Page 92 of Unnatural Death

“Tell me about yesterday morning,” I reply. “Who found her?”

“The receptionist was the first to arrive at the office.”

This was at 7:45, when she discovered Nan dead in an exam chair. Two uniformed officers were there within minutes, and Fruge wasn’t far behind, she explains. Doug Schlaefer arrived at around half past eight.

“I was with him when he looked at the empty nitrous tank,” she’s saying. “He was asking someone who worked there what the mixture was.”

“It should have been fifty-fifty nitrous and oxygen,” I reply. “Don’t forget that we can’t say for sure what killed her because we don’t have tox results yet.”

The light up ahead is turning yellow, the snow thicker and getting icier. Fruge eases to a stop, scrolling through her phone’s camera roll. She shows me photographs of Nan Romero dead in the slightly reclined chair. Her hands peacefully in her lap, her head turned to one side. Her lower face is tightly wrapped with the blue painter’s tape, the plastic gas hose anchored between her dry lips.

The tanks of nitrous oxide and oxygen are next to the chair, and I wasn’t present when Doug removed the tape in the morgue. As busy as things have been, I’ve not had a chance to review the case, and this is the first time I’ve seen a photograph of the hose.

“It would seem there was no nosepiece, no mouthpiece, just the hose?” I inquire.

“Yep,” Fruge says.

“That strikes me as unusual. I might even ask if the person who hooked her up knew what he was doing.”

“I thought the same thing and mentioned it to Doctor Schlaefer, but he didn’t feel it was significant,” she replies. “He says attaching anything to the hose wasn’t necessary to get the job done. In fact, she’d get bigger hits having the hose directly in her mouth.”

“It’s been my experience that people tend to do things out of habit. It seems odd that Nan Romero didn’t attach the nosepiece when she did it repeatedly every day for patients. Or she observed it done. Also, unless the gas machine is old, there should be an alarm system that prevents this very sort of thing.” “The gas delivery system was switched to nitrous only.” “From that I conclude that either she set it up with nitrous-only from the start,” I reply. “Or someone else was there doing the tampering. Without a mixture of oxygen, she would have suffocated relatively quickly.”

“The dude in dark clothing,” Fruge says. “Who is he and what was he doing there?”

“Could you tell anything about him?”

“He was covered head to toe in black like a ninja. Slender but strong-looking. I got the impression of someone young who might be sick or more likely is getting over being sick. You can hear him breathing hard, coughing as he’s approaching the back of the building.”

“Are we sure the person on the surveillance video is ahe?” I ask.

“We’re not sure of anything,” she says as the light up ahead turns green, the wipers sweeping and thumping.

“Do you have any idea where he went while inside the medical building? It strikes me as significant that he had a key to a back door,” I point out.

“Nan’s dental office is on the first floor across from emergency exit stairs the guy in dark clothing used. There’s no camera in that location,” Fruge says.

“I can understand why you’re worried about foul play,” I reiterate.

“Why did he enter the building when no one else was around? Where did he go? Was he inside Doctor Romero’s office?”

“Maybe it was someone she knew,” I suggest. “Maybe she was waiting for this person. But until you find out who that was and why he was there, I don’t know what you’ll be able to prove.”

“I swabbed the hell out of everything inside the exam room. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Your best bet’s going to be the painter’s tape,” I tell her, and we’ve reached my property, a work in progress.

When we moved to Old Town three years ago, the tall wrought iron fencing was rusting and missing sections. The garden was so overgrown that it didn’t really exist anymore, and it took me the entire summer to clear it out. I discovered all sorts of treasures, including an eighteenth-century sundial and a marble statue of a lady with a harp.

We replaced chimney caps, repainted shutters and doors a rich Everard blue, restoring everything we could to its pristine condition. Iron carriage lamps are blurry in the snow, and nobody has been on the driveway recently. It’s as smooth as a sheet of white paper winding through the frosted trees that remind me of Faye’s cake decorations. I dig inside my briefcase for the remote control.

The gate starts sliding open on its track, everything recorded and monitored by Lucy’s AI software. Her infrared cameras capture plate numbers and other data at lightning speed. Invisible microphones pick up sounds as algorithms recognize types of vehicles and who’s inside them. Hidden antennas capture signals that are analyzed, the data appearing in Lucy’s smart glasses.

She’s aware in real time that Fruge has pulled up to our gate and that I’m with her. We follow the driveway, the snow deep enough that I can’t feel the bumpy pavers. Post lanterns barely push back the gloom, the snow piled on top of them and swarming around beveled glass. Lucy’s white brick cottage is ahead, and when her blackout shades are down, I can’t tell if she’s home. But I know she’s not right now.

She and Tron are with Marino, and soon enough they should be dropping him off at his truck. As our headlights sweep past the front of Lucy’s cottage, I notice fresh footprints in the snow. They follow the walkway, headed up the front steps, and Benton must be inside for some reason. Or maybe Dorothy is, and I look for cat tracks, not seeing any.

“As you know, you’ve got to keep up your scan around here,” I caution Fruge. “I see no sign of Merlin, but you never know where he might be.”

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