Detective Roche positioned himself at the foot of my bed and cleared his throat.
“We are in possession of a photograph of Abbas Masout’s car, taken at 12:28 a.m. last Sunday, November fifteenth, 15.3 miles from Pequod Point. We ran preliminary tests and found a trace of blood on the driver’s seat upholstery. Probably off clothing Masout disposed of. We don’t know whose blood it is yet, but I’m willing to speculate. We also recovered shell casings indicating Mr. Masout’s gun discharged multiple shots at the site where we found him yesterday, in addition to the shots fired inside. Foot and handprints corroborate your story. You were in a prone position when he fired and no threat to him.”
“So, you’re charging Abbas?”
Roche nodded. “For the murders of Hugh and Helene Walker. And the attempted murder of you.”
“You mean I’m not a suspect anymore.”
“You’re cleared of all charges, Nora,” Gubbins said. “It’s all over.”
I moaned and fell back against the pillows, absorbing the news. Deliverance. I wanted to leap out of bed and hug him.
“Except for your testimony in court,” Roche added. “Good detective work, Ms. Glasser. You helped put the puzzle together.” He came to my side and unlocked the cuffs.
“Free as a bird,” he said.
I rubbed my sore wrist and looked at him reproachfully. He pulled his shoulders back and straightened his posture.
“I was doing my job. I’m never sorry about that. But I do regret how it came down on you.”
“Could you do me a favor, then?”
He eyed me warily. “What’s that?”
“There’s another sketchbook. The one Abbas told you I’d stolen. It’s mine. It’s at Hugh’s studio. There’s a picture of Carrie Fisher on the cover. I’m assuming the studio is off-limits. Could you arrange to get it back to me? It’s quite valuable.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You mean the notebook on ‘Women’s Changing Hairstyles’ you had in your purse?”
“Uh-huh. And there’s also a red Swiss Army knife, engraved to the ‘World’s Best Dad.’”
“Sorry. Everything in that studio has been logged in as evidence for the DA. It stays with the police.”
“For how long?”
“I can’t really say.”
“Please. Can you at least release the notebook? I need to sell it. I have a cash-flow situation.”
Gubbins piped up behind him. “I’d like to have a word with you about that, Detective Roche.”
The door opened again and Dr. Patel walked in.
“Gentlemen, would you please step outside?”
It couldn’t be soon enough for Roche. He took my cell phone from his pocket and set it next to me on the bed. “That’s it, then. I’ve left your computer with Mr. Gubbins here.”
Gubbins placed his attaché on the nightstand, opened it and removed my laptop.
“I’ll let Ben know about the dropped charges. And don’t worry about anything else. We’ll speak later,” he said, closing his case and following Roche out the door.
When we were alone, Dr. Patel approached the bed and looked at the skin on my wrist where the handcuffs had chafed.
“I’ll give you some cream for that. I’m happy to see your troubles with the law are over. How are you feeling today?”
“Pretty damn good. Have my test results come back?”
“They have. Do you drink a lot of coffee, Ms. Glasser?”
“Every chance I get. Why?”
“You’ll need to stop drinking coffee immediately. No dark chocolate, either. Caffeine is your problem. Caffeine leaches calcium and magnesium. The tests show that your calcium is low, but more seriously, you have quite a severe magnesium deficiency.”
“I do? Is that dangerous?”
“It’s probably responsible for the exhaustion and arrhythmia. It can cause a host of other difficulties over time. Confusion. Violent muscle spasms. With severe magnesium deficiencies, we’ve even seen brain seizures. And parasomnias.”
“Parasomnias.”
“Yes. Like night terrors, for instance. Or sleepwalking.”
That gave me a jolt.
“Sleepwalking? You’re sure of that?”
“Have you . . . ?”
“Yes,” I said excitedly. “I’ve been walking in my sleep recently. A couple of times. It was a problem when I was a kid. But the doctor said I’d grow out of it after puberty. I thought I had.”
“You probably did. But if you have a predisposition, it can become a ‘weak spot.’ It’s likely been triggered by this deficiency. I want to observe you for another day or so, but my thinking is, if we replace your magnesium and cut out coffee, your arrhythmia and the sleepwalking will cease.”
I fervently hoped the problem boiled down to coffee and magnesium.
“You think I can be cured?”
“I’m very optimistic, but of course, we’ll have to wait and see.”
“Today is Sunday, right?”
“Yes. It’s Sunday,” Dr. Patel said.
A week since the bodies were discovered—a life-changing week, to say the least. Having ascertained that my heart held a steady rhythm, Dr. Patel ordered my release. After two nights under strict observation, the night nurse reported that I had not done any sleepwalking. It seemed Dr. Patel’s prognosis was correct. His only prescription besides magnesium pills and a ban on caffeine was “pleasure and leisure.”
“Don’t jump right into anything. Take it easy for a couple of days. Stay home. Read books. Watch movies. Drink wine, in moderation. Enjoy the company of your loved ones.”
That would be Aunt Lada, Grace and Mac and the boys and, maybe, Ben. When he picked me up at the hospital, I asked if he could stay at the Coop for the rest of the day.
“Unless because Sam is home you’d rather . . .”
“Sam is busy hanging out with his other friends who are home on break. It would be my pleasure.”
The temperature had remained cold since the storm, which meant the snow hadn’t melted. The sun shone on a beautiful, shimmering wonderland as we turned onto Crooked Beach Lane and approached my driveway. A few dogged city reporters waited there. They were eager to get a statement from the woman who had faced down her ex-husband’s murderer. Ben shooed them away. “Unless you want to stay and help me shovel this snow,” he said. “Seriously, Ms. Glasser will call you if she decides it’s in her interests to speak to the press.”
Then he accompanied me inside and insisted I go right to bed while he brewed his favorite tea for us. “I was hoping you’d invite me to stay. I brought supplies,” he said, pulling two tea bags out of his coat pocket.
I fell asleep before the water boiled. When I woke, Ben was in bed next to me, reading my April Krim book on artists’ muses.
“You’ve been asleep a long time.”
“How long?”
“Eleven hours.”
“Wow. Catching up, I guess.”