. “You think I’m on to something, Dad?”
“Two and two usually add up to four, Robbie.” Mort took another sip of coffee. “Let me see what I can find out on my end, huh? I got some digging I need to do on another front, might as well go for a two-fer.”
“I appreciate it.” Robbie’s voice softened. “Everything else okay?”
“Everything’s fine. You worried about me or something?”
“You’re my dad,” Robbie said. “It’s my job to worry about you. I’ll give your love to the girls. Tell ‘em Papa’s whipping those dollhouses into shape.”
Mort said goodbye, hung up the phone, and wondered what Allie worried about.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nancy Tessler had been an attending physician at Black Hills’ ICU for nine years and knew how to recap a patient’s situation in five sentences or less. Once Lydia introduced herself as a psychologist with admitting privileges, the seasoned veteran got right to the point.
“Still unconscious. Still intubated. Pulse and blood pressure erratic. Reflexes intact but sluggish. Body temperature relatively stabilized. We’ll know more when she wakes up.”
Lydia searched her face for any sign of encouragement. “When do you anticipate that will be?”
“No way of telling.” Dr. Tessler’s shifted from her clinical voice. “I heard she hung herself on your porch.”
Lydia nodded.
“Tough break. Go see her. Couldn’t hurt. Might help. I’ll call you if there’s any change.”
Lydia thanked her, left her contact information, and headed toward Bay 13.
She was surprised to see someone sitting beside Savannah’s bed. A rumpled man with thinning brown hair rested his head against Savannah’s leg while he caressed her hand. Lydia heard him cooing her name, urging her to wake up. Savannah was pale and small on a high bed surrounded by blinking and beeping monitors. Her delicate beauty graced the starched white pillowcase despite the waxy stillness of her face and the garish bruise across her neck. Lydia tapped on the open glass door and the man snapped his head in her direction. His middle-aged face was blotched and puffy. He wiped his tears with both hands and stared at her.
She stepped closer to the bed. “I’m Dr. Corriger.”
The man shoved his chair back and strained himself upright. Lydia imagined he’d been locked in that uncomfortable position for hours. He wiped both hands on his slacks before extending his right one.
“I’m Jerry Childress, Dr. Corriger.” His voice was weak. He cleared his throat and gained volume. “Savannah speaks highly of you. Thanks for coming.”
Lydia shook his hand. “You know me?”
“From Savannah.” His voice weakened. “She said she was counting on you to fix her.” He dropped his head. It was several seconds before he composed himself enough to continue. “I only wish you could have.”
“I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Mr. Childress.” Lydia nodded toward Savannah. “How is she?”
He lowered his eyes before turning toward the bed. “No change. I try to tell myself she’s just sleeping.” He reached for Savannah’s hand, pulled his chair back, and resumed his vigil.
Lydia stepped to the bottom of the bed and placed a hand on Savannah’s blanketed foot. “How do you know Savannah, Mr. Childress?”
He sat up and directed his red-rimmed eyes toward Lydia, never letting go of Savannah’s unresponsive hand. “I’m her fiance, Dr. Corriger.” He blinked several times and turned back toward Savannah. “At least that’s how I think of myself. I’ve asked her, no, begged her, to marry me dozens of times. She hasn’t said ‘yes’ yet, but she hasn’t turned me down, either.”
Lydia’s brows shot up. Savannah never mentioned a boyfriend, let alone a fiance. She always described men in distant and disparaging terms. “How long have you been together?”
Childress looked at her and Lydia felt an unease she couldn’t explain. He was not unattractive, but his demeanor suggested he was accustomed to blending in with the crowd. Lydia got the impression he was a man
