Exhume (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 1) (8 page)

“No.” The signature in the lower-right corner of the painting in the dining room was a
C
followed by a series of letters that were so flattened into a line, he couldn’t make them out. Then a large sweeping
W
followed by more indecipherable letters. He pointed to it. “Who’s the artist on that painting?”

Both Naomi and Roger turned toward it.

“I’m afraid my art history is a bit rusty,” Roger said. “I’m really best with the Renaissance period.”

Hal waved at him. “Read me the signature already.”

Roger chuckled and moved to the painting, where he squinted at the corner.

“Capital
C
, then stuff you can’t read followed by capital
W
and more illegible letters?” Hal asked.

“Yes,” Roger confirmed. “That’s exactly it.”

“Naomi, help me get this off the wall, would you?”

Together, Hal and the tech took the painting off the wall. “Where now?” Naomi asked.

“Let’s turn it around,” Hal directed, backing into the living room. “And set it against this wall.” When the painting was down, Hal scanned the back of the canvas. There, on the lower-left corner was a small gold plaque that read
K&Z I
NTERIORS
.

“What is it?” Roger asked.

“K&Z Interiors,” Naomi read to him. “You’re interested in the interior designer?”

The bedroom furniture had the same bland consistency, each piece part of a set you might find in an upscale hotel. “I don’t think it’s an interior decorator.” Using his iPhone, he Googled the company.

“What is it?”

He read aloud from the website, “K&Z Interiors, the nation’s premier staging company, helping you sell your home faster, at a higher price.”

“A staging company?” Roger repeated.

“I’ve heard of those,” Naomi said. “They decorate houses before they go on the market.”

“But maybe in this case, it’s not for sale,” Hal said, taking down the contact number for the company.

“So, you think Victoria Stein rented the furniture?” Roger asked.

“I’m wondering if she didn’t rent the whole place,” Hal said. “It’s like Naomi said. Look around—there’s nothing personal. No books or knickknacks from work or trips. No family photos except for the ones of her and her sister.”

“Which is sort of weird, too,” Naomi added.

“Right. No friends or parents.”

“No boyfriend,” Roger added.

“That makes sense with what I’m finding in the rest of the place,” Naomi confirmed. “Come look at this.”

Hal and Roger followed her back to the bedroom, where she pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. It was nearly empty.

“Underwear?” Hal asked.

“Six pairs of underwear?” Naomi said. “Assuming some dirty laundry, maybe seven to ten pairs. Enough for a week.” Next she lifted one bra from the drawer. “Two bras,” she said. “Assuming the victim was wearing one.”

Hal and Roger said nothing.

Naomi laughed. “Guys, no woman owns only ten pairs of underwear and two bras.” She waited, and when neither spoke, she added, “Especially two bras.”

“Maybe this isn’t her primary address,” Hal said. “Like she wanted it to look like she lived here, but she didn’t. I’ll ask the sister.” He made notes on the questions he had for Terri, then turned back to Naomi. “What did we find on her employer? Maybe they can shed some light on what she was doing out here.”

“Uh . . . ,” Naomi said, looking apologetic.

Hal had a sinking feeling. “What?”

“There are no pay stubs either, and her key ring only has two keys on it. The one to the building door and the one to her front door.”

“No key card to her work?” Hal asked.

Naomi shook her head.

“So maybe she wasn’t here for work,” Roger suggested.

Nothing in the condo was what it had originally seemed. Hal rolled off the latex gloves and shoved them into his back pocket. “I’ll make some calls.”

“We’ll finish our sweep here and let you know if we find anything else,” Roger told him.

Hal called Hailey, but the call went straight to voicemail. “Something’s up with Victoria Stein. I’m going to get the sister to come into the station as soon as possible. Call me.”

From the car, Hal dialed Terri Stein again. That call, too, went straight to voicemail.

He thought of Schwartzman, of her ties to South Carolina. She didn’t recognize either of the sisters—not their faces or their names.

That, too, was a dead end without more information. With nothing left to do, Hal drove in the direction of the department, hoping he could dig up something to shed some light on this case.

As it was, Hal was sitting in a dark closet, and he didn’t like it one bit.

Maybe Victoria Stein wasn’t who she said she was.

What kind of person lived with only the thinnest veneer of a life? She supposedly had a job but no computer, no Internet, no personal files, not even any identification other than a driver’s license and a Social Security card.

It made Hal wonder if they’d somehow stumbled into another agency’s turf. Hal found the number for his contact at the bureau and gave him a call.

10

San Francisco, California

Midday Thursday, Schwartzman returned to her office from the morgue in search of a bandage for the nasty paper cut she’d managed to give herself opening a suture kit.

She almost never worked in the office but instead used the little metal desk in the autopsy room.

She was startled to see a strange woman in the chair across from her desk. Although the room was warm enough, she looked cold in a dark-orange wool coat with the hood up. It was a sort of peacoat with large wooden buttons that made her seem more like a large child than an adult.

Schwartzman rifled through a drawer for a Band-Aid. “Can I help you?”

The woman looked up at Schwartzman, her eyes wide, and pressed the back of her hand to her red nose. Fresh tears trailed down her face.

“Let me get someone to help you.” Schwartzman had work to finish up. A victim of a gang shooting had been in the drawer two days, and last night had brought her a stabbing victim, as well.

She moved to the hallway, looking for someone who might show the lost woman out. The woman began to cry, big, silent, rocking sobs. When she came back into the room, Schwartzman noticed her slouched white boots and a pair of dark-yellow tights.

The ensemble made her look like a piece of candy corn, propped upside down.

The woman dried her eyes. “I’m waiting for the medical examiner.”

Schwartzman ripped open the Band-Aid and wrapped the stretchy fabric around her index finger. “I’m the medical examiner.”

“Oh . . .” The woman sat upright, and the hood slid off her head. Her straight dark hair was cut above her shoulders in uneven layers that made the damaged hair look like dark-colored straw.

“But if you’re inquiring about a case, you need to talk to the investigators. Homicide is on the fifth floor.” She turned to leave when the woman called after her.

“Did you do the—”

Schwartzman looked back.

The woman pulled the handkerchief away. “I’m Terri Stein. Victoria is my sister.”

Schwartzman froze in the doorway, studied the woman more closely. Her hair was darker than it had been in the photos at the victim’s house. Shorter. She was not familiar. The realization seemed both obvious and surprising. Even if Spencer had sent Terri, she wouldn’t have been someone Schwartzman knew.

But more than that. She looked wrong. He would have hated the hooded coat, the odd layering of her hair, the flashy dangling earrings. Victoria was Spencer’s type, not Terri.

Spencer wouldn’t have chosen her.

Schwartzman realized she hadn’t spoken. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Can you talk about it?”

She didn’t want to be there alone with Victoria’s sister. She didn’t know what questions to ask, what to say. “I’m afraid not,” Schwartzman said. “The lead inspector is Hal Harris. I can call him.”

Terri sat forward on the chair. “They said she drowned.”

Schwartzman had left that information with Hal yesterday, but since then they had been trading voicemails and had yet to connect.

“Drowned? In her own bathtub,” Terri said, pressing her fist against her teeth.

“So you spoke to Inspector Harris.” Had Hal sent her here? To see if she was familiar in some way? Had she missed his call? She reached into her pocket for her cell phone.

“In lavender water,” Terri went on. Her gaze seemed to look right through Schwartzman.

Schwartzman wasn’t used to the relatives, but she understood grief. “I am very sorry.”

Terri watched her.

Schwartzman felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny, as though the woman was waiting for some other type of confession. Something about Spencer? She couldn’t think. “We should be able to release the body for burial soon. Within a couple of days, I would think.” Schwartzman leaned down and pulled out a form. “If you’d like to complete this paperwork, I can call you when we can transfer the remains.” She slid the form across the desk, but Terri made no move for it. “We need information on which funeral home you’ve selected. If the remains are going out of state, you’ll need to make arrangements for that ahead of time.”

“How did he drown her with lavender water?”

He.
It was a mistake to assume gender. Victoria Stein could have been drowned by another female. Schwartzman tapped the paper on the desk. “I’m afraid I can’t speculate—”

“Was she drugged?”

Schwartzman closed her mouth and said nothing. She had gotten the tox results back less than an hour before. Diazepam, the generic form of Valium, had been used in addition to wine.

“You know, don’t you?” Terri pressed.

“Ms. Stein, I’m not at liberty to speak about any ongoing investigation. I’m sorry. If you’d like to fill out this paperwork, I’ll make sure everything is ready for you, but I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to work.” Schwartzman inched the form a little closer to Terri Stein and set a pen on top. Then, offering an encouraging smile, she walked out the door.

“You look like her,” Terri called after her.

Like a punch to the gut. Schwartzman closed her eyes and stopped moving.

Maybe Terri Stein knew something about the connection between Spencer and her sister.

Hal had promised to follow up. He must have learned something. But he hadn’t called. Was he pursuing a lead? Had he found something to link Stein’s death to Spencer?

“That’s why I started to cry when I saw you,” Terri added. “Because you look so much like her.”

Schwartzman breathed a deep sigh and turned back around. Hal would be in contact. He would reach out when he could. Something had come up. It must have. “Yes. We have similar coloring.”

“It’s more than that,” Terri said. “The shape of your nose. Even your gestures. You two are much more alike than she and I are.”

And how is that possible?
Schwartzman wanted to ask. Looking at the victim’s sister, she saw almost no similarities. Perhaps a little in the mouth. “Do you have other siblings?”

“It was just us.”

“And your parents? Are they living?”

Her eyes welled up again. “No. They both passed.”

“I’m sorry. I noticed a lot of pictures of the two of you in her house.”

“Yes.” Terri’s face flexed into a smile, a little too fast, too happy. Grief made people strange. She studied the faint freckles on Terri Stein’s face, the single dimple on her left side that added to the air of youth about her.

Schwartzman felt calmer, taking charge of the conversation again. “I didn’t see any images of your parents.”

“No,” she said as though accepting some criticism. “I don’t know that she had any.”

The images began to surface in Schwartzman’s mind. “In one of the pictures, you two were in front of an aircraft carrier.”

Terri nodded. “I think that’s right.”

“Was that taken near the ferry to Fort Sumter? At Patriots Point?”

Her expression was blank. “I don’t remember.”

“I wondered because it’s down near where you guys grew up.”

“Why would someone kill her?” Terri asked.

Schwartzman was startled by the question, which came out of nowhere.
Because she looked like me.

“She had a boring job,” Terri went on. “She hardly ever dated. Why would someone go into her home and kill her?”

Schwartzman wanted to ask more about Victoria. What she did, who she spent time with.

And yet that wasn’t her job. Her job was the remains.

Her job was done.

“I have no idea,” she told the victim’s sister. “I’m sure the inspectors are doing everything they can to find out who did this to your sister. Have you spoken to Inspector Harris?”

“I’d like to see her.”

Schwartzman was not going to show the body without Hal. She didn’t even want to see it again. “We should make arrangements with Inspector Harris.”

“You can’t just take me to her?”

Schwartzman lifted the phone and dialed the extension for Homicide.

“Never mind. It’s okay,” Terri said, sounding disappointed. “I just wanted to talk to someone. I’m going a little stir-crazy.”

Schwartzman held out the phone. “You don’t want me to call?”

“No. I’m sure Inspector Harris will call me if there is any news.”

Schwartzman replaced the receiver in its cradle. Terri stood and dug her hands into her pockets but remained rooted in place, silent.

Schwartzman let several seconds pass. Finally she said, “Is there something else I can do for you, Ms. Stein?”

“I heard someone had a pendant like Vicky’s. The cross with the Star of David.”

Schwartzman felt her mouth drop open and closed it quickly in an attempt to hide her surprise. How would the victim’s know about Schwartzman’s necklace? The details of a case were never shared with the family, not during an active investigation. Plus, that necklace was not just a detail of the case.

It was about her personally.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Terri asked. “You had a necklace like hers?”

“You heard that?”

“The officers were talking about it.”

Schwartzman said nothing. That she and the victim had matching necklaces was odd, worthy of gossip. But it made her angry. At the case, at herself. For sharing her past with Hailey and Hal.

That information was sensitive. The leak could be damaging to the case. But more than the case, the information felt deeply personal.

That it was shared felt like a betrayal.

“When I was waiting to talk to the inspector,” Terri added.

“Which officers?”

“I don’t know. They wore uniforms. A couple of men.” Terri paused. “I was eavesdropping when I probably shouldn’t have been,” she admitted.

Schwartzman tried to imagine who would have been talking about evidence from a murder scene in front of the victim’s sister.

“It just seems like you knew her somehow, that you two were connected.”

“No,” Schwartzman said firmly. “I didn’t know your sister at all.” There was an edge in her voice, but she let it sit.

“It was really nice to get a chance to meet you, Dr. Schwartzman.” With that, Terri Stein walked out of her office.

The woman knew her name.

The office was too hot, too small. She had to leave. She lifted her coat off the hook on her door, her eye on the chair where the victim’s sister had sat. Some realization fluttered at the edge of her mind. Something strange about Terri Stein, but she couldn’t quite place it. Her phone rang, and she lifted the receiver. “Schwartzman.”

“Oh good. I’m glad I caught you in the office.”

Schwartzman couldn’t place the voice. “I’m sorry. Who—”

“Sorry, it’s Renu Khan.”

Her gynecologist. “Dr. Khan.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. She’d been in the doctor’s office only five hours earlier. They’d already read her scans, and the doctor was calling back. For a fleeting moment, Schwartzman missed the cheerful nurse who’d called before. “That was fast. I assume you are calling with news about the second mammogram and the ultrasound.”

“Yes.”

Schwartzman remained standing, frozen as though she could control the doctor’s next words by sheer power of will.

“I just got off the phone with the radiologist,” Dr. Khan said.

“The radiologist,” Schwartzman repeated.

“Yes. I wanted to get back to you as quickly as possible because I know you often have a lot on your plate.”

Radiology meant cancer. “What did the radiologist find?”

“There are several microcalcifications—I’m sorry, several calcium deposits that we believe warrant biopsy.”

Cancer.
They were talking about breast cancer. “In my breast.”

“Yes. Both breasts,” Dr. Khan corrected.

Schwartzman sank into the chair, the coat caught under her so that it felt like the added weight of a person on her back. “Breast cancer.”

“We need to do a biopsy to be certain. We can’t confirm the lesions are cancerous until then. They may be benign.”

“Of course.” Schwartzman’s reply felt empty.
Of course.
There was no reason to assume the worst.

“You’re young to have mammograms, but I notice that this isn’t your first. You must have familial risk factors.”

Schwartzman didn’t have an answer. She didn’t much remember the first mammogram other than that it was done in Seattle as part of her medical training. It was some component of a course she took on genetics when testing for the BRCA gene was growing more common.

That period was a blur, all of it happening only weeks after Spencer had found her in Seattle. She’d had more than a year of reprieve from him, and then, somehow, he had tracked her down. She suspected her mother was the leak, but the timing was terrible. His calls came in at all hours, on her cell phone and—when she stopped answering that—on the landline in her apartment, in the anatomy lab at school, even once on rounds at the hospital. Just six weeks before her orals.

The mammogram had come back clean. That was in her file.

She’d hand-delivered that file to Dr. Khan herself. But she hadn’t read it. Somewhere in there it must have indicated that she was at risk. Otherwise, why would she have another mammogram before she was forty? How could she not know this? But she knew how.

The pressure of preparing for her oral exams, Spencer. In that period, she hadn’t slept, barely ate. She didn’t take care of herself at all, so how would she remember the results of a test no one was concerned about?

“Dr. Schwartzman?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I was trying to recall, but to be honest, I’m not sure. I’m not aware of any family history. I think that first mammogram was done as part of a medical school course.”

“Hmm,” Dr. Khan said. “I recommend Dr. Norman Fraser. He’s very good. I took the liberty of calling ahead to let him know he might hear from you. He’s a friend. He can fit you in as early as tomorrow afternoon if you can be available.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Schwartzman repeated. That was soon. If the microcalcifications were benign, why the rush?

They didn’t think they were benign.

They thought she had cancer.
Breast cancer. Breast. Cancer.
She squeezed her eyes closed. It couldn’t be. She thought of her father. He always said God only gave you what you could handle. How did God think she could handle this? She couldn’t.