See No Evil

“Did you have sex with Judge Montgomery?”

“No. I sucked him. Got him to the edge, then I sliced it off. Stuffed it down his throat, just like Emily wanted to do.

“Whatever. What’s done is done. You can leave now,” Faye said.

“Faye, we know someone helped you plan these murders. Tell me who and I can protect you.”

“Protect me from what? No one’s going to let me out of here. I’m okay with that. Really.”

“Faye, you need to be completely honest with the police. Tell them who asked you to kill Victor Montgomery and Garrett Bowen and Paul Judson.”

“A little bird told me,” Faye said, and started laughing.

After leaving Faye, Julia asked Dillon, “Do you think it’s all an act?”

“Faye’s protecting someone, no doubt about it,” he said. “A man. Someone she’s having sex with.”

“She’s only seventeen.”

Dillon raised an eyebrow. “Not that I condone underage sex, but it’s not uncommon.”

“You know what I mean. It’s not just her having sex, but killing without any remorse. Even killing her friends.”

“Like I said last night, she has no empathy for her victims. But there is one very unusual thing.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s protecting someone, which means she is capable of emotion. You have to care about someone to go to prison for them. I certainly don’t think Faye cares enough about herself or even whether she lives or dies.”

Dressed as a nurse, and sporting a stolen security pass, Cami found it surprisingly easy to walk onto the secured floor of the hospital. She’d learned a long time ago that when you acted like you belonged somewhere, people accepted that you belonged. A form of psychology.

She ducked into a room when she saw Julia Chandler walk from Faye’s wing with a tall, handsome man. Cami recognized him. He’d been at Dr. Bowen’s fund-raiser.

Who had spilled her identity? It had to have been Jason’s parents. They were the only ones who knew who she really was, but it hadn’t occurred to Cami that anyone would have a reason to talk to them.

Again, the two-timing asshole was wrong. He said they’d never make the connection with Jason Ridge. Well, hotshot, they had. And now they knew Michelle O’Dell also went by the name of Cami.

Cami watched them walk past. As soon as they were out of sight, she strode down the hall. A doctor gave her a double look, but she just nodded curtly and kept right on going, chart in hand. Cami had a purpose. Don’t hesitate, always look like you know what you’re doing, no one will get in your way.

A guard stood at Faye’s door. He checked her ID, but fortunately didn’t look too carefully. It looked enough like her on the surface, though the woman in the photo was much older. Cami had stolen it from the nurses’ locker room.

After signing in with the guard, Cami entered the room. Faye was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Hello, Faye.”

Faye turned her head, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“He wanted me to thank you for sacrificing yourself. It was such a noble thing to do, Faye.”

“I don’t want him to go to prison.”

That confirmed it. Faye had been fucking him, and was in love with him, and had never once said one word to Cami. Never even hinted.

He’d never made love to Cami. Sure, they’d done things, but he was always in control. He never gave it up. But the photographs Robbie had taken proved he and Faye were more than intimate. And the knife…

Walking over to the bed, Cami pretended to check Faye’s vitals, held her wrist as if taking her pulse. She then slipped a small, sharp knife between the sheets.

“You know what to do.”

The pain and uncertainty on Faye’s face rivaled her need to cut herself.

Cami tried to smile. “Here, I took over for the nurse on duty. You’re supposed to get these meds. Make it look good for the cop.”

Faye nodded, took the pills, and swallowed.

They were anticoagulants. Cami knew Faye well: she’d cut herself.

The pills assured that Faye wouldn’t survive.

Connor stared at the “apartment” where Garrett Bowen’s son lived near the UCSD campus.

“Apartment” didn’t do Eric Bowen’s three-story town house justice. Connor could fit two of his houses inside with room to spare, and the rear doors opened to a golf course, making the entire living area look even bigger.

“What can I do for you?” Eric Bowen asked. He looked like a younger version of Garrett Bowen.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Will said as they walked in. Connor noted a huge painting taking up most of the largest wall of the living room. It was unrecognizable for the most part, black and white with some odd splashes of color. He’d seen a similar painting in Garrett Bowen’s house.

The town house looked lived in, though it was clean and tidy. Eric was comfortably dressed in slacks and a polo shirt. He escorted them to the dining room in the rear of the main floor, off the kitchen. “Coffee? Water? Soda?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Will sat down.

“You said this was about my father’s death. I heard on the news that a young woman confessed to killing him and making it look like suicide. Is that true?”

“We’re inclined to believe the witness,” Will said. “But there are some inconsistencies in her statement that we were hoping you could help with. The person who confessed was a patient of your father’s. We believe she was part of the Wishlist group that you indicated had been originally set up for people who self-mutilated.”

“That was ages ago. It evolved into something different.”

“What do you know about the group?”

“My dad had a couple of patients who wouldn’t open up. He wanted to give them a safe and open forum to discuss their situation.”

“And you thought it was a good idea?” Connor asked, thinking about Dillon’s derisive comments about the group.

“At first. But then he broadened it and included practically everyone. I couldn’t imagine it succeeding. I asked him about it a couple times, but he told me to stay out of it. My father loved attention. He loved when people came and told him their deep, dark secrets. He loved to play God, cure all the ills in the world. Maybe his goals were noble at the beginning, but he lost it somewhere down the line.”

“You two didn’t get along, I take it.”

Eric stared out the window, his mouth a tight line. “I used to be close to my dad. But after Mom died he worked nonstop. I didn’t see much of him. Aunt Monica moved in, but she was sick, too. And then two years later, she died.”

Will flipped through his notes. “Monica was your father’s sister, correct?”

“Right. She’d gone through a divorce or something-I never really knew what happened-but shortly after my mom died she needed a place to live with Tristan.”

“Tristan?”

“My cousin.” Eric swept his hand around the room. “He painted most of these.” A cloud crossed his face.

“Where is Tristan?”

“He travels a lot, but he’s been in town the last month or so because of Saturday’s fund-raiser. The studio which has been exhibiting his work benefited from the event.”

“Do you know where we can find him?” asked Will.

Eric got up, sorted through a Rolodex, then copied an address and phone numbers onto a Post-it note. Will took it with a “Thanks.”

“Do you know who’s in Wishlist?” Will asked.

“No. I helped him construct the messaging system, but that’s all. My dad didn’t have the technical skill to put it together, but, like I said, that was it.”