4th of July - James Patterson [76]
“I’ll only need a couple of minutes.”
She slid her frosted-glass window closed and a moment later appeared in the doorway to the inner office.
“I’m Rebecca Falcone,” she said. “Come in.”
Two other middle-aged women were in the office behind the connecting door.
“That’s Mindy Heller, RN,” she said, indicating a streaked blonde wearing nurse’s whites and gobs of eye makeup, dumping platters of plastic-wrapped cookies into the trash can. “And this is Harriet Schwartz, our office manager,” Rebecca said of a wide woman in red sweats sitting behind an old computer. “We’ve all been with Dr. Ben since before the flood.”
I shook hands, and repeated my name and why I was there. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. Then I told the women that I needed their help. “Anything you can do to shed some light.”
“You want the truth?” said Harriet Schwartz. She turned away from the computer, leaned back in her chair, and warmed to her memories. “He was like a Picasso drawing. A bunch of lines, and from looking at those, you deduce a person. In between the lines, blank space —”
Mindy Heller jumped in: “He was a decent doctor, but he was chintzy, withholding, a know-it-all. And he could be mean to his galley slaves.” She shot a look at her coworkers. “But I don’t believe he was killed because he was a dickhead, and that’s the worst he was.”
“Uh-huh. So you think the O’Malleys were just victims of opportunity.”
“Exactly. Picked at random. I’ve been saying that all along.”
I asked if any of the other murder victims had been patients of Dr. O’Malley’s and I was shut right down.
“You know we have to protect patient confidentiality,” said Ms. Heller, “but I’m sure Chief Stark can tell you what you want to know.”
Okay, then.
I jotted down my cell phone number and left it on Harriet Schwartz’s desk. I thanked everyone for their time, but I felt deflated. Dr. O’Malley may have been all his staff said he was, but in fact, I’d hit another dead end.
I’d just opened the door to the street when someone gripped my arm. It was Rebecca Falcone, a look of urgency drawing her features into a line down the center of her face.
“I have to speak to you,” she said, “in private.”
“Can you meet me somewhere?” I asked.
“The Half Moon Bay Coffee Company. Do you know the place?”
“In that little strip mall at the top of Main?”
She nodded once. “I get off at twelve-thirty.”
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter 119
OUR KNEES ALMOST TOUCHED under the small table at the back of the restaurant near the restrooms. We had salads and coffee in front of us, but Rebecca wasn’t eating. And she wasn’t yet ready to talk.
She pulled on the little gold cross hanging from a chain around her neck, sliding it back and forth.
I thought I understood her conflict. She wanted to be the one to tell the real information, but at the same time, she didn’t want to blow the whistle where her friends could hear it.
“I don’t know anything, understand?” Rebecca said at last. “And I certainly don’t know anything about the murders. But Ben was under some kind of shadow lately.”
“Can you elaborate, Rebecca?”
“Well, he was unusually moody. Snapped at a couple of his patients, which, let me tell you, was rare. When I asked him what was going on, he denied that he was having problems.”
“You knew Lorelei?”
“Sure. They met at church, and frankly I was surprised Ben married her. I think he was lonely and she looked up to him.” Rebecca sighed. “Lorelei was pretty simple. She was a childlike woman who liked to shop. No one hated her.”
“Interesting observation,” I said. And that was all the encouragement Rebecca needed to say what she’d wanted to say all along.
She looked as though she were standing on the edge of a diving board and the pool was far, far below.
She took a breath and dove.
“Did you know about the first Mrs. O’Malley?” she asked me. “Did you know that Sandra O’Malley killed herself? Hanged herself in her own garage?”
Chapter 120
I FELT THAT PECULIAR crawly feeling at my hairline that often presaged