Andy had collected a pile of manila files from one corner of the desk and was placing them in another cardboard box.
“What are those?” Jack asked.
“They look to be patient charts.”
As Jack moved closer to the victim, he was still very aware of where he placed his feet. “It appears as if he may have been sitting here reviewing them.”
On the surface, the pieces seemed to fit, but…
Jack lifted his hand, intending to massage the stiffness in his neck, then realized he was still gloved, and allowed it to drop again. “He brings work home with him, and then stops in the middle to put a gun to his head? Why look over charts if you have no intention of seeing or treating the patients?” Jack paused. “Unless you were being sued?”
“And the charts belong to women who might be called as witnesses at a trial?” Andy had keyed in on the direction Jack was going. “He realizes he’s screwed and reaches into the drawer…. Bam. No suit. No trial.”
“Just happy trails,” Shepherd chimed in.
Jack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Or he brought the charts home because he hadn’t had time to take care of them at the office. Someone comes in here and puts a gun to his head.” He looked over at Andy. “The powder residue on his hand—any possibility that it got on him when he was trying to grab the gun from someone else at the time it went off?”
“Sure.”
Shepherd moved in closer to the body. “The only entrance is in front of the desk. If he didn’t do this to himself, then whoever did knew him well enough to get in close and personal.”
Jack scanned the room again. Shepherd was right. There was no way anyone could’ve snuck up on him.
Shepherd handed the dusting powder back to Martinez. “My money is on the ex-wife.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. The possibility that the woman in the other room—the same woman who had too briefly shared his bed two months ago and who had haunted his mind ever since—had put a gun to a man’s head and pulled the trigger left him feeling exposed.
LEXIE HAD BEEN SITTING in the kitchen’s breakfast nook for nearly two hours now. For the last hour, she’d been answering questions asked by Detective Joe Fitz. He was somewhere deep into middle age and had one of those Moon Pie faces that would go unnoticed in a group photo.
“So you arrived around eleven-fifteen?” Fitz asked.
“No. I arrived at eleven-thirty.” How many different ways were there to ask the same question? She leaned back, pressing her spine against the hard surface of the bench. She was so tired. Not just physically exhausted, but she was weary of answering the unending questions from the police.
“I know you’re just trying to establish when it happened, but I guess I don’t see why it really matters when Dan…when it happened.”
“It’s just routine procedure, ma’am.”
She nodded in understanding, and solemnly waited for the next question.
Fitz glanced at his notes. “You came in through the back door?”
“Yes. It was open.”
“Was it unlocked, or was it open?”
“Unlocked.” Lifting her chin, she massaged the back of her neck slowly. Even without the black tweed jacket that was folded on the banquette next to her, the room was suffocatingly warm. There was blood on the coat, just as there was on one sleeve of her blouse. Unable to face the sight of it, she’d concealed both—that on the jacket by removing the garment and carefully folding it in half, and that on the blouse by turning back the cuffs. But it was still there. Just as the bloody images of Dan were there when she closed her eyes. Just as the smell of blood and death seemed to cling inside her nostrils.
“Was it normal for the door to be left unlocked?”
Shaking her head, she hunched forward, her fingers tightening around the mug on the table in front of her. She didn’t want the coffee, but couldn’t seem to let go of it, either—just as she couldn’t seem to let go of what was happening inside her head.
If she had arrived earlier, would Dan still be alive? Could she have talked him out of it? Or would he only have killed her, too? Was that his intention when he’d called? Had the anniversary gift been a bullet and not signed legal papers?
The thought that Dan had hated her enough to want her dead left her fighting to breathe. How could two people who had once loved each other end up as they had? How did that happen?
“Mrs. Dawson?”
She looked up, realizing Fitz must have asked her another question. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Did you see anyone when you arrived?”
“No.” She pushed the coffee to one side. Obviously, she’d imagined the shadow inside the front door, just as she’d briefly imagined she wasn’t alone in the house. Of course, as soon as she opened the bathroom door and there had been no one waiting for her on the other side, she’d realized her mistake.
Just then the door into the dining room swung open. Her chest instantly tight with renewed apprehension, Lexie looked up, praying that it wouldn’t be Jack Blade.
She relaxed as soon as she realized that it was one of the officers who had been in and out of the kitchen several times in the past few hours.
“Medical examiner’s here for the body,” the officer announced.
Detective Fitz flipped his notebook shut and stood.
She looked up at him. “Can I go now?”
“You’re free to go at any time, though it would be helpful if you could stick around a bit longer.” The detective shrugged. “At least until we finish processing the crime scene.”
Lexie nodded with resignation. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to sleep even if she did go home. Better to stay here. To help as much as she could.
As soon as the detective left the room, she closed her eyes and leaned back, resting her head against the wall behind her. Her backside ached from the hard seating and her head hurt. There would be aspirin in the cabinet next to the sink, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to get them.
She still couldn’t get her mind around it. Dan was dead. He’d put a gun to his head. It just didn’t mesh. He was a doctor. If he’d wanted to take his own life, why not end it with pills?
Lexie let go of that line of thought because it wasn’t helping anyone. Certainly not Dan, who was beyond help, or herself.
For a period of time, in a numb trance, she listened to the clomp of feet just beyond the door and those overhead on the second floor. The not-so-quiet opening of doors and drawers as not only Dan’s death was probed, but his life, as well.
She recalled how when they were first married, she’d awaken early on Sunday mornings sometimes. She’d be sitting in the very place she was now, sipping coffee and reading the paper, when Dan, having slept in after a late night at the hospital, would come stumbling downstairs. They’d talk about the baby he’d delivered and about the three or four they wanted. He’d reach across the table, his fingers capturing hers, and he’d tell her that he wanted to make a baby with her, not sometime in the future, but right then. Had that all been an act?
What she wouldn’t give to go back to one of those uncomplicated mornings right now. To feel about Dan the way she had before everything went so wrong between them.
Reaching for her phone, needing to hear a familiar voice, she tried Fleming’s number again. Dan and Fleming were— had been—partners. As it had the last time she’d called, which had been just after she’d dialed 9-1-1, Fleming’s voice mail picked up. She hadn’t left a message before,