Hush (30 page)

She’d have to come up with something to explain everything. But Rory would have her own version. She’d say that somehow, when they were looking at the files, she had realized that Lake had slept with Keaton and killed him. She’d slipped a drug into Lake’s tea so she could escape, but Lake figured it out and tried to overpower her. She’d followed her in her car to see where she was headed.

I have to counteract whatever lies Rory will tell, she thought. But
how
? With
what
? She glanced up quickly, realizing she’d been lost in thought. The rain had stopped instantly in that moment, as
if a switch had been flicked. She craned her neck around and saw that more lights now twinkled through the trees. Reinforcements had clearly arrived from the other direction. And a police car was backing down the road in her direction.

Inside was the same officer who had spoken to her earlier. He stopped, stepped out of the cruiser, and approached her car again.

“Ma’am, could you please step out of your vehicle.”

Though his voice was low and even, there was an undertow of disapproval. She opened the door and stepped into the humid night air. The headlights of the cop car hit the immediate area.

“What’s your name, please?” he asked. In the dark, his thick black brows looked like caterpillars sleeping on his face.

“Lake Warren.”

“Ms. Warren, my name is Officer Clinton. We’re going to need you to come to our headquarters and answer some questions.”

“I—I need to go to a hospital first. The woman back there—Rory Deever—she drugged me. And she hit me over the head.”

He had been staring at her blankly, but when she twisted her head so he could see the wound, he pulled back in surprise. He turned away and spoke into his walkie-talkie.

“Why don’t you come with me,” he said, turning back. “Please lock your vehicle.”

She told herself not to act fearful with him. She was the victim, not the criminal, and she needed to come across that way.

“Of course,” she said. “The woman who attacked me—did she hit a tree?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that right at this time.”

He opened the rear door of his car and she climbed in. The backseat smelled of old sweat and fried food and it nearly made her gag. She thought they might drive past the accident but the cop turned the car around and headed in the opposite direction. The drive took about twenty minutes and the entire time she could feel
her fear throbbing, like a hand that had been slammed in a door. The exam and tests would buy her time but eventually she would have to face the police and their questions. She prayed that Archer had found a lawyer for her.

She was taken to Northern Westchester Hospital, a big sprawling complex with an ER lit up as bright as day. The waiting room was about a quarter full. People who should have been preoccupied with their sprained ankles and palpitating hearts dropped their jaws at the sight of her being escorted inside by a cop. With the cop nearly hugging her side, Lake explained to the triage nurse about the drugging and showed her the blow to her head. Instead of being forced to endure the waiting area of onlookers, she learned she would be sent to an exam room immediately. As she and the cop were led there, everyone’s eyes were on her.

“May I ask where you’ll be taking me afterward?” Lake asked him.

“Why don’t I let one of the detectives explain everything,” he said. “He’ll be here shortly.”

At least the cop didn’t come into the room with her—he remained right outside as a nurse directed her onto an exam table. She asked Lake to wait a few minutes and left her alone. Lake lightly tapped the wound on her head and felt that the blood was still oozing.

“Ms. Warren?”

She snapped her head to the right. In the doorway stood a hulking man with a gigantic mustache, wearing a blue-and-green-checked jacket. Clearly not an M.D. She nodded yes.

“I’m Detective Ronald Kabowski from the Bedford Hills Police. I hear the doctor will be in any second, but I’d like to chat for a minute beforehand—if you’re up to it.”

You’re the victim, she reminded herself. Do not act guilty.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

“My officer tells me you suspect you were drugged.”

“I don’t suspect—I know. I passed out. And this woman—Rory Deever—admitted she did it to me when I came to.”

“It sounds like it’s been quite a harrowing night for you.” His words were slicked with sympathy, but she could see the strategy. It was meant to make her drop her guard.

“Yes. And there’s something important that you should know. This situation is connected to a homicide case in New York City—the death of a doctor there, Mark Keaton.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me what happened tonight.”

Instinctively she lowered her eyes and wished she hadn’t.

“I want to tell you the whole story,” she said, looking back up at him. “But because things are so complicated—I mean, with the other case—I’d prefer to tell you with an attorney present.”

“An attorney?” he said. His mouth dropped open, revealing a huge left canine as yellowed as an old refrigerator.

“Are you sure about that? It’s gonna make things take forever.”

“I realize that, but like I said, this is a very complicated situation.”

He stared hard at her, all the fake sympathy gone.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “I’ll have to see what I can learn from the other party involved.”

HER HEART FROZE.
Rory had obviously been taken to this same hospital, brought in through the ambulance bay. If she were the first to tell her story, Lake would be on the defensive, forced to try to undo the lies of a psychopath. But she didn’t dare say a word to the detective. She might dig herself into a hole.

“Can you tell me where we’ll be going after the doctor sees me?” Lake said. “I need to let the lawyer know.”

“The Bedford Hills Police station,” he said and turned on his heels.

As soon as he was gone, she called Archer back to give him a rushed update and to explain where he could meet her.

“Okay, we’ll find the place. I’ve just picked up Madelyn Silver—she’s a terrific criminal attorney. I only gave her five minutes to get ready, so she said you can’t blame her for showing up in her pajamas.”

Lake felt a rush of relief.

“You may actually get there before me,” she said. “I haven’t even been seen by a doctor yet.”

“Not a problem. Wait, hold on.” She could hear him passing the phone.

“Lake, this is Madelyn Silver,” a gravelly voice said. “Have the police tried to speak to you yet?”

“Yes—a detective came to the hospital. I told him that the situation was related to a homicide in New York City and because of that I didn’t want to say anything until my attorney arrived.”

“Good girl. Don’t let them intimidate you. Say nothing.”

But what do I say when
you
arrive, Lake wondered after she’d hung up. Did she dare tell Madelyn Silver everything? From the little Lake knew, she was pretty sure that a lawyer wasn’t allowed to withhold information about a crime. And wasn’t leaving the scene of Keaton’s murder a crime? If only Lake could find out what Rory was saying to the police—then she would be on surer footing when she talked to Silver.

The next few minutes were interminable. She had begun to feel less woozy but her head and body ached. She thought about the kids and what they would have gone through if Rory had managed to stuff her in the freezer. But if Lake were sent to jail after this, it would be almost as bad.

Two more patrol cops arrived and paced outside the room. The other one seemed to have disappeared. Nurses glanced constantly toward the open door of her room as they passed by. After ten minutes, the cop who’d driven her to the hospital stepped into the room with a camera. He was there to take pictures of her wounds, he said. After snapping six or seven he left, and more minutes passed. She worried that the longer they waited to test her, the less likely they would be able to pick up traces of the drug. Finally a doctor arrived, a tall, elegant black woman with round brown eyes.

“I’m Dr. Reed,” she said, her voice flat. “The police said you’re asking for a toxicology test?”

“Yes. I was drugged tonight.” She tried to sound calm and reasonable, like a totally sane person who’d done nothing wrong, but she knew that in her muddy, disheveled, weary state she looked like someone who’d experienced a psychotic break.

“Can you describe the symptoms to me?”

“My head started to hurt and I passed out—I’m not sure for how long. It could have been just a few minutes or maybe a bit longer. I felt woozy afterward—and very weak.”

“Any nausea?”

“A little.”

“I’ll send a nurse in to draw blood. You’ll also have to give a urine sample—with the nurse watching.”

“Fine,” Lake said, though it didn’t feel fine. “And I have bruises on my head where I was hit with a shovel.” She lightly tapped the spongy hair just above the cut.

The doctor pulled a pair of latex gloves from a dispenser, snapped them on, and, parting Lake’s hair, examined the wound.

“That’s nasty-looking,” she said after a moment. “I don’t think you need stitches but we should get that cleaned up pronto. And you’ll need an antibiotic. Have you had a tetanus booster lately?”

“Actually, yes, two years ago.”

“Good. Were there any signs of a concussion tonight?”

Lake stared at her blankly.

“Headaches? Dizziness?”

She shrugged, offering a rueful smile. “Yes, but that may have been caused by the drug.”

“Are you in any kind of pain now?” Dr. Reed asked.

The comment made Lake’s eyes well with tears. How funny, she thought. What an understatement.

“My head’s still aching some.”

“I’ll give you something for that—but we need to wait until after the blood and urine tests.” For the first time she saw a trace of warmth in the doctor’s eyes.

Things started to move faster then. A nurse came in to draw blood and to accompany her to the bathroom across the hall, where she watched Lake pee, making sure she didn’t try to spike her urine. Afterward the nurse cleaned and dressed her head wounds and gave her an antibiotic to take. Lake pretended to focus on the nurse’s actions while she eavesdropped on the conversations in the corridor. She was desperate for news of Rory’s condition. Had her husband been called? In the background she could hear doctors and nurses asking for things like CTs and portable ultrasounds or requesting that vascular be called right now. But nothing about Rory. And there was no sign of her, either, as the cop led Lake back through the waiting room—with every eye trained on her.

It was just after ten when she was ushered into the back of the police car again, and ten-thirty when the car pulled up to the station house. The space was a blur of gray walls, metal desks, and linoleum. Kabowski appeared suddenly, as if from a mist. She wasn’t sure if he had come ahead or simply followed them from the hospital.

“Did my lawyer arrive yet?” she asked him.

“Not that I’m aware of. Why don’t we put you someplace where you’ll be comfortable until he arrives?”

“Thank you,” Lake said—though she knew that the last thing Kabowski cared about was her comfort.

She was led to a small interview room with a metal table and several stacking chairs around it. The uniformed cop who accompanied her didn’t ask if she’d like anything to drink. Didn’t they always ask you that on cop shows? She sensed they weren’t treating her at all like a victim.

Alone again, Lake felt the urge to lay her head on the table, to let tears fall, but she knew they might be watching her through the mirror on the wall. She sat there instead, blank-faced, but churning inside, wondering what was going to happen next—and when Archer would arrive with the laywer.

Fifteen minutes later the door swung open and a woman close to sixty and barely over five feet tall burst into the room.

“Madelyn Silver,” she said as she shot out a hand as wide as a mitten and shook her head, indicating that Lake shouldn’t get up.

She wasn’t wearing pajamas, but Madelyn’s black pants and tan cotton blazer looked like they’d been thrown on in a hurry. Her hair was jet black with a fine band of white down the center part, and the corners of her eyelids were so hooded they gave her small brown eyes a triangular shape. The only makeup she wore was a swipe of red lipstick that ran roughshod over the outline of her mouth. At first glance she looked like someone’s grandmother, the kind of person you’d see knitting in a train station, but a few seconds after she entered the room, Lake could feel the force field around her.

“How you doing, kiddo?” she said, taking the seat next to Lake and positioning her chair so they were face-to-face.

“Not so great. I’m just glad you’re here. Is Kit outside?”

“Yeah, they’re making him cool his pretty heels in their cheery waiting area. What’s the story on your head there? How bad are you hurt?” As Madelyn spoke, she shrugged off the shoulder strap from her worn leather briefcase, dropping the bag onto the table, then drew out a yellow legal pad. Something about that pad and Madelyn’s brusque but maternal style made Lake feel safe for the first time.

“It’s cut—but not bad enough for stitches. I might have a concussion, though.”

Madelyn cocked her head and parted her full lips hopefully, as if she’d just heard a rumor of a sixty-percent-off sale at Saks.

“Possible concussion. That means we could get this interview postponed. Are you really up to talking to these guys tonight?”

“I—I don’t know,” Lake said. “Everything—it’s all such a mess. I—”

“Even if we decide to postpone the interview, you and
I
need to talk while everything’s fresh in your mind. So why don’t we start and see how you feel as we go.”

“Okay,” Lake said hesitantly. She still had no clue what she was going to say to Madelyn. If she said that Rory had accused her of having an affair with Keaton and had lured her to the house because of that, all roads would then surely lead back to her reckless night with him. “Is it safe to talk here?”

“Yes, that’s not a problem. On the way up, Archer filled me in on what you’d uncovered at the clinic. He said you drove to Ms. Deever’s house because she claimed to have evidence to show you.”

“Yes, some files—and she actually did have them. They’re probably still on the kitchen table, and the police need to get them as evidence.”

“Okay, we’ll alert them to that.” Madelyn had begun to make notes on the legal pad, using an elegant Mont Blanc pen. With her other hand she pulled the edges of her jacket over her full breasts, as if the fit felt awkward. “Now, why don’t you start from the beginning.”

Lake just sat there, paralyzed. How much should she
say
?

“Can I ask you one question first?” Lake said finally. “Do you know anything about Rory? Was she injured? Has she had a chance to speak to the police yet?”

Madelyn set down her pen and peered at Lake. The look in her eyes was dark and grave.

“What is it?” Lake asked weakly.

“I have some disturbing news that I didn’t want to drop on you the minute I walked in. The police don’t know I know this,
but…Rory Deever was killed in the accident. She died instantly.”

Lake’s heart seemed to stop mid-beat. She could barely believe the words. She felt a surge of relief. At nearly the same moment, she thought of the unborn baby and winced in distress.

“But she wasn’t driving that fast,” Lake argued.

“Apparently she wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and her head hit the windshield hard.”

“How—how did you find this out?”

“Archer has some contacts up this way in the news media.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” Lake asked. “The detective who spoke to me—Kabowski—implied that he was about to talk to Rory tonight.”

“I’m sure he was just playing you. But, look—I don’t want you to worry. This complicates things, I know, but I’m going to make sure you’re okay. Got it?”

Lake nodded as her mind fully processed the news. This changed everything, she realized. There would be no version of events from Rory. Lake fought the urge to laugh like a crazy person.

“Got it,” Lake said.

“Okay, now tell me what happened.”

Lake started with the call from Rory and took Madelyn through everything that followed. As she relived the terrifying minutes in the basement, her voice choked. For the first time she fully imagined what it would be like to end up in that freezer, lying on top of piles of frozen meat and gasping for air until there was no more.

“But
why
?” Madelyn asked. Her eyes were perplexed, not accusatory. “What was the point of trying to kill you?”

“Because…she thought I’d figured out that she’d killed Dr. Keaton. And she needed to shut me up.”

“But
had
you figured it out? How?”

Lake paused for a moment, her mind racing ahead of her words.

“She had a slip of the tongue,” she said. “As we were looking at the files in her kitchen, she said that maybe Keaton had also learned the truth about the clinic and he was killed because of that. I said it was a possibility but that Keaton’s death might well have been a coincidence, that it could have been related to, say, a burglary. The nurse who’d watered his plants mentioned he had a terrace and I suggested to Rory that someone could have broken in from there. And then—that’s when she made the slip. She said there was no access to the terrace from anyplace…. She’d obviously been there.”

It had come to Lake in an instant—to turn the slip she’d made with Rory at the piano bar into a lie that could save her. Who could ever know for sure it wasn’t true? And it didn’t connect her to Keaton in any way.

“That’s when you knew? When she made that slip?” Madelyn looked incredulous now.

“No. I didn’t make the leap right then. But the comment seemed kind of odd, and that must have shown on my face. I think she
thought
I knew. After that she gave me the tea. And later in the basement, she started railing on as if I
had
figured it out. That’s when I knew.”

Madelyn pinched her jacket closed again and sealed her ragged red lips tightly together. Lake could tell she sensed there was something off kilter about the story but didn’t know what or why.

“So Rory assumed you were going to expose her?”

“I guess so. She acted totally crazy then, like she’d started to break. She said she was pregnant with Keaton’s baby and that she’d killed him because he was sleeping around and didn’t take
her pregnancy seriously. She clearly had psychological problems—maybe borderline personality disorder.”

“Okay,” Madelyn said after a moment, as if she’d accepted Lake’s words despite her instincts. “Take me through the rest. How did you escape?”

Lake told the story exactly as it happened—locking Rory in the basement, being tackled in the yard, Rory giving chase in her car. There were moments when she felt tentative and then had to remind herself:
This part is all true.

“She tried to run me off the road,” Lake said as she came to the end of the story. “The road was slick and she must have lost control of the car.”

Madelyn leaned back and sighed.

“Do you feel up to talking to the cops tonight? It will certainly add to your credibility if you do it now.”

Lake took a deep breath. The idea was scary as hell but she wanted desperately to get it over with, especially while the story was fresh in her mind.

“Yes,” she said. “I want to do it tonight.”

Two detectives joined them next—Kabowski and a young female detective with brassy blond hair and a tiny heart-shaped face—though Lake suspected others were in the next room behind the mirror. Madelyn had told her to begin with her work at the clinic and how she’d stumbled onto the embryo stealing. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. Starting there would not only calm Lake down but also help undercut the possible nut-job image the cops had of her.