“No one at the hospital was willing to discuss your injuries with me. Even my badge didn’t sway Dr. Jackson.”
“Good. I’m none of your business.” My voice rises with each word. I don’t have the reserves for this now. “Please, remove your foot.”
It doesn’t budge. “When you were with Kyle, did the name Stevie Palmer come up?”
“Who?”
“Stevie Palmer.”
“No. I never heard of him or her.”
“Her.” He’s watching me more closely. “What about Nikki Kane?”
“No. Who are these women?”
“Nikki’s been missing since early July of this year. Stevie vanished shortly after Nikki.”
Suddenly, I feel off balance, uncomfortable. “What do these women have to do with Kyle and me?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” That jaw pulses again. “Did Kyle try to hurt you at the beach house?”
“What? No, no. He never once raised his hand or said anything that was a red flag.” I feel a need to defend Kyle. “I can’t help you, Detective Becker. I don’t know either woman. Do you have a picture?”
“No. Both women used fake IDs and have been difficult to identify beyond the names they were using.”
“Girls on the street often make up names, especially if they don’t want family, cops, or pimps to find them.”
His fingers grip the door’s edge. One hard shove, and he could thrust inside. “Are you sure you haven’t heard the names Stevie Palmer or Nikki Kane?”
The adrenaline fueling me dips closer to empty. “I can’t help you. If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“You work with kids like Nikki and Stevie, right?”
“‘Work with’ isn’t exactly right. I have a Wednesday-night care group. The girls gather for advice, support, and/or companionship. I’m getting my PhD in psychology and counseling. The group is part of my training.”
“PhD?” He sounds impressed, but not surprised. He’s been asking around about me.
“Almost. I graduate in May.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. Start looking for a job in social work.”
“Kyle Iverson was a psychologist, too, right?”
“Yes. He had a successful private practice.”
“Dr. Iverson did well from what I know about him.”
“You’ve been busy,” I say. “You learn all this in the last eight hours?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m good at my job, Lane.”
“Do you work this hard on all accidents, Detective Becker?”
“Doing my due diligence.” He looks as if he’ll leave, but then he says, “Stevie was looking for Nikki Kane. They’d worked together at Joey’s Bar on the Outer Banks. Stevie’s a bit of a mother hen. Always looking out for lost souls. A little like you. Anyway, I can’t find either woman.”
“Why do you think there’s a connection to Kyle?”
“He was seen flirting with Nikki in Joey’s Bar in early July.”
“Did you talk to him about it?”
“I did. He denied seeing her beyond the bar flirtation. But he’s been on my radar since then.” He searches my eyes as if he’ll glean more.
Kyle never said a word about being questioned by the police. “We never once discussed other women.”
His grip eases on the door. He reaches into his pocket and removes a card. “Take it. If you think of something, call me. 24-7.”
I accept the card, barely glancing at the plain black lettering. DETECTIVE DONALD S. BECKER. The paper quality isn’t the best. I shift my stance and almost don’t wince. “Don’t hitch any hopes to me. I really don’t know anything about these women.”
“You’re in pain,” he says. “Exhausted and traumatized. Give it time. There might be answers swirling in your subconscious. I hear the subconscious mind makes up ninety-two percent of our brain.”
“It’s where we store emotions. Unfortunately, it requires the remaining eight percent to translate the images and feelings.”
He looks impressed. “Putting that degree to work.”
“The fall messed up my hip, not my brain, or so says Dr. Jackson.”
Detective Becker appears in no rush to wrap this meeting up. “EMTs tell me Kyle hit first. Broke his neck and smashed his skull. You landed on top of him. It’s a miracle the fall didn’t kill you, too.”
My mind replays the thwack of splintering bone against marble. “That’s what Dr. Jackson told me.”
“You said Kyle was giving you a tour of the upstairs.”
I rewind through the minutes of that last hour, but the tape keeps skipping over the fall. “That’s right. But I don’t remember.”
“Why is that?”
“I remember feeling tired. We’d had champagne and I’m not used to it. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I was counting the stairs as we climbed. Twenty-one total.”
Thinking about Kyle hurts. It takes effort to distance myself from the pain. I’m tempted to walk away from the door, climb into bed, and pull the covers over my head. If the detective wants to keep talking, he can follow. However, I don’t move.
“Dr. Jackson did tell me there were traces of a sedative in your system.”
“I don’t take drugs.”
“Except the sleepwalking pills.”
“I don’t take sedatives during the day.” I think back to this morning. Maybe I’d taken my pills late last night, and traces remained in my system.
“I’m sorry . . . that you were hurt, Lane.”
The detective’s foot slides back, but I don’t slam the door. He jams his hands into the pockets of his black jacket. The fabric shifts as if he’s fingering more business cards, a receipt, or change. Faint traces of cigarettes drift toward me. Unlike Shelly’s heavy smoky scent, his reminds me of the occasional cigarette bummed from a pal. He wants to quit but can’t quite give it up.
“Are you doing PT?” Is he as interested as he sounds?
“No.”
“PT’s important. When I rehabbed my shoulder, I didn’t miss a session.” He rolls his, as if to prove it still works. Removing a packet of gum from that pocket, he offers me a piece. I decline. He carefully unfolds the silver wrapper as if he has something on his mind.
A fleeting smile crosses my lips. “My insurance works great as long as I don’t need it.”
“Tough break.” He scores the wrapper’s crease with his fingers.
“Life, right?”
“Kyle Iverson’s autopsy just concluded an hour ago.” He drops the statement like a grenade.
And it lands right at my feet, explodes, and rocks me back on my heels. “It was an accident. Why was an autopsy ordered so quickly?”
“Unless you’re very old and die in bed, the cops want to know the details. The exact cause of death is important. I’ve seen murders packaged and delivered like they were accidents.”
Murder. “The autopsy happened so fast?”
“I made a few calls.”
Kyle was vibrant and alive this morning, and now he’s cut up on a stainless-steel table. “It was an accident.”