Susan Smith - The Timer Game

‘Wait. You’re the one we sent to Guatemala, right? From the parish. We were in Portugal that year. We heard she died over there. Sister Mary Clare.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, she did.’ The bad things crowded into her mind, fresh from their naps and grinning, wanting to play.

‘We heard there was a fire.’

A bad thing bared its blunt teeth and cocked its shaggy head, and Grace could feel the whiff of its breath on her face. Her heart was starting to hammer. She took a deep breath and let it out, trying to find her quiet place, quiet the demons.

‘We heard you were going to be a heart doctor. Work with kids. Then you quit.’

Grace studied her hands and looked up. ‘Mr. Esguio, I’m sorry about your van. They have to process it for prints and –’

‘That doesn’t take two years.’

The waitress put down the plates. Esguio gazed longingly at her French toast.

‘No, but when something’s been used in the commission of a felony, when somebody’s been murdered and that was the vehicle used to transport the suspect …’

Esguio watched as she poured syrup, a slow dawning growing across his face. He looked pained. ‘I’m never going to see that van again in my lifetime, am I?’

‘Probably not.’ Grace shoveled in a forkful of food and washed it down with orange juice. ‘Mr. Esguio, somebody bad is after me. Somebody Eddie knew.’

‘No kidding,’ Esguio marveled. ‘Do the police know?’

‘I am the police.’ Or close enough. ‘That’s why I’m asking these questions and why it’s important you tell me what you know. How did you come to hire Eddie Loud?’

‘This recruiter came to the Portuguese Hall. Trying to place these folks. I got a card here someplace.’ Esguio fished it out of his wallet and passed it over the table.

NEW LIFE

giving those ready a second chance

CURTIS CRUMWALD, DIRECTOR

an outreach of the Center for BioChimera

‘He told us how the Center sounds like a science place, but it’s got a big hospital there, too. Where they do research, helping people. Eddie had problems, but he’d been in a halfway house three years, no incidents. It was all monitored. He’d never even had a parking ticket, Grace. Nothing. He even liked to cook.’ A small lost laugh.

‘Can I keep the card?’

‘Sure. I’m not going to be needing it. Know how much money is tied up in that van? I can’t believe it. Gone, poof, just like that. Damn. Two in one day.’

Some antenna tweaked. ‘What happened to the other van?’

‘Wasn’t a van, just a food cart, thank the good Lord and all His Saints.’ Esguio crossed himself. ‘Still.’

‘Tell me about the other guy you hired for the food cart. What happened to him?’

‘Woman.’ Esguio made a face and drained his water glass. ‘Heartburn. Acid reflux.’ He eyed her untouched water glass and Grace passed it over.

‘Thanks.’ He took a deep drink and crunched ice. ‘Where was I?’

‘The woman you hired to work your food cart,’ Grace prompted. ‘Something went wrong with it.’

‘Jazz Studio, that was her name. Should have been my first tip-off, right? Somebody with a fake name isn’t going to think twice about trashing the cart. I blame Eddie, though.’

‘How’s that?’

‘They had a big fight right beforehand. I think whatever he said got her stirred up.’

‘How’d they know each other?’

‘Hired them from the same place.’

Grace studied the card.

‘So this Jazz Studio and Eddie Loud are both outpatients at the Center for BioChimera. What were they being treated for?’

‘They never said what exactly. “Patient confidentiality.” That’s where they get you over the barrel. I should have stuck to distributing turkeys to St. Vincent’s at Christmas.’

‘Did Eddie Loud ever talk about video, or TV recording, or hidden cameras?’

‘Never. Although when he was really tired, he’d start acting like he thought somebody was after him, out to get him.’

Grace mulled that over. ‘Where’d you have Jazz working?’

‘The Center. Nice easy job, no stress. Everybody loves the food cart, right? And I thought it would be familiar. They had Jazz working in Records for a while so she knew the building.’

‘What happened?’

‘Her first day on the cart’s yesterday, Sunday? Gave her that on purpose, because it’s a light day at the Center, only people there are those who have to be. So she takes the cart to Records, where she used to work? Hadn’t been there ten minutes when she causes this ruckus and her old boss has to call security.’ Esguio shook his head.

‘Ever find out what set her off?’

‘No. But something scared her. Bad.’

Grace pushed the plates out of the way. ‘Any idea where she lives?’

Esguio shook his head. ‘Or Eddie either. They keep that part quiet. Jazz could be living at the Center now in a nice padded room, for all I know.’

‘Could I have your home number, if I have any more questions?’

He scribbled it on the back of a napkin and passed it over. ‘Know where it is? That Center for BioChimera?’

She looked away. ‘Oh, yeah.’

The Center for BioChimera was part of a strip of high-end biotech research centers, hospitals, and the University of California, San Diego, in an area of La Jolla known as Biotech Mesa. Grace took 5 North to Genesee and Torrey Pines Road and made the familiar climb.

The view sweeping to the Pacific didn’t engage her; Grace was preoccupied with what she’d learned. Eddie Loud was mentally ill. How did a mentally ill outpatient at the Center for BioChimera driving a taco van get her name? What did Eddie Loud have to do with her?

The Center slanted in two wings facing the ocean, its back in a V toward the road. Three stories low to the ground, it resembled a Frank Lloyd Wright structure hewn out of the side of the ridge. Research labs and administrative offices fanned out in one wing; the other wing was a hospital specializing in transplants and immunological disorders.

The entrance to New Life was tucked behind Emergency in the hospital wing and faced out over a damp lawn, a tangle of trees, and the high Plexiglass fence closing off the steep drop leading to the waves smashing four hundred feet below. Grace wondered if they had jumpers.

She parked the car and entered the New Life waiting room, giving the receptionist her name. No, no appointment. Yes, she’d wait.

Pastel plaid chairs faced a coffee table covered with magazines. Grace read the bulletin board, a crammed assortment of admonishments to take meds, numbers to call if a client fell apart, a map of the hospital with an ‘ X: You Are Here ,’ and tips on ‘How to Put Your Best Foot Forward’ when going after that special minimum-wage job.

She sat. Five minutes later, a short man in his forties with glasses and a crew cut came through the door from the back rooms, face pink with exertion. ‘Grace Descanso?’

She stood up and extended her hand. ‘Yes, and you’re …’

‘Curtis Crumwald.’ A hard grip for a soft man. ‘Sorry for the wait. Had to drive my wife to a hair appointment. We’re down to one car.’

Crumwald made a face and motioned her through the door to the back. He wore neatly pressed Dockers and a shirt under a Stanford sweater pushed up his freckled arms. They passed a room set for a group – chairs in a circle, a second room with a copier, ratty sofa, and a Mr. Coffee. Tossed newspapers and Styrofoam cartons littered the laminated coffee table.

‘Harriet said you were interested in our program. Have job opportunities?’

‘No. Just questions.’

Crumwald stopped walking. ‘Are you a reporter?’ His voice was flat.