Weaver's Needle Read online

  What now?

  Nickolai sat in front of the clinic director’s chair. He crossed his ankles. Straightened his legs out in front of him. Then crossed an ankle over his knee.

  “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Baptiste.” The doctor entered the office, shutting the door behind him.

  Nickolai shot to his feet and extended his hand. “Of course.”

  After shaking Nickolai’s hand, Dr. Bertrand waved him back to his chair as he sat behind the desk. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you in.”

  Nickolai nodded, jiggling his left leg so that his knee bounced rapidly.

  The doctor opened a file on his desk, scanned, and then smiled. “I have good news. We’ve received approval to go forth with our plans to open a halfway house, so to speak, for some of the patients here.”

  Where was this going? Nickolai shifted in the chair. “I don’t understand.”

  Dr. Bertrand smiled wider. “Some of our patients have responded very well to long-term treatment plans. Medication. Therapy. They’ve made great progress.”

  Nodding, Nickolai remained silent.

  “It is our contention that some of these patients can become viable members of the community … society. In keeping with that theory, we asked to purchase a home just two blocks away. This home will be converted into a halfway house. For patients who exhibit the signs of possible success in society.”

  Silence thickened the director’s office.

  “For patients like Lisbeth.”

  Nickolai’s heart thudded double time. “Lisbeth?” Her name caught sideways in his throat, nearly choking him.

  “Yes.” The doctor kept his focus on the file in front of him. “She’s responded well to her medication. She’s participating in therapy. She trusts me. And her medication seems to be working at the correct dosage.” The doctor looked back at Nickolai. “I think she’s a prime candidate for success in the program, and she will turn eighteen next year.”

  Lisbeth: out of this … this … institution. Nickolai almost couldn’t imagine it. Yet, he could. He’d dreamt of this so many times, but each time, the doctors had advised against her being released.

  “What about her being a danger to others? And herself?”

  “As I said, her treatment—medication and therapy combined—has given every indication of working. It is my professional opinion that Lisbeth is a perfect candidate for the halfway house.” The doctor closed the file. “She’s bright, and I think she could be a viable, participating part of the community. It would be a waste not to try her in the program.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.” It was a dream come true, but it also came with reservations. Justified ones. “You really think she’s ready?”

  “She hasn’t tried to cut herself in months. Nor has she exhibited any type of violent behavior.”

  Was that only because the clinic limited her access to tools that could hurt herself or others?

  “I’m more than pleased with her openness and honesty in therapy. She could be my poster child for psychosocial treatment success.”

  But what about… “And her fascination for fire?” Had that affinity responded well to treatment, too?

  The doctor stopped smiling. “She has a tendency to focus on fire. Believes it’s a source of power.”

  Hadn’t that been what brought on her diagnosis to begin with? If she still liked fires … liked setting them and seeing the flames eat …

  “Mr. Baptiste, as you know, there is no cure for schizophrenia. We work within the confines of medication and therapy such as psychosocial treatment, illness management skills, education, rehabilitation, and cognitive behavioral therapy.” He tapped the closed file folder. “Taking all of that into consideration, I’ve selected four patients who I believe, in my professional opinion, are candidates with the highest potential to succeed in the halfway house program. Lisbeth is one of the four.”

  Just the chance for Lisbeth to be out and normal … “If you think she has a shot, let’s go for it.”

  The doctor smiled and passed a piece of paper across the desk. “Here’s the information as well as the tentative timeline. If all goes as projected, the house will be ready by early summer. Of course, we’ll go over the authorization forms as the date to move draws nearer. For now, read over the information, and feel free to call me with any questions or other concerns.”

  Nickolai scanned the first two paragraphs but stopped on the third that had the breakdown of costs. He jerked his stare to the doctor. “Forty thousand a year?”

  Dr. Bertrand nodded. “That includes room and board, and fulltime, on-site medical personnel. That’s a requirement for the program.”

  Forty thousand. “How much does our insurance cover?”

  The doctor frowned. “As this is a trial program, private insurance companies provide no coverage allowance.”

  Forty thousand dollars. “What about state or federal funding?”

  “I’m sorry. With the economy and the crackdown on welfare, Medicaid, and Medicare, there are no government funds for this particular program.”

  Forty-k. Nickolai tried to wrap his mind around the amount. That was more than he lived on in a year. “So, you’re telling me that I’ll have to pay the full forty thousand dollars?”

  “If the lump sum is a problem, we have arranged with our board of directors to allow for a payment plan. Of course, that would include interest. I don’t have that information on hand at the moment, but I can have a copy sent to you, if you’d like.”

  Forty thousand. “Please send me the information.”

  “I will.” The doctor stood, extending his hand. “I appreciate you coming so quickly. We’ll be talking more very soon.”

  Nickolai noticed the Rolex as he shook the man’s hand. A watch probably worth at least a third of the needed forty thousand dollars. “Thank you. Can I see Lisbeth today?”

  The director glanced at his watch. That very expensive watch. “She’s in group therapy right now. You know how changes in the schedule can uproot not just Lisbeth, but the entire group. There are many in her group who aren’t as stable as she has become.”

  “I understand.” He didn’t have time for a real visit anyway. He let the doctor escort him from the office.

  “Thank you again for coming in so quickly, Mr. Baptiste. We’ll be in touch very soon.”

  Nickolai gave a quick nod then headed into the parking lot. A heavy mist weighed on his shoulders as he climbed into the Ford F-250 diesel. He rested his forehead against the steering wheel and waited for the indicator light to go off so he could crank the engine.

  Forty thousand dollars was a lot of money. Money he didn’t have just sitting around.

  He started the truck and stared out the windshield. A push of breeze clumped wet leaves against the edge of the concrete median.

  The information stated the selected patients wouldn’t be moved for at least sixty to ninety days. If he took every case offered and worked overtime, he might be able to come up with a down payment. Enough that he could qualify for the payment plan at least. Hopefully.

  His iPhone chimed then flashed his appointment reminder on the screen. He had a meeting with a lady to discuss a job. She was wealthy. Recent widow. Maybe he could get a head start on that down payment. Maybe tonight.

  Nickolai steered the truck into the road. He’d already loaded the lady’s address into his GPS. He pushed the button, and the driving instructions popped on the screen. He’d arrive within ten minutes.

  Images of Lisbeth before flitted across his memory. Her smile. Her hugs. Her dry sense of humor.

  Forty thousand dollars was a lot of money, but his sister’s recovery would be worth every single penny.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Talk about living in the lap of luxury.

  Landry parked her VW bug in the driveway of the Winslet house, hoping it wouldn’t insult the manor’s grounds with its well-worn aging. An elegant two-story house raised on low brick piers with a side-ga
bled roof sat back from the property line and boasted covered two-story galleries framed by columns supporting entablature. The facade openings were arranged asymmetrically. In one word … breathtaking.

  Something Landry would never be able to afford. But she wasn’t here to buy the house. She was here for a job.

  The February wind danced through the overstated live oak trees surrounding the house as Landry made her way over the cobblestoned driveway. She carefully took the steps to the front door then took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before she jabbed the doorbell.

  A moment passed. Two. Three.

  The door swung open, revealing a man in jeans and a T-shirt. A very attractive man with cut muscles and a wide smile. “May I help you?”

  “Um, I’m here to see Mrs. Winslet. I have an appointment.”

  “Right this way, Ms. Parker.” He motioned her into the entry.

  Her sneakers squealed against the waxed marble floors as she followed Mr. Handsome into the first room on the right from the foyer. A formal study, complete with mahogany built-in bookcases and marble-front fireplace, met her. Maybe she should have changed into something more professional.

  He gestured to the seating options. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Mrs. Winslet will be with you directly.”

  “Thank you,” she said to his retreating back. She avoided the stiff-looking Queen Anne’s high-back chair, instead choosing the formal and uncomfortable love seat that sat across the coffee table. Brocade fabric. No throw pillows.

  Landry scoped out the room. No windows broke up the monotony of the white and wainscoting walls. A painting of a woman, as formal and stuffy as the room, stared down her nose from her place over the fireplace. All in all, it was probably one of the most unwelcoming places Landry had ever been inside.

  “I apologize to have kept you waiting.”

  Landry stood as the lady entered. She was much younger than Landry had expected, probably no more than sixty. Definitely not more than sixty-five. Standing about five feet seven inches, tall for a lady, but with a slim build. She wore a tailored gray dress. Her silver-streaked hair looked as shiny as a child’s. Her blue eyes were separated by the hawking of her nose, which stood out from her other features as if it’d been placed on her face by mistake.

  “Please, sit.” She perched on the edge of the chair, her legs tucked demurely against the piece of furniture, ankles crossed but not touching. “I’m Winifred Winslet. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “I’m so sorry for your recent loss.” Her tongue thickened inside her mouth. Landry had to remind herself Mrs. Winslet was a potential client, nothing more.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Mr. Handsome returned, carrying a silver service. He set it on the marble table splitting the room in two.

  Mrs. Winslet nodded at him, and he disappeared in silence, shutting the study door behind him.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No. No, thank you.” Caffeine this late in the day would keep her awake all night. She needed to get the conversation on track. “So, the message I received was you were interested in discussing my company’s recovery of an item?”

  “Not quite so fast, dear.” The woman poured herself a teacup full of coffee then added a real lump of sugar and a splash of cream. She stirred it silently, not hitting the sides of the cup with the spoon. “Why don’t we visit a bit first?”

  Visit? This meeting was strange to begin with, and felt like it would get stranger still. Maybe Marcie had been right. “Mrs. Winslet, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have limited time. If you’d kindly—”

  The door opened, interrupting Landry’s words and train of thought.

  Mr. Handsome led another man into the room. He gestured for the other man to enter, handed two large envelopes to the mistress of the manor, and then left the three of them.

  “Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.” Mrs. Winslet gestured to the space beside Landry.

  The mass of a man sat, his weight shifting Landry toward him. Heat blazed in her cheeks. She lowered her gaze to the ornate rug lying under the coffee table, but she couldn’t ignore her awareness of the man beside her.

  He stood at least six feet something and was all muscle. All muscle. Even his neck bulged. Hair black as a raven’s feathers. Strong jawline. He radiated strength and vitality.

  “Since everyone’s here, let me get to the heart of the matter. The reason I’ve asked you to come.” Mrs. Winslet stood, hovering by the fireplace in her sensible low heels.

  “As I’m sure you’re both aware, my husband died recently. An unsolved murder. Messy business.” She scrunched that big nose of hers. “Nevertheless, my husband was a collector. Of all sorts of antiques. Mainly documents. He has quite the collection, most loaned out to various museums, you understand, but worth quite a bit of money.”

  Landry remained silent, still very much aware of the man beside her. Who was he? Why was he here?

  “In the weeks before my husband’s demise, he arranged to purchase a new document for his collection. According to Bartholomew’s notes, it contains information regarding an old legend set in the Superstition Mountains in Arizona.”

  The man shifted his weight. “The legend of the Dutchman’s lost gold mine?”

  Landry’s stare locked on Mrs. Winslet. Everybody who worked in the recovery business knew about the legend.

  “Yes. My husband purchased a document from a direct descendant of Julia Thomas. He believed the document had information regarding the lost mine.”

  The coldness in the widow’s voice pricked the goose bumps on Landry’s forearm to attention. “A map?”

  Mrs. Winslet shrugged. Well, more like she raised a shoulder and tilted her head to meet it. “Bartholomew’s notations indicate nothing more than his investigator had confirmed the document, a single piece of paper, was in fact owned at one time by Julia Thomas. The scientific dating of the document gave the same evidence.”

  “You’re sure?” the muscled man asked.

  Mrs. Winslet gave the exact look she wore in the painting on the wall. “Of course. Bartholomew would never have spent such an amount of money without proof of the document’s authenticity.”

  Landry cut her eyes to the man, then back to Mrs. Winslet, who continued. “Whatever the document is, there is no doubt it was originally in Julia Thomas’s possession.” She straightened a crystal figurine sitting on the mantel.

  A pause for effect? It worked. Landry met the man’s inquisitive stare with one of her own.

  “You’re wondering how you fit in, yes?” Mrs. Winslet smiled at them. One of those high-society, polite smiles.

  “The document’s missing,” Landry concluded.

  “Yes, my dear. According to my husband’s calendar, which has been verified by his secretary and assistant, he had an appointment to pick up the document. The plan was for him to take it directly to the bank and place it in a safety-deposit box. He had meetings scheduled later that week with various professionals regarding the document—appraiser, attorney, and so forth.”

  Made sense.

  “Police have verified he obtained a document from the seller and paid for it. Unfortunately, he was murdered before he reached the bank.” Her repeated coldness regarding her husband’s death rubbed Landry wrong.

  “He had the document on him when he was killed?” the man next to Landry asked.

  Mrs. Winslet nodded. “I’d like it back. That’s where you come in.”

  The man shook his head. “Ma’am, no disrespect, but this is a matter for the police. Even if the document were recovered privately, it’s evidence in an open investigation.”

  Landry caught the slight fall of Mrs. Winslet’s expression before she continued. “I understand that. The map is now my property; however, the police aren’t actively working on locating the document. They’re focused on the murder.”

  “As they should.” He shook his head. “You can’t just hire someone to recover an item stolen dur
ing a murder.”

  The man had a point, but Landry was the recovery specialist here. “Actually, you can. If the item is found, of course, it needs to be turned over to the police as evidence.”

  The man snorted and glared at her. “It’s interfering in a police investigation.”

  Landry shrugged. “It’s a gray area. Just like victims’ families who don’t believe the police are working fast enough and hire PIs to solve the crime. It happens all the time, and I think it’s within a person’s right to hire whomever they like to solve a crime or recover a lost or stolen item.”

  “And just what is your law enforcement background?” He crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring Mrs. Winslet.

  “Army military police. Honorably discharged.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And yours, Mr. Legal Parameter?”

  “New Orleans PD, nine years, Ms. Gray Area.”

  Mrs. Winslet cleared her throat. “Well, now that we’re all aware of the details, here is why I called you.” She handed each of them one of the large envelopes. “If you are interested, inside are copies of everything regarding the document and the case. Please, only open if you’re truly interested in recovering the document on my behalf.”

  She was the recovery specialist … why did she give a copy to the cop? Landry stared at Mrs. Winslet, who took a breath before going on.

  “Obviously, I want the item back. And quickly. I’m willing to pay a recovery fee in the amount of fifty thousand dollars.”

  Wow! Fifty grand wasn’t exactly chump change. Before Landry could jump in and accept the job, Mrs. Winslet continued.

  “If both of you choose to accept the challenge, please understand that I’ll only pay one of you. Whoever recovers the document first and returns it to me—undamaged—will receive fifty thousand dollars. I will, of course, pay for all up-front hard costs, through my official representative, Stan Hauge.”

  A challenge? Landry stared at the man beside her. “Who are you?”

  His eyes darkened by shades. “Nickolai Baptiste. And you are?”