Page 50 of The Locked Ward

Georgia’s revelations are growing wilder. But I can finally fact-check one.

As I walk toward the hospital parking lot, I google the PI. His number pops up as the first hit on my screen. One tap is all it takes to hear a ring. He picks up before the second one: “Wagner Investigations.”

“Hi, I’m wondering if I could make an appointment with you to talk about a case,” I begin.

“Sure. What’s your name?” His voice is gruff and businesslike.

“Katie.” He’s going to recognize me the moment I step through his door since he recorded me serving him a drink a month ago, but I want the element of surprise on my side.

“What is it you need help with?”

I reach my Honda and unlock it. “It’s complicated. Can we talk in person?”

“I’m in the office today. When do you want to come in?” I already like this guy’s style, even though I feel violated by the videos he took of me. He’s not pretending to be busier than he is to make clients think he’s important.

“Are you in uptown?” I ask.

“Yeah, just off 277,” he says.

I’m getting a little more familiar with the city; I know the general area.

“How about thirty minutes?” I slide onto my seat and close the door.

“Works for me. Need my address?”

“I’ve got it.”

“I’m above the Chinese restaurant, so come in around the back.

Take the stairs to the second floor, and I’m the first door on the right.

You’ll see the sign for Wagner Investigations.

You don’t want to go to the wrong door, trust me.

There’s this yoga woman next to me, and she’s always ringing chimes and chanting. ”

I start my engine. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye, Katie No-Last-Name.”

I tap his address into Waze and turn right out of the parking lot.

It’s farther away than I expected; it takes me closer to forty minutes. When I turn off my car, I notice a new text on my phone. It’s from Colby. Did you have a chance to check your schedule yet? I’d love to see you again soon.

I decide to reply later. I climb the back staircase and knock on the door with the sign for Wagner Investigations, and when there’s no answer, I turn the knob and poke my head in. “Mr. Wagner?”

There’s a small waiting room with two straight-backed chairs and a square table.

I step in, causing a bell to ring from the strap around the door, the notes sounding a similar melody to the one that comes from Sweetbay’s door.

When the investigator doesn’t immediately come out to greet me, I sit down by the ancient copy of People magazine splayed on the coffee table.

There’s an interior door that must lead to Tony’s office.

He could be on a call, I think. I wait another few minutes, and when he doesn’t appear, I stand up and walk over to the door, listening hard.

I can’t hear a thing. Maybe he gave up when I didn’t appear at the appointed time.

He could have gone out to grab a cup of coffee or early lunch.

But I wasn’t that late.

And if he’s got a bell, he’s security conscious. He wouldn’t have left without locking up.

I knock on the interior door. No answer. I test the knob. It’s open.

Trepidation swells inside me.

But the bright morning sun is coming in through the window in the reception room. There’s another place of business right next door. I can hear cars honking just a few dozen yards away and smell the egg rolls being deep-fried a floor below.

I twist the knob and push the door open a few inches, and relief sweeps through me. Tony is asleep in his small, dimly lit office. His head is down on his desk and his eyes are closed.

“Mr. Wagner?” I say it once, then almost shout it a second time.

Terror crescendos through my veins.

He isn’t asleep. I think he’s dead.

I scrabble backward, a scream filling my throat.

I look around wildly, then realize if the murderer is nearby, it would be worse to be trapped in this small space. I burst through the waiting room and run next door. It’s locked, so I pound on it. A woman with a colorful wrap around her hair opens it a moment later, her expression annoyed.

“I’m with a cli—”

“Call 9–1–1!” I scream, pushing past her into the room. I lock the door behind us, breathing hard.

The yoga teacher is staring at me, open-mouthed. Her client is sitting cross-legged on a mat, her fingertips pinched together.

“Do something!” I yell at them. Then I realize I’m holding my phone, so I call for police and an ambulance, giving them details with a voice that has begun to tremble along with my body.

Tony Wagner was alive less than an hour ago. He knew about the video showing evidence of the senator’s late-night visit to Annabelle’s apartment.

Georgia warned me my car might be bugged.

You have no idea how big this is.

Did my phone call to Tony get him killed?