Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 51995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Conrad flipped through the offering. A calendar and planner, encased in black leather. Meant to be a type of “little black book”? He skimmed through the entries, spotting a list of the “dishes.” You’ve got to be kidding me.
The doctor hadn’t even given the women good food names. No, he’d gone with mashed potatoes, corn casserole, fried pickles, and cheeseburger. Oh, look. At least one lucky lady was known as ‘carrot cake.’
The doctor had been a tool. Noted.
Conrad and Barrow shared a look before returning to their vehicle. They sat in silence for a bit as the GPS led them out of the town square and toward Dr. Garcia’s residence.
Finally Barrow asked, “What do you think?”
“I think our pool of suspects is over-crowded.” As for Mrs. Miller and Ms. Whittington, his first impression hadn’t yet fully formed. Both showed classic signs of guilt and innocence. Which could be explained in a number of ways and teeter in either direction. A thorough search into their private lives should help clear up matters. Though he doubted Whittington was one of the doctor’s lovers. Why give them the planner if she were in it?
Conrad typed ‘Anthony Martin Miller’ into a search engine. The results appeared on his phone’s screen, and he groaned. “The nurse’s husband is a lawyer.” Attorneys made the worst suspects, victims, and witnesses. The worst everything. On the other hand, they excelled at evading interviews and answering questions without giving real information.
“He’ll be difficult to pin down,” Barrow said with a groan.
“For sure.” Conrad dialed the man. No better time to start the game of phone tag. After several rings, voice mail picked up. He left a message, requesting an immediate call back.
They arrived at Dr. Garcia’s house. A two-story Victorian with white shutters. Barrow knocked on the door. Though they waited, no response was forthcoming.
“So much for going home to grieve,” Conrad muttered.
“Or he’s hiding out inside.”
“Either option looks bad.”
On the return drive to the office, he phoned the doctor’s personal number. Just as he’d done with the attorney, he left a message, requesting a call back–which he received seconds after passing the planner to the right people at GBH headquarters.
“This is Julian Garcia,” the doctor began without preamble. “You wished to speak with me.”
Grief did lace the man’s voice. But so did defensiveness. “Can you tell me what you were doing last night between twelve and four?”
A sharp intake of breath. “You suspect me of killing my associate.” A statement, not a question.
“I’m doing my job, ruling out everyone I can.” Conrad strove for a reassuring tone.
A huff. Then, “Around seven, I was called to Pinetum Regional Hospital to examine a patient. When I finished there, I grabbed a late dinner with my family at home, then returned to the clinic to write up my notes. I think it was near eleven when I realized I needed information from my nurse to complete my paperwork. I initiated a video call that lasted a couple hours. I left the clinic close to two and engaged the alarm.”
The phone must have a timestamp too, and Conrad would be verifying everything. “Do you usually phone your employees after hours?”
“No. This was a special circumstance. I originally texted her. She responded. This went on for a while before we agreed to make things easier on ourselves and speak rather than type.”
“Where was the nurse located during the call?” And why think she’d know anything about a patient without a file?
“At home. Hers, not mine.”
“Did you discuss anything besides the patient?” Would he corroborate Emma’s claim?
A pause, then a muffled, “We might have mentioned Marcus. I recently discovered he fathered six children with various women in Atlanta. He’s been draining the company account to pay child support. And blackmail, no doubt.”
Well, no wonder Hotchkins had (allegedly) taken up treasure hunting. And could this case get any more complicated? How many suspects were they going to unearth in a single day? So far, they had the scorned spouse, multiple angry momma bears, a partner betrayed, and countless lovers and their assortment of vengeful husbands and boyfriends.
After getting the names of the mothers from Garcia, Conrad said, “That’s all I need to know for now. Thank you for your time.”
They disconnected, and he got busy tracking down the mothers. He also took the necessary steps to obtain a court order for Garcia and Mrs. Miller’s phone logs. Conrad read over the field reports as they came in and assigned follow-up tasks to fellow agents. Hours passed. All spent thinking, constantly running scenarios and working theories in the back of his mind.
At some point, a tight-lipped Hightower knocked on his open door. “You got a minute?”
“Do you come bearing news from the museum?”
“I do.”
“Then I’ve got several minutes,” he told her, motioning her inside.
She strode over, a notepad in hand, and eased into a chair. “Here’s what I learned from the Gold Fever! exhibit. Minus information about the spur of economic development caused by the gold rush.” Flipping to a specific page, she said, “Most of the documents handed over by the widow seemed to be copies of journal entries on display, written by at least ten different people. Some authors were members of a cult known as the Order of Seven, who’d claimed to find gold. Each hid his stash somewhere in town, using a different code to create a map. What the doctor managed to decipher alluded to nuggets being hidden inside coffins buried at the Garden of Memories. Two museum employees remember seeing Dr. Hotchkins, and confirmed he visited frequently but always alone.”