Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow

And the heart attack’s on you, my friend, Goodman thought, watching his partner begin to attack his second enormous stack of Denny’s pancakes, drowning in syrup and whipped cream.

The two detectives had escaped the station together to compare their progress, or lack of it, in the Lisa Flannagan murder case. Flannagan’s former lover, the billionaire Rams owner Willie Baden, still hadn’t returned from his vacation home in Cabo San Lucas. Conveniently, he’d been in Mexico the night Lisa was killed, vacationing with his loyal, long-suffering wife Valentina, and the couple were no doubt planning to stay there until the salacious press coverage about his and Lisa’s affair died down. Goodman had told Johnson about the connection between Valentina Baden and Brandon Grolsch’s mother, Frances. But a cursory call to Valentina’s charity offices had yielded nothing of use, which left the detectives with little option but to await the Badens’ return.

Meanwhile Johnson had drawn a blank with the dead girl’s family (no siblings, both parents dead, and an aunt in Reno who hadn’t seen Lisa since she was six) and Goodman was no further ahead in establishing whether Brandon Grolsch was dead or alive, never mind how his DNA came to be under Lisa’s fingernail. Like his parents, none of Brandon’s old friends or girlfriends had heard from him in eight months, and Goodman’s calls to all of the various rehabs and drop-in centers known to have treated Brandon in the past yielded nothing. Though it pained him to agree with Nathan Grolsch on anything, it did seem increasingly likely that Brandon was, indeed, dead. Unfortunately, ‘likely’ wasn’t good enough.

The only other clue they’d managed to find turned out to be a damp squib. There had been a lot of excitement when one of the techs recovered pieces of Lisa’s clothing from the stretch of freeway close to where the body was dumped. But when the lab reports came in they were inconclusive; the unusually heavy rain around the time of Lisa’s death had washed away any useful DNA traces. That left them with only the baffling fingernail cells to go on. So far there’d been no sign of Dr Roberts’ missing raincoat, the one she claimed to have lent Lisa the night she died, nor of the murder weapon.

All in all, it wasn’t exactly a triumphant start.

‘I don’t trust that psychologist broad,’ Johnson observed, as he did every time they discussed the case, pushing the cards aside and shoveling forkfuls of pancake into his open mouth. ‘I think we should talk to her again.’

Goodman frowned. Johnson’s growing obsession with and dislike of Dr Nikki Roberts, the victim’s beautiful therapist, was almost as disheartening as their lack of evidence.

‘Talk to her again and say what?’ he asked, exasperated.

‘We could ask for her notes,’ Johnson mumbled, spooning more cream onto his stack. ‘Session notes. With the victim.’

‘Not without a warrant, we couldn’t,’ said Goodman. ‘Doctor–patient information’s privileged.’

Johnson snorted derisively. ‘She’s not a doctor! She’s a frikkin quack. That lady has about as much medical training as the tarot card readers on Venice Beach.’

‘That’s simply not true, Mick,’ Goodman replied. ‘I don’t understand why you hate her so much.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ the fat man grumbled.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Goodman asked.

‘She’s attractive,’ Johnson said simply. ‘You like attractive women.’

‘And you don’t?’

Goodman pushed aside his cold coffee. He thought everything about Denny’s was disgusting. He couldn’t understand why so many of his colleagues seemed to love the place. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘it doesn’t matter whether she’s attractive or not. The point is, she has nothing to do with this. She’s a distraction, a sideshow. We need to focus on speaking to the Badens and we need to find Brandon Grolsch.’

Johnson grunted noncommittally. His ringing phone interrupted the sullen silence. ‘Yello?’

Goodman watched him slowly put down his fork and stop eating. He was listening intently to whatever was being said on the other end of the line. After what seemed like an age he said an abrupt, ‘OK. We’re on our way now,’ and hung up.

‘What was that about?’ asked Goodman.

‘Remember Treyvon Raymond?’ said Johnson, pushing back his chair. ‘The snotty little black kid from Doc Roberts’ office.’

‘The receptionist? Sure,’ said Goodman. ‘What about him?’

‘Someone found him dumped less than half a mile from where the killer left Lisa Flannagan. Naked. Multiple stab wounds, including one to the heart.’

‘Shit.’ Goodman exhaled slowly. ‘So we’ve got a serial.’

‘Not yet we don’t.’ Johnson stood up and lumbered towards the door.

‘What do you mean?’ Goodman asked.

‘Treyvon Raymond’s still alive.’

CHAPTER TEN

In the heart of West Hollywood, Cedars-Sinai Hospital has always been synonymous with celebrity and glamour. Frank Sinatra and River Phoenix died there, Michael Jackson’s kids were born there and Britney Spears was admitted to the psychiatric wing there after her head-shaving breakdown.

However Cedars was also a bustling, inner-city hospital and home to LA’s busiest ER. Every day, ordinary Angelinos poured through its doors after car crashes or overdoses, ambulances offloading every type of human pain and misery from burns to gunshot wounds to victims of rape and domestic battery. Some of the city’s top surgeons and specialists could be found here too. One of them, a slight, softly spoken Iranian by the name of Dr Robert Rhamatian had just finished surgery on Trey Raymond – what was left of him – when Goodman and Johnson arrived.

‘When can we talk to him?’ Goodman asked the surgeon anxiously. ‘It’s vital we hear what he knows.’

Dr Rhamatian sighed heavily. He was exhausted after six grueling hours in theater and not in the mood for two pushy cops and their demands.

‘I don’t think you understand, Detective,’ he said, with a patience he didn’t feel. ‘Mr Raymond is very gravely ill. He’s heavily sedated right now, which is why he looks so peaceful. The operation was successful, as far as it went, but the damage to his left ventricle is extensive.’

Goodman looked blank.

‘He was stabbed in the heart,’ the surgeon clarified. ‘We’ve done the best we can for him, but I’m by no means certain he’ll survive.’

‘All the more reason we need to talk to him,’ Johnson said gruffly. ‘Can you wake him up?’

‘No.’ The surgeon looked at the sweating cop in the syrup-stained shirt with distaste. ‘I can’t.’

‘Did he say anything before he went into surgery?’ Goodman asked, hoping to get something useful out of the doctor before Johnson alienated him completely. ‘Was he conscious at any time? I’m sorry to press you, Dr Rhamatian. But we think whoever did this to Treyvon Raymond may have murdered a young woman a few days ago. If Treyvon saw his attacker, or can remember anything at all, it’s vital that you tell us.’

‘I understand,’ said the surgeon. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know what happened before his surgery. You need to speak to the paramedics who brought him in. I’ll get the names for you. Hey!’ Turning around he glared at Johnson, who was trying to open the door to the recovery room. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t go in there.’

‘Oh, I think you’ll find I can,’ Johnson said rudely. ‘I’m gonna ask that boy some questions while he’s still alive to be asked ’em, whether you like it or not.’

‘I told you, he’s sedated. He won’t be able to hear you.’

‘Then I won’t be bothering him, will I?’ said Johnson. ‘Look, Doc, you did your job already. Now it’s time for us to do ours.’

Dr Rhamatian looked at Goodman as if to say, Can’t you do something?

‘I’m sorry,’ Goodman muttered. But he did nothing to restrain his partner as Johnson pulled open the door and walked in.

‘So am I,’ said the surgeon angrily. ‘For the boy’s sake. This is an outrage.’

He stormed off, presumably in search of reinforcements. Goodman hurriedly followed Johnson into the recovery suite.

‘Do you have to be such a dick?’ he asked Johnson. ‘The man was helping us.’

‘No he wasn’t.’ Johnson didn’t look up from the bed, where Trey Raymond was lying prone and still, his bandaged chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, with the help of a machine that looked like a cross between a prop from a 1960s sci-fi movie and a pool cleaner, complete with long, corrugated tubing. His arms, neck and cheeks were covered in shallow knife wounds, exactly as Lisa’s had been, and his face was bruised beyond recognition. No wonder the killer had left him for dead.

‘The kid’s dying, Lou,’ said Johnson. ‘Even you can see that. It’s now or never.’

‘I know,’ Goodman said somberly. ‘But—’

He was interrupted by Johnson’s loud clapping, his fat hands crashing together inches above Trey’s unresponsive face.

‘Wake up!’ he shouted. ‘Tell us who did this to you. TREY!’

‘Mick, come on—’

‘I said, WAKE UP, DIPSHIT!’ Johnson bellowed. ‘Open your GODDAMN EYES!’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Grabbing him by the shoulders, Goodman pulled Johnson back. ‘Stop it. Leave him alone. What the hell is wrong with you?’

Johnson turned, and for a moment looked as if he were about to punch his partner in the face. But before he had a chance, Trey suddenly opened his eyes and let out a panicked scream.

‘I don’t know!’ he yelled, his arms twitching manically. ‘Please! Oh God! I DON’T KNOW!’ His head was tossing from side to side. He screamed again and then an awful gurgling sound began from somewhere deep in his throat. Even Johnson looked alarmed. One of the machines started beeping and a stream of nurses and medics ran into the room, as Trey slumped back, unresponsive, onto the bed.

‘Who let you in here?’ one of the interns barked at Goodman and Johnson. ‘This is medical personnel only. Get out!’

Johnson hesitated, but only for a moment. He followed Goodman out.

Out in the corridor, Goodman turned on him. ‘What in God’s name was that? We could get prosecuted! What if the kid’s family make a complaint?’

Johnson laughed. ‘What if they do?’ There could be no mistaking the racist undertone in his words. The unspoken implication that nobody would listen to the likes of Marsha Raymond, a poor, black single mother from Westmont. Not for the first time, Goodman felt a surge of real dislike for the man he was forced to work with.

‘Where are you going?’ he called after Johnson, who was already headed for the exit.

‘Back to the precinct,’ said Johnson. ‘The boy’s clearly not gonna make it, so that ship’s sailed. Still, at least we now know one thing for sure.’

‘We do?’

‘Sure we do. It’s the same killer. Assuming Trey dies, that’s two victims inside of a week, both attacked and dumped the same exact way.’

‘OK,’ said Goodman, not sure why this obvious fact seemed to please his partner so much.

‘So you tell me,’ Johnson spelled it out. ‘Who’s the one person that connects both of the victims?’

The penny dropped.

It pained Goodman to admit it. But this time, Johnson was right.

As far as they knew, Lisa Flannagan and Trey Raymond had only one thing in common.

They were both close to Dr Nikki Roberts.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Earlier that morning, Nikki Roberts sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. Her sweat-drenched T-shirt clung to her body and she was shaking, shivering, as if she’d just been pulled out of icy water. Her bedside clock said 4.52 a.m. Wearily she sank back against the pillows.

It was the same dream she’d been having for months, or a variant of it anyway: Doug was in danger, about to die, and was screaming out to Nikki, begging her for help. But she didn’t help him, and he died, and it was all her fault. Sometimes he was drowning and she stood and watched from the beach, letting it happen. Sometimes he was in a car, careening out of control, and Nikki held some sort of remote control that could activate the brakes, but she refused to use it. In tonight’s version, they’d been walking along the clifftop path at Big Sur and Doug had somehow lost his footing and slipped off the edge. He was reaching out to Nikki, pleading for her hand to pull him back to safety. But this time, instead of simply refusing or ignoring him, she’d actively peeled off his clinging fingers one by one and pushed him to his death, watching as he was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. She’d murdered him. And the worst part was, in the dream, the act had left her with a sense of elation, a tremendous feeling of power.

A few hours later, an emotional Nikki met her friend Gretchen Adler for brunch on Melrose.

‘I had the dream again,’ she said as the two women sat down at Glorious Greens café.

‘The Doug dream?’ said Gretchen.

Nikki nodded. ‘Only this time it was worse.’

Nikki filled Gretchen in on her latest nightmare while a handsome waiter hovered over them. Nikki ordered her usual poached eggs, toast and triple-shot latte, while Gretchen went for a vile-looking kale-and-beetroot smoothie and a bowl of something involving sprouted grains. Gretchen was Nikki’s oldest friend – they’d known each other since high school – and a sweetheart of the first order, but for most of her adult life she’d been fighting an on-off battle with her weight. As far as Nikki could tell, she rarely got any thinner, but was always raving about some new diet or other. At the moment it was raw-vegan.

‘You look exhausted,’ Gretchen told Nikki. ‘You know, if you’re having sleep problems you should really think about going vegan, or at least only eating raw last thing at night. What did you have for dinner last night?’

‘A burger,’ said Nikki.

‘There you go.’ Gretchen sat back, satisfied she’d proved her point. ‘Red meat. That’s the worst thing for nightmares.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yup. Apart from cheese. Oh my God, it wasn’t a cheeseburger, was it?’ Gretchen gasped melodramatically.

Nikki laughed and confessed that, unfortunately, it was, but that she really didn’t feel her diet was to blame for her night terrors.

‘Well, what do you think it is then?’ Gretchen asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Nikki. ‘Guilt, maybe?’

Gretchen didn’t buy it. ‘That’s baloney. What have you got to be guilty about? Doug’s death was an accident.’

‘I know.’

‘You were an amazing wife to him, Nikki.’

‘An amazing, infertile wife,’ Nikki added wistfully.

Gretchen frowned. ‘Come on. You were the one who cared about that, far more than Doug ever did.’

Was that true? Nikki couldn’t remember any more.

‘Maybe it’s anger, then,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’m still so damn angry at him, my subconscious is trying to ease the pressure by having me sadistically murder my already dead husband in fantasy?’

‘You know what I think?’ Gretchen said. ‘I think all you psychologists are full of shit. It’s a dream. It doesn’t mean anything. I mean, Christ, Nik, you’ve been under a hell of a lot of stress. No wonder your subconscious is going a bit haywire. What you need is a distraction.’

‘Such as?’ Nikki asked wearily.

‘Well,’ Gretchen leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I assume you’ve been following all the stuff about your poor murdered patient and Willie Baden?’

Reaching down beneath the table for her pocketbook, Gretchen pulled out the latest copy of US Weekly. Paparazzi pictures of the Rams’ owner, looking paunchy and dreadfully old on the beach in Mexico, had been placed alongside glamour shots of Lisa Flannagan from her modeling days. Between these, and three pages of lurid prose about Willie and Lisa’s affair, under the headline ‘Baden’s Betrayal’, were a few pictures of Valentina Baden, Willie’s wife.

Nikki studied them closely. Mrs Baden was an attractive woman for her age, which she guessed was probably early sixties. Slim and elegant with a neatly trimmed bob of gray-blond hair. But at the same time she looked haggard and hounded in all of the paparazzi photographs, using her sarong as a shield and cowering behind oversized sunglasses.

Leafing through the feature, Nikki shook her head angrily. ‘Poor woman. Why don’t they leave her alone?’

Gretchen shrugged. ‘They never leave anyone alone. You know that. And whatever else Valentina Baden may be, she’s not poor.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Nikki.

‘I do, but I suspect you’re wrong about that too,’ said Gretchen. ‘My guess is she’s completely used to his affairs by now. I mean, it’s not as if this murdered girl was his first.’

‘Bastard,’ Nikki muttered under her breath.

‘Maybe they have an “arrangement”?’ said Gretchen jokingly. ‘Valentina might be a cougar with a string of young lovers for all we know.’

‘Don’t be facile,’ Nikki snapped. ‘This is what men do. This is his shit, not hers.’

Gretchen recoiled at Nikki’s anger, white-hot suddenly. Neither of them knew the Badens personally, after all. This was just gossip, something the old Nikki would have enjoyed. Before Doug’s death knocked all the joy out of her.

‘I don’t understand you sometimes,’ she observed quietly.

‘What do you mean?’ said Nikki.

‘I thought you’d be outraged that the media are focusing on Willie Baden and the affair, rather than the actual murder. I mean, this poor patient of yours is dead. Shouldn’t that be the story? But instead you seem more worried about Baden’s wife, who isn’t dead, and who knew what she was signing up for!’

‘No one signs up for betrayal,’ Nikki said bluntly. ‘And besides, Lisa Flannagan is dead. She can’t be hurt any more. Unlike Valentina Baden.’ She jabbed a finger furiously at the magazine. ‘I mean, she’s the only innocent party here. Lisa wasn’t innocent! Trust me, I knew the girl. She was a selfish, lying narcissist, sleeping with another woman’s husband for money.’

Gretchen said nothing, but a feeling of deep unease settled over her, as it did so often with Nikki nowadays. Ever since the awful night of Doug’s car crash, Gretchen had watched Nikki being whipsawed between grief and anger. The circumstances of Doug’s death had changed her. Made her harder. Colder. Less forgiving. Gretchen hoped the change was temporary.

‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I think Valentina Baden’s a tougher cookie than you give her credit for,’ she said, trying to lighten the mood a little. ‘Before she married Willie she was with some hotshot financier who she completely took to the cleaners in their divorce.’

‘Really?’ Nikki was intrigued, her anger apparently exhausted for the moment. Not for the first time, she marveled at Gretchen’s vast knowledge of celebrity gossip. ‘How do you know this stuff?’

‘I read,’ said Gretchen. ‘Valentina’s actually had an amazing life. She grew up in Mexico City and when she was a teenager her younger sister went missing and they never saw her again. Can you imagine? She’s given interviews about it, how the family assumed the sister was dead but they never knew for sure. Or whether she’d been raped or kidnapped or what had happened to her.’

‘How awful,’ said Nikki, feelingly. ‘That must have been torture.’

‘Valentina never had children of her own,’ Gretchen went on, ‘but she used her husband’s money to set up a charity to help families of missing kids. Do you remember the Clancy case?’

Nikki thought about it. Clancy. The name rang a vague bell.

‘A young American au pair went missing while working in Mexico City,’ said Gretchen. ‘It was probably about ten years ago now.’

Nikki cast her mind back. ‘I do remember! I think I saw the dad on TV. Wasn’t he a firefighter or something?’

‘Right,’ said Gretchen. ‘Well, it was Valentina Baden’s money that put him on TV and brought public attention to the search for his daughter. I think Valentina felt a personal connection to the case, because of the Mexico City thing and her sister. Charlotte, the girl’s name was. Charlotte Clancy.’

‘Did they ever find her?’

Gretchen shook her head. ‘Never. It was like Valentina’s sister all over again. The endless not knowing. All I’m saying is, Willie Baden’s wife has been through a hell of a lot worse in her life than this. It’s your murdered patient I feel sorry for. So young!’

‘She was young,’ Nikki agreed, softening. ‘And, you know, she was trying to improve her life. It’s not that I don’t feel terrible about Lisa—’

‘Do you think Willie had her bumped off?’ Gretchen interrupted breathlessly. ‘You know, took out a hit on her?’

Closing the magazine, Nikki laughed. ‘You’ve been overdosing on The Sopranos again, Gretch. A “hit”?’

‘I’m serious!’ protested Gretchen. ‘I mean, he’s rich enough, right? I’ll bet he knows people who know people.’

Nikki shook her head. ‘Willie didn’t do it. It was already over between them. Although, he was angry about her leaving,’ she mused, thinking back to her final session with Lisa, and Lisa’s almost throwaway remarks about Baden smashing china and making threats when she called it quits.

‘You see?’ Gretchen warmed to her theme. ‘He had motive.’

Nikki shook her head. ‘I don’t think it was Willie Baden. His pride was hurt in the moment. No one likes being dumped. But I never got the sense Lisa was afraid of him.’

‘Maybe she should have been?’ said Gretchen. ‘Well, if it wasn’t Willie, who do you think did it?’

Nikki looked at her old friend for a moment with a strangely intent expression. ‘I have no idea,’ she said eventually. ‘Why does everyone seem to think I would know who killed Lisa Flannagan?’

Gretchen shrugged. ‘You were her therapist.’

‘Patients don’t tell us everything, you know. I’m sure one of the detectives investigating the case thinks I’m hiding something from him.’

Gretchen frowned. ‘Why would he think that?’

‘Who knows?’ said Nikki, thanking the waiter as he placed her poached eggs in front of her. ‘He’s an odd little man, full of testosterone and rage. He obviously hates me. He hasn’t said it in so many words, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he had me down as a suspect.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ said Gretchen.

‘Is it ridiculous, though?’ asked Nikki absently. ‘I was the last person to have seen her alive.’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘And we all have our dark sides. Don’t forget I spent last night pushing my beloved husband off a cliff to his death. And I liked it.’ Nikki paused, then broke into a broad grin.

Gretchen exhaled.

OK. That was a joke. She’s joking.

Black humor was a well-known coping mechanism for grief. Gretchen might not be a therapist, but even she knew that. Still, she found Nikki worryingly difficult to read these days. Joke or no joke, something was off about her, and that something seemed to be getting worse, not better.

This murder, coming on top of everything else, had clearly added to the stress she was under. One more blow and Gretchen worried Nikki might unravel completely.

The sooner they caught the maniac that did it, the better.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was five o’clock by the time Haddon Defoe arrived at the hospital. Taking the elevator to the fifth floor, past the Addiction Recovery Clinic where he worked a couple of days a week, he hurried down the corridor, praying he wasn’t too late. But when the nurses directed him to the Family Counseling Suite his heart sank. That could only mean one thing.

Marsha Raymond’s tear-stained face instantly confirmed Haddon’s worst suspicions.

‘He’s gone, Dr Defoe.’ Trey’s mother shook her head, her lower lip trembling. ‘’Bout fifteen minutes ago. I was sitting in there with him, holding his hand, and all of a sudden his heart jus’ stops beating. He never said one mo’ word after those police left this morning. They should never’ve been here, that’s what the doctor said.’