The Whole Truth by AB Plum

Author:AB Plum [Plum, AB]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: AB Plum

Chapter 40

SATISH

A clatter of metal in Reid’s kitchen gives him an excuse to put the phone down for a minute. He leaves me dangling, listening to more banging of pots and pans. What kind of alibi did Karpov manufacture? My jaw buzzes, and I repress the impulse to yell into the noise on the other end of the phone.

Sam wisely offers no small talk. Reid comes back on the line without explanation or apology.

Time, traffic, and fog disappear as he relates why Karpov’s alibi has a hole the size of the Grand Canyon. His doctor’s visit lasted for three hours. Two of those hours coincided with the shooting at Draeger’s. The doctor—a neurologist with a shady rep—has signed an affidavit swearing to Karpov’s presence. A blood test, time-stamped during the middle of the attack, provides additional evidence.

“Means shit,” Reid says. “The neurologist’s office has more exits than a whorehouse.”

“A neurologist?” Nerves in my jaw tingle. “Any idea why?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality.” Acid coat’s Reid’s reply.

“Does AnnaSophia know him?”

“Never heard of him. She double checked. He doesn’t have privileges at Stanford or El Camino of UCSF. His website says he also practices in Scottsdale.”

The location freezes the oxygen in my lungs. As I try to breathe normally, he keeps talking. “When we found his Scottsdale office, she sort of freaked.”

“Freaked how?” I imagine her fainting. “Is she okay?”

“Whatta you think? She didn’t scream. Or cry. Or swear. Blood didn’t even drain from her face. But she was breathing too fast. Her eyes got glassy. Her hands went sweaty and clammy. They shook too hard for her to hide. Claimed low blood sugar.”

Swallowing, I force a raspy reply. “As alibis go, Karpov’s stinks.”

“You sound as if your blood sugar’s in the basement.”

I clear my throat. Scottsdale, center for cryonics research. Scottsdale, center for life extension. Scottsdale, closer than Russia. Or Minneapolis. Or anywhere else for a body which may never have turned up at the Santa Clara County morgue.

“Patel, I know why she freaked. I know about Romanov’s sick letters to her and to his kids. Anastaysa talked about her letter and survived. Magnus needs to know, too. AnnaSophia can’t keep pretending—”

“No, dammit.” There’s nothing to slam my fist against so I roll down the window and let the cold air hit me in the face. Sam doesn’t make a peep. After a couple of deep breaths, I close the window and sit back, mopping my dripping face.

“Rumors have it that you’re one of the good guys.” I can’t clench my teeth, but I drag out each syllable. “Let me talk to her first.”

“Don’t think so. You give her too much wiggle room.” Somewhere in the distance, Molly barks. Reid says, “Hold on.”

The background noise fades to nothing.

“Other rumors have it that you’re an asshole,” I say, unwilling to give him a chance to take control of the conversation, and trying to find a way to cut through his stubbornness.

Because I’m slow, or because he’s fast, he says, “A woman’s head exploded in AnnaSophia’s face eighteen hours ago.

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