CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
When Rachel’s Uber pulled alongside the curb in front of Stephen Ayer’s house, she saw that Jack had beaten her there. He was sitting in the bureau sedan and gave her a little mocking wave as her car pulled in behind his. Rachel paid her tip with the app and then quickly got into the sedan’s passenger seat.
“Slowpoke,” he said. “I’ve been here for like five minutes.”
“Easy for you to say. You stranded me at the hospital.”
“Speaking of which, you got out of there pretty quickly. I take it the blood tests came back fine?”
“They did. And blackout aside, I do feel good. Really good. It makes me wonder what they really put in that IV.”
“Oh, that,” he said, opening the door with a smile. “I told that nurse to make sure to put some tequila in it.”
As they made their way up the sidewalk to Stephen Ayer’s two-story brick home, it occurred to her just how much like a machine she and Jack often seemed. Most partners played off of one another; that is, if one was in a sour mood, the other served as a balance of sorts and tried to remain in a positive mood. But for her and Jack, it was the opposite. When one was in a bad mood, the other felt it and sympathized and usually shared the same mood. But in an instant like right now, her good mood and energetic feeling was reflected in him. There were times when she felt that they were best friends who just happened to have the same career and had been partnered together. Now was one of those times, and it was exactly what she needed in the face of her current ordeals.
She did, however, have to remind herself that she was on leave when they stepped up onto the porch. Jack knocked the large, brass handle in the center of the door. A dog started barking delightedly inside, the sound of its nails on a hardwood floor quite clear through the door.
A male voice accompanied the dog, speaking to it in dulcet tones. The man’s voice drew closer and the door opened up for them. A glass door sat on the other side, and a handsome middle-aged man stood there. He seemed to be dressed in work clothes—a button-down baby blue shirt, a black tie, and slacks. Rachel wondered if he’d just gotten home from work.
“Yes?” he asked. “Can I help you?”
Jack showed his ID, holding it up close to the glass. “We’re Agents Rivers and Gift, with the FBI. Are you Dr. Stephen Ayer?”
“I am,” the man said, tilting his head curiously as he looked at the ID.
“Could we come in, sir?” Jack asked.
He was still clearly confused, but he nodded and said, “Sure, sure. Is everything okay?”
As he opened the door, Rachel noticed the gorgeous Labrador sitting obediently by the edge of the door. Ayer had to keep his hand on the dog’s collar as they entered the house. The dog wagged its tail as it watched their guests come inside.
“We aren’t sure, actually,” Jack said, answering Ayer’s question. “We’d like to ask you some questions about your work with Life Fulfilled.”
“Is that right?” Ayer asked, still confused. Rachel didn’t think he looked concerned, but simply baffled. Maybe they had just caught him coming in from work and he was trying to process this sudden and unexpected visit from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Is that where you were working today?” Rachel asked. “It seems we may be catching you just as you’ve gotten home.”
“Pretty close, actually. I’ve been home for about twenty minutes or so.” He led them through his foyer and into the adjoining living room. The floors here were also hardwood and the place had a minimalist feel to it. Both the couch and the armchair were very small yet efficient and the television, mounted on the wall, almost looked as if it had been birthed out of the house itself. Everything was smooth and unblemished, no clutter or mess anywhere. The walls were a creamy eggshell white and only a single thing hung from the wall—an abstract painting of what Rachel thought might be a strange oceanscape.
Ayer gestured to the couch. “Sit down, please. And to answer your question, no, I did not work with Life Fulfilled today.”
“How often would you say you work with them?” Rachel asked.
“Once a week. Maybe as little as once every two weeks, depending on my schedule. Why…is there something going on?”
“Dr. Ayer,” Jack said, “do you recall the names Polly Warren and Troy Hetfield?”
“Yes. I met with Troy earlier this week. Polly…I suppose it was about three weeks ago? Maybe as much as a month.”
“How many times did you meet with them?” Jack asked.
“Just once each time. But I tell you…I would love to have Troy as a permanent client. There’s something about him…so uplifting and happy, even in the face of his terrible diagnosis.” He clasped his hands together and looked cautiously at the agents. “I’m sorry, but what is this about?”
“Dr. Ayer,” Jack said, “both Troy and Polly are dead. They’ve been murdered within the past week.”
Ayer looked as if he’d been punched in the stomach. It was hard to tell against the white walls, but he looked as if he’d gone slightly pale. “Oh my God. Are you…I mean, I just spoke with Troy. He was…”
“There has been a third as well,” Rachel said, “but he was seen by Dr. Koontz.”