“Sounds like a plan,” Jack said as he also started to look around the area. He pointed to the light pole closest to them, frowning. “You notice how there are only two security lights down on this end of the lot?”
“I did. It would certainly be pretty easy for someone to hide, especially if it had just gotten dark. The question then becomes whether or not the killer was being opportunistic or if they were specifically out to get Mrs. Ramirez.”
“And if so,” Jack said, “are there any solid connections between Ramirez and Webber?”
Rachel nodded, already heading back to their car. “Let’s go find out.”
***
Bruce Webber had left behind a wife, three children, and one grandchild. When Rachel and Jack arrived at the Webber residence, two of the children were there to comfort their mother. The eldest, a man of thirty-five, answered the door with slow and methodical care. Rachel could tell that he was tired and still in the process of properly dealing with his grief.
“Agents Gift and Rivers,” Rachel said, showing her badge at the doorstep. “We were hoping to get in some questions about what happened to Mr. Webber.”
“Yeah, sure. The police said there might be some FBI folks coming by,” he offered his hand out of nothing more than some basic, programmed response. Rachel and Jack both shook it as they entered while the man introduced himself.
“I’m Tommy Webber, and my mom is Eloise. She’s in the kitchen right now, finally eating. She’s better today, but still out of it.”
“That’s certainly understandable,” Rachel said. “Well do our best not to take too long.”
Tommy led them through the house, a modest two-story in a neighborhood where a lot of the homes looked pretty much identical from the outside. They passed by a small den, where a piano sat off in the corner all alone, before coming to the kitchen. There, they found an older woman and a younger woman that was unmistakably her daughter at work behind the stove and a cutting board.
“Mom,” Tommy said as they entered, “the FBI agents are here.”
The older woman, currently stirring something in a large pot on the stove, turned to greet them. She smiled in the same tired way Tommy had. Her hair was out of sorts and her eyes, though wide by design, looked wiped out. The older woman set the spoon she was stirring with down on the side of the stove and walked around the small island to greet them.
“Hi, I’m Eloise Webber. Thanks so much for coming by.” She turned and looked almost apologetically at the stove. “We’re making Brunswick stew—a little odd for so early in the morning, but it was Bruce’s favorite. We felt it was sort of appropriate.”
“Mrs. Webber,” Jack said, “I am of the firm opinion that no one should ever apologize for making stew.”
The smile that touched the corner of Mrs. Webber’s lips was genuine, though brief. It was yet another reminder of just how good Jack was with people. Rachel often prided herself on her bedside manner, but Jack had a way of setting people at ease in just about any sort of situation.
The daughter spoke up then, finally setting down her knife and gently pushing a pile of chopped carrots to the side. “I’m Jade,” she said. “Like Mom said, thanks for coming by. It’s been hard these last few days.”
“Of course,” Rachel said. “Now, all we know from the initial police report was that Mr. Webber was headed to an appointment with a hepatologist. Was this an appointment you knew about beforehand?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Webber said. “He was diagnosed with primary sclerosing cholangitis about seven months ago. He’s been ill a lot ever since and finally got on a transplant list about two months ago.”
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what that is,” Rachel said.
“Few people do,” Jade said.
“It’s a condition of the liver where the bile ducts get clogged up,” Mrs. Webber added. “And when those bile ducts get clogged, it wreaks havoc on liver cells. With Bruce’s it was leading toward liver failure without a viable transplant. The appointment was essentially for a checkup to see how he was doing.”
Jack, looking over toward the pot of stew-in-the making, asked, “How likely was it that he was going to get the transplant?”
“From what the specialist told us, it was looking good.”
“But Dad was hesitant to hope,” Tommy said. “He was very much ingrained in the worst-case scenario of things. He was fully expecting not to be around much longer.”
“So in his current state, before receiving a transplant, was he considered terminal?” Rachel asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Webber said. It was the first time she seemed to be on the verge of weeping since they’d arrived.
“Had he experienced any problems with this specialist?” Jack asked.
“Not at all. Bruce had been seeing him for a little over a year and always spoke highly of him.”
“Forgive the crude question,” Rachel said, “but can you think of anyone that may have had something against Mr. Webber? Anyone that might have wanted to see him hurt?”
“The cops asked the same thing,” Tommy said.
“And we couldn’t come up with anyone,” Mrs. Webber said. “Even now, two days later, I can think of absolutely no one.”
“What about the few days leading up to his death?” Jack said. “Did you notice him behaving strangely? Anything that may have raised some red flags?”
Jade and Mrs. Webber both shared a look and shook their heads. “If he was acting out of character, I never noticed a thing,” Mrs. Webber said.
“By any chance does the name Maria Ramirez mean anything to you?” Rachel asked.
All three of the Webbers thought about this for a moment. One by one, they shook their heads. “I can’t say that it does,” Mrs. Webber said. “I suppose it could have been someone Bruce worked with, but he didn’t talk about work that often.”
“And he hadn’t worked in about five months anyway,” Jade added. “He was having too many issues with his health, his liver; it just got to the point where it made no sense for him to keep going in.”
Rachel considered this, her eyes locking on the cutting board, the carrots, the knife. She thought about a man that had been considered terminal, pretty much expecting the worst to happen to him, even when he was placed on a transplant list. And though she hated herself for thinking such a thing, she could not help but wonder what her current situation might be like if a transplant could save her.
She did her best to remain a part of the conversation as it went on for another five minutes, but her mind seemed hung up on that. And God help her, she could not escape from the feeling that it simply did not seem fair. It was a dark and brooding sort of selfishness and while it made her feel almost less than human, she had to accept that, along with her diagnosis, it was now a part of her.
To push it aside, she started thinking of their next steps. She knew it had to be the husband of Maria Ramirez. And even though Stanhope had warned he was likely going to be difficult, that was fine. It was Rachel’s experience that once the difficult ones were made to see they weren’t as special or as tough as they thought they were, they often gave the best information.