Buried Evidence Read Free Page A

this afternoon,” Lily told him, her face locked in a grimace. “I need to go to the hospital.”
    The young prosecutor was bewildered. “Why can’t we go ahead with the arraignment at ten like we planned? I got here at six o’clock this morning to work on the complaint. I even had Brennan go over it with me last night to make certain everything was perfect.”
    Lily struck her forehead with the back of her hand. “Think,” she shot out. “Attempted murder is not first-degree murder. We can plead special circumstances and ask for the death penalty if Betsy died during the night. Then Middleton might be looking at something far more frightening than a prison sentence.”

3
    L ily steered her black Audi into the parking lot of Saint Francis Hospital. She was thankful that the hospital was only a five-minute drive from the courthouse. Part of the luxury of living in a small city like Santa Barbara was the fact that everything was close, and, in most instances, a person didn’t have to worry about getting stuck in traffic. Weekends were occasionally a problem, but most of the traffic snarled on the 101 Freeway or on State Street, the city’s main drag. People from Los Angeles and the surrounding communities headed north during the summer months to escape the heat and enjoy the lovely beaches. When the mercury inched its way past eighty in Santa Barbara and people started perspiring and complaining, the temperature in Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley generally rose over the hundred mark. On her drive to the office that morning, Lily had heard that it was supposed to hit 105 in downtown L.A.
    “I’m here to see Dr. Logan,” she told an elderly volunteer working the front desk.
    “Is he expecting you?”
    “Yes,” Lily said, giving the woman her name.
    When she stepped off the elevator onto the second floor, a handsome man in a white coat rushed over to greet her. “Christopher Logan,” he said, shaking her hand. “You could have waited for me in the lobby. Didn’t Mrs. McKinley tell you?”
    “No,” Lily said, her face flushing. They had talked on the phone at least a dozen times. His voice was familiar, yet she had not anticipated him being so small. Wearing a blue shirt under his starched white jacket, Dr. Logan had neatly trimmed dark hair, perfectly shaped facial features, and he possessed the kind of squeaky-clean look that one would expect for a person in his profession. Lily found herself checking her fingernails, fearfulthere might be a speck of dirt under them. When the doctor gazed up at her, he blinked several times. She wasn’t the only one doing a double take. She doubted if the diminutive Dr. Logan had envisioned himself talking to a freckle-faced giraffe during their numerous phone conversations.
    “Betsy isn’t here,” he told her. “She’s been moved to the transitional care unit.”
    Middleton’s arraignment had been postponed until three o’clock that afternoon, but Lily had two additional court appearances to make, one at ten-thirty and another at one. Her watch read nine forty-five. Logan motioned toward an unoccupied waiting room a few feet away, then waited until Lily dropped down on the edge of a chair.
    “Before we go over there,” Logan said, sitting across from her, “there’s been a new development. Mr. Middleton’s attorney called me ten minutes ago. He instructed me that Betsy was not to be removed from life support under any circumstances. I found this peculiar, as we’ve been working closely with the parents since the child was admitted last October. Only a few days ago Henry and Carolyn Middleton agreed that Betsy should be removed from the respirator. That’s why I thought you should come here, since we were about to proceed with their request.”
    Lily’s first assumption was that Logan and the hospital were eager to harvest the girl’s organs. Then she changed her mind, doubting if a child whose body had been flooded with strychnine would have