Chapter 3 - The Photograph
Emily stared at the damaged phone and whispered, “That can’t be him.”
Rachel pointed to a reflection in the cracked screen.
A hospital parking permit hung inside the black SUV.
The number was still readable.
Emily knew exactly who owned permit 417.
Dr. Marcus Vale.
Marcus was St. Catherine’s chief of trauma surgery.
Forty-eight.
Respected.
Charismatic.
A surgeon whose face appeared on hospital billboards.
He had also been Emily’s mentor.
When Emily was a resident, Marcus had defended her after a senior attending accused her of being “too emotionally involved” with patients.
He had taught her trauma procedures.
Written recommendations.
Helped her win a fellowship.
“He can’t be involved,” Emily said.
Rachel lowered her voice.
“We don’t know that he is.”
“Then why is his parking permit in Lucas’s photograph?”
I stood several feet away.
Neither woman had realized I had approached.
“Daniel?”
Emily looked angry.
“You were supposed to go home.”
“Someone called me from your phone.”
She checked her pocket.
Her phone was gone.
“What?”
“I got a call. A man said I’d been warned.”
Rachel’s face changed.
“When did you last have your phone?”
Emily touched her coat.
“In Lucas’s room.”
We contacted hospital security.
Her phone was found fifteen minutes later beneath a chair near a service elevator.
No usable fingerprints.
The hospital administrator, Jonathan Pierce, arrived shortly afterward.
Pierce was polished in the way only expensive administrators seemed able to be polished at nine in the morning.
He listened.
Then said the photograph proved nothing.
“Marcus drives an SUV.”
“A black one,” Rachel said.
“So do ten thousand people.”
“The permit.”
“Could be reflected from another vehicle.”
Emily stared at him.
“You don’t believe that.”
Pierce’s expression hardened.
“What I believe is irrelevant. Evidence matters.”
For once, I agreed with him.
So I asked, “Can we see the parking records?”
Pierce looked at me.
“And you are?”
“Daniel Hayes.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Then this conversation doesn’t involve you.”
Emily stepped between us.
“He stays.”
Pierce studied her.
Something passed through his expression.
Concern?
Annoyance?
Fear?
“Emily,” he said quietly, “you’re exhausted. Go home.”
“I’m fine.”
“You worked fourteen hours Thursday. You’re back here on your day off. You’re involving yourself in a police matter.”
“A patient told me someone hit him.”
“Then let police investigate.”
“And someone stole my phone.”
Pierce’s jaw tightened.
“Security is investigating that.”
“Someone threatened Daniel.”
“Again, police.”
Everything became somebody else’s responsibility.
That bothered me.
By noon, Lucas was stable but sedated.
He had spoken only a few words before suffering complications.
Emily wasn’t allowed to question him further.
Detective Maria Alvarez arrived.
Unlike Pierce, she listened.
She examined Lucas’s phone.
Requested traffic-camera footage.
Asked for the original anonymous messages.
Then she asked me about the SUV.
I showed her my photograph.
She zoomed in.
“Plate isn’t readable.”
“No.”
“Make?”
“Looks like a Cadillac Escalade.”
She nodded.
“Dr. Vale drives one.”
Emily looked at her.
“You already know?”
“We ran hospital parking records.”
Marcus Vale’s Escalade had entered St. Catherine’s garage at 11:18 Thursday night.
Lucas’s crash happened at 10:41.
The intersection was twelve minutes away.
Possible.
But not proof.
Then Alvarez revealed something else.
A traffic camera had captured a black Escalade three blocks from the collision.
The plate was partially visible.
Last three characters: 7K2.
Marcus Vale’s plate ended in 7K2.
Emily sat down.
For the first time since I met her, she looked genuinely shaken.
“I need to talk to him.”
“No,” Alvarez said.
“Detective—”
“Absolutely not.”
“He’s my mentor.”
“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t.”
Emily looked at me.
I understood that expression.
She was going to do it anyway.
That evening, I waited outside the hospital.
She emerged at seven.
“You’re becoming alarmingly predictable,” she said.
“So are you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re planning to talk to Vale.”
“No.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m a physician. We call it selective disclosure.”
I opened the passenger door.
She looked at it.
“Front seat?”
“Promotion.”
She got in.
Instead of going home, she gave me an address.
A restaurant.
Marcus Vale was there.
“You’re serious?”
“I need to hear him explain it.”
“Emily, Detective Alvarez specifically told you—”
“I know.”
“And?”
“He taught me to trust evidence.”
She looked through the windshield.
“So I’m giving him a chance to explain the evidence.”
Marcus was seated alone at the bar.
When he saw Emily, his expression changed.
Then he saw me.
“Emily.”
“Marcus.”
She placed Lucas’s photograph on the counter.
His eyes dropped.
For half a second, something unmistakable crossed his face.
Fear.
“You’ve seen this?”
Emily asked.
“Where did you get it?”
“Lucas’s phone.”
Marcus stood.
“You need to stop.”
Emily froze.
“Stop what?”
“Asking questions.”
My muscles tightened.
“Why?”
Marcus looked around the restaurant.
Then lowered his voice.
“Because you don’t understand what you’ve stepped into.”
Emily stared at him.
“Was that your SUV?”
He didn’t answer.
“Marcus.”
“I wasn’t driving.”
Her face changed.
That was not a denial.
“Then who was?”
Marcus looked at me.
“Who is he?”
“Answer me.”
“Emily, listen carefully.”
He leaned closer.
“You need to forget Lucas ever said anything.”
“You know who hit him.”
Marcus looked devastated.
“I know enough to tell you that you are in danger.”
“From whom?”
His phone buzzed.
He checked it.
Whatever he saw terrified him.
He grabbed his coat.
“I have to go.”
Emily caught his arm.
“Marcus.”
He pulled free.
“Don’t follow me.”
He left.
Naturally, we followed him.
Marcus drove south.
We stayed several cars behind.
Twenty minutes later, he entered an underground garage beneath an office building.
I parked across the street.
“This is insane,” I said.
“Yes.”
“We agree?”
“Yes.”
“And we’re still doing it?”
“Yes.”
We entered through the pedestrian entrance.
Marcus’s voice echoed from the lower level.
Another man answered.
We moved closer.
I recognized the second voice.
Jonathan Pierce.
The hospital administrator.
“You said the boy wouldn’t wake up,” Pierce snapped.
Marcus replied, “I said his injuries were severe.”
“You should have handled it.”
“I’m a surgeon, Jonathan. Not a murderer.”
Emily went rigid.
I put a finger to my lips.
Pierce spoke again.
“If Carter talks, everything comes apart.”
Marcus said something too quiet to hear.
Then:
“And what about Hayes?”
My blood went cold.
Pierce answered.
“He’s already a problem.”
Emily grabbed my hand.
Footsteps moved toward us.
We retreated behind a concrete pillar.
A door opened.
Then closed.
Silence.
We waited.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Emily whispered, “We need to leave.”
We turned toward the stairs.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed Emily and me standing behind the pillar.
Taken seconds earlier.
Beneath it were five words.
LOOK BEHIND YOU, DR. CARTER.
Emily slowly raised her eyes.
May you like
Someone was standing at the top of the stairs.
And the door began to open.
