Markham slashed his hand through the air, sending ashes flying from the cigar. “She might have been his girlfriend, but she was starring in my movie, the movie Connie was going to do. He did it, I know he did, because I saw them together and you didn’t! Connie and Deborah were friends, I told you that, and Doc couldn’t stand Connie because she stood with Deborah against him when he belittled her. He was rabid about her quitting her acting career, I saw it when they were together, and so did Connie.” He was panting, beside himself. “I couldn’t save either of them. They’re both gone because of that monster!”

The room was silent except for his hoarse breathing. Markham drew himself up. “Richards is a monster. There is no doubt in my mind he murdered Deborah. I’ll spend whatever it takes to prove it if you don’t.”

And he turned his back on them.

55

* * *

SANTA MONICA POLICE DEPARTMENT

333 OLYMPIC DRIVE

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

The Santa Monica police station was all modern angles and glass, with a pool and fountain outside, but inside, it was all cop shop, with suspects and victims leaking anger or misery, detectives on their cell phones or computers, their voices in constant conversation. After introducing Cam and Daniel to the police chief, Jacqueline Seabrooks, Arturo stopped by his desk to pick up his laptop, then took them to a conference room on the second floor. They saw through the two-way mirror that the room held a solid new table, a floor of shiny clean linoleum. Even the chairs looked comfortable.

Doc was the only one in the room. He was seated at the middle of the table, staring back at them although they knew he couldn’t see them. He was wearing khakis, a short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt, and Tevas on his long tanned feet. His fingers were beating a light tattoo on the tabletop, clearly a habit he didn’t even realize he was doing. He looked lost, defeated, still deadened with grief. They watched him drop his head into his hands.

Daniel said, “It looks to me like Doc’s at the bottom of a well of grief. I’ve never known anyone good enough to fake that.”

Cam felt the familiar surge of pity for him, closed it down. She fairly itched to run the interview, but remembered Dillon’s words about letting local cops take the lead whenever possible. Let them shine when you can, the FBI will make a friend forever. And since Arturo had been the one to break Doc’s alibi, she sucked it up. “Arturo, I’ve dealt with Doc only as a victim, and this has to be hard-edged. You interview him, and Daniel and I will stay outside and watch.”

He gave her a surprised look, slowly nodded. “If he killed Deborah Connelly, he might also have tried to kill Gloria last night, would have, too, if she wasn’t smarter than he is. Have I ever got a surprise for him. I’ll check the recorder’s on.” Arturo cracked his knuckles, and strode into the conference room, like a bull charging a red cape.

He nodded to Doc, calmly pulled out a chair and sat down. He didn’t say a word, only studied him. Doc slowly raised his head, stared at him out of a face that looked sick and pale, that looked a decade older than when Arturo had seen him the day after Deborah had died. He didn’t look like he cared about anything around him, didn’t care he was sitting in a police station. He was only filling space, waiting. Arturo felt a moment of uncertainty, quashed it. Maybe he was misreading him, maybe what he was seeing was depression and regret for killing Deborah. Facts were facts. The guy had lied, pure and simple, no reason for it unless he’d killed her, sliced her neck open, trying to copy the Serial. He continued to study him.

Finally, Arturo saw a flick of fear on Doc’s face at his continued silence. About time. Good, he was ready to go.

Arturo smiled. “Dr. Richards, thank you for coming to the station. You understand that our conversation today will be recorded? It’s standard policy, for your protection as well as ours.”

Doc waved his hand. There was misery in his voice when he spoke. “Of course, of course, anything to help find Deborah’s murderer. That monster is still out there.”

“Not for much longer,” Arturo said, voice smooth and calm. “Trust me on that.” He leaned forward, saw Doc’s lips were dry and cracked. “Let’s start again with where you were the night Deborah was murdered.”

Doc reared back in his chair. “I already told you I was working at the hospital that night. I’ve told everyone who’s asked me. The little boy I operated on earlier that day—Phoenix Taylor—he needed close attention. His parents were sleeping by the bed, they were upset, and so I spoke to them frequently, reassuring them. I had other duties as well, other patients to look in on.”

Arturo said easily, “I know what you’ve told us, Doctor, but I want you to try to remember all the details. You weren’t with the Taylor boy all night long, were you? Didn’t you take bathroom breaks, get some sleep?”

“Yes, of course I did. Coffee can keep you awake only so long—” He paused, frowned. “You can’t really nap on the floor, with all the machines beeping, all the lights and noise, so I remember now, I did go to the doctors’ on-call room to catch a nap. I was exhausted, so I excused myself. I was gone for less than an hour. No longer, I know that.”

“Sure, I can understand you needed a break, some rest. How do you know you weren’t gone for longer than an hour?”

Doc shrugged. “I’m lucky if I get to sleep that long when I’m on duty. But I wasn’t officially on call Monday night, so I set an alarm.”

“Nice nap, Doctor?”

“Yes. And while I was sleeping . . .” His voice died away. He cleared his throat. “It was only a few hours before I found Deborah.”

Arturo said, “Before we go any further, Doctor, there’s a video you should see.” He punched a key and Nurse Anna Simpson appeared on the screen. “Do you know this woman?”

“Yes, that’s Anna. Why are you—”

“Listen to her statement, Doctor.” Mrs. Anna Simpson looked square in her forties, a seasoned nurse, her voice firm and no-nonsense. She was asked to give her name, her length of service at the hospital, and to say in her own words what happened that night. “Monday was my final night shift for four weeks. I remember it was a little before midnight, a tough time if some of the patients can’t sleep. Not as bad as 2:00 a.m. when—” She stopped, shook her head at herself. “In any case, one of Dr. Richards’s patients, Joan Thomas, was asking for a sedative, and she hadn’t been scheduled for one, so I needed a doctor to okay it. I knew Dr. Richards was at the hospital that night even though he wasn’t on call because he’d operated that afternoon on a young boy, Phoenix Taylor. The parents were upset, not Phoenix—he was doing fine—but Dr. Richards stayed. He’s like that, conscientious, always willing to spend time with a patient’s parents if they need him to.