The Silence That Speaks
The Silence That Speaks
Andrea Kane
WHO WANTS MADELINE WESTFIELD DEAD? AND WHY?Forensic Instincts' first order of business is to find out who's targeting their client. Under the leadership of Casey Woods, the investigative team has the resources to do just that, working inside the law–and outside it. FI's strength is its members, among them Casey's associate Marc Devereaux, former navy SEAL and a man who's equal to any situation.Except maybe this one…Madeline's case hits too close to home for Marc. She's the only woman he ever loved, and she's his only weakness. Now a nurse at Manhattan Memorial, she's terrified because someone is trying to kill her. So she turns, reluctantly, to Marc and FI for help and protection.Meanwhile, Manhattan Memorial is in turmoil. With a merger in the works, the staff is still haunted by their hospital administrator's sudden death–during heart surgery performed by Madeline's ex-husband, Conrad. A surgery at which Madeline was present. The killer seems to blame both Madeline and Conrad…With a growing list of suspects–including the grieving widow and a string of scorned lovers–Forensic Instincts will have to figure out who has the greatest incentive to get rid of Madeline. And FI has to work fast to save her…before she's permanently silenced.
WHO WANTS MADELINE WESTFIELD DEAD? AND WHY?
Forensic Instincts’ first order of business is to find out who’s targeting their client. Under the leadership of Casey Woods, the investigative team has the resources to do just that, working inside the law—and outside it. FI’s strength is its members, among them Casey’s associate Marc Devereaux, former navy SEAL and a man who’s equal to any situation.
Except maybe this one…
Madeline’s case hits too close to home for Marc. She’s the only woman he ever loved, and she’s his only weakness. Now a nurse at Manhattan Memorial, she’s terrified because someone is trying to kill her. So she turns, reluctantly, to Marc and FI for help and protection.
Meanwhile, Manhattan Memorial is in turmoil. With a merger in the works, the staff is still haunted by their hospital administrator’s sudden death—during heart surgery performed by Madeline’s ex-husband, Conrad. A surgery at which Madeline was present. The killer seems to blame both Madeline and Conrad…
With a growing list of suspects—including the grieving widow and a string of scorned lovers—Forensic Instincts will have to figure out who has the greatest incentive to get rid of Madeline. And FI has to work fast to save her…before she’s permanently silenced.
The Silence That Speaks
New York Times Bestselling Author
Andrea Kane
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
To our newlyweds, Wendi and Will, whose union adds a whole new and precious dimension to our lives. Wendi, you’ve always been the joy in our hearts, an amazing friend, daughter and human being. And now we have Will, your wonderful husband—a fine man we’re proud to call our son.
We love you both so much and wish you a lifetime of joy and the happily-ever-after you deserve.
Contents
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Dedication (#u462a9798-1dd4-5ceb-ab31-82f031fb9afc)
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1 (#ulink_bebbb955-8f0f-5def-86cc-4e150abfaf73)
MADELINE WESTFIELD NEVER saw the car coming.
It was late at night, and chilly for the beginning of November. She’d turned up her coat collar, and was waiting to cross Park Avenue at East Eighty-Eighth Street. Lost in thought, yes, and with more than enough reason these days. She was an emotional wreck. But navigating between pedestrians, taxicabs and speeding motorists was second nature to her. She’d been a Manhattan resident for most of her life.
She’d watched for the walk sign to flash from red to green. Even then, she’d paused briefly to glance around.
The crosswalk was still.
She took her initial steps into the street.
The screech of tires was her first warning. Then came the flash of motion from her peripheral vision.
Her head snapped around, and she came to a dead stop, staring like a deer in the headlights. A black SUV was roaring in her direction. It veered sharply at her, leaving no doubt that its goal was to hit her head-on.
Self-preservation kicked in. She lunged away, hurling herself backward and crashing to the sidewalk, a pile of wet leaves doing nothing to cushion her fall.
The impact of her body slamming against the concrete rocketed through her. Her head struck the ground—hard. She cried out in pain, saw stars.
Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind, she heard the screech of brakes and the sharp swerving of tires, and the terrifying thought occurred to her that the driver was going to try again.
“Miss, are you all right?” a gravelly male voice inquired as the man it belonged to rounded the corner.
Madeline had never felt such great relief at the sound of another human voice. She looked up to see an elderly gentleman, with a full head of white hair and a lined face, holding a leash. The Brussels griffon at the other end of the leash was eye level with her. He trotted over to take a sniff.
“No, Max!” the man said. He was staring down at Madeline, his forehead creased in concern. “Did you trip? Can you move?”
He hadn’t seen what happened. He wasn’t a witness.
As Madeline opened her mouth to speak, she heard the SUV’s engine roar in the distance as it sped down Park Avenue.
“I...” She shifted her weight and winced. Her right side was killing her. Her head was throbbing violently. And “Max” looked like two dogs, not one. Double vision. A concussion. Not to mention some major bruises—possibly even some broken bones. As an RN, she recognized the signs.
Seeing the agony in her eyes, the man reacted.
“I’m going to call 9-1-1 and get you an ambulance.” He took out his cell phone.
Madeline nodded her thanks. She tried again to move, and was rewarded with jolts of pain. She inhaled sharply, causing shooting pain in her chest. So she lay there quietly and waited.
The ambulance seemed to take forever to arrive. Maybe it was the pain talking. Or maybe it was her nerves. But she finally saw the red whirring light and heard the siren. Lenox Hill Hospital was nearby. That’s where the EMTs would transport her. It wasn’t the hospital she worked in, but she did know some people there.
Not that it mattered. She passed out as they arrived at the E.R.
* * *
When she came to, she was in a hospital bed with a bandaged arm, a taped midsection and an ice pack resting on her hip. Her head felt like a jackhammer was splitting it in two.
She lay there for a moment, willing her mind to work. Then she remembered what had happened and everything inside her tensed up.
It hadn’t been an accident. It was attempted murder. That SUV was gunning for her. The cops wouldn’t believe her story. Why would they? They hadn’t believed her the first time. And that had only been a robbery. Now someone wanted her dead.
She flinched, knowing she had a concussion, a few broken ribs and a badly bruised hip. She wished she had some painkillers—anything to take away the throbbing and to knock her out. She wanted to sleep. She knew she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until the doctor saw her and checked out her neurological responses.
She’d be here overnight. They’d keep her for observation. Then, if she remained stable, they’d let her go home.
A wave of panic set in, followed by utter resignation. She couldn’t do this alone, not anymore. She’d put off the inevitable for as long as possible. It was time to get help—and from a specific source.
Seeking out that source was going to be even more painful than her injuries.
2 (#ulink_078ab493-ff33-5a52-b3a6-fa6ac44bd132)
IT WAS 8:45 a.m.
The Forensic Instincts investigative team was hard at work—but not on a case.
Instead, they were scrambling around their Tribeca brownstone, trying to get the place into some semblance of order before their next job applicant arrived.
Having just wrapped up a high-profile corporate espionage case, they’d normally be debriefing. Instead, all their notes, reports, follow-ups and computer files were in uncharacteristic disarray. The phone was ringing off the hook. Their voice mailboxes were exploding. And this was not the way Casey Woods intended to run her company.
She’d made her position clear several weeks ago. The minute their current case was closed, they were hiring a receptionist-slash-assistant. From a small start-up investigative firm, they’d catapulted into a highly sought-after company, thanks to the combined efforts and stellar results achieved by their brilliant team.
Until now, there’d been the six of them, each of whom was a critical and integral part of FI. Starting with Casey herself—who was the company president and behavioral expert, and who had the extensive academic credentials and professional experience to be the firm’s anchor—every member of the FI team had a stand-alone résumé.
They were no longer New York’s best kept secret, and their client list was growing daily. Thus, the need for someone to man the front desk and to assist the team as needed.
So far, they hadn’t had much luck.
At the moment, Casey was upstairs on the fourth floor—the floor that served as her apartment during the few hours that she actually lived there—running a brush through her shoulder-length red hair and adjusting the collar on her green cowl-neck sweater. Hero, Casey’s bloodhound and the team’s human scent evidence dog, was already poised in the bedroom doorway, waiting expectantly for his mistress to leave her apartment and go downstairs to her real home: Forensic Instincts.
“I’m coming, boy,” she told him, looking in the mirror and giving herself a quick once-over, before heading for their morning interview. “God knows what we have in store this time.”
* * *
Ryan McKay was still downstairs in his man cave, affectionately known as his lair, which filled the entire basement level of the brownstone. It was the technology center of Forensic Instincts, complete with their servers—Lumen, Equitas and Intueri, from the Latin words for light, justice and intuition. Part data center, part electronics lab, Ryan had more high-tech equipment than a small university.
Despite its serious purpose, Ryan left enough room to maintain two areas of personal space—his free weights and fitness section, and a small competition ring for his self-built robots.
Right now, he was enjoying neither. He was printing out pages from FI’s just-closed case.
While the pages were printing, he was on his iPad, reading the latest issue of Sound on Sound magazine. The software review of Audio Detracktor was compelling. The reviewer described how it was developed by three of genius college students—a math whiz, a computer geek and a musical prodigy. Audio Detracktor would analyze an audio file, separating the component tracks and instruments into layers. Each isolated layer could be played independently, giving the listener the ability to hear insignificant sounds in a rich recording. Sound on Sound had written about experimenting with Eric Clapton’s “Layla,” Gene Vincent’s “Be-Bop-A-Lula” and Paul McCartney’s “Yesterday.” They were even able to isolate the sound of a flying guitar pick bouncing off the floor. Guitarists would often lose their picks in midperformance, which is why they always carried extras with them. But to actually hear the sound of a tiny plastic piece hitting the ground? Awesome.
Just as Ryan was about to swipe to the next page, his iPhone began vibrating in his pocket, reminding him of a scheduled meeting. Glancing at his calendar entry, he scowled at its purpose. Interview. Emma Stirling. Another teenybopper receptionist he had to talk to.
He understood Casey’s decision to establish a more professional office environment, as well as to get some help answering the phones and doing odds and ends. But he’d lobbied strongly for a virtual assistant, aka software, installed on one of their servers. A virtual assistant was smart, predictable, not female and never took a coffee or bathroom break.
The perfect receptionist.
Casey and Claire had overruled him. They felt a personal touch was needed. A flesh-and-blood human being, not a machine. Marc was indifferent, although he saw the value of both. And Patrick had been married long enough to know when to avoid a losing situation.
Ryan’s pocket buzzed again. Time to stop procrastinating and get this over with. Full of attitude, he marched upstairs ready to meet and nix Emma Stirling.
* * *
The rest of the team was already congregated in the second floor’s main conference room, pouring coffee and settling down around the sweeping oval conference table.
Marc took a gulp of black coffee and eyed Ryan. “Nice of you to join us.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “You look thrilled to be here.”
Ryan scowled. “You know how I feel about this. I was about to do something useful—like order a cool state-of-the-art app while I was preparing the case wrap-up. Instead, I’m here, ready to meet another substandard candidate.”
“Great attitude.” Claire walked over just in time to hear Ryan’s statement. “Did it ever occur to you that we might find a white elephant? There are still a few of those out there, you know.”
“Is that a prediction, Clairevoyant?” He loved to get at her with that nickname he’d coined.
“No.” She shot him a don’t-get-me-started look. “It’s an optimistic fact.”
Patrick was already seated, scratching Hero’s ears. He glanced over at them. “Play nice, kids. We have a reputation for professionalism to uphold.”
“Yes, we do.” Casey seated herself at the head of the table. “And, like it or not, we’re going to eventually have to hire someone. My standards are as high as yours, Ryan. Maybe higher. But I’m not giving up. This place is not going to continue as chaos central.”
“I hear you.” Ryan got himself some coffee and turned to peruse the group. “So should we do rock, paper, scissors to decide who’s going downstairs to let this one in?”
“I can handle that electronically, Ryan.” An invisible computerized voice echoed from everywhere in the room, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling video screens began to glow. A long green line formed across each panel, pulsing from left to right, bending into the contours of the voice panel.
“Good idea, Yoda,” Ryan replied. “Disarm the Hirsch pad when the doorbell rings and advise our job candidate to come upstairs. That alone should scare the shit out of her.”
Casey couldn’t help but smile at Ryan’s assessment. As for Yoda, Ryan’s extraordinary artificial intelligence system, he’d become an honorary FI team member. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that he wasn’t human. Then again, he’d been built by Ryan, who was very human. Bottom line? Ryan was a genius and Yoda was omniscient.
“Has everyone reviewed this candidate’s application?” Casey asked.
“Yup.” Marc was his usual straightforward self. “She sounds like a juvenile delinquent who never did hard time.”
“She sounds like a kid who needs a chance,” Claire chimed in. “She was bounced from foster home to foster home and spent a lot of time on the streets.”
“I have to agree,” Patrick said. “I know she’s got a juvie record, and that would normally turn me right off. But in this case—her parents died in a plane crash when she was eight. There were no relatives to take her in. So she spent ten years in the system. That’s tough.”
“And we’re not exactly squeaky clean ourselves,” Marc commented drily. He glanced at Patrick. “Other than you, Special Agent Lynch.”
“Not so much anymore,” Patrick retorted. “You’ve corrupted me.”
The whole group chuckled.
“Yeah, we’re the maverick investigators,” Ryan said, coining a phrase from an article written about them. “So, if this girl has a brain, I’m willing to cut her some slack.”
“Some slack?” Casey repeated, shooting Ryan a look. “I’m hoping you’ll do more than that.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. I still think a virtual assistant would be the best choice.” Ryan held up both palms to ward off oncoming arguments. “But I’ve accepted that I’ve been overruled. So let’s get this show on the road.”
Right on cue, the doorbell sounded.
“Applicant number twenty-seven has arrived,” Yoda announced.
“Punctual.” Casey glanced at her watch. “Okay, Yoda, go ahead and let her in.” She interlaced her fingers on the table in front of her. “Oh, and, Yoda? Leave out the applicant number when you announce her. Just stick to her name. Applicant twenty-six nearly took off when you made that reference. Let’s not scare off applicant twenty-seven. It’s starting to sound like we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel and each one of them is it. Either that, or we’re looking for perfection and can’t find it.”
“That would be accurate,” Yoda pointed out.
“True, but we don’t want to intimidate the girl before she even gets upstairs.”
“Very well, Casey. Name only.”
Yoda’s words were punctuated by the beeping sound of the alarm system as he disarmed it.
* * *
A loud thunk resounded in the FI hallway as the large steel bolt retracted, unlocking the front door.
“Please enter the building and proceed to the second floor,” Yoda instructed the young woman at the door. “Make a right turn into the main conference room. Your interview will be conducted there.”
“Thanks.” Without so much as a flinch, Emma Stirling walked through the foyer as the door bolt reengaged behind her. She climbed up the winding staircase, and paused on the landing to run her fingers through her hair and adjust her tote bag on her shoulder. Then she entered the conference room.
She fought back a smile as she saw the all-too-familiar startled reaction from the team at large. It was the same as everyone who’d read her history. They were expecting a scraggly looking brat from the streets. Instead, they were getting the equivalent of a prep school cheerleader—all blonde, blue-eyed and composed, with a fashionable short skirt and a formfitting top.
She’d worked hard to perfect that image.
“I clean up nice,” she said, putting aside the looks of surprise and assessing the challenge she was about to face.
Emma had done her homework.
The pretty, authoritative redhead at the head of the table was Casey Woods, the president of Forensic Instincts and a brilliant analyst of human behavior. On either side of her were two hot guys—one dark and brooding, the other sexy and charismatic—Marc Devereaux and Ryan McKay, respectively. Marc was Casey’s right hand, a former navy SEAL and former FBI agent in the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia. Quite simply, there was nothing Marc couldn’t do or couldn’t make happen. Ryan was nothing short of a techno-wizard and a strategy genius.
The willowy blonde who looked like a fairy princess was Claire Hedgleigh. Emma didn’t quite get what it meant, but Claire was a claircognizant and had an amazing psychic gift that took her into scary but productive places to help solve cases. The older conservative-looking guy was Patrick Lynch, a retired FBI agent with over three decades of law enforcement experience, and who grounded the team when they pushed the boundaries a little too far. Oh, yeah, and the cool bloodhound sitting up tall, ears erect, was Hero—an FBI-trained human-scent evidence dog whose olfactory sense was second to none.
Pretty thorough, Emma thought with an internal grin.
“Job candidate Emma Stirling,” Yoda supplied. “Twenty-two years old. Currently unemployed and available immediately. Have a seat at the table, Ms. Stirling.”
“Yes, sir,” Emma replied, looking around to see where the voice was coming from. It was the same voice that had greeted her in the doorway.
She placed her tote bag in the empty chair next to Patrick, but remained standing.
With self-taught courtesy, she proceeded to walk around the conference room table, shaking hands with each team member. First, she squatted down to stroke Hero’s ears. “He’s great. What’s his name?” she asked.
“Hero,” Patrick responded. He helped her to her feet and shook her hand. “I’m Patrick Lynch. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” She moved on to Marc and Ryan, who were sizing her up as they greeted her. She made sure to touch each man’s arm with her left hand. Men appreciated that in business introductions.
As she approached Claire and Casey, she tripped and toppled forward, struggling to right herself as they caught her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her face turning bright red. “I get clumsy when I’m nervous. And I’ll never get used to high heels.”
“We hear you,” Casey said with a chuckle. There wasn’t a woman alive who didn’t understand the battle between fashion and comfort.
“We certainly do,” Claire echoed, intent on putting the poor girl at ease. “Men don’t have to juggle looking great and professional without limping home. It’s one of the hardships of being a modern woman.”
“Thank you for understanding.” The color was fading from Emma’s cheeks as she regained some of her composure. Sheepishly, she made her way back to her seat and gratefully sank into it.
Once she was settled, Yoda continued. “Application and résumé displayed on the main screen.”
As he spoke, the large middle screen lit up, and Emma’s paperwork appeared, the pages arranged side by side.
“That’s just the good stuff,” she told them, having glanced up at the information displayed. “I’m sure you know the rest.”
“We do.” Casey leaned forward and studied the young woman. “We’ve all read every word. The bottom line—you were a juvie. According to our research, you were guilty of a lot more than you were convicted of. You were incredibly good at getting off.”
Emma startled. “What?”
“Not the reaction you were expecting?” Casey asked. “Sorry. We’re nothing if not thorough. We’re also not easily shocked. Or were you hoping we would be and that we’d bounce you out of here so you could feel vindicated and like you’d put one over on us?”
“I...” Emma was visibly taken aback.
“I like the wide-eyed innocent thing,” Ryan commented. “You’ve got a great combo going there—a disarming exterior and an iron core.”
“You’re smart, too,” Marc added. “You did research on each one of us.” He read the surprised widening of her eyes that she fought to conceal. “The way you studied each of us as you walked around—which you made sure to do,” he explained, answering her unspoken question. “Like you were making mental connections. That was your tell.”
“Wow, you people are just like the articles say.” For the first time, Emma looked impressed. “So let’s say I came here to mess with your minds, and you figured me out. You also guessed I was a lot guiltier than my record shows. Then why are you interviewing me?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?” Casey asked.
“You just said so yourself. I’m a criminal.”
“A former criminal,” Patrick qualified.
“And a good one,” Ryan said, ignoring Patrick’s scowl. “Here at Forensic Instincts, we not only admire excellence, we demand it. Also, you’ve got guts. Guts are a requirement for working here.”
“True,” Casey said.
“Plus your background piqued our interest,” Claire couldn’t help but interject. She pointed at herself. “And before you size me up further, yes, I am the soft touch of the team. I felt a pang of compassion when I read your history. That’s the upside. The downside is that none of my team members is as squishy as I am. So you’ll have some convincing to do.”
Emma acknowledged that with a nod. “I figured as much.”
Casey raised her chin. “Do you want this job?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it sounds way cooler than the other jobs I was applying for.”
“But you didn’t think you’d get it.”
“Truthfully? No.”
“Honesty. Another refreshing virtue.” Casey glanced around the table, making eye contact with each team member and reading their reactions.
Emma used that time to look around again, puzzled as her gaze searched the room. “I don’t know where it’s based, but I like your virtual intelligence system. How come you didn’t make that your assistant?”
“Smart girl,” Ryan muttered.
“Because Yoda is overworked,” Marc answered for the group.
“Yoda?” Emma grinned. “Great name.”
“Really smart girl,” Ryan muttered again.
Only half listening to Ryan’s wisecracks, Casey was eyeing Emma as their job applicant kept asking questions. What was going on in that cunning little blond head?
The girl was sharp. She was a walking contradiction. And she had a curious mind. She had the brains and the balls to fit right in.
But was she trustworthy? Loyal? Those were key requirements in Casey’s hiring practice.
Only one way to find out.
At that moment, Emma pushed back her chair and rose. “I want this job. What do I have to do to get it?”
“Prove yourself,” Casey responded.
“How?”
“A probationary period. Say, three months. Minimum wage. Show me unwavering loyalty to Forensic Instincts—the company and the team. Hard work. Good work. No bullshit. No games. Up front all the way. Then we’ll talk.”
“Fair enough.” Emma paused, chewing her lip. “In that case, I guess I should start out on the right foot, boss.” She reached into her tote bag and groped around for a minute. “Here you go.” She pulled out Patrick’s wallet, Claire’s bangle bracelet, Marc’s switchblade, Casey’s day planner and Ryan’s iPhone, placing each item in front of its respective owner. “No bullshit. No games. Up front all the way.”
You could have heard a pin drop as the team members each stared at their just-confiscated belongings.
“And who knows?” Emma added with an impish grin. “I might even teach you guys a thing or two.”
3 (#ulink_30255935-02cb-5a44-93e4-76b5de2b5a2f)
EMMA WAS STILL getting used to the coolness of having her own desk and swivel chair in an alcove right off the front hall of the renowned Forensic Instincts.
Maybe if she played her cards right, she’d get business cards, too.
The doorbell rang, and she snapped to attention, grabbing her new scheduling book.
“Our nine-thirty prospective client has arrived,” Yoda announced. “Ms. Madeline Westfield. She’s listed in your appointment book on the left page, third column.”
“Yes, Yoda, I see that.” Emma grimaced. “Cut me some slack. I’m trying to learn. At least give me thirty seconds before you jump in.”
A brief pause. “That seems fair and acceptable. I’ll program my database accordingly.”
“You do that.” Emma rose and walked to the door, punching in the dummy alarm code Ryan had assigned her. Only the inner circle got the real code. Not the newbies on probation.
She opened the door and automatically ran through the physical assessment she’d learned during her pickpocket days, when she’d sized up her potential marks.
Madeline Westfield was pretty in a haunting kind of way. Mid-thirties. Chestnut-brown hair, classily styled and just grazing her shoulders. Fair skin. Deep, dark eyes. Medium height. Cute figure. Casually but expensively dressed in a cashmere coat, from beneath which peeked a sweater and pants that screamed designer. A badly bruised forehead—from a bad bang, not physical abuse—and an anxious look in her eyes.
The ideal client—rich and needy.
“Good morning,” Emma said brightly, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. Westfield. I’m Emma Stirling. Welcome to Forensic Instincts.”
“Thank you.” Madeline clasped her hand briefly. Her palm was icy. She was peering around. She was nervous. Emma wondered what that was about—the upcoming meeting or whatever had brought her here.
“The team is waiting for you right in there.” Emma gestured at the cozy meeting room down the hall. “I’ll take your coat. Can I get you something—coffee, tea, water?”
“Coffee would be lovely, thank you,” Madeline said, shrugging out of her coat and handing it to Emma. “Just black.”
“No problem. I’ll show you in and then bring it to you.”
Emma led the way, escorting Madeline straight to the open door. With a brief knock, she glanced at the team. “Ms. Madeline Westfield is here for her appointment.” She noted the steaming pot of coffee on a trivet in the middle of the center table. “Should I pour?” she asked Casey.
“No, thank you, Emma. We’ve got it. Just shut the door on your way out.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need me.” Emma left the room, closing the door to give them their privacy and heading back to her desk—and to Yoda’s tutoring.
* * *
Madeline stood just inside the meeting room, tightly clutching her handbag. She looked stiff, as if she was in pain, and there was a bad bruise on her forehead.
Casey was about to open her mouth when she caught the odd, strained expression on Madeline’s face. She was staring at Marc. And Marc had a look on his face that Casey had never seen before—a look of stark, raw emotion.
“Maddy?” He rose slowly to his feet.
“Hello, Marc.” She attempted a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It occurred to me that you might not realize I was the one who was coming here today.”
“No. I didn’t.” Marc’s emotions shut down and his usual unreadable expression snapped back into place. “The appointment didn’t list you as Madeline Stanton.”
“Westfield is my married name.”
“I see.”
The silence was so awkward that even Casey was hard-pressed to break it.
But break it she did.
Coming swiftly to her feet, she stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Woods. I see that you and Marc already know each other, so I’ll introduce the rest of the team.”
No questions. No observations. No belaboring the all-too-blatant reality.
Madeline’s relief was visible. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she said, shaking Casey’s hand. Her gaze shifted to the area rug, where Hero was lying beside Casey’s chair. “What a beautiful bloodhound.”
“Hero is a human-scent evidence dog,” Casey explained. “He’s part of the Forensic Instincts team.”
“Then he must be remarkable. Your company’s reputation speaks for itself.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do for you.” Casey ran through the rest of the introductions, poured Madeline a cup of coffee and gestured for her to have a seat on one of the buttery-soft caramel leather tub chairs in the room.
There were three other identical tub chairs, casually situated around the two matching leather couches. Sure, the room also had some high-tech equipment, but it wasn’t center stage. There was no point in making the place look like an interrogation room. Living rooms were far more relaxing, and leant themselves to calmer clients who were open and honest about their reasons for being here.
Madeline politely accepted the cup of coffee and gingerly sat down. Casey noted that she swiveled her tub chair ever so slightly away from Marc and kept her gaze fixed on Casey.
Those weren’t acts of anger. They were unconscious acts of emotional protection.
“I don’t know where to start,” Madeline said.
“Start wherever you’re most comfortable.” Casey sat back, ostensibly relaxed, but reading every tell that Madeline displayed. Ryan had run a preliminary background check on her, as he did on all their prospective clients. But nothing beat an in-person assessment. And, in this case, there was an additional—and very personal—nuance to observe.
“We’ll ask questions as we need to.” From Casey’s peripheral vision, she noticed that Marc had opened his portfolio and was ready to take notes. Business as usual. Marc preferred to go at it by hand, and then transfer his conclusions into the computer. It also wasn’t a shock that he hadn’t done more than a cursory read of Ryan’s report. He liked to go into a first meeting with just the facts and a clear mind.
Evidently, that method had backfired this time.
“Do you mind if we record this conversation?” Casey asked. “It helps us refocus on any details that might become important later on.”
“Not at all,” Madeline replied. “Just as long as everything remains confidential.”
“Absolutely.” Casey nodded. “I assume you received the confidentiality agreement that I messengered to you?”
“I did. And I reviewed it with my attorney.” Tentatively, Madeline leaned down, reached into her purse and extracted a folded document. “Here’s the fully executed original,” she said, unfolding the page and handing it to Casey. “I kept a copy for my records.”
“Good. Then let’s begin.” Casey sipped at her coffee, then called out, “Yoda, please turn on Inspector Gadget.”
Ryan grinned, proud of yet another of his accomplishments. Inspector Gadget was the iPhone hack he’d programmed into each team member’s iPhone, which turned the cell phones into secret listening devices. With Yoda in control, the iPhone microphone and cameras could be activated, streaming audio and video over the best available network, for live viewing and/or recording by the team.
“Inspector Gadget activated,” Yoda announced.
“Go, go, Gadget,” Ryan muttered under his breath with a quiet chuckle.
Madeline was looking around, her eyes wide and puzzled.
“Yoda is our artificial intelligence system,” Casey explained. “Ryan built him, so he’s smart but safe.”
A tentative nod. “Okay.” Madeline still looked bewildered. Then again, everyone did the first time they heard Yoda.
“Go ahead and tell us your situation,” Casey said.
Madeline cleared her throat. “Someone is trying to kill me,” she said bluntly. “I have no witnesses and no tangible proof, so the police can’t help me. Can you?”
“Who would be trying to kill you and why?” Marc spoke up for the first time, his demeanor all business.
“I have no idea.” Madeline couldn’t meet his eyes. “That’s the problem. But my apartment was broken into a few weeks ago. Yes, items were stolen, but the way the place was trashed so violently, I don’t believe that robbery was the reason for the break-in. And then three days ago...” Madeline touched the bruise on her forehead. “Someone tried to run me down when I was crossing the street. It wasn’t a drunk driver. It was very deliberate and very professional. I’d just stepped into the road when the SUV came at me. I literally had to fling myself back on the sidewalk to avoid getting killed. I have broken ribs and a concussion as souvenirs.”
Patrick’s forehead creased in thought. “If that’s the case, then whoever’s behind these attacks is convinced that you not only have something, but that you know something,” he said. “Otherwise, they’d just be going after your possessions, not you.”
“So you believe me?” Madeline’s voice was weak with relief.
“We have no reason not to,” Casey replied. “You make a solid argument.”
“But the police...”
“The police have to operate by a certain set of criteria that we don’t have to.” Casey kept it short and sweet. “So let’s move on to the obvious questions. What’s changed in your life recently? New relationships? New job? New routine?”
“None of the above.”
“Then let’s start close to home. Tell us about your husband.”
“Ex-husband,” Madeline corrected. Almost inadvertently, she darted a quick glance at Marc, then looked away. “Conrad’s and my divorce was final last month. But we were separated for six months before that. It’s hardly new.”
“Tell us about him, anyway,” Claire asked.
Madeline sighed, not a sigh of anger, but one of weariness and resignation.
“Conrad is a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon—one of the top three in the country. He was...is...the head of the cardio unit at Manhattan Memorial Hospital. He’s also a very complex man.”
“How so?”
“He’s bigger than life. Always striving for perfection. He not only needs to excel and to surpass others, but to surpass himself. And when all the pieces fall into place, he’s unstoppable. But when they don’t...” A helpless shake of her head. “He’s his own worst enemy.”
“Did you say he was or he is the head of the cardiothoracic surgical unit?” Casey asked, having not missed Madeline’s hesitation over the past or present tense.
“Is. He’s just taken a leave of absence.”
Something about the way Madeline said that gave Casey pause. “When you say ‘a leave of absence,’ do you mean an extended vacation, or a sabbatical to go abroad and study some new aspect of his craft?”
“Neither.” Madeline looked down at the floor for a moment, then met Casey’s gaze. “This isn’t common knowledge, but Conrad has been staying at Crest Haven Residential Treatment Center. It’s a private facility in Connecticut.”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s a top-notch mental health facility.”
Madeline nodded. “This has been a devastating time for Conrad. Three months ago, he lost a dear friend who he’d just operated on. He’s never forgiven himself. I doubt he ever will.”
“Why did he operate on a close friend?” Casey asked. “As I understand it, that’s ill-advised.”
“It is. But the friend was Ronald Lexington, the hospital administrator. The surgery was a delicate one, and Ron wouldn’t allow anyone but Conrad to perform it.”
“Wow.” Ryan let out a low whistle. “Talk about pressure. That’s a tough one to live with.”
“It must have taken a huge toll on whatever was left of your marriage,” Casey said tactfully.
“Our marriage was already over.” Madeline’s reply was straightforward, but she was fiddling with the pleat of her pants leg. “We’d been talking on and off for a year and a half about separation. The divorce process was already well under way when this happened. But no, our relationship wouldn’t have been strong enough to hold up—not given the severity of Conrad’s reaction or his resistance to share his pain with me.”
“Was he sharing his pain with anyone else?” Ryan asked.
Claire winced. There was brilliant but blunt Ryan. “Anyone that you know of—like a colleague or a clergyman?” she asked, trying to soften the glaring implications of Ryan’s question.
A small smile curved Madeline’s lips. “I’m not offended. I doubt Conrad was having an affair. That’s not where his head was. I also doubt he did much sharing with anyone—that’s just not his nature. So, for the record, I doubt I’m being hunted down by a jealous lover. The gossip mill runs wild in the circles we traveled in. The fact that our marriage was ending was common knowledge. As was the fact that it was an amicable divorce. We wished each other well. We still do.”
“What circles did you travel in?” Patrick asked.
“Oh, we had a real-life soap opera going on.” Madeline grimaced. “An elite social crowd of high-profile doctors and their spouses. It was compounded by the fact that I work in the same hospital as Conrad. I’m an emergency room nurse. So I was in the middle of the drama both professionally and personally. It was exhausting. I’m a private person, so I’m struggling to extricate myself from it as quickly as possible. But after five years, it’s not easy, despite the divorce.”
That opened the door to a whole separate cluster of questions and suspects. But Casey was studying Madeline’s body language. She was no longer sitting up straight and tall. She looked drawn, exhausted, pale. And every time she shifted in her seat, she flinched. The woman was clearly in a fair amount of physical pain. And the only motivator that had gotten her here today was fear.
This interview had barely gotten started. But it was about to end.
“You’re a nurse,” Casey said. “Why do I get the feeling you used your clout to check yourself out of the hospital sooner than the doctors would have advised?”
Another pained smile. “Probably because you’re perceptive—which is one of the reasons I want to hire you. Although I am on extended leave, pending my doctor’s permission to return. That, I couldn’t wiggle my way out of.” Her smile faded. “I’m terrified. I know someone wants me dead—and I have no idea why. Or when the next attempt on my life is going to be. I don’t feel safe anywhere—not at home, not doing errands, not even at the hospital. Please. I need your help.”
Casey glanced around the room, reading her team’s expressions. Their usual procedure was to meet privately and make a group decision as to whether or not to take on a case. But Casey was reluctant to make Madeline wait when she was clearly in pain.
Plus, Casey knew her team. She knew what their reactions would be.
Except for Marc. This time, he was a huge question mark. So she saved him for last.
First, Patrick. He gave her an indiscernible nod. Ditto for Ryan. Claire’s lips mouthed the word yes.
Everyone accounted for. Casey angled her head in Marc’s direction. He was still writing—although Casey suspected that was more to keep himself occupied than it was to jot down notes about what was being said. Marc had a steel-trap mind, plus Yoda was taping the interview.
Well aware that Casey was looking at him, he raised his head and met her gaze. With an expression that was totally nondescript, he blinked his assent.
That settled that.
“If money is the issue, just name your fee,” Madeline interrupted the silence to offer. “Conrad gave me a generous settlement. I’m sure we can come to terms.”
“I’m sure we can.” Casey rose, extended her hand. “Consider yourself our client. We still have a lot to go over with you, but not today. You need to be in bed, recuperating. How did you get here this morning?”
“I took a cab. I live on the Upper East Side.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Patrick said at once. “I’d like to check out your apartment.”
Once again, Madeline reached into her purse. “I have a copy of the police report, if that helps. It lists the items that were stolen.”
“Great.” Patrick took the sheet of paper she unfolded. “That eliminates our having to contact the precinct. But actually, I’m more interested in seeing what specific areas of the apartment were ransacked. It might give me a clue as to what the intruders were looking for.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Also, while we’re driving, I’ll contact my security team and arrange to have a guard assigned to you immediately.” Over the years, Patrick had compiled a number of retired FBI agents and police officers to make up his expert security team. “That way, you’ll be safe and you’ll have peace of mind.”
“Thank you.” Slowly, Madeline stood up. “I truly appreciate it.”
“We’ll be in touch tomorrow,” Casey said. “If you’re up to it, maybe I can stop by your apartment and talk to you there. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable in your own home.”
A nod. “I’m sure I would. I’ll wait for your call, then.” She paused, for the first time turning to look directly at Marc. “It was good to see you again, Marc,” she said softly, gripping her purse as if for moral support.
Marc met her gaze. “Good to see you, too.”
Patrick escorted Madeline from the room.
The rest of the team chatted briefly, and then disbanded, already divvying up assignments.
“Marc.” Casey stopped him before he could leave the room. “I need your input for a minute. Could you hang around?”
“Sure.” He stopped in his tracks, not looking the least bit surprised by Casey’s request. He knew her. And he knew what she wanted.
He remained silent, waiting for her to initiate the conversation.
Casey crossed over and shut the door, turning around to face him. She folded her arms across her chest. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”
“Not really.”
“Fair enough. I’ll ask only what I need to. You answer only what you want to.”
“Shoot.”
“What was the nature of your relationship with Madeline, and based on that, do you need to bow out of this one?”
Marc shoved his hands in his pockets. “Madeline and I met when I was a SEAL, stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. She was a nurse at Bethesda Naval Hospital. I went for a checkup. She was on duty. We hit it off. We got involved in a personal relationship. It ended. And no, I’m not bowing out. She and I haven’t seen each other in years. Plus, you know me. Nothing prevents me from doing my job.”
“Yes, I do know you. And I’ve never seen you react to another living soul the way you just did to Madeline Westfield. You were in love with her. That’s obvious. It’s also quite a departure from the Marc I’m used to. So you can understand my concern.”
“I understand it. I’m assuaging it. It’s not a problem. Am I excused now?”
Casey studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, stepping aside. “Yes, Marc, you’re excused. I won’t bring this up again unless it becomes necessary.”
“It won’t.” He was already heading out.
Casey stared after him as the door shut in his wake. “If you say so,” she murmured.
4 (#ulink_fe49db2b-aede-5aff-af67-413b8ddf0923)
BY THE TIME Madeline unlocked the door and let herself and Patrick into her East Eighty-Second Street apartment, she was weaving on her feet.
Patrick scanned the place. It was damned impressive—modern furnishings, all chrome and leather, lots of windows, gleaming parquet floors, serious artwork on the walls. This postdivorce apartment must have cost Madeline a pretty penny.
Then again, she’d been married to a renowned cardiothoracic surgeon. He had to be rolling in money. From the preliminary information Ryan had provided them, Madeline’s original home—the one she’d shared with Conrad on East Seventy-Second and York—was a multimillion-dollar duplex, so this apartment was small potatoes in comparison.
Still, compared to Patrick’s modest home in Hoboken, New Jersey, this was a showplace.
Having assessed the foyer, the dining room and the sunken living room, Patrick’s gaze settled on the cocoa-brown leather sofa near the wall of panoramic windows. “Go lie down,” he instructed Madeline, pointing. “I can look around myself. I’ll fire questions as I need to.”
“Thank you,” Madeline said, making her way gingerly across the hall.
Watching her slow, unsteady progress, Patrick changed his mind and opted to take her arm and assist her down the two steps to the living room, leading her over to the couch. He stood there until she’d settled herself on the cushions and covered herself with a multicolored afghan.
“Can I get you something?” he asked. “Coffee? Soup?”
Madeline smiled. “You’re an excellent host, especially since I’m the one who should be asking you those questions.”
A return smile. “I’m not the one with the concussion and broken ribs. Plus, I’m not bad in the kitchen. My wife is the cooking wizard, but I can certainly heat up a can of soup.”
“I have no doubt. But honestly, I’m fine.” Madeline graciously declined his offer. “Thank you, though. It’s nice to know there are still some gentlemen out there. Your wife is a lucky woman.”
Patrick chuckled. “There are times when she would challenge you on that.” As he spoke, he surveyed the room, focusing on specific areas of interest.
Madeline followed the line of his scrutiny. “You’re eager to get started. Go ahead.”
Nodding, Patrick noted that the apartment appeared to be pretty tidy, despite the gaping spaces where electronic equipment had once stood. “Clearly you did a thorough cleaning and rearranging since the break-in. I need to know not only what was taken, but where most of the ransacking took place. Once I get a handle on that, I’ll get started looking for what the intruder wanted.”
“Okay.” Madeline nodded, her arm sweeping the room. “As you can see from the hollow spaces, all our...my,” she corrected herself, “electronic equipment was taken—a fifty-inch flat-screen TV, audio components, DVD player—you name it. The DVDs on the shelves had collapsed all over the floor, thanks to the fact that the intruders stole the statues that were holding them in place. The same applied to the matching statues and DVDs in the master bedroom. The kitchen drawers were emptied onto the floor. The credenza and the vitrine in the dining room were rifled.”
“Did they take the silverware in the kitchen? Or any china or collectibles that were in the dining room?”
“Neither. A few of the costlier sculptures from the dining room were gone, but all the paintings throughout the apartment were left on the walls.”
“Some of those paintings are valuable,” Patrick noted, scanning the walls again. “Which is another indication that robbery wasn’t the real motive here. Keep talking. What other rooms were disturbed?”
“The second bedroom was a disaster.”
Patrick’s brows rose. “And that room is for...?”
“I use it as a den. I have a futon, bookshelves filled with books, a small desk and some computer equipment. I also have a wall safe in there. I opened that right after the burglary. Obviously whoever broke in couldn’t figure out the combination because the safe was locked, and when I checked, none of my jewelry, personal papers or cash was taken. Oh, I also have some old file cabinets in the room. The intruder went through those, too.”
“How do you know? Were the contents dumped? The files sticking out?”
Madeline shook her head. “Everything looked perfectly in place—not a sheet of paper to be found. But I double-checked, anyway, just in case. I know my filing system, right down to my old recipes. Sure enough, the files were all out of order, as were the papers inside them. Somebody definitely went through the drawers and tried to make it look like they hadn’t. I have no idea if they found something or what that something was. Nothing jumped out at me as being missing.”
“Either they didn’t find what they were looking for, or they found it and it made getting rid of you that much more urgent.” Patrick scowled. “Besides recipes, what kinds of files do you keep?”
“My utility bills. My health records, lab results—that kind of thing. My receipts for items purchased. My medical insurance. The common charges for my condo.”
“You’re one organized lady. Although I can’t imagine any of those things being of interest to our offender. Still, you never know. One restaurant receipt, one item purchased...” Patrick loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Time for me to get started. Let’s see if we can figure out what you have that’s worth killing for.”
* * *
Marc gave Hero more exercise than the bloodhound was used to.
During the extralong walk around Tribeca, Hero’s ears were flapping in the crisp breeze, his paws crunching in piles of leaves, as Marc strode along at a speedier pace than usual.
All was forgiven, however, when Hero saw where Marc was finishing up their jaunt—at the dog park, which was alive with bright autumn colors and some fellow canines. Marc closed the gate and removed Hero’s leash, letting him run off and have some playtime with his peers.
Walk or no walk, Marc hadn’t worked one drop of tension out of his body, nor had he unwound even the slightest bit. He sank down on a park bench, keeping an eye on Hero and wishing he could spend the entire afternoon at the gym, rather than going back to the brownstone. He needed to expend some serious energy.
“Hi.” A pretty blonde woman, about thirty years old with a black Labrador retriever tugging at his leash, stopped next to Marc. “Which dog is yours?” she asked, giving Marc a flirtatious smile as she tucked a strand of blowing hair behind her ear.
Marc had been hunched over, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on Hero. Now he sat up, giving the woman a cordial but reserved smile and folding his arms across his chest. He knew his body language was less than welcoming. In fact, it was closing him off. Normally he’d enjoy passing the time here with an attractive woman. But not today. Today he needed to be alone.
“The bloodhound.” He pointed, simultaneously pulling out his iPhone as if he was about to start some major project. “And between watching him and getting my work done, I’m going crazy.”
The woman’s face fell. “I guess that means you’re not in the mood for a conversation break.”
Marc’s expression softened a bit. After all, it wasn’t this woman’s fault that his head was messed up today. “Oh, I’m in the mood for one. Unfortunately, I can’t do it. Not today. My boss would kill me. I should have done this research on my office laptop, but I opted for a walk instead. So I’m stuck looking at a tiny screen, reading detailed legal documents.”
“Say no more. I understand.” The blonde, who looked like a professional herself, extended her hand. “I’m Robin.”
“Marc.” He shook her hand, fully aware of the intentionally warm grasp of her fingers. “Can I take a rain check?”
“No problem.” Her tone perked up. “Dash and I stop by the park every day at lunchtime. He gets a walk and I get a break. I’m surprised I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I usually take Hero’s evening shift. My colleague takes the one midday. I’m beginning to understand why.” Marc mustered a grin. “Maybe I can make some schedule changes. I’ll certainly try.”
“Hero?” Awareness dawned in Robin’s eyes. “Then Ryan is your colleague. I should have guessed. Why is it that all the hot guys band together?”
Marc had to laugh at that one. “I’ll duck that question and just say thanks for the compliment.”
Robin fumbled in her purse and pulled out a piece of paper, scribbling down her phone number. “Call me—Marc.” She stuffed the piece of paper in his hand. “Maybe we can coordinate dog park visits.”
“Maybe we can.” Marc pocketed the slip of paper and lifted his hand in a wave as Robin strolled off to join some of the women across the way. Judging from her friendly demeanor, she knew them. Dog park buddies. A nice way to pass the lunch hour.
Marc continued to stare at his iPhone, not even seeing it.
All he could see was Maddy.
How long had it been? Nine years? No, ten.
A lifetime. And a heartbeat.
They’d met in the hospital cafeteria. Maddy’s eight-hour nursing shift had just ended, and she was grabbing a cup of coffee and a crumb bun to tide her over until she could get a decent meal. Marc had recently gotten back from an overseas mission to the Middle East, and he was at Bethesda for a routine physical, which he’d just passed with flying colors.
They’d bumped into each other on the cafeteria line—literally.
As she’d juggled to balance her tray, Maddy had pivoted, walked smack into Marc and knocked the cup of hot coffee he’d been holding all over him.
She’d been totally mortified. He’d been totally amused. Yeah, the hot liquid stung, but he’d gotten a kick out of the way she took care of the problem, folding and applying napkins to his shirt as if she was dressing a wound.
Chewing her lip, deep in concentration, she’d been so serious about the task at hand that it had taken a good five minutes before she spotted the twinkle in Marc’s eyes.
Then she’d risen to her feet, tossed down the napkins and, without a single word, went over and bought Marc another cup of coffee.
“Here you go.” She’d handed it to him. “I’d say we’re even.”
His grin had turned into a deep-throated chuckle, and his gaze had scrutinized her from head to toe. “Not unless you sit down and share a cup with me. Then we’ll be even.”
She had. And that’s when and where it had begun.
Marc didn’t open up easily. He was reserved by nature—a trait which had been accentuated by his covert role as a navy SEAL. Yet with Maddy, he was relaxed, comfortable. She was easy to talk to. She didn’t pry and she didn’t pursue any subject he chose to avoid. She was open about her own life—a small-town girl who’d read six biographies on Florence Nightingale and had always wanted to be a nurse. ROTC had paid her scholarship to college, and she’d gone on to be a navy nurse, stationed here in Bethesda Medical Center. From the additional info Marc had made sure to dig up, Maddy had completely undersold herself. It was no wonder she’d become an E.R. nurse. She had an incredible gift. There were military guys in the hospital who, by all rights, should have died from their injuries, but hadn’t—thanks to Madeline. She wasn’t beautiful, but there was something incredibly sexy and stunning about her. Dark hair, big brown eyes, delicate features and a body to kill for, she possessed a certain warmth and style that was impossible to miss.
The sexual pull between them had been instant and overwhelming. Even that first evening, when Marc had done nothing more than walk her to her door and kiss her good-night, they’d both felt the burn. It had taken all Marc’s self-control not to back her into the apartment, tear off her clothes and bury himself inside her until neither of them could breathe.
Maddy had felt the same. He saw it in her eyes when his lips left hers—the wonder, the astonishment, the desire. And her heart had been racing; he could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
All from one kiss.
One kiss that had led to another date, and then another.
By that third date, Marc’s iron control snapped.
He was barely able to get through dinner before he tossed down his napkin and stared straight into Maddy’s eyes.
“I can’t do coffee and dessert,” he said bluntly. “I’ve got to get inside you.”
Maddy didn’t bat a lash. She folded her napkin neatly, placed it beside her half-eaten meal and rose.
“I’ll get my coat. You get the check. I’ll meet you outside in five minutes,” she replied.
It took Marc three.
They sat apart in the taxi, not even daring to touch each other. They both knew that once they did, it would be all over. But the sexual tension in the backseat was so thick it was suffocating.
By the time Marc kicked her apartment door shut and reached behind him to flip the lock, Maddy was unbuttoning his shirt. Marc finished the job for her, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside.
Then he reached for her, pulling her against him.
He took her mouth in a devouring kiss that nearly brought them to their knees. Maddy pressed herself against him, and Marc backed her toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss. He pulled off her clothes as they staggered down the short hall and into her room.
They were naked when they hit the bed.
Neither of them could withstand the preliminaries—not this first time. There were no gentle strokes, no soft words, no tender touches. It was fast, and it was hot and it was primal.
Afterward, Marc collapsed on top of her. Never in his life had he lost control like that, coming with the urgency and explosiveness of a teenager. He’d barely been able to hold back long enough to feel Maddy unravel beneath him, pulse all around him, cry out his name.
He knew he’d shouted hers, as well. And he knew he was lost.
“Shit,” he’d muttered.
A soft laugh had shimmered through Maddy’s body. “Nice. Just the thing a girl wants to hear after...this.”
With the greatest of efforts, Marc had propped himself on his elbows, gazing down into Maddy’s deep, dark eyes.
“Did you feel it, too?” he asked bluntly.
A soft smile through kiss-swollen lips. “Yes,” she whispered, tracing his jaw with her fingertip. “I felt it. I’ve never felt anything like it before. But you knew that.”
“I knew it because it was the same with me.” Marc shut his eyes, pressed his forehead to hers. “Shit,” he said again.
Maddy was silent for a moment. “We don’t have to give this a name or overanalyze it, Marc,” she murmured. “We can just enjoy it—whatever it is and whatever it becomes.”
“We both know that’s a cop-out, Maddy. The name is hanging out there, whether or not the words are said. The feelings are real and they’re off the charts. I’m already in so deep I can’t get through a meeting without thinking about this.” He pushed his hips gently against hers. “And that was before it happened. Now I’ll probably walk around with a 24/7 hard-on.”
Maddy began to laugh. “I like that image. Very SEAL-like.” Her fingertips caressed his back, and her breath caught as she felt him harden inside her. “Let’s not talk. For now—I’m here.” She wrapped her legs around him. “Right here.”
Right here had gone on for months—the most emotionally consuming months of Marc’s life.
And emotionally consuming was not the mindset of a navy SEAL. It couldn’t be.
An outburst of barks, followed by Hero slamming his full weight against Marc’s legs, snapped Marc out of his trip down memory lane in a hurry. Hero jumped up, scrambling, without much success, to get his beefy body onto Marc’s lap.
“Down,” Marc commanded, snapping his fingers.
Instantly Hero obeyed.
“Sit.”
Hero’s bottom hit the ground and he gazed at Marc, waiting for his reward.
“Very subtle.” Marc reached in his pocket for one of the organic carrots Claire had cut up this morning. “Good boy.” He extended his hand and gave Hero what he was waiting for.
As Hero chomped down the carrot, Marc rose, now very much in the present. “I take it you’ve had enough playtime with your buddies and are ready to head back. So am I.”
Robin waved at Marc as he leashed Hero, and he grinned and waved back. She brought her hand to her ear in a gesture that said Call me. Marc nodded. He wished he was in the market for a hookup that would be that simple.
But simple had never been his forte.
Feeling restless and in a foul mood, Marc walked Hero briskly back to work.
“Have a good outing?” Casey asked as he passed by her office.
“Hero got some exercise and I got hit on. So I’d say, yeah, it was a good outing.”
Casey glanced up and watched the tension in his broad-shouldered body as he continued on his way.
“I’d try the gym,” she called after him. “It’s probably better for what ails you.”
5 (#ulink_ad6e8ff0-c4e6-553f-8f2e-c4aa2b501085)
CASEY ARRIVED AT Madeline’s apartment at 11:00 a.m. sharp, the time Emma had confirmed with her first thing that morning.
“Hey, John,” Casey greeted the security guard at the door. John Nickels was one of Patrick’s best and sharpest.
“Casey—hi.” John gave her a professional smile. He was well over six feet, with the body of a linebacker. He’d served the NYPD in the homicide department for twenty-five years. No one was getting by him, that was for damned sure.
Now he stepped aside for Casey to ring the bell. The doorman had already announced her and gotten Madeline’s okay to send her up. “Everything here’s been quiet,” he said.
“Good.” Casey rang the bell. “That’s how I like it.”
Madeline opened the door. She was wearing jeans and a pale yellow sweater. Again, expensive but understated.
She was still moving stiffly as she showed Casey in, urging her to make herself comfortable on the living room’s deep-cushioned, pebble-brown club chair, which was positioned diagonally across from the sofa.
“Don’t even offer to get me anything.” Casey cut off what she saw was coming, hanging her coat on one of the polished brass hooks adjacent to the door. “Just sit down on that sofa and relax. We’ll talk.”
“I feel like a ridiculous invalid,” Madeline said, lowering herself to the sofa with a grimace. “I’m sitting in the exact same spot as I was yesterday when Patrick was checking out my apartment. Other than showering, eating and creeping in and out of my bed, I’ve done very little but lie here and read.”
“You’re healing,” Casey replied. “You need the rest.”
“I haven’t slept well since the break-in, and certainly not since the attempt on my life,” Madeline admitted. “I wouldn’t have shut an eye if John hadn’t been outside my door all night. I can’t thank you or Patrick enough for arranging security for me.”
“We protect our clients.” Casey was adamant. “Nothing is going to happen to you. Not on our watch. You can count on it.”
“I am.” Madeline folded her hands in her lap. “Go ahead. Ask me whatever you’d like.”
Casey held up her iPhone with a questioning look. “All right if I tape the convo? I want to concentrate without taking notes.” A grin. “And unfortunately, Yoda isn’t transportable.”
Madeline chuckled, waved her hand to indicate that Casey should go ahead. “Record away.”
Casey pressed the appropriate button and set the iPhone on the coffee table. She sat back, crossing one leg over the other. “Let’s review potential suspects. Starting with Conrad.”
Madeline inclined her head in surprise. “Conrad? Isn’t that a reach? I mean, I know the spouse is always number one on the list, but under the circumstances, my ex is in no position to try to run me down.”
“Your ex is a rich man with lots of connections and pull. He’s in a health care facility, not a prison. He could have hired someone to do his dirty work.” Casey propped her elbow on her knee and leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand. “You said your divorce was amicable, but it was still a divorce. Were you seeing someone else? Was there a dispute over money? Did you get anything in the settlement that Conrad badly wanted to keep?”
Casey stopped her litany of questions to ask the most important one. “Was Conrad unstable enough to let any one of those things push him over the edge?”
“And hire a hit man to kill me?” Madeline’s tone was filled with disbelief. “Absolutely not. He’s severely depressed and in a very dark place. But his anger is all aimed inward. Our conversations have been few, but they’ve all been civil, even friendly. And no, I wasn’t and am not seeing anyone else. Nor did I demand anything in the divorce. Conrad was more than generous. I really think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Casey intentionally kept her posture relaxed. She was easing the conversation in a strategic direction that could possibly put Madeline on the defensive—especially since she’d just written her ex-husband off as a suspect. “Would you object if I were to drive up and have a talk with Conrad?”
Madeline’s eyes widened, more in surprise than in defensiveness.
“Just being thorough,” Casey added lightly.
After considering that for a moment, Madeline shrugged. “I guess not,” she said. “The truth is, Conrad and I may be divorced, but I still care about him. I have no idea what his current state of mind is, and I don’t want to cause a setback. So let’s talk to his doctor first and get her opinion. Her name is Dr. Marie Oberlin. I’ll call her before you leave. If she gives us her okay, I’ll text you all her contact info, and you can make the trip up to Danbury.”
“That would be great.”
Madeline’s eyes narrowed quizzically. “I wasn’t expecting you to take such an aggressive stance when it came to Conrad. You weren’t that way yesterday. What changed? Did you dig up something I should know about?”
“No.” Casey was blunt. “What changed is that you and I are now alone and Marc isn’t in the room.”
A flush stained Madeline’s cheeks, and she dropped her gaze. “How much did Marc tell you?” she asked.
“Marc doesn’t share. Not his personal life. But I’m sure that comes as no surprise to you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Is there anything you’d like to share?”
Madeline’s hesitation was brief. “I guess I came to Forensic Instincts because of and in spite of Marc. Your company’s reputation is stellar. I also know how extraordinary Marc is at everything he does. Failure’s not in his vocabulary. But I didn’t expect to react so powerfully to seeing him again. It’s been ten years. Maybe I made a mistake coming to you.”
“You didn’t. We just need to work this through.” Casey wasn’t surprised by anything Madeline had just said. “Here’s what I know. You two met in Bethesda during Marc’s navy SEAL days. I gather you had a relationship—a pretty intense one, judging from both your reactions. I won’t pry. But you have to take the lead with me on this one. How much do you want Marc to be included in or excluded from? How hard will it be to separate business from personal? I’ll handle this any way you want me to. And it can be handled. But you have to tell me what you want—Marc’s expertise or his absence. Either can be arranged.”
There was a long silence—one that Casey had anticipated. She just sat quietly, watching Madeline pick at a fingernail and waiting for her response.
“I trust Marc with my life,” she said at last. “I’d be an idiot to exclude him. We’re both adults. We’ll have to get past our residual feelings—that is, unless Marc’s indicated otherwise.”
“To the contrary, Marc is his usual proactive self, ready to take on and solve the case. But you’re our client. You have to be at ease.”
“What I have to be is alive,” Madeline responded. “So yes, please include Marc in your investigation.”
“Fine.” Casey nodded. “Next question. I’d like to take Marc with me when I visit Conrad. I rely on his intuition and his strategies. Does Conrad know about Marc?”
“He knows I was involved with someone in Bethesda years ago. He’s not privy to the details. And I didn’t exactly leave photos lying around. So he wouldn’t recognize Marc or his name.”
“Good.” Again, Casey nodded. “So you’ll call Dr. Oberlin before I leave. If all goes as planned, Marc and I will visit Crest Haven Residential Treatment Center. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Let’s move on, then. I’ll need a list of all your friends, supposed friends and associates, both inside and outside the hospital—everything from Ronald Lexington’s wife, to his professional successor, to your coffee or lunch buddies, to your dentist and hair stylist. Start composing it as soon as I leave. I’ll need it ASAP.”
“Wow.” Madeline rubbed a hand across her brow. “That’s going to be quite a challenge.”
“I’m sure. But it has to be done.” Casey could see that Madeline’s strength was waning. “One more thing and then I’ll let you make that phone call and we’ll call it a morning. What’s changed in your life—either personal or professional—over the past few weeks or months? Anything at all that comes to mind?”
“The merger,” Madeline replied without missing a beat.
“Yes, the hospital merger.” Casey wasn’t surprised that Madeline responded so quickly and went straight to that particular subject. Based on Ryan’s preliminary research, the health care industry was abuzz with news of the merger between Manhattan Memorial Hospital—the hospital where Madeline and Conrad worked—and New York Medical Center.
“Ryan did some digging,” Casey said. “According to him, the merger you’re describing recently went from being a dead issue to a done deal. I understand why the hospital board put it on hold—Ronald Lexington’s death. I also understand that he’s been gone for several months. What rekindled the interest in the merger now?”
“Profitability did,” Madeline replied. “Our hospital was in turmoil after Ronald’s death. It took a while, but now it’s running smoothly again, thanks to our interim hospital administrator—who’s adamantly in favor of the merger, by the way. The board was waiting for him to be brought up to speed to consummate a deal.”
“Interesting. You said that Ronald was just as adamantly opposed.” Casey processed that. “Where did Conrad fit into this?”
“Oh, he was a major advocate. And, in the interest of full disclosure, his pro stance wasn’t entirely altruistic. Part of the reason he was so eager for the merger to happen is that he was being offered the position of chief of surgery of the new conglomerate.”
“I see.” Actually, Casey already knew that. But it was important that Madeline trusted her enough to tell her everything.
“Personally, Ronald thought that was wonderful for Conrad. But he was opposed to expanding the hospital into a huge, impersonal entity—and to having to eliminate staff in the process.”
“That was then. Let’s talk about now.”
“As I said, the merger was just announced,” Madeline replied. “Rumors are flying everywhere. The entire hospital chats about little else. There are a lot of people freaking out—not that I blame them. People are worried about losing their jobs, about pay cuts, about resource cuts, about increased responsibilities and fewer staff members to fulfill them. And the whole process is in everyone’s face, so the stress is through the roof. Due diligence has already started. There are accountants and lawyers meeting with Jacob Casper every day.”
“Jacob Casper,” Casey repeated, referring to the interim hospital administrator. “Tell me about him.”
“He was one of a dozen potential candidates, from what I understand. The board thought the world of him. They interviewed like crazy, but Jacob was appointed at Manhattan Memorial less than a month after Ronald’s passing.”
“And the general consensus on him?”
“He’s a good man for the job,” Madeline replied. “He was one of Ron’s key people, although they didn’t see eye-to-eye on many things. He’s well-respected, if not particularly well-liked. Ron was a real person. Jacob is a corporate guy.”
“And he’s pushing for the merger.” Casey tapped her index finger against her lips. “Do you have any idea what his inclinations are where it comes to Conrad? Does he endorse his becoming chief of surgery? Is he open-minded about his return? Or has he temporarily—or permanently—written him off?”
Madeline turned up her palms. “I have no idea. As Conrad’s ex, all I hear about him is gossip—nothing I’d place any stock in. And even before the divorce, no one in the hospital would have discussed Conrad with me. That would be unethical and unprofessional.”
Casey processed that with a nod. “We can find a way into the hospital to conduct some interviews, including Jacob Casper. But some of what we need access to requires a more delicate approach.”
A hint of a smile curved Madeline’s lips. “I think the detective shows call that infiltrating the place.”
“I call it getting what’s necessary to keep you safe.” Casey paused, recalling a tidbit of information that Ryan had run by her earlier. “Ryan caught a brief internet post on the hospital’s website—something about a courtyard dedication to Ronald Lexington?”
“Yes,” Madeline replied. “After Ronald’s death, donors contributed money to the hospital in his name. Ronald loved the outdoors, so all the donations went toward building a small courtyard near the administrative wing. It was just completed. There’s going to be a dedication ceremony next week.”
“Perfect,” Casey said. “How small and private is the ceremony?”
“Anyone employed by the hospital is free to come. And it’s not high security or anything, so I’m sure you could find your way in.”
“We’d do better as invited guests—invited and accompanied by a respected hospital staff member.”
Madeline’s brows rose. “Me?”
“Will you be up to it?”
“If you think it will help, I’ll make myself be up to it.”
“Good,” Casey replied. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”
6 (#ulink_ee3fbd03-1d7e-5ae1-8cc5-c14866affc47)
CREST HAVEN RESIDENTIAL Treatment Center looked more like a posh and well-manicured country club than it did a health care facility—right down to the sprawling grounds and cast-iron entrance gates.
Casey drove the FI van up to the security booth, and provided the guard with both hers and Marc’s names and P.I. identification cards. The thin-lipped man with the balding head peered inside the car at the two of them, checked their IDs and finally made a brief phone call while squinting at his visitors’ list. Whatever he was told evidently satisfied him, because he pressed a button that made the heavy iron gates swing open.
“The visitors’ lot is at the far right of the grounds,” he said in a flat monotone. “Follow the signs. Avoid the handicapped spots. Enter the main building through the front doors. You’ll be met at the reception desk just inside. Do not proceed farther or you will be stopped and escorted out.”
“Thank you.” Casey shifted the van back into Drive and moved through the open gates and along the winding driveway.
“What a charmer,” Marc muttered. “He must attract women like a magnet.”
Casey smiled. “At least Dr. Oberlin left the right instructions about our visit. Otherwise, I think Mr. Charmer would be cuffing us right about now.”
“That still might happen. We’d better not put a toe beyond the reception desk or the fires of hell will swallow us up.”
Chuckling, Casey headed to the far right grounds and followed the signs to the visitors’ lot. She and Marc drove by a golf course, two tennis courts and an Olympic-size swimming pool.
“Nice accommodations,” Marc commented. “Certainly conducive to recovery.”
“If the patient has the mind-set to utilize the facilities. Severe depression puts a damper on all facets of life.”
“I know,” Marc answered quietly. “I’ve seen the results firsthand.”
Casey nodded. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the posttraumatic stress disorder and deep, dark depressions Marc had seen during his navy SEAL days.
“Madeline made it sound like Conrad was in bad shape,” she commented instead.
“Yeah, well, being a top-notch surgeon and having your best friend die on your operating table is pretty traumatic, especially after he begged you to do the surgery even though there was way too personal a connection for that to happen. Clearly Ronald Lexington had complete faith in Conrad.”
“And in Conrad’s eyes, he broke that faith in the most horrifying way possible.” Casey pulled into a parking spot and flipped off the ignition, then turned to face Marc. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
* * *
The security at the facility was every bit as tight as Mr. Charmer had implied. The doorman checked their IDs against a list he had, and then gestured for them to approach the white marble semicircular reception desk—an exquisite piece of furniture in an equally exquisite waiting room filled with mauve leather chairs and a gray-and-white marble floor.
A toned middle-aged woman with short salon-styled hair and a designer pantsuit looked up as they stopped in front of her.
“Yes?” she inquired.
For what seemed like the twentieth time, Casey and Marc presented their private investigator IDs and an explanation about Dr. Oberlin expecting them. Yet again, the woman checked out their story, this time on her computer, where she typed in their information with manicured fingernails.
“I’ll let Dr. Oberlin know you’re here,” she informed them. “Have a seat.”
Not a surprise that the seats she indicated were located in the front reception alcove. The guardian of the gates. No one would get by her, that was for sure.
“It’s easier to get into an FBI field office than it is to get in here,” Marc muttered. “The only difference is that here I’m allowed to keep my driver’s license and cell phone.” He glanced up as a male nurse headed in their direction. “Correction. The system here is a helluva lot faster than the Bureau’s.”
Casey didn’t have time to answer before a young man in a blue uniform approached them. His name tag read William Cook, RN.
“Ms. Woods? Mr. Devereaux?” he asked. Seeing their nods, he continued, “Dr. Oberlin is expecting you. Please follow me.”
He escorted them to the elevators, where he waited for them to precede him. He then pressed the third-floor button and stood, hands clasped behind him, as the doors shut.
“I’ll be taking you directly to Dr. Oberlin’s office,” he informed them. “She’ll have a brief meeting with you and then take you to see the patient you’ve requested to see—Dr. Westfield. He has a time limit on his visitations, so you’ll be allowed only a designated amount of time with him.”
“We understand.” Casey exchanged a quick glance with Marc. It felt like they were in the friggin’ military rather than a recuperation center.
The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and Nurse Cook led them down a few corridors until he reached an office whose gold plaque read Marie Oberlin, M.D.
He knocked.
“Yes?” came a crisp female voice from inside.
The RN opened the door partway. “Ms. Woods and Mr. Devereaux are here.”
There was the sound of a chair being rolled back, and then the click of heels on the floor. A tall, slim, middle-aged woman with chin-length dark hair and an understated pantsuit opened the door the rest of the way and gave them a professional smile. “Come in,” she said, gesturing. She shot a quick glance at the nurse, who was making his exit. “Thanks, Bill,” she added.
She shut the door, turned and shook Casey’s and Marc’s hands. “I’m Marie Oberlin, Dr. Westfield’s primary attending physician.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Oberlin,” Casey replied. She quickly scanned the office—lovely and elegant, but as understated as Dr. Oberlin herself, with rich walnut rather than stark, in-your-face marble furnishings. “We thank you for your time,” Casey added. “We realize it’s valuable.”
“Not as valuable as my patients.” Dr. Oberlin spoke with candor rather than arrogance. “I’m a little uncomfortable having private investigators as visitors. This isn’t exactly a social call, and I don’t want Dr. Westfield to suffer any setbacks. He’s here to recover, not to be agitated.”
“We understand that.” Casey nodded. “I’m sure Madeline Westfield explained the nature of our visit. We only want to ask her ex-husband a few questions as this involves her life and her safety.”
“She did explain that, which is why I’m permitting this visit. The stipulations are that I be present during the interview, and that when I say it’s over, it’s over.”
Casey wasn’t happy, but she wasn’t surprised, either. Conrad Westfield was a psychiatric patient. His physician wasn’t about to let him feel vulnerable and alone while being grilled by two P.I.s.
“Fair enough,” Casey responded. “And just so Marc and I know what to expect, could you summarize Dr. Westfield’s current mental state without compromising doctor-patient confidentiality? We know he had a psychotic break after the loss of his friend and that he came here in a severely depressive state. Is he clearheaded?”
Dr. Oberlin looked a little put off by the question. “If you’re asking if Dr. Westfield is in his right mind, the answer is yes. He’s depressed, not unaware. If his condition were more severe, or if he were unable to understand or answer your questions, I wouldn’t permit this visit, regardless of how dire the circumstances. In addition, he’s expecting you. I don’t surprise my patients. The final decision of who they do or don’t see is theirs. Dr. Westifield chose to have you here.”
“I understand—and we’re very appreciative.” Casey cautioned herself to tread lightly. The last thing she wanted to do was to offend the woman they needed as their ally. “I certainly wasn’t questioning your judgment. I only wanted to know what to expect so that Marc and I can accomplish what we need to as quickly and easily as possible. We’re not here to upset your patient, Dr. Oberlin. You have my word.”
That seemed to relax the psychiatrist a bit. “All right, then.” She scooped up a file and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Just one more question.” Casey held up her palm for an instant. “How much did you tell Conrad Westfield about his ex-wife? Does he know she was burglarized? Almost hit by a car?”
“He knows both,” Dr. Oberlin replied. “And he’s very concerned.”
“Good.” Casey nodded. “Then we’re ready for our interview.”
* * *
From a rear view, Conrad Westfield looked like any successful middle-aged man standing in his living room on a day off from work.
He was at the room’s bay window, back turned toward them, gazing outside. Dressed in designer sweats, he was tall, broad-shouldered and tan, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He looked strong and healthy, and not at all bent and broken.
Casey and Marc exchanged glances.
Dr. Oberlin intercepted the look. “Appearances are often deceiving,” she murmured. “At the same time, any manifestation of normal behavior is a positive sign.” Aloud, she said, “Conrad, your visitors are here.”
Conrad Westfield turned around. He was a handsome man, but instantly, Casey could see that Dr. Oberlin was right. Put together or not, Conrad’s face was drawn and his eyes were hollow and faraway.
“Dr. Westfield, thank you for seeing us.” Casey stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Woods, and this is my associate, Marc Devereaux.”
“Ms. Woods. Mr. Devereaux.” Conrad shook both their hands. There was no reaction at all when he said Marc’s name or met his gaze—again, not a surprise since Madeline had told them she’d never mentioned Marc’s name to her ex. But Marc indiscernibly tensed up, and his stare intensified, however subtly, as he scrutinized the man who’d been married to his former lover.
Casey knew Conrad wouldn’t notice, but she certainly did. And it concerned her. She intended to watch Marc like a hawk. If he couldn’t keep his personal feelings in check for this interview, then he was being relegated to the background on this case. No second chances. No questions asked.
Marc must have sensed his boss’s thought process, because he settled into his usual professional self ASAP.
“Please, sit down,” Conrad said, gesturing at the high-backed chairs on either side of a matching sofa, complete with coffee table. He glanced at Dr. Oberlin. “Are you staying?”
“Yes, unless you would prefer I didn’t,” she replied.
He made an offhand gesture. “I have no problem either way. I just don’t want Ms. Woods and Mr. Devereaux to feel they can’t be open and honest.” A wry smile. “Or to think they’re dealing with a crazy person.”
“That thought never occurred to us,” Casey said. “And Dr. Oberlin is more than welcome to stay. We won’t take up much of your time.”
That comment made Conrad’s smile widen. “Time is one thing I have an infinite amount of.”
The group of them sat down, Conrad on one end of the curved sofa, his physician on the other. This way she had a full view of him and his reactions.
Conrad opened the conversation right away. “How is Madeline?”
“Understandably anxious and upset,” Casey replied. “And still in pain. She took a nasty fall when she tried to avoid that SUV.”
Worry, not guilt, furrowed Conrad’s brow.
“I don’t understand it,” he said. “Why would someone want to hurt Madeline? She doesn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“Clearly that’s not true.” Marc spoke up for the first time, and he was all business, without a trace of personal involvement. “Our best guess is that the offender thinks she knows something incriminating, and that she has proof of it in her possession.”
“I don’t understand. Did she witness a crime?”
“Not that we know of,” Marc replied. “So far we haven’t found the offender’s trigger. But we will.”
“The police don’t have the manpower to do anything without solid evidence of our theory,” Casey added. “But Forensic Instincts does, which is why Madeline hired us.”
“I’m grateful.” Again, Conrad looked and sounded genuine. “And please, whatever extra funds need to be spent, I’m more than happy to cover them. Just keep her safe.”
“That’s the plan,” Casey said. “Which is why we wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Starting with, did I hire someone to try to kill my ex-wife.” Conrad spoke very matter-of-factly. He waved away any forthcoming clarification from Casey. “I’m not mentally healthy right now. But I do have my full wits about me. The husband—or former husband, in this case—is always the first suspect. The answer is no, I most certainly did not try to harm Madeline. Do whatever you need to do, look into whatever phone records you’d like—anything required to back up my claim. You have carte blanche to dig into my life—or whatever’s left of it.”
“Thank you.” Casey was wary about how extremely forthcoming Conrad was being. It could be that his complete and open honesty was real, and based only upon his fondness for his ex-wife. On the other hand, it could be that he was trying to throw them off track.
Either way, his cooperation made things a hell of a lot easier.
“You asked if Madeline witnessed a crime,” Casey said aloud. “As Marc told you, the answer is no—nothing overt. Can you think of any situation she might be overlooking that would make her a target?”
Conrad spread his palms wide. “No, but I’m at a distinct disadvantage. I haven’t seen my ex-wife in months, and my exposure to her life, most especially to her work, is nil.” He paused. “My former place of employment is not a topic that’s introduced to me unless I bring it up in a session.”
“Your former place of employment?” Marc responded to that one. “I was under the impression that you planned to return to your previous position—or your new one, when the hospital merger goes through.”
“You don’t have to discuss this if you’d rather not, Conrad,” Dr. Oberlin was quick to point out.
Conrad stared down at the carpet for a moment, then lifted his gaze—that sad, hollow gaze. “That’s all right. I’m just not sure how to answer your question. Whether or not the position is still open to me isn’t the primary issue. The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be capable of performing surgery again. I’m not even sure how I’d react to walking into an operating room.”
Casey couldn’t help but feel pity. The man was visibly suffering. A huge portion of his life and his identity were gone.
“I’m very sorry about Ronald Lexington,” she said quietly but directly. “I can’t imagine how painful his loss has been for you. But from what I understand, you’re a brilliant surgeon. Hundreds of people could benefit from your skills. Life happens. That doesn’t make it your fault.”
“We’re not here to analyze Dr. Westfield or to discuss his ghosts,” Dr. Oberlin interrupted. “Do you have any other questions for him—ones that relate to his former wife’s predicament?”
Casey took the hint, and fast. She backed off from any reference to Ronald Lexington or to Conrad’s state of mind. “We won’t keep you.” She rose and handed Conrad a business card. “If you could make arrangements for us to do the necessary background check that you so kindly offered, that would be great. Also if you think of anything—however small—that might give us a lead, please call Forensic Instincts anytime, day or night.”
“Of course.” Conrad took her card and came to his feet, as well. His forehead was still creased. “Is Madeline being protected?”
“She has 24/7 security detail,” Marc stated flatly. He was letting Conrad know that if he was concerned about Madeline, he had nothing to worry about. And if he wasn’t—if it was access to his ex-wife he was looking for—that wouldn’t be happening. “No one is going to reach Madeline again, much less harm her. We’ve made sure of that.”
“Thank God.” Again, relief—genuine or otherwise—swept Conrad’s face. “I realize we’re divorced, but I still care deeply for her. Madeline is a wonderful and special woman who places everyone’s needs above her own. I want her kept safe, regardless of the cost.”
“She will be.” Marc’s tone was still firm, his expression still impersonal. Whatever he was feeling, he was keeping it under control.
“I’d appreciate if you’d keep me posted,” Conrad added. “I’ll arrange with Dr. Oberlin for your phone calls to be put through to me immediately.”
* * *
Marc stared out the window as Casey steered the van up the winding driveway leading to the iron gates.
She edged him a sidelong glance. He looked tense and introspective. “Brooding?” she asked.
“Aren’t you subtle,” Marc returned drily. “No, I’m not brooding. I’m thinking. Westfield is either a decent guy and the best ex-husband any woman could hope for, or a consummate actor and con artist...and an attempted murderer.” A pregnant pause. “And yes, I’m being objective.”
“Actually, I think you are.” Casey’s eyes were back on the road as she slowed down at the gates and signaled the guard that they were leaving. “I also think you’re purposely avoiding stating the obvious, because you think I’ll call you on it. Well, I won’t. Because I see the same thing. Conrad Westfield still has feelings for his ex-wife.” She paused. “Feelings that Madeline is totally unaware of and that she doesn’t return.”
Marc grunted. “I wonder how that factors into this little equation.”
The iron gates swung open, and Casey steered the van onto the main road.
“It could exacerbate it. And it could mean nothing. But you’re right,” Casey continued. “The depression is real, and it’s deep. So is the self-blame. But Conrad is very intelligent and very aware. Could he have orchestrated the attacks on Madeline—out of pain, spite, whatever? Cognitively, yes.”
“So now we check out his phone records, which are going to be squeaky-clean or he wouldn’t have offered them up. Then what?”
“Then we have Ryan dig deeper. Figure out if Conrad has a burner phone or some other means of communication. Find out if he has any seedy connections inside the facility who might be willing to do his dirty work for him. Conrad’s rich and well-connected. This meeting we just had is only step one where it comes to Madeline’s ex.” Casey frowned. “My concern is the long list of hospital employees Madeline gave me, every one of whom is a potential suspect until we figure out the assailant’s motive.”
“Some of them will talk to us willingly,” Marc said.
“And some won’t. Plus, who knows who’ll be lying and why? Between the skills you learned from your days at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit and my psychological training, we’ll be able to do a pretty good job of figuring out who’s lying. But their motives? That’s another story entirely. We’ve got to find a nonconfrontational way into that hospital to get a thorough take on the names on Madeline’s list. We have to plan our approach carefully. We’ll only get one chance at this before we lose the chance to keep our role in Madeline’s life a secret.”
“The dedication ceremony to Ronald Lexington is our best shot at doing that,” Marc replied. Casey had told him about the hospital courtyard ceremony on the drive to Connecticut.
“Exactly.” Casey nodded. “But we can’t just walk in there. We’ll need to go as Madeline’s guests. Just a few of us, not the whole team.”
“That few will include me.”
The emphatic tone of Marc’s response wasn’t lost on Casey.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asked.
Marc pivoted to face her. “Look, Casey. You and I agreed that I was going to assume my usual role in this investigation. I haven’t given you any reason to doubt that I can. So keeping me away from Madeline is ridiculous. I’m the most qualified person on the team to protect her, while simultaneously scrutinizing and assessing the attendees. I think it should be you, me and Claire who go.”
“And Emma,” Casey surprised him by saying.
“Emma?”
“Uh-huh. Let’s go back to the office. I have a plan that I think will work.”
7 (#ulink_8eab1a37-71b5-5db5-b737-9b9bd474436c)
THE HOSPITAL COURTYARD was lovely, and not just from the natural beauty of the red, orange and gold trees around it. The area was lined with miniature boxwoods and colorful, manicured plants, and surrounded by an iron fence that gave the entire area a close, intimate feel, despite being surrounded by tall hospital buildings. There were several benches situated around the courtyard’s periphery, so that employees could sit and enjoy the view. And, most impressive of all, there was a brass plate planted in the grassy entranceway that was engraved In Honor of Ronald Lexington.
Casey glanced around as the small group of FI team members and Madeline approached the site, noting that there were already so many attendees they were barely able to be contained within the courtyard itself and were spilling over onto the hospital grounds.
“Clearly Ronald Lexington was a well-respected man,” Casey murmured.
“Or everyone is just kissing the necessary asses,” Emma responded under her breath.
Claire bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Such a cynic.”
“She’s probably right,” Marc said. “For the most part, this is a political event, not a lovefest.”
“Shhh.” Madeline put her finger to her lips as a few people spotted her and started to walk over. “We’re on.”
“Wait.” Casey touched Madeline’s arm, then pointed at an attractive, middle-aged woman with frosted blond hair who was flanked on either side by a young woman and a young man. Given the resemblance, it wasn’t a long shot to guess that those were her kids. All three of them were surrounded by attendees. There was an air of importance about her as if she was central to the occasion, and Casey could guess why.
“Is that Ronald Lexington’s widow?” she asked Madeline.
“Nancy Lexington, yes,” Madeline confirmed. “Those are her two children, Ron and Felicia. Not really children anymore. I think Ron is twenty-five and Felicia twenty-four.”
Casey took all that in. “I’ll need to meet the three of them later when the masses have left their sides.”
“No problem. I’ll make it happen.”
The next half hour was spent with Madeline introducing her “friends” and discussing her accident with what seemed to be an endless flow of people. Casey had suggested that Madeline get as many introductions as possible out of the way before the ceremony, so that the FI team could mingle comfortably and do their own behavioral analysis as the event unfolded, while Madeline paid the appropriate respect to Ronald Lexington’s memory. There was no point in arousing any suspicions of her motives for being here.
On the other hand, Casey had also instructed Madeline to be up front about who her FI “plus-ones” were. Much to their chagrin, Forensic Instincts team members had been interviewed too many times by TV media sources to assume that no one would recognize them. Candor was their best defense.
“If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything,” Casey said, quoting Mark Twain. “In this case, you’ll just tweak the truth to make it work for us. Explain that while you were a nurse in Bethesda, you treated Marc for an injury he sustained, and that, ironically, you ran into each other again in New York. And tell them that Claire and I were both recently patients in this hospital. We received excellent care and wanted to support the facility with a donation.” Casey stopped right there. The reasons for hers and Claire’s hospital admission were not things she wanted to discuss, nor did she need to. The details were no secret. The media had made sure of that.
“As for Emma,” Casey had concluded, “she’s fascinated by the medical field, and she loves helping people. She was hoping that by meeting someone in hospital administration, she could land a candy-striper job.”
Emma hadn’t blinked. She knew her dual roles in today’s visit.
Madeline didn’t, but she’d accepted Casey’s strategy at face value. “So, when you heard Marc was coming, you all opted to join him, each for your own reasons.”
“Exactly. We gave you a call, you offered to bring us as your guests, and that’s that.”
“Okay. That works.”
And it had. No matter how fascinating Forensic Instincts was, the crowd of hospital employees was far more interested in hearing about Madeline’s misfortunes and the severity of her injuries.
That gave the FI team the access they needed.
Their agendas had been laid out by Casey.
Emma headed off to begin her search for the right target.
Claire, keeping a low profile, moved about and stopped here and there to hover near clusters of people. Sipping her sparkling water, she listened, seeing if she picked up any negative energy. There was plenty to be had.
Casey noted the same thing as she chatted with the various employees. She listened to their feelings about Ronald Lexington, watching their body language as they spoke and assessing who was disingenuous and who was for real. The gist of what she heard was positive, and it was obvious that Lexington had been an affable guy whose only flaw was that he liked women just a tad too much for a happily married man. But if you played into his charm, all would be cool.
There was an entirely different vibe that came through when people talked about Jacob Casper. No matter how diplomatically people spoke, it was clear that there was no love lost between the staff and their interim hospital administrator. Listening to what wasn’t said as well as to what was, it was obvious that the hospital employees felt that Casper’s interests were totally self-centered, and that he didn’t give a damn about anything but money and power.
Casey wanted to form her own opinion. The employees were hardly unbiased at this particularly vulnerable time. There were anxious whispered conversations about the hospital merger—fears of job loss, reduced benefits, staff cuts and the resulting overwork for those who remained. The lack of job security and fear for financial survival was crushing—and naturally, those feelings were directly aimed at Jacob Casper. So Casey would have to meet him and decipher what he was for herself.
Multitasking as always, Casey glanced around, her expert gaze seeking and finding the specific individuals Madeline had named and provided physical descriptions of as being those who’d been closest—either in a professional or a personal capacity—to Ronald Lexington. She’d find a way to talk to all of them after the formalities were complete. She wanted to get a feel for who might have it in for Madeline.
Marc, for his part, was keeping a close watch on Madeline.
Periodically Casey would make sure to look around and check on the progress her team members were making. Everyone seemed to be gleaning something from their efforts. When her gaze found Emma, it took enormous restraint not to smile. Emma was busy chatting up the most stereotypical IT guy she could find in the group. He was tall, skinny and definitely dorky looking, with eyeglasses he kept shoving up on his nose and a tendency to blink furiously. Clearly he was awkward around people and, Casey suspected, far more at home hiding behind a computer monitor and a keyboard. On the other hand, he was over the moon about Emma’s interest in him, visibly entranced by her vivacious personality and her California-girl looks. As for Emma, she was standing close to him, head cocked as she hung on to his every word, asking question after question about his fascinating job. The more questions she asked, the more enthusiastic he got—and the more distracted.
Good girl, Casey thought. She’d been dead-on right to bring Emma here. If Emma ultimately accomplished her two goals, Forensic Instincts would have a clear shot at getting what they needed here.
The next step would be for Madeline to introduce Casey to Jacob Casper so that Casey could get an actual read on him. He represented the new regime, and talking to him was crucial, especially in light of how edgy the staff was around him, and how overall their dislike for him was. That could simply be the fear of losing their jobs, given that Casper was so pro-merger and would work hard to see the due diligence process succeed, or it could be more. As a necessary bonus, Casey would have Madeline introduce Emma to him—and put in a good word for her as a potential candy striper. That was going to have to happen fast to make Casey’s plan work.
Jacob Casper was a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy, solidly built and all about the bottom line. He was pleasant enough, but Casey could tell that affability didn’t come easily to him. He was trying to make people like him to ease his way, but doing that took a great effort on his part. His mind was on money, not relationship-building.
Casey let him chat with Madeline for a few minutes while she observed. Bottom line or not, he seemed genuinely saddened by Ronald Lexington’s passing and equally saddened by the effect it had had on Conrad.
“My greatest pleasure will be to see Conrad walk back through those doors and resume doing what he does best,” Casper told Madeline. “That man is a surgical genius.”
“I agree on both counts,” Madeline said.
So Casper was aware that Madeline and her ex-husband had an amicable relationship. Nice point of interest.
“Would chief of surgery still be in the cards for Conrad if he returned after the hospital merger goes through?” Casey asked.
Casper looked a little surprised that Casey was so plugged into the goings-on at the hospital. His eyes flickered from Casey to Madeline and back.
“I see that Madeline had filled you in on the offer that was on the table during the original negotiations,” he replied. “I don’t know how things will play out this time. But if I have any say, Conrad will be my first choice for the position.”
“If he’s up for it,” Madeline said softly.
“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Casper amended. His jaw tightened just a fraction. “I’d never put pressure on him. But I remain optimistic.”
“We all do.”
Casey noted the subtle change in Casper’s body language, and his quick response to Madeline’s qualification. It might mean nothing more than that the interim hospital administrator was stressed out by the time pressure involved in getting Conrad back before the high-level position was filled by someone else. Then again, it might mean more.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Casper,” Casey said, extending her hand.
“Please, call me Jacob.” He met Casey’s grasp, the tension easing from his body. “It was great meeting you, as well. I’ve heard and read so much about the Forensic Instincts team.” A smile. “You’re like the avengers of evil.”
Casey laughed. “I like that image. I’ll pass it on to the rest of the team.” She paused, just long enough for impact. “But today I’m here as a grateful former patient. Forensic Instincts would like to make a donation to the hospital. Can we wire it directly to the administrative office?”
Genuine gratitude flickered across Jacob Casper’s face. “That would be wonderful. We appreciate your generosity.”
“And we appreciate the health care services you provide.” Casey was ready to mingle with more of the crowd. She had no worries about leaving Madeline alone with Jacob. Casey could feel Marc’s presence nearby, and his trained gaze fixed on their client. Plus, she wanted to give Madeline time alone with Jacob so she could put in a good word for Emma as a potential—and immediate—candy striper. What better time than when FI had just pledged a nice donation to the hospital?
“I think I’ll get a cup of coffee.” Casey left the matter in Madeline’s hands. She knew what she had to do. “Madeline told me you’d be making a short speech in a few minutes. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Jacob replied.
Casey headed toward the beverage station, leaving Madeline to her task and filing away the conversation she’d just had for later analysis.
“How did things go with Jacob Casper?” Claire murmured, joining Casey at the coffee urn.
“Interesting. More later. How about you? Any strong energy?”
“A few individuals stand out. Especially when Madeline is near them.”
“Then we’ll have lots to discuss at the office.”
Claire edged a glance to her right and laughed softly. “Emma is really working this. You’ve got to give the girl credit. She’s a talented little thing.”
“Yeah, like the Artful Dodger.” Casey followed Claire’s line of vision, and chuckled as she watched Emma ease a bit closer to her enamored target. “I think the guy is going to come in his pants.”
“I hope not. That might kill the objective.”
Their conversation was interrupted as Jacob made his way to the platform and tapped the mike that had been set up for him.
“Good morning, everyone,” he began. “We’re all here for the same reason—to honor the memory of Ronald Lexington. Ronald was an exceptional man, an exceptional husband and father and an exceptional hospital administrator. He had a way with people that drew them to him, including our patients, whom he cared deeply about. He wanted nothing more than to see people heal and our hospital to thrive.”
Jacob cleared his throat, his gaze flitting about with obvious discomfort. “This is a very difficult time at Manhattan Memorial. The upcoming merger is a bit unsettling. I know that Ronald had his reservations about it, and I respected those. But the realities of the health care industry have changed significantly since his death, and I feel certain that, at this point in time, he would have supported this merger for the benefit of all. As we move forward, we will keep his spirit alive. The combined strengths of Manhattan Memorial Hospital and New York Medical Center will be more profitable than the sum of its parts. We’ll be able to serve more patients faster and with better outcomes. All of that would mean the world to Ronald. I’m proud to have known and worked with him, and I’m proud to dedicate this beautiful courtyard in his name. Thank you.”
Jacob’s brow was dotted with sweat as he left the podium.
For a brief instant, there was dead silence. Then came a round of robotic applause—accompanied by drawn expressions, furrowed brows and frightened gazes.
“The negative energy here just went through the roof,” Claire said, stating the obvious as she clapped politely.
“I don’t blame these people,” Casey replied quietly. “That was more of a campaign speech than a heartfelt dedication. I’m sure Ronald Lexington was not a fan of Casper’s, nor would he be any more pro-merger now then he was three months ago. This situation is ugly.”
As she spoke, Casey caught Emma’s eye. A quick nod told Casey that part one of Emma’s job was done. Now their new team member was heading toward Madeline, who was beckoning her over to meet Jacob Casper.
Smooth sailing for their plan.
On to meeting Nancy Lexington and her kids. Then it would be chat time with the three people on Casey’s list.
Casey caught Madeline’s gaze, and Madeline nodded, excusing herself from the group of nurses she’d been chatting with—one gray-haired, seasoned-looking woman in her early sixties, one petite, dark-haired girl who didn’t look much older than Emma and one round-faced, smiling guy in his mid-thirties. Beneath their jackets, they were all in their uniforms and all in deep conversation.
“What’s the topic being discussed in that group?” Casey asked Madeline, once she’d made her way over. “It seems intense.”
“More of the same,” Madeline replied. “Fears about the merger. Everyone’s very anxious.” She sighed. “Dan and his wife are expecting a baby. Carolyn is a couple of years away from retirement and is terrified of being forced into it prematurely. And Diana is a young, fairly new hire, who figures she’ll be one of the first to go.”
“I feel for them.”
“So do I.” Madeline winced a bit. “The anticipation is deadly.”
“Do you need to leave?” Casey asked quickly. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I’ll manage. I want you to meet Nancy, her kids and the three people I mentioned in our earlier conversation and put on my list—Dr. Sharon Gilding, Dr. Doug Wilton and Janet Moss.”
“I’m ready. But first, I have to ask you again—is there anyone here that you have problems with? Anyone who might have a motive to hurt you?”
A rueful smile. “I don’t know about hurting me. But you’re about to meet someone who dislikes me intensely.”
8 (#ulink_f2c61ec4-679b-50f6-8ac7-8014e319533b)
“NANCY LEXINGTON?” CASEY looked surprised.
“None other. She still blames Conrad for Ronald’s death. She’s never let it go. And maybe because we socialized together as couples or because of some other reason I don’t know about, she sees me as an extension of my ex-husband.”
“So she hates you, too. Interesting. I’m more eager than ever to have this introduction.”
“Let’s go.”
They walked up to the Lexington family, who were now standing alone in a unified group, in quiet discussion.
“Hello, Nancy.” Madeline’s smile was cordial but tight.
Nancy froze the instant she saw who was addressing her. “Madeline,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you attending the dedication ceremony.”
“I was very fond of Ronald, both personally and professionally. His presence in the hospital is deeply missed.”
“I agree. He had a great deal of life left to live. Unfortunately, it was cut short.” Nancy’s gaze flickered to Casey. “And you are...?”
“Casey Woods.” Casey extended her hand. “I asked Madeline to introduce us. She and I met through one of my business associates.”
Casey’s statement was a purposeful attempt to separate herself from Madeline so as to nip any guilt-by-association in the bud. The best way to behaviorally assess Nancy was to make sure their meeting was on unbiased terms. It would only cloud the process by having Nancy dislike her from the get-go.
“I’m a former patient and small benefactor of the hospital,” Casey said. “This was all fairly recent, so I didn’t know your husband. But from everything I’ve learned, he was a special man. I wanted to extend my belated condolences and to tell you how lovely the courtyard garden is.”
Nancy’s expression altered completely, and she shook Casey’s hand. Her grip was friendly, but her gaze kept edging toward Madeline, a bitter look in her eyes. “Thank you. Ronald was totally devoted to this hospital. It’s not the same here—or at home—without him.” She turned to gesture at her children. “These are my children, Ron and Felicia.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Casey turned from one to the other. “My condolences to you both, as well.”
“We appreciate that,” Felicia said. Her words were directed at Casey, but both she and her brother were eyeballing Madeline. They looked almost as thrilled to see her as their mother did. “We’re grateful for today’s overwhelming turnout. Our father was an extraordinary man. We miss him every day.”
“I’m sure you do.” Casey took a step backward. “I don’t want to intrude or to take up any more of your time. I just wanted to meet you, to pay my respects and to offer my gratitude. I received excellent, compassionate care at Manhattan Memorial.”
“That’s good to hear,” Nancy replied. “It was lovely to meet you.”
Not a word to or a glance at Madeline.
“Wow,” Casey murmured, giving a low whistle as she and Madeline retraced their steps. “That woman despises you. She bears looking into, as do her kids. Any other enemies you failed to mention?”
For the umpteenth time, Madeline searched the sea of faces.
“No one I can pick out,” she said truthfully. “If someone out there hates me, I don’t know about it.”
“Then that’s up to us to find out. In the meantime, let’s go meet Gilding, Wilton and Moss.”
* * *
Jacob Casper had separated himself from the crowd to scrutinize the scene between Nancy Lexington and Madeline Westfield. Now he scowled. This wasn’t a good sign.
He made his way over to Dr. Harold Majors, who was head of Manhattan Memorial’s psychiatric department.
“I was hoping this ceremony would appease her,” Jacob murmured, “but that doesn’t seem to be happening. I need to know how bad she is and how far she’d go to hurt the hospital.”
“As I’ve said, she’s not my patient, Jacob. All I can give you is an informal evaluation,” Majors replied.
“That’s all I need. Go over and chat with her. Figure out if she’s just stuck in the anger phase of mourning, or if she’s going off the deep end and becoming a major threat.”
Majors nodded. Waiting for the right time, he walked over to offer his condolences to Nancy Lexington.
* * *
Dr. Sharon Gilding was a piece of work, Casey noted. Attractive, blonde and as cold as her icy-blue eyes, she was in her mid-forties and reputed to be the best neurosurgeon in the hospital—and next in line for Conrad’s position if he weren’t able to fill it. She was also, like Conrad, a close friend of Ronald Lexington’s—although what he saw in her, Casey couldn’t fathom. No, that wasn’t true. If Ronald liked women as much as Casey had been hearing, then she could see him going after Sharon Gilding. Her looks were striking, and her figure was great. But her arrogance? Her haughtiness? Maybe Ronald liked a challenge.
Sharon Gilding’s arctic stare moved from Madeline to Casey as Madeline introduced them. Her eyes shot daggers at Madeline, but she inquired politely about her health, and then turned and shook Casey’s hand.
“I’ve seen news flashes about Forensic Instincts on TV,” she said. “Congratulations on your well-earned success.”
“Thank you.” Casey could feel Sharon’s dislike for Madeline even when she wasn’t addressing her. “From what I understand, neurosurgery is one of the most complex areas of medicine. You must be very talented.”
“My career is my life. And yes, I’m exceptional at what I do. The human brain is the most fascinating organ in the body. It controls every nerve and motor function.” A tight smile. “I could go on, but the complexity of it would probably bore you.”
Wow, did this woman come on strong. Then why did Casey sense that she was protecting herself in some way?
“I hear you’re second in line for chief of surgery.” Casey went for blunt and fast, wanting to see Sharon Gilding’s undisguised reaction. “What happens if Conrad Westfield comes back and accepts the job?”
Surprise mingled with something else shot across the neurosurgeon’s face. “Then I continue doing what I’m doing,” she responded, schooling her features. “Conrad is a genius in his field. He deserves the position as much as I do.”
“That’s very magnanimous of you.” Casey softened her words with a smile. “Clearly you respect talent in all areas of the medical field.”
“I do.”
“Were you and Ronald Lexington friends?”
Sharon’s shoulders lifted. “We were good colleagues. Ronald discussed administrative issues with me, and I kept him up to date on surgical issues. He was fascinated by every aspect of this hospital, medical or otherwise. I admired his commitment. So yes, we spent time together—as much time as I could spare.” She glanced at her watch. “Speaking of which, I really have to be going. I have to be in surgery in an hour.”
“Of course.” Casey nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” She was already walking away.
“That was interesting,” Casey murmured.
“Yes, Sharon is never one for diplomacy,” Madeline replied.
“She dislikes you.”
“She dislikes everyone.”
Casey stifled a grin. “Who’s next on the list?”
“Doug Wilton. He’s in cardio with Conrad, although he’s a cardiologist, not a surgeon. He was one of Conrad’s and Ronald’s golfing buddies. He’s pretty plugged into what goes on at the hospital, but he’s also a good guy.”
“I could use a good guy after Dr. Gilding.”
As it turned out, Madeline was right. Doug Wilton was a good guy. He chatted with them about both Ronald and Conrad, and told funny stories about their golfing excursions.
“Ron and I didn’t spend much time together at the hospital. But we had a hell of a good time outside these walls. He had a big heart. I miss him. As for Conrad...” He paused, visibly upset. “I consulted with him on almost every one of my cases. He was an invaluable asset, to me and to the hospital. I can’t tell you how much I hope he’ll be back. Losing Ron was personally painful for me. Losing Conrad would be devastating.”
“I hope it won’t come to that,” Madeline said.
“So do I,” Doug responded. He didn’t look surprised by Madeline’s compassion for her ex. Casey wondered how much he and Conrad had discussed Madeline—and if Doug had any reason to dislike her.
Casey tucked that thought into the bears-further-investigation category.
Once that conversation was over, Madeline led Casey over to Janet Moss, who was the assistant to the hospital administrator, and probably a walking wealth of information.
“Janet has been here for years,” Madeline confirmed in a whisper as they neared her. “She worked closely with Ronald, and she works closely with Jacob. She knows everything that goes on in the administrative offices.”
“A good person to talk to.” Casey gave Janet Moss a quick once-over. About average height. Slender. Chestnut-brown hair worn in a simple chignon—one that might look too dressy for work on most women, but one that Janet pulled off with utter grace. High-styled eyeglasses that said designer. Not a lot of makeup, but well-applied and far from cheap. A put-together, professional woman who’d clearly worked her way up to making a decent salary, consistent with Madeline’s description.
“Madeline, hi.” Janet caught a glimpse of her out of her peripheral vision and turned away from the group of people she’d been talking to so that she could speak to her. “How are you feeling?”
Her tone and expression were concerned. She did shoot a curious glance at Casey, but that was to be expected. Janet was a woman who knew everyone in her hospital, and Casey was not one of those people.
“I’m on the mend,” Madeline was replying with a small smile. Actually, Casey noted, Madeline looked as though her energy level was fading. Just this one meeting, then Casey was taking her home.
“Thank you again for the beautiful floral arrangement,” Madeline continued. “Just looking at all those vivid colors made lying on the sofa, doing nothing, more pleasant.”
“I’m so glad you liked them,” Janet replied. “I wish I could have done more.”
“It’s not necessary. I’m really fine.” Having caught Janet’s second questioning glance in Casey’s direction, Madeline turned and made the introductions.
“No wonder you look familiar.” Janet was visibly impressed as she shook Casey’s hand. “Your picture’s been in the newspapers and on TV. Your investigative firm—Forensic Instincts, right?—has been in the limelight. Wow. It’s good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, too.” Casey smiled. “I hear you hold the administrative wing of the hospital together.”
Janet chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I’ve been in the administrative wing for nineteen years. Before that, I did clerical work for four different departments in the hospital. I hate to say it because it ages me, but I’ve worked at Manhattan Memorial for twenty-six years.” A teasing grin. “Since I was twelve.”
Casey laughed with her. “Well, if it matters, you certainly don’t look old enough to have worked anywhere for that long.”
“Makeup is magic.”
“How true.” Casey was ready to get down to business. “Jacob Casper seems, in a very short time, to have a firm grip on his job and on the upcoming merger. That’s pretty impressive, considering the big shoes he had to fill. You worked for both him and Ronald Lexington. Is there a big difference in their styles?”
Janet looked a little wary, as well she should. Casey was asking an inside question.
“They each have their own strengths,” she answered diplomatically. “Jacob is the hospital’s future. But Ronald cared equally as much. Both men are and were totally committed to their jobs and powerful advocates for the hospital.” She steered the conversation to safer ground. “I do have a soft spot for Ronald. He gave my daughter a job here. She had several offers, but selfishly, I love having her close by.”
“I don’t think I met your daughter,” Casey replied.
“She’s over there.” Janet pointed at the group Madeline had been chatting with earlier. “Diana.”
“Oh.” Casey remembered the pretty young woman. Madeline had said she was a fairly new hire, and afraid of losing her job once the merger was finalized.
“She’s a circulating nurse,” Janet said. “She graduated at the top of her class, specialized in surgical nursing and then earned her registered nurse license and her operating-room nurse certification at a ridiculously young age. Ronald hired her about six months before he passed away. He felt strongly about that decision—even more so as Diana proved herself. Jacob feels the same way. Diana is a very talented young woman—and I’m not just saying that because she’s my daughter.”
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Andrea Kane
WHO WANTS MADELINE WESTFIELD DEAD? AND WHY?Forensic Instincts' first order of business is to find out who's targeting their client. Under the leadership of Casey Woods, the investigative team has the resources to do just that, working inside the law–and outside it. FI's strength is its members, among them Casey's associate Marc Devereaux, former navy SEAL and a man who's equal to any situation.Except maybe this one…Madeline's case hits too close to home for Marc. She's the only woman he ever loved, and she's his only weakness. Now a nurse at Manhattan Memorial, she's terrified because someone is trying to kill her. So she turns, reluctantly, to Marc and FI for help and protection.Meanwhile, Manhattan Memorial is in turmoil. With a merger in the works, the staff is still haunted by their hospital administrator's sudden death–during heart surgery performed by Madeline's ex-husband, Conrad. A surgery at which Madeline was present. The killer seems to blame both Madeline and Conrad…With a growing list of suspects–including the grieving widow and a string of scorned lovers–Forensic Instincts will have to figure out who has the greatest incentive to get rid of Madeline. And FI has to work fast to save her…before she's permanently silenced.
WHO WANTS MADELINE WESTFIELD DEAD? AND WHY?
Forensic Instincts’ first order of business is to find out who’s targeting their client. Under the leadership of Casey Woods, the investigative team has the resources to do just that, working inside the law—and outside it. FI’s strength is its members, among them Casey’s associate Marc Devereaux, former navy SEAL and a man who’s equal to any situation.
Except maybe this one…
Madeline’s case hits too close to home for Marc. She’s the only woman he ever loved, and she’s his only weakness. Now a nurse at Manhattan Memorial, she’s terrified because someone is trying to kill her. So she turns, reluctantly, to Marc and FI for help and protection.
Meanwhile, Manhattan Memorial is in turmoil. With a merger in the works, the staff is still haunted by their hospital administrator’s sudden death—during heart surgery performed by Madeline’s ex-husband, Conrad. A surgery at which Madeline was present. The killer seems to blame both Madeline and Conrad…
With a growing list of suspects—including the grieving widow and a string of scorned lovers—Forensic Instincts will have to figure out who has the greatest incentive to get rid of Madeline. And FI has to work fast to save her…before she’s permanently silenced.
The Silence That Speaks
New York Times Bestselling Author
Andrea Kane
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
To our newlyweds, Wendi and Will, whose union adds a whole new and precious dimension to our lives. Wendi, you’ve always been the joy in our hearts, an amazing friend, daughter and human being. And now we have Will, your wonderful husband—a fine man we’re proud to call our son.
We love you both so much and wish you a lifetime of joy and the happily-ever-after you deserve.
Contents
Cover (#ud398f559-513f-5db0-8eeb-903ec32a0cc6)
Back Cover Text (#u46811a4b-256d-52d6-8ccf-17f875764e3e)
Title Page (#ua1a94b97-6a49-5b05-b540-3352783fa164)
Dedication (#u462a9798-1dd4-5ceb-ab31-82f031fb9afc)
1 (#u0a516086-0386-5ae2-96b5-77e8f49c2f5f)
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1 (#ulink_bebbb955-8f0f-5def-86cc-4e150abfaf73)
MADELINE WESTFIELD NEVER saw the car coming.
It was late at night, and chilly for the beginning of November. She’d turned up her coat collar, and was waiting to cross Park Avenue at East Eighty-Eighth Street. Lost in thought, yes, and with more than enough reason these days. She was an emotional wreck. But navigating between pedestrians, taxicabs and speeding motorists was second nature to her. She’d been a Manhattan resident for most of her life.
She’d watched for the walk sign to flash from red to green. Even then, she’d paused briefly to glance around.
The crosswalk was still.
She took her initial steps into the street.
The screech of tires was her first warning. Then came the flash of motion from her peripheral vision.
Her head snapped around, and she came to a dead stop, staring like a deer in the headlights. A black SUV was roaring in her direction. It veered sharply at her, leaving no doubt that its goal was to hit her head-on.
Self-preservation kicked in. She lunged away, hurling herself backward and crashing to the sidewalk, a pile of wet leaves doing nothing to cushion her fall.
The impact of her body slamming against the concrete rocketed through her. Her head struck the ground—hard. She cried out in pain, saw stars.
Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind, she heard the screech of brakes and the sharp swerving of tires, and the terrifying thought occurred to her that the driver was going to try again.
“Miss, are you all right?” a gravelly male voice inquired as the man it belonged to rounded the corner.
Madeline had never felt such great relief at the sound of another human voice. She looked up to see an elderly gentleman, with a full head of white hair and a lined face, holding a leash. The Brussels griffon at the other end of the leash was eye level with her. He trotted over to take a sniff.
“No, Max!” the man said. He was staring down at Madeline, his forehead creased in concern. “Did you trip? Can you move?”
He hadn’t seen what happened. He wasn’t a witness.
As Madeline opened her mouth to speak, she heard the SUV’s engine roar in the distance as it sped down Park Avenue.
“I...” She shifted her weight and winced. Her right side was killing her. Her head was throbbing violently. And “Max” looked like two dogs, not one. Double vision. A concussion. Not to mention some major bruises—possibly even some broken bones. As an RN, she recognized the signs.
Seeing the agony in her eyes, the man reacted.
“I’m going to call 9-1-1 and get you an ambulance.” He took out his cell phone.
Madeline nodded her thanks. She tried again to move, and was rewarded with jolts of pain. She inhaled sharply, causing shooting pain in her chest. So she lay there quietly and waited.
The ambulance seemed to take forever to arrive. Maybe it was the pain talking. Or maybe it was her nerves. But she finally saw the red whirring light and heard the siren. Lenox Hill Hospital was nearby. That’s where the EMTs would transport her. It wasn’t the hospital she worked in, but she did know some people there.
Not that it mattered. She passed out as they arrived at the E.R.
* * *
When she came to, she was in a hospital bed with a bandaged arm, a taped midsection and an ice pack resting on her hip. Her head felt like a jackhammer was splitting it in two.
She lay there for a moment, willing her mind to work. Then she remembered what had happened and everything inside her tensed up.
It hadn’t been an accident. It was attempted murder. That SUV was gunning for her. The cops wouldn’t believe her story. Why would they? They hadn’t believed her the first time. And that had only been a robbery. Now someone wanted her dead.
She flinched, knowing she had a concussion, a few broken ribs and a badly bruised hip. She wished she had some painkillers—anything to take away the throbbing and to knock her out. She wanted to sleep. She knew she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until the doctor saw her and checked out her neurological responses.
She’d be here overnight. They’d keep her for observation. Then, if she remained stable, they’d let her go home.
A wave of panic set in, followed by utter resignation. She couldn’t do this alone, not anymore. She’d put off the inevitable for as long as possible. It was time to get help—and from a specific source.
Seeking out that source was going to be even more painful than her injuries.
2 (#ulink_078ab493-ff33-5a52-b3a6-fa6ac44bd132)
IT WAS 8:45 a.m.
The Forensic Instincts investigative team was hard at work—but not on a case.
Instead, they were scrambling around their Tribeca brownstone, trying to get the place into some semblance of order before their next job applicant arrived.
Having just wrapped up a high-profile corporate espionage case, they’d normally be debriefing. Instead, all their notes, reports, follow-ups and computer files were in uncharacteristic disarray. The phone was ringing off the hook. Their voice mailboxes were exploding. And this was not the way Casey Woods intended to run her company.
She’d made her position clear several weeks ago. The minute their current case was closed, they were hiring a receptionist-slash-assistant. From a small start-up investigative firm, they’d catapulted into a highly sought-after company, thanks to the combined efforts and stellar results achieved by their brilliant team.
Until now, there’d been the six of them, each of whom was a critical and integral part of FI. Starting with Casey herself—who was the company president and behavioral expert, and who had the extensive academic credentials and professional experience to be the firm’s anchor—every member of the FI team had a stand-alone résumé.
They were no longer New York’s best kept secret, and their client list was growing daily. Thus, the need for someone to man the front desk and to assist the team as needed.
So far, they hadn’t had much luck.
At the moment, Casey was upstairs on the fourth floor—the floor that served as her apartment during the few hours that she actually lived there—running a brush through her shoulder-length red hair and adjusting the collar on her green cowl-neck sweater. Hero, Casey’s bloodhound and the team’s human scent evidence dog, was already poised in the bedroom doorway, waiting expectantly for his mistress to leave her apartment and go downstairs to her real home: Forensic Instincts.
“I’m coming, boy,” she told him, looking in the mirror and giving herself a quick once-over, before heading for their morning interview. “God knows what we have in store this time.”
* * *
Ryan McKay was still downstairs in his man cave, affectionately known as his lair, which filled the entire basement level of the brownstone. It was the technology center of Forensic Instincts, complete with their servers—Lumen, Equitas and Intueri, from the Latin words for light, justice and intuition. Part data center, part electronics lab, Ryan had more high-tech equipment than a small university.
Despite its serious purpose, Ryan left enough room to maintain two areas of personal space—his free weights and fitness section, and a small competition ring for his self-built robots.
Right now, he was enjoying neither. He was printing out pages from FI’s just-closed case.
While the pages were printing, he was on his iPad, reading the latest issue of Sound on Sound magazine. The software review of Audio Detracktor was compelling. The reviewer described how it was developed by three of genius college students—a math whiz, a computer geek and a musical prodigy. Audio Detracktor would analyze an audio file, separating the component tracks and instruments into layers. Each isolated layer could be played independently, giving the listener the ability to hear insignificant sounds in a rich recording. Sound on Sound had written about experimenting with Eric Clapton’s “Layla,” Gene Vincent’s “Be-Bop-A-Lula” and Paul McCartney’s “Yesterday.” They were even able to isolate the sound of a flying guitar pick bouncing off the floor. Guitarists would often lose their picks in midperformance, which is why they always carried extras with them. But to actually hear the sound of a tiny plastic piece hitting the ground? Awesome.
Just as Ryan was about to swipe to the next page, his iPhone began vibrating in his pocket, reminding him of a scheduled meeting. Glancing at his calendar entry, he scowled at its purpose. Interview. Emma Stirling. Another teenybopper receptionist he had to talk to.
He understood Casey’s decision to establish a more professional office environment, as well as to get some help answering the phones and doing odds and ends. But he’d lobbied strongly for a virtual assistant, aka software, installed on one of their servers. A virtual assistant was smart, predictable, not female and never took a coffee or bathroom break.
The perfect receptionist.
Casey and Claire had overruled him. They felt a personal touch was needed. A flesh-and-blood human being, not a machine. Marc was indifferent, although he saw the value of both. And Patrick had been married long enough to know when to avoid a losing situation.
Ryan’s pocket buzzed again. Time to stop procrastinating and get this over with. Full of attitude, he marched upstairs ready to meet and nix Emma Stirling.
* * *
The rest of the team was already congregated in the second floor’s main conference room, pouring coffee and settling down around the sweeping oval conference table.
Marc took a gulp of black coffee and eyed Ryan. “Nice of you to join us.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “You look thrilled to be here.”
Ryan scowled. “You know how I feel about this. I was about to do something useful—like order a cool state-of-the-art app while I was preparing the case wrap-up. Instead, I’m here, ready to meet another substandard candidate.”
“Great attitude.” Claire walked over just in time to hear Ryan’s statement. “Did it ever occur to you that we might find a white elephant? There are still a few of those out there, you know.”
“Is that a prediction, Clairevoyant?” He loved to get at her with that nickname he’d coined.
“No.” She shot him a don’t-get-me-started look. “It’s an optimistic fact.”
Patrick was already seated, scratching Hero’s ears. He glanced over at them. “Play nice, kids. We have a reputation for professionalism to uphold.”
“Yes, we do.” Casey seated herself at the head of the table. “And, like it or not, we’re going to eventually have to hire someone. My standards are as high as yours, Ryan. Maybe higher. But I’m not giving up. This place is not going to continue as chaos central.”
“I hear you.” Ryan got himself some coffee and turned to peruse the group. “So should we do rock, paper, scissors to decide who’s going downstairs to let this one in?”
“I can handle that electronically, Ryan.” An invisible computerized voice echoed from everywhere in the room, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling video screens began to glow. A long green line formed across each panel, pulsing from left to right, bending into the contours of the voice panel.
“Good idea, Yoda,” Ryan replied. “Disarm the Hirsch pad when the doorbell rings and advise our job candidate to come upstairs. That alone should scare the shit out of her.”
Casey couldn’t help but smile at Ryan’s assessment. As for Yoda, Ryan’s extraordinary artificial intelligence system, he’d become an honorary FI team member. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that he wasn’t human. Then again, he’d been built by Ryan, who was very human. Bottom line? Ryan was a genius and Yoda was omniscient.
“Has everyone reviewed this candidate’s application?” Casey asked.
“Yup.” Marc was his usual straightforward self. “She sounds like a juvenile delinquent who never did hard time.”
“She sounds like a kid who needs a chance,” Claire chimed in. “She was bounced from foster home to foster home and spent a lot of time on the streets.”
“I have to agree,” Patrick said. “I know she’s got a juvie record, and that would normally turn me right off. But in this case—her parents died in a plane crash when she was eight. There were no relatives to take her in. So she spent ten years in the system. That’s tough.”
“And we’re not exactly squeaky clean ourselves,” Marc commented drily. He glanced at Patrick. “Other than you, Special Agent Lynch.”
“Not so much anymore,” Patrick retorted. “You’ve corrupted me.”
The whole group chuckled.
“Yeah, we’re the maverick investigators,” Ryan said, coining a phrase from an article written about them. “So, if this girl has a brain, I’m willing to cut her some slack.”
“Some slack?” Casey repeated, shooting Ryan a look. “I’m hoping you’ll do more than that.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. I still think a virtual assistant would be the best choice.” Ryan held up both palms to ward off oncoming arguments. “But I’ve accepted that I’ve been overruled. So let’s get this show on the road.”
Right on cue, the doorbell sounded.
“Applicant number twenty-seven has arrived,” Yoda announced.
“Punctual.” Casey glanced at her watch. “Okay, Yoda, go ahead and let her in.” She interlaced her fingers on the table in front of her. “Oh, and, Yoda? Leave out the applicant number when you announce her. Just stick to her name. Applicant twenty-six nearly took off when you made that reference. Let’s not scare off applicant twenty-seven. It’s starting to sound like we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel and each one of them is it. Either that, or we’re looking for perfection and can’t find it.”
“That would be accurate,” Yoda pointed out.
“True, but we don’t want to intimidate the girl before she even gets upstairs.”
“Very well, Casey. Name only.”
Yoda’s words were punctuated by the beeping sound of the alarm system as he disarmed it.
* * *
A loud thunk resounded in the FI hallway as the large steel bolt retracted, unlocking the front door.
“Please enter the building and proceed to the second floor,” Yoda instructed the young woman at the door. “Make a right turn into the main conference room. Your interview will be conducted there.”
“Thanks.” Without so much as a flinch, Emma Stirling walked through the foyer as the door bolt reengaged behind her. She climbed up the winding staircase, and paused on the landing to run her fingers through her hair and adjust her tote bag on her shoulder. Then she entered the conference room.
She fought back a smile as she saw the all-too-familiar startled reaction from the team at large. It was the same as everyone who’d read her history. They were expecting a scraggly looking brat from the streets. Instead, they were getting the equivalent of a prep school cheerleader—all blonde, blue-eyed and composed, with a fashionable short skirt and a formfitting top.
She’d worked hard to perfect that image.
“I clean up nice,” she said, putting aside the looks of surprise and assessing the challenge she was about to face.
Emma had done her homework.
The pretty, authoritative redhead at the head of the table was Casey Woods, the president of Forensic Instincts and a brilliant analyst of human behavior. On either side of her were two hot guys—one dark and brooding, the other sexy and charismatic—Marc Devereaux and Ryan McKay, respectively. Marc was Casey’s right hand, a former navy SEAL and former FBI agent in the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia. Quite simply, there was nothing Marc couldn’t do or couldn’t make happen. Ryan was nothing short of a techno-wizard and a strategy genius.
The willowy blonde who looked like a fairy princess was Claire Hedgleigh. Emma didn’t quite get what it meant, but Claire was a claircognizant and had an amazing psychic gift that took her into scary but productive places to help solve cases. The older conservative-looking guy was Patrick Lynch, a retired FBI agent with over three decades of law enforcement experience, and who grounded the team when they pushed the boundaries a little too far. Oh, yeah, and the cool bloodhound sitting up tall, ears erect, was Hero—an FBI-trained human-scent evidence dog whose olfactory sense was second to none.
Pretty thorough, Emma thought with an internal grin.
“Job candidate Emma Stirling,” Yoda supplied. “Twenty-two years old. Currently unemployed and available immediately. Have a seat at the table, Ms. Stirling.”
“Yes, sir,” Emma replied, looking around to see where the voice was coming from. It was the same voice that had greeted her in the doorway.
She placed her tote bag in the empty chair next to Patrick, but remained standing.
With self-taught courtesy, she proceeded to walk around the conference room table, shaking hands with each team member. First, she squatted down to stroke Hero’s ears. “He’s great. What’s his name?” she asked.
“Hero,” Patrick responded. He helped her to her feet and shook her hand. “I’m Patrick Lynch. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” She moved on to Marc and Ryan, who were sizing her up as they greeted her. She made sure to touch each man’s arm with her left hand. Men appreciated that in business introductions.
As she approached Claire and Casey, she tripped and toppled forward, struggling to right herself as they caught her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her face turning bright red. “I get clumsy when I’m nervous. And I’ll never get used to high heels.”
“We hear you,” Casey said with a chuckle. There wasn’t a woman alive who didn’t understand the battle between fashion and comfort.
“We certainly do,” Claire echoed, intent on putting the poor girl at ease. “Men don’t have to juggle looking great and professional without limping home. It’s one of the hardships of being a modern woman.”
“Thank you for understanding.” The color was fading from Emma’s cheeks as she regained some of her composure. Sheepishly, she made her way back to her seat and gratefully sank into it.
Once she was settled, Yoda continued. “Application and résumé displayed on the main screen.”
As he spoke, the large middle screen lit up, and Emma’s paperwork appeared, the pages arranged side by side.
“That’s just the good stuff,” she told them, having glanced up at the information displayed. “I’m sure you know the rest.”
“We do.” Casey leaned forward and studied the young woman. “We’ve all read every word. The bottom line—you were a juvie. According to our research, you were guilty of a lot more than you were convicted of. You were incredibly good at getting off.”
Emma startled. “What?”
“Not the reaction you were expecting?” Casey asked. “Sorry. We’re nothing if not thorough. We’re also not easily shocked. Or were you hoping we would be and that we’d bounce you out of here so you could feel vindicated and like you’d put one over on us?”
“I...” Emma was visibly taken aback.
“I like the wide-eyed innocent thing,” Ryan commented. “You’ve got a great combo going there—a disarming exterior and an iron core.”
“You’re smart, too,” Marc added. “You did research on each one of us.” He read the surprised widening of her eyes that she fought to conceal. “The way you studied each of us as you walked around—which you made sure to do,” he explained, answering her unspoken question. “Like you were making mental connections. That was your tell.”
“Wow, you people are just like the articles say.” For the first time, Emma looked impressed. “So let’s say I came here to mess with your minds, and you figured me out. You also guessed I was a lot guiltier than my record shows. Then why are you interviewing me?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?” Casey asked.
“You just said so yourself. I’m a criminal.”
“A former criminal,” Patrick qualified.
“And a good one,” Ryan said, ignoring Patrick’s scowl. “Here at Forensic Instincts, we not only admire excellence, we demand it. Also, you’ve got guts. Guts are a requirement for working here.”
“True,” Casey said.
“Plus your background piqued our interest,” Claire couldn’t help but interject. She pointed at herself. “And before you size me up further, yes, I am the soft touch of the team. I felt a pang of compassion when I read your history. That’s the upside. The downside is that none of my team members is as squishy as I am. So you’ll have some convincing to do.”
Emma acknowledged that with a nod. “I figured as much.”
Casey raised her chin. “Do you want this job?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it sounds way cooler than the other jobs I was applying for.”
“But you didn’t think you’d get it.”
“Truthfully? No.”
“Honesty. Another refreshing virtue.” Casey glanced around the table, making eye contact with each team member and reading their reactions.
Emma used that time to look around again, puzzled as her gaze searched the room. “I don’t know where it’s based, but I like your virtual intelligence system. How come you didn’t make that your assistant?”
“Smart girl,” Ryan muttered.
“Because Yoda is overworked,” Marc answered for the group.
“Yoda?” Emma grinned. “Great name.”
“Really smart girl,” Ryan muttered again.
Only half listening to Ryan’s wisecracks, Casey was eyeing Emma as their job applicant kept asking questions. What was going on in that cunning little blond head?
The girl was sharp. She was a walking contradiction. And she had a curious mind. She had the brains and the balls to fit right in.
But was she trustworthy? Loyal? Those were key requirements in Casey’s hiring practice.
Only one way to find out.
At that moment, Emma pushed back her chair and rose. “I want this job. What do I have to do to get it?”
“Prove yourself,” Casey responded.
“How?”
“A probationary period. Say, three months. Minimum wage. Show me unwavering loyalty to Forensic Instincts—the company and the team. Hard work. Good work. No bullshit. No games. Up front all the way. Then we’ll talk.”
“Fair enough.” Emma paused, chewing her lip. “In that case, I guess I should start out on the right foot, boss.” She reached into her tote bag and groped around for a minute. “Here you go.” She pulled out Patrick’s wallet, Claire’s bangle bracelet, Marc’s switchblade, Casey’s day planner and Ryan’s iPhone, placing each item in front of its respective owner. “No bullshit. No games. Up front all the way.”
You could have heard a pin drop as the team members each stared at their just-confiscated belongings.
“And who knows?” Emma added with an impish grin. “I might even teach you guys a thing or two.”
3 (#ulink_30255935-02cb-5a44-93e4-76b5de2b5a2f)
EMMA WAS STILL getting used to the coolness of having her own desk and swivel chair in an alcove right off the front hall of the renowned Forensic Instincts.
Maybe if she played her cards right, she’d get business cards, too.
The doorbell rang, and she snapped to attention, grabbing her new scheduling book.
“Our nine-thirty prospective client has arrived,” Yoda announced. “Ms. Madeline Westfield. She’s listed in your appointment book on the left page, third column.”
“Yes, Yoda, I see that.” Emma grimaced. “Cut me some slack. I’m trying to learn. At least give me thirty seconds before you jump in.”
A brief pause. “That seems fair and acceptable. I’ll program my database accordingly.”
“You do that.” Emma rose and walked to the door, punching in the dummy alarm code Ryan had assigned her. Only the inner circle got the real code. Not the newbies on probation.
She opened the door and automatically ran through the physical assessment she’d learned during her pickpocket days, when she’d sized up her potential marks.
Madeline Westfield was pretty in a haunting kind of way. Mid-thirties. Chestnut-brown hair, classily styled and just grazing her shoulders. Fair skin. Deep, dark eyes. Medium height. Cute figure. Casually but expensively dressed in a cashmere coat, from beneath which peeked a sweater and pants that screamed designer. A badly bruised forehead—from a bad bang, not physical abuse—and an anxious look in her eyes.
The ideal client—rich and needy.
“Good morning,” Emma said brightly, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. Westfield. I’m Emma Stirling. Welcome to Forensic Instincts.”
“Thank you.” Madeline clasped her hand briefly. Her palm was icy. She was peering around. She was nervous. Emma wondered what that was about—the upcoming meeting or whatever had brought her here.
“The team is waiting for you right in there.” Emma gestured at the cozy meeting room down the hall. “I’ll take your coat. Can I get you something—coffee, tea, water?”
“Coffee would be lovely, thank you,” Madeline said, shrugging out of her coat and handing it to Emma. “Just black.”
“No problem. I’ll show you in and then bring it to you.”
Emma led the way, escorting Madeline straight to the open door. With a brief knock, she glanced at the team. “Ms. Madeline Westfield is here for her appointment.” She noted the steaming pot of coffee on a trivet in the middle of the center table. “Should I pour?” she asked Casey.
“No, thank you, Emma. We’ve got it. Just shut the door on your way out.”
“Okay. Let me know if you need me.” Emma left the room, closing the door to give them their privacy and heading back to her desk—and to Yoda’s tutoring.
* * *
Madeline stood just inside the meeting room, tightly clutching her handbag. She looked stiff, as if she was in pain, and there was a bad bruise on her forehead.
Casey was about to open her mouth when she caught the odd, strained expression on Madeline’s face. She was staring at Marc. And Marc had a look on his face that Casey had never seen before—a look of stark, raw emotion.
“Maddy?” He rose slowly to his feet.
“Hello, Marc.” She attempted a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It occurred to me that you might not realize I was the one who was coming here today.”
“No. I didn’t.” Marc’s emotions shut down and his usual unreadable expression snapped back into place. “The appointment didn’t list you as Madeline Stanton.”
“Westfield is my married name.”
“I see.”
The silence was so awkward that even Casey was hard-pressed to break it.
But break it she did.
Coming swiftly to her feet, she stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Woods. I see that you and Marc already know each other, so I’ll introduce the rest of the team.”
No questions. No observations. No belaboring the all-too-blatant reality.
Madeline’s relief was visible. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she said, shaking Casey’s hand. Her gaze shifted to the area rug, where Hero was lying beside Casey’s chair. “What a beautiful bloodhound.”
“Hero is a human-scent evidence dog,” Casey explained. “He’s part of the Forensic Instincts team.”
“Then he must be remarkable. Your company’s reputation speaks for itself.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do for you.” Casey ran through the rest of the introductions, poured Madeline a cup of coffee and gestured for her to have a seat on one of the buttery-soft caramel leather tub chairs in the room.
There were three other identical tub chairs, casually situated around the two matching leather couches. Sure, the room also had some high-tech equipment, but it wasn’t center stage. There was no point in making the place look like an interrogation room. Living rooms were far more relaxing, and leant themselves to calmer clients who were open and honest about their reasons for being here.
Madeline politely accepted the cup of coffee and gingerly sat down. Casey noted that she swiveled her tub chair ever so slightly away from Marc and kept her gaze fixed on Casey.
Those weren’t acts of anger. They were unconscious acts of emotional protection.
“I don’t know where to start,” Madeline said.
“Start wherever you’re most comfortable.” Casey sat back, ostensibly relaxed, but reading every tell that Madeline displayed. Ryan had run a preliminary background check on her, as he did on all their prospective clients. But nothing beat an in-person assessment. And, in this case, there was an additional—and very personal—nuance to observe.
“We’ll ask questions as we need to.” From Casey’s peripheral vision, she noticed that Marc had opened his portfolio and was ready to take notes. Business as usual. Marc preferred to go at it by hand, and then transfer his conclusions into the computer. It also wasn’t a shock that he hadn’t done more than a cursory read of Ryan’s report. He liked to go into a first meeting with just the facts and a clear mind.
Evidently, that method had backfired this time.
“Do you mind if we record this conversation?” Casey asked. “It helps us refocus on any details that might become important later on.”
“Not at all,” Madeline replied. “Just as long as everything remains confidential.”
“Absolutely.” Casey nodded. “I assume you received the confidentiality agreement that I messengered to you?”
“I did. And I reviewed it with my attorney.” Tentatively, Madeline leaned down, reached into her purse and extracted a folded document. “Here’s the fully executed original,” she said, unfolding the page and handing it to Casey. “I kept a copy for my records.”
“Good. Then let’s begin.” Casey sipped at her coffee, then called out, “Yoda, please turn on Inspector Gadget.”
Ryan grinned, proud of yet another of his accomplishments. Inspector Gadget was the iPhone hack he’d programmed into each team member’s iPhone, which turned the cell phones into secret listening devices. With Yoda in control, the iPhone microphone and cameras could be activated, streaming audio and video over the best available network, for live viewing and/or recording by the team.
“Inspector Gadget activated,” Yoda announced.
“Go, go, Gadget,” Ryan muttered under his breath with a quiet chuckle.
Madeline was looking around, her eyes wide and puzzled.
“Yoda is our artificial intelligence system,” Casey explained. “Ryan built him, so he’s smart but safe.”
A tentative nod. “Okay.” Madeline still looked bewildered. Then again, everyone did the first time they heard Yoda.
“Go ahead and tell us your situation,” Casey said.
Madeline cleared her throat. “Someone is trying to kill me,” she said bluntly. “I have no witnesses and no tangible proof, so the police can’t help me. Can you?”
“Who would be trying to kill you and why?” Marc spoke up for the first time, his demeanor all business.
“I have no idea.” Madeline couldn’t meet his eyes. “That’s the problem. But my apartment was broken into a few weeks ago. Yes, items were stolen, but the way the place was trashed so violently, I don’t believe that robbery was the reason for the break-in. And then three days ago...” Madeline touched the bruise on her forehead. “Someone tried to run me down when I was crossing the street. It wasn’t a drunk driver. It was very deliberate and very professional. I’d just stepped into the road when the SUV came at me. I literally had to fling myself back on the sidewalk to avoid getting killed. I have broken ribs and a concussion as souvenirs.”
Patrick’s forehead creased in thought. “If that’s the case, then whoever’s behind these attacks is convinced that you not only have something, but that you know something,” he said. “Otherwise, they’d just be going after your possessions, not you.”
“So you believe me?” Madeline’s voice was weak with relief.
“We have no reason not to,” Casey replied. “You make a solid argument.”
“But the police...”
“The police have to operate by a certain set of criteria that we don’t have to.” Casey kept it short and sweet. “So let’s move on to the obvious questions. What’s changed in your life recently? New relationships? New job? New routine?”
“None of the above.”
“Then let’s start close to home. Tell us about your husband.”
“Ex-husband,” Madeline corrected. Almost inadvertently, she darted a quick glance at Marc, then looked away. “Conrad’s and my divorce was final last month. But we were separated for six months before that. It’s hardly new.”
“Tell us about him, anyway,” Claire asked.
Madeline sighed, not a sigh of anger, but one of weariness and resignation.
“Conrad is a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon—one of the top three in the country. He was...is...the head of the cardio unit at Manhattan Memorial Hospital. He’s also a very complex man.”
“How so?”
“He’s bigger than life. Always striving for perfection. He not only needs to excel and to surpass others, but to surpass himself. And when all the pieces fall into place, he’s unstoppable. But when they don’t...” A helpless shake of her head. “He’s his own worst enemy.”
“Did you say he was or he is the head of the cardiothoracic surgical unit?” Casey asked, having not missed Madeline’s hesitation over the past or present tense.
“Is. He’s just taken a leave of absence.”
Something about the way Madeline said that gave Casey pause. “When you say ‘a leave of absence,’ do you mean an extended vacation, or a sabbatical to go abroad and study some new aspect of his craft?”
“Neither.” Madeline looked down at the floor for a moment, then met Casey’s gaze. “This isn’t common knowledge, but Conrad has been staying at Crest Haven Residential Treatment Center. It’s a private facility in Connecticut.”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s a top-notch mental health facility.”
Madeline nodded. “This has been a devastating time for Conrad. Three months ago, he lost a dear friend who he’d just operated on. He’s never forgiven himself. I doubt he ever will.”
“Why did he operate on a close friend?” Casey asked. “As I understand it, that’s ill-advised.”
“It is. But the friend was Ronald Lexington, the hospital administrator. The surgery was a delicate one, and Ron wouldn’t allow anyone but Conrad to perform it.”
“Wow.” Ryan let out a low whistle. “Talk about pressure. That’s a tough one to live with.”
“It must have taken a huge toll on whatever was left of your marriage,” Casey said tactfully.
“Our marriage was already over.” Madeline’s reply was straightforward, but she was fiddling with the pleat of her pants leg. “We’d been talking on and off for a year and a half about separation. The divorce process was already well under way when this happened. But no, our relationship wouldn’t have been strong enough to hold up—not given the severity of Conrad’s reaction or his resistance to share his pain with me.”
“Was he sharing his pain with anyone else?” Ryan asked.
Claire winced. There was brilliant but blunt Ryan. “Anyone that you know of—like a colleague or a clergyman?” she asked, trying to soften the glaring implications of Ryan’s question.
A small smile curved Madeline’s lips. “I’m not offended. I doubt Conrad was having an affair. That’s not where his head was. I also doubt he did much sharing with anyone—that’s just not his nature. So, for the record, I doubt I’m being hunted down by a jealous lover. The gossip mill runs wild in the circles we traveled in. The fact that our marriage was ending was common knowledge. As was the fact that it was an amicable divorce. We wished each other well. We still do.”
“What circles did you travel in?” Patrick asked.
“Oh, we had a real-life soap opera going on.” Madeline grimaced. “An elite social crowd of high-profile doctors and their spouses. It was compounded by the fact that I work in the same hospital as Conrad. I’m an emergency room nurse. So I was in the middle of the drama both professionally and personally. It was exhausting. I’m a private person, so I’m struggling to extricate myself from it as quickly as possible. But after five years, it’s not easy, despite the divorce.”
That opened the door to a whole separate cluster of questions and suspects. But Casey was studying Madeline’s body language. She was no longer sitting up straight and tall. She looked drawn, exhausted, pale. And every time she shifted in her seat, she flinched. The woman was clearly in a fair amount of physical pain. And the only motivator that had gotten her here today was fear.
This interview had barely gotten started. But it was about to end.
“You’re a nurse,” Casey said. “Why do I get the feeling you used your clout to check yourself out of the hospital sooner than the doctors would have advised?”
Another pained smile. “Probably because you’re perceptive—which is one of the reasons I want to hire you. Although I am on extended leave, pending my doctor’s permission to return. That, I couldn’t wiggle my way out of.” Her smile faded. “I’m terrified. I know someone wants me dead—and I have no idea why. Or when the next attempt on my life is going to be. I don’t feel safe anywhere—not at home, not doing errands, not even at the hospital. Please. I need your help.”
Casey glanced around the room, reading her team’s expressions. Their usual procedure was to meet privately and make a group decision as to whether or not to take on a case. But Casey was reluctant to make Madeline wait when she was clearly in pain.
Plus, Casey knew her team. She knew what their reactions would be.
Except for Marc. This time, he was a huge question mark. So she saved him for last.
First, Patrick. He gave her an indiscernible nod. Ditto for Ryan. Claire’s lips mouthed the word yes.
Everyone accounted for. Casey angled her head in Marc’s direction. He was still writing—although Casey suspected that was more to keep himself occupied than it was to jot down notes about what was being said. Marc had a steel-trap mind, plus Yoda was taping the interview.
Well aware that Casey was looking at him, he raised his head and met her gaze. With an expression that was totally nondescript, he blinked his assent.
That settled that.
“If money is the issue, just name your fee,” Madeline interrupted the silence to offer. “Conrad gave me a generous settlement. I’m sure we can come to terms.”
“I’m sure we can.” Casey rose, extended her hand. “Consider yourself our client. We still have a lot to go over with you, but not today. You need to be in bed, recuperating. How did you get here this morning?”
“I took a cab. I live on the Upper East Side.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Patrick said at once. “I’d like to check out your apartment.”
Once again, Madeline reached into her purse. “I have a copy of the police report, if that helps. It lists the items that were stolen.”
“Great.” Patrick took the sheet of paper she unfolded. “That eliminates our having to contact the precinct. But actually, I’m more interested in seeing what specific areas of the apartment were ransacked. It might give me a clue as to what the intruders were looking for.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Also, while we’re driving, I’ll contact my security team and arrange to have a guard assigned to you immediately.” Over the years, Patrick had compiled a number of retired FBI agents and police officers to make up his expert security team. “That way, you’ll be safe and you’ll have peace of mind.”
“Thank you.” Slowly, Madeline stood up. “I truly appreciate it.”
“We’ll be in touch tomorrow,” Casey said. “If you’re up to it, maybe I can stop by your apartment and talk to you there. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable in your own home.”
A nod. “I’m sure I would. I’ll wait for your call, then.” She paused, for the first time turning to look directly at Marc. “It was good to see you again, Marc,” she said softly, gripping her purse as if for moral support.
Marc met her gaze. “Good to see you, too.”
Patrick escorted Madeline from the room.
The rest of the team chatted briefly, and then disbanded, already divvying up assignments.
“Marc.” Casey stopped him before he could leave the room. “I need your input for a minute. Could you hang around?”
“Sure.” He stopped in his tracks, not looking the least bit surprised by Casey’s request. He knew her. And he knew what she wanted.
He remained silent, waiting for her to initiate the conversation.
Casey crossed over and shut the door, turning around to face him. She folded her arms across her chest. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”
“Not really.”
“Fair enough. I’ll ask only what I need to. You answer only what you want to.”
“Shoot.”
“What was the nature of your relationship with Madeline, and based on that, do you need to bow out of this one?”
Marc shoved his hands in his pockets. “Madeline and I met when I was a SEAL, stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. She was a nurse at Bethesda Naval Hospital. I went for a checkup. She was on duty. We hit it off. We got involved in a personal relationship. It ended. And no, I’m not bowing out. She and I haven’t seen each other in years. Plus, you know me. Nothing prevents me from doing my job.”
“Yes, I do know you. And I’ve never seen you react to another living soul the way you just did to Madeline Westfield. You were in love with her. That’s obvious. It’s also quite a departure from the Marc I’m used to. So you can understand my concern.”
“I understand it. I’m assuaging it. It’s not a problem. Am I excused now?”
Casey studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, stepping aside. “Yes, Marc, you’re excused. I won’t bring this up again unless it becomes necessary.”
“It won’t.” He was already heading out.
Casey stared after him as the door shut in his wake. “If you say so,” she murmured.
4 (#ulink_fe49db2b-aede-5aff-af67-413b8ddf0923)
BY THE TIME Madeline unlocked the door and let herself and Patrick into her East Eighty-Second Street apartment, she was weaving on her feet.
Patrick scanned the place. It was damned impressive—modern furnishings, all chrome and leather, lots of windows, gleaming parquet floors, serious artwork on the walls. This postdivorce apartment must have cost Madeline a pretty penny.
Then again, she’d been married to a renowned cardiothoracic surgeon. He had to be rolling in money. From the preliminary information Ryan had provided them, Madeline’s original home—the one she’d shared with Conrad on East Seventy-Second and York—was a multimillion-dollar duplex, so this apartment was small potatoes in comparison.
Still, compared to Patrick’s modest home in Hoboken, New Jersey, this was a showplace.
Having assessed the foyer, the dining room and the sunken living room, Patrick’s gaze settled on the cocoa-brown leather sofa near the wall of panoramic windows. “Go lie down,” he instructed Madeline, pointing. “I can look around myself. I’ll fire questions as I need to.”
“Thank you,” Madeline said, making her way gingerly across the hall.
Watching her slow, unsteady progress, Patrick changed his mind and opted to take her arm and assist her down the two steps to the living room, leading her over to the couch. He stood there until she’d settled herself on the cushions and covered herself with a multicolored afghan.
“Can I get you something?” he asked. “Coffee? Soup?”
Madeline smiled. “You’re an excellent host, especially since I’m the one who should be asking you those questions.”
A return smile. “I’m not the one with the concussion and broken ribs. Plus, I’m not bad in the kitchen. My wife is the cooking wizard, but I can certainly heat up a can of soup.”
“I have no doubt. But honestly, I’m fine.” Madeline graciously declined his offer. “Thank you, though. It’s nice to know there are still some gentlemen out there. Your wife is a lucky woman.”
Patrick chuckled. “There are times when she would challenge you on that.” As he spoke, he surveyed the room, focusing on specific areas of interest.
Madeline followed the line of his scrutiny. “You’re eager to get started. Go ahead.”
Nodding, Patrick noted that the apartment appeared to be pretty tidy, despite the gaping spaces where electronic equipment had once stood. “Clearly you did a thorough cleaning and rearranging since the break-in. I need to know not only what was taken, but where most of the ransacking took place. Once I get a handle on that, I’ll get started looking for what the intruder wanted.”
“Okay.” Madeline nodded, her arm sweeping the room. “As you can see from the hollow spaces, all our...my,” she corrected herself, “electronic equipment was taken—a fifty-inch flat-screen TV, audio components, DVD player—you name it. The DVDs on the shelves had collapsed all over the floor, thanks to the fact that the intruders stole the statues that were holding them in place. The same applied to the matching statues and DVDs in the master bedroom. The kitchen drawers were emptied onto the floor. The credenza and the vitrine in the dining room were rifled.”
“Did they take the silverware in the kitchen? Or any china or collectibles that were in the dining room?”
“Neither. A few of the costlier sculptures from the dining room were gone, but all the paintings throughout the apartment were left on the walls.”
“Some of those paintings are valuable,” Patrick noted, scanning the walls again. “Which is another indication that robbery wasn’t the real motive here. Keep talking. What other rooms were disturbed?”
“The second bedroom was a disaster.”
Patrick’s brows rose. “And that room is for...?”
“I use it as a den. I have a futon, bookshelves filled with books, a small desk and some computer equipment. I also have a wall safe in there. I opened that right after the burglary. Obviously whoever broke in couldn’t figure out the combination because the safe was locked, and when I checked, none of my jewelry, personal papers or cash was taken. Oh, I also have some old file cabinets in the room. The intruder went through those, too.”
“How do you know? Were the contents dumped? The files sticking out?”
Madeline shook her head. “Everything looked perfectly in place—not a sheet of paper to be found. But I double-checked, anyway, just in case. I know my filing system, right down to my old recipes. Sure enough, the files were all out of order, as were the papers inside them. Somebody definitely went through the drawers and tried to make it look like they hadn’t. I have no idea if they found something or what that something was. Nothing jumped out at me as being missing.”
“Either they didn’t find what they were looking for, or they found it and it made getting rid of you that much more urgent.” Patrick scowled. “Besides recipes, what kinds of files do you keep?”
“My utility bills. My health records, lab results—that kind of thing. My receipts for items purchased. My medical insurance. The common charges for my condo.”
“You’re one organized lady. Although I can’t imagine any of those things being of interest to our offender. Still, you never know. One restaurant receipt, one item purchased...” Patrick loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Time for me to get started. Let’s see if we can figure out what you have that’s worth killing for.”
* * *
Marc gave Hero more exercise than the bloodhound was used to.
During the extralong walk around Tribeca, Hero’s ears were flapping in the crisp breeze, his paws crunching in piles of leaves, as Marc strode along at a speedier pace than usual.
All was forgiven, however, when Hero saw where Marc was finishing up their jaunt—at the dog park, which was alive with bright autumn colors and some fellow canines. Marc closed the gate and removed Hero’s leash, letting him run off and have some playtime with his peers.
Walk or no walk, Marc hadn’t worked one drop of tension out of his body, nor had he unwound even the slightest bit. He sank down on a park bench, keeping an eye on Hero and wishing he could spend the entire afternoon at the gym, rather than going back to the brownstone. He needed to expend some serious energy.
“Hi.” A pretty blonde woman, about thirty years old with a black Labrador retriever tugging at his leash, stopped next to Marc. “Which dog is yours?” she asked, giving Marc a flirtatious smile as she tucked a strand of blowing hair behind her ear.
Marc had been hunched over, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on Hero. Now he sat up, giving the woman a cordial but reserved smile and folding his arms across his chest. He knew his body language was less than welcoming. In fact, it was closing him off. Normally he’d enjoy passing the time here with an attractive woman. But not today. Today he needed to be alone.
“The bloodhound.” He pointed, simultaneously pulling out his iPhone as if he was about to start some major project. “And between watching him and getting my work done, I’m going crazy.”
The woman’s face fell. “I guess that means you’re not in the mood for a conversation break.”
Marc’s expression softened a bit. After all, it wasn’t this woman’s fault that his head was messed up today. “Oh, I’m in the mood for one. Unfortunately, I can’t do it. Not today. My boss would kill me. I should have done this research on my office laptop, but I opted for a walk instead. So I’m stuck looking at a tiny screen, reading detailed legal documents.”
“Say no more. I understand.” The blonde, who looked like a professional herself, extended her hand. “I’m Robin.”
“Marc.” He shook her hand, fully aware of the intentionally warm grasp of her fingers. “Can I take a rain check?”
“No problem.” Her tone perked up. “Dash and I stop by the park every day at lunchtime. He gets a walk and I get a break. I’m surprised I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I usually take Hero’s evening shift. My colleague takes the one midday. I’m beginning to understand why.” Marc mustered a grin. “Maybe I can make some schedule changes. I’ll certainly try.”
“Hero?” Awareness dawned in Robin’s eyes. “Then Ryan is your colleague. I should have guessed. Why is it that all the hot guys band together?”
Marc had to laugh at that one. “I’ll duck that question and just say thanks for the compliment.”
Robin fumbled in her purse and pulled out a piece of paper, scribbling down her phone number. “Call me—Marc.” She stuffed the piece of paper in his hand. “Maybe we can coordinate dog park visits.”
“Maybe we can.” Marc pocketed the slip of paper and lifted his hand in a wave as Robin strolled off to join some of the women across the way. Judging from her friendly demeanor, she knew them. Dog park buddies. A nice way to pass the lunch hour.
Marc continued to stare at his iPhone, not even seeing it.
All he could see was Maddy.
How long had it been? Nine years? No, ten.
A lifetime. And a heartbeat.
They’d met in the hospital cafeteria. Maddy’s eight-hour nursing shift had just ended, and she was grabbing a cup of coffee and a crumb bun to tide her over until she could get a decent meal. Marc had recently gotten back from an overseas mission to the Middle East, and he was at Bethesda for a routine physical, which he’d just passed with flying colors.
They’d bumped into each other on the cafeteria line—literally.
As she’d juggled to balance her tray, Maddy had pivoted, walked smack into Marc and knocked the cup of hot coffee he’d been holding all over him.
She’d been totally mortified. He’d been totally amused. Yeah, the hot liquid stung, but he’d gotten a kick out of the way she took care of the problem, folding and applying napkins to his shirt as if she was dressing a wound.
Chewing her lip, deep in concentration, she’d been so serious about the task at hand that it had taken a good five minutes before she spotted the twinkle in Marc’s eyes.
Then she’d risen to her feet, tossed down the napkins and, without a single word, went over and bought Marc another cup of coffee.
“Here you go.” She’d handed it to him. “I’d say we’re even.”
His grin had turned into a deep-throated chuckle, and his gaze had scrutinized her from head to toe. “Not unless you sit down and share a cup with me. Then we’ll be even.”
She had. And that’s when and where it had begun.
Marc didn’t open up easily. He was reserved by nature—a trait which had been accentuated by his covert role as a navy SEAL. Yet with Maddy, he was relaxed, comfortable. She was easy to talk to. She didn’t pry and she didn’t pursue any subject he chose to avoid. She was open about her own life—a small-town girl who’d read six biographies on Florence Nightingale and had always wanted to be a nurse. ROTC had paid her scholarship to college, and she’d gone on to be a navy nurse, stationed here in Bethesda Medical Center. From the additional info Marc had made sure to dig up, Maddy had completely undersold herself. It was no wonder she’d become an E.R. nurse. She had an incredible gift. There were military guys in the hospital who, by all rights, should have died from their injuries, but hadn’t—thanks to Madeline. She wasn’t beautiful, but there was something incredibly sexy and stunning about her. Dark hair, big brown eyes, delicate features and a body to kill for, she possessed a certain warmth and style that was impossible to miss.
The sexual pull between them had been instant and overwhelming. Even that first evening, when Marc had done nothing more than walk her to her door and kiss her good-night, they’d both felt the burn. It had taken all Marc’s self-control not to back her into the apartment, tear off her clothes and bury himself inside her until neither of them could breathe.
Maddy had felt the same. He saw it in her eyes when his lips left hers—the wonder, the astonishment, the desire. And her heart had been racing; he could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
All from one kiss.
One kiss that had led to another date, and then another.
By that third date, Marc’s iron control snapped.
He was barely able to get through dinner before he tossed down his napkin and stared straight into Maddy’s eyes.
“I can’t do coffee and dessert,” he said bluntly. “I’ve got to get inside you.”
Maddy didn’t bat a lash. She folded her napkin neatly, placed it beside her half-eaten meal and rose.
“I’ll get my coat. You get the check. I’ll meet you outside in five minutes,” she replied.
It took Marc three.
They sat apart in the taxi, not even daring to touch each other. They both knew that once they did, it would be all over. But the sexual tension in the backseat was so thick it was suffocating.
By the time Marc kicked her apartment door shut and reached behind him to flip the lock, Maddy was unbuttoning his shirt. Marc finished the job for her, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside.
Then he reached for her, pulling her against him.
He took her mouth in a devouring kiss that nearly brought them to their knees. Maddy pressed herself against him, and Marc backed her toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss. He pulled off her clothes as they staggered down the short hall and into her room.
They were naked when they hit the bed.
Neither of them could withstand the preliminaries—not this first time. There were no gentle strokes, no soft words, no tender touches. It was fast, and it was hot and it was primal.
Afterward, Marc collapsed on top of her. Never in his life had he lost control like that, coming with the urgency and explosiveness of a teenager. He’d barely been able to hold back long enough to feel Maddy unravel beneath him, pulse all around him, cry out his name.
He knew he’d shouted hers, as well. And he knew he was lost.
“Shit,” he’d muttered.
A soft laugh had shimmered through Maddy’s body. “Nice. Just the thing a girl wants to hear after...this.”
With the greatest of efforts, Marc had propped himself on his elbows, gazing down into Maddy’s deep, dark eyes.
“Did you feel it, too?” he asked bluntly.
A soft smile through kiss-swollen lips. “Yes,” she whispered, tracing his jaw with her fingertip. “I felt it. I’ve never felt anything like it before. But you knew that.”
“I knew it because it was the same with me.” Marc shut his eyes, pressed his forehead to hers. “Shit,” he said again.
Maddy was silent for a moment. “We don’t have to give this a name or overanalyze it, Marc,” she murmured. “We can just enjoy it—whatever it is and whatever it becomes.”
“We both know that’s a cop-out, Maddy. The name is hanging out there, whether or not the words are said. The feelings are real and they’re off the charts. I’m already in so deep I can’t get through a meeting without thinking about this.” He pushed his hips gently against hers. “And that was before it happened. Now I’ll probably walk around with a 24/7 hard-on.”
Maddy began to laugh. “I like that image. Very SEAL-like.” Her fingertips caressed his back, and her breath caught as she felt him harden inside her. “Let’s not talk. For now—I’m here.” She wrapped her legs around him. “Right here.”
Right here had gone on for months—the most emotionally consuming months of Marc’s life.
And emotionally consuming was not the mindset of a navy SEAL. It couldn’t be.
An outburst of barks, followed by Hero slamming his full weight against Marc’s legs, snapped Marc out of his trip down memory lane in a hurry. Hero jumped up, scrambling, without much success, to get his beefy body onto Marc’s lap.
“Down,” Marc commanded, snapping his fingers.
Instantly Hero obeyed.
“Sit.”
Hero’s bottom hit the ground and he gazed at Marc, waiting for his reward.
“Very subtle.” Marc reached in his pocket for one of the organic carrots Claire had cut up this morning. “Good boy.” He extended his hand and gave Hero what he was waiting for.
As Hero chomped down the carrot, Marc rose, now very much in the present. “I take it you’ve had enough playtime with your buddies and are ready to head back. So am I.”
Robin waved at Marc as he leashed Hero, and he grinned and waved back. She brought her hand to her ear in a gesture that said Call me. Marc nodded. He wished he was in the market for a hookup that would be that simple.
But simple had never been his forte.
Feeling restless and in a foul mood, Marc walked Hero briskly back to work.
“Have a good outing?” Casey asked as he passed by her office.
“Hero got some exercise and I got hit on. So I’d say, yeah, it was a good outing.”
Casey glanced up and watched the tension in his broad-shouldered body as he continued on his way.
“I’d try the gym,” she called after him. “It’s probably better for what ails you.”
5 (#ulink_ad6e8ff0-c4e6-553f-8f2e-c4aa2b501085)
CASEY ARRIVED AT Madeline’s apartment at 11:00 a.m. sharp, the time Emma had confirmed with her first thing that morning.
“Hey, John,” Casey greeted the security guard at the door. John Nickels was one of Patrick’s best and sharpest.
“Casey—hi.” John gave her a professional smile. He was well over six feet, with the body of a linebacker. He’d served the NYPD in the homicide department for twenty-five years. No one was getting by him, that was for damned sure.
Now he stepped aside for Casey to ring the bell. The doorman had already announced her and gotten Madeline’s okay to send her up. “Everything here’s been quiet,” he said.
“Good.” Casey rang the bell. “That’s how I like it.”
Madeline opened the door. She was wearing jeans and a pale yellow sweater. Again, expensive but understated.
She was still moving stiffly as she showed Casey in, urging her to make herself comfortable on the living room’s deep-cushioned, pebble-brown club chair, which was positioned diagonally across from the sofa.
“Don’t even offer to get me anything.” Casey cut off what she saw was coming, hanging her coat on one of the polished brass hooks adjacent to the door. “Just sit down on that sofa and relax. We’ll talk.”
“I feel like a ridiculous invalid,” Madeline said, lowering herself to the sofa with a grimace. “I’m sitting in the exact same spot as I was yesterday when Patrick was checking out my apartment. Other than showering, eating and creeping in and out of my bed, I’ve done very little but lie here and read.”
“You’re healing,” Casey replied. “You need the rest.”
“I haven’t slept well since the break-in, and certainly not since the attempt on my life,” Madeline admitted. “I wouldn’t have shut an eye if John hadn’t been outside my door all night. I can’t thank you or Patrick enough for arranging security for me.”
“We protect our clients.” Casey was adamant. “Nothing is going to happen to you. Not on our watch. You can count on it.”
“I am.” Madeline folded her hands in her lap. “Go ahead. Ask me whatever you’d like.”
Casey held up her iPhone with a questioning look. “All right if I tape the convo? I want to concentrate without taking notes.” A grin. “And unfortunately, Yoda isn’t transportable.”
Madeline chuckled, waved her hand to indicate that Casey should go ahead. “Record away.”
Casey pressed the appropriate button and set the iPhone on the coffee table. She sat back, crossing one leg over the other. “Let’s review potential suspects. Starting with Conrad.”
Madeline inclined her head in surprise. “Conrad? Isn’t that a reach? I mean, I know the spouse is always number one on the list, but under the circumstances, my ex is in no position to try to run me down.”
“Your ex is a rich man with lots of connections and pull. He’s in a health care facility, not a prison. He could have hired someone to do his dirty work.” Casey propped her elbow on her knee and leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand. “You said your divorce was amicable, but it was still a divorce. Were you seeing someone else? Was there a dispute over money? Did you get anything in the settlement that Conrad badly wanted to keep?”
Casey stopped her litany of questions to ask the most important one. “Was Conrad unstable enough to let any one of those things push him over the edge?”
“And hire a hit man to kill me?” Madeline’s tone was filled with disbelief. “Absolutely not. He’s severely depressed and in a very dark place. But his anger is all aimed inward. Our conversations have been few, but they’ve all been civil, even friendly. And no, I wasn’t and am not seeing anyone else. Nor did I demand anything in the divorce. Conrad was more than generous. I really think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Casey intentionally kept her posture relaxed. She was easing the conversation in a strategic direction that could possibly put Madeline on the defensive—especially since she’d just written her ex-husband off as a suspect. “Would you object if I were to drive up and have a talk with Conrad?”
Madeline’s eyes widened, more in surprise than in defensiveness.
“Just being thorough,” Casey added lightly.
After considering that for a moment, Madeline shrugged. “I guess not,” she said. “The truth is, Conrad and I may be divorced, but I still care about him. I have no idea what his current state of mind is, and I don’t want to cause a setback. So let’s talk to his doctor first and get her opinion. Her name is Dr. Marie Oberlin. I’ll call her before you leave. If she gives us her okay, I’ll text you all her contact info, and you can make the trip up to Danbury.”
“That would be great.”
Madeline’s eyes narrowed quizzically. “I wasn’t expecting you to take such an aggressive stance when it came to Conrad. You weren’t that way yesterday. What changed? Did you dig up something I should know about?”
“No.” Casey was blunt. “What changed is that you and I are now alone and Marc isn’t in the room.”
A flush stained Madeline’s cheeks, and she dropped her gaze. “How much did Marc tell you?” she asked.
“Marc doesn’t share. Not his personal life. But I’m sure that comes as no surprise to you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Is there anything you’d like to share?”
Madeline’s hesitation was brief. “I guess I came to Forensic Instincts because of and in spite of Marc. Your company’s reputation is stellar. I also know how extraordinary Marc is at everything he does. Failure’s not in his vocabulary. But I didn’t expect to react so powerfully to seeing him again. It’s been ten years. Maybe I made a mistake coming to you.”
“You didn’t. We just need to work this through.” Casey wasn’t surprised by anything Madeline had just said. “Here’s what I know. You two met in Bethesda during Marc’s navy SEAL days. I gather you had a relationship—a pretty intense one, judging from both your reactions. I won’t pry. But you have to take the lead with me on this one. How much do you want Marc to be included in or excluded from? How hard will it be to separate business from personal? I’ll handle this any way you want me to. And it can be handled. But you have to tell me what you want—Marc’s expertise or his absence. Either can be arranged.”
There was a long silence—one that Casey had anticipated. She just sat quietly, watching Madeline pick at a fingernail and waiting for her response.
“I trust Marc with my life,” she said at last. “I’d be an idiot to exclude him. We’re both adults. We’ll have to get past our residual feelings—that is, unless Marc’s indicated otherwise.”
“To the contrary, Marc is his usual proactive self, ready to take on and solve the case. But you’re our client. You have to be at ease.”
“What I have to be is alive,” Madeline responded. “So yes, please include Marc in your investigation.”
“Fine.” Casey nodded. “Next question. I’d like to take Marc with me when I visit Conrad. I rely on his intuition and his strategies. Does Conrad know about Marc?”
“He knows I was involved with someone in Bethesda years ago. He’s not privy to the details. And I didn’t exactly leave photos lying around. So he wouldn’t recognize Marc or his name.”
“Good.” Again, Casey nodded. “So you’ll call Dr. Oberlin before I leave. If all goes as planned, Marc and I will visit Crest Haven Residential Treatment Center. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Let’s move on, then. I’ll need a list of all your friends, supposed friends and associates, both inside and outside the hospital—everything from Ronald Lexington’s wife, to his professional successor, to your coffee or lunch buddies, to your dentist and hair stylist. Start composing it as soon as I leave. I’ll need it ASAP.”
“Wow.” Madeline rubbed a hand across her brow. “That’s going to be quite a challenge.”
“I’m sure. But it has to be done.” Casey could see that Madeline’s strength was waning. “One more thing and then I’ll let you make that phone call and we’ll call it a morning. What’s changed in your life—either personal or professional—over the past few weeks or months? Anything at all that comes to mind?”
“The merger,” Madeline replied without missing a beat.
“Yes, the hospital merger.” Casey wasn’t surprised that Madeline responded so quickly and went straight to that particular subject. Based on Ryan’s preliminary research, the health care industry was abuzz with news of the merger between Manhattan Memorial Hospital—the hospital where Madeline and Conrad worked—and New York Medical Center.
“Ryan did some digging,” Casey said. “According to him, the merger you’re describing recently went from being a dead issue to a done deal. I understand why the hospital board put it on hold—Ronald Lexington’s death. I also understand that he’s been gone for several months. What rekindled the interest in the merger now?”
“Profitability did,” Madeline replied. “Our hospital was in turmoil after Ronald’s death. It took a while, but now it’s running smoothly again, thanks to our interim hospital administrator—who’s adamantly in favor of the merger, by the way. The board was waiting for him to be brought up to speed to consummate a deal.”
“Interesting. You said that Ronald was just as adamantly opposed.” Casey processed that. “Where did Conrad fit into this?”
“Oh, he was a major advocate. And, in the interest of full disclosure, his pro stance wasn’t entirely altruistic. Part of the reason he was so eager for the merger to happen is that he was being offered the position of chief of surgery of the new conglomerate.”
“I see.” Actually, Casey already knew that. But it was important that Madeline trusted her enough to tell her everything.
“Personally, Ronald thought that was wonderful for Conrad. But he was opposed to expanding the hospital into a huge, impersonal entity—and to having to eliminate staff in the process.”
“That was then. Let’s talk about now.”
“As I said, the merger was just announced,” Madeline replied. “Rumors are flying everywhere. The entire hospital chats about little else. There are a lot of people freaking out—not that I blame them. People are worried about losing their jobs, about pay cuts, about resource cuts, about increased responsibilities and fewer staff members to fulfill them. And the whole process is in everyone’s face, so the stress is through the roof. Due diligence has already started. There are accountants and lawyers meeting with Jacob Casper every day.”
“Jacob Casper,” Casey repeated, referring to the interim hospital administrator. “Tell me about him.”
“He was one of a dozen potential candidates, from what I understand. The board thought the world of him. They interviewed like crazy, but Jacob was appointed at Manhattan Memorial less than a month after Ronald’s passing.”
“And the general consensus on him?”
“He’s a good man for the job,” Madeline replied. “He was one of Ron’s key people, although they didn’t see eye-to-eye on many things. He’s well-respected, if not particularly well-liked. Ron was a real person. Jacob is a corporate guy.”
“And he’s pushing for the merger.” Casey tapped her index finger against her lips. “Do you have any idea what his inclinations are where it comes to Conrad? Does he endorse his becoming chief of surgery? Is he open-minded about his return? Or has he temporarily—or permanently—written him off?”
Madeline turned up her palms. “I have no idea. As Conrad’s ex, all I hear about him is gossip—nothing I’d place any stock in. And even before the divorce, no one in the hospital would have discussed Conrad with me. That would be unethical and unprofessional.”
Casey processed that with a nod. “We can find a way into the hospital to conduct some interviews, including Jacob Casper. But some of what we need access to requires a more delicate approach.”
A hint of a smile curved Madeline’s lips. “I think the detective shows call that infiltrating the place.”
“I call it getting what’s necessary to keep you safe.” Casey paused, recalling a tidbit of information that Ryan had run by her earlier. “Ryan caught a brief internet post on the hospital’s website—something about a courtyard dedication to Ronald Lexington?”
“Yes,” Madeline replied. “After Ronald’s death, donors contributed money to the hospital in his name. Ronald loved the outdoors, so all the donations went toward building a small courtyard near the administrative wing. It was just completed. There’s going to be a dedication ceremony next week.”
“Perfect,” Casey said. “How small and private is the ceremony?”
“Anyone employed by the hospital is free to come. And it’s not high security or anything, so I’m sure you could find your way in.”
“We’d do better as invited guests—invited and accompanied by a respected hospital staff member.”
Madeline’s brows rose. “Me?”
“Will you be up to it?”
“If you think it will help, I’ll make myself be up to it.”
“Good,” Casey replied. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”
6 (#ulink_ee3fbd03-1d7e-5ae1-8cc5-c14866affc47)
CREST HAVEN RESIDENTIAL Treatment Center looked more like a posh and well-manicured country club than it did a health care facility—right down to the sprawling grounds and cast-iron entrance gates.
Casey drove the FI van up to the security booth, and provided the guard with both hers and Marc’s names and P.I. identification cards. The thin-lipped man with the balding head peered inside the car at the two of them, checked their IDs and finally made a brief phone call while squinting at his visitors’ list. Whatever he was told evidently satisfied him, because he pressed a button that made the heavy iron gates swing open.
“The visitors’ lot is at the far right of the grounds,” he said in a flat monotone. “Follow the signs. Avoid the handicapped spots. Enter the main building through the front doors. You’ll be met at the reception desk just inside. Do not proceed farther or you will be stopped and escorted out.”
“Thank you.” Casey shifted the van back into Drive and moved through the open gates and along the winding driveway.
“What a charmer,” Marc muttered. “He must attract women like a magnet.”
Casey smiled. “At least Dr. Oberlin left the right instructions about our visit. Otherwise, I think Mr. Charmer would be cuffing us right about now.”
“That still might happen. We’d better not put a toe beyond the reception desk or the fires of hell will swallow us up.”
Chuckling, Casey headed to the far right grounds and followed the signs to the visitors’ lot. She and Marc drove by a golf course, two tennis courts and an Olympic-size swimming pool.
“Nice accommodations,” Marc commented. “Certainly conducive to recovery.”
“If the patient has the mind-set to utilize the facilities. Severe depression puts a damper on all facets of life.”
“I know,” Marc answered quietly. “I’ve seen the results firsthand.”
Casey nodded. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the posttraumatic stress disorder and deep, dark depressions Marc had seen during his navy SEAL days.
“Madeline made it sound like Conrad was in bad shape,” she commented instead.
“Yeah, well, being a top-notch surgeon and having your best friend die on your operating table is pretty traumatic, especially after he begged you to do the surgery even though there was way too personal a connection for that to happen. Clearly Ronald Lexington had complete faith in Conrad.”
“And in Conrad’s eyes, he broke that faith in the most horrifying way possible.” Casey pulled into a parking spot and flipped off the ignition, then turned to face Marc. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
* * *
The security at the facility was every bit as tight as Mr. Charmer had implied. The doorman checked their IDs against a list he had, and then gestured for them to approach the white marble semicircular reception desk—an exquisite piece of furniture in an equally exquisite waiting room filled with mauve leather chairs and a gray-and-white marble floor.
A toned middle-aged woman with short salon-styled hair and a designer pantsuit looked up as they stopped in front of her.
“Yes?” she inquired.
For what seemed like the twentieth time, Casey and Marc presented their private investigator IDs and an explanation about Dr. Oberlin expecting them. Yet again, the woman checked out their story, this time on her computer, where she typed in their information with manicured fingernails.
“I’ll let Dr. Oberlin know you’re here,” she informed them. “Have a seat.”
Not a surprise that the seats she indicated were located in the front reception alcove. The guardian of the gates. No one would get by her, that was for sure.
“It’s easier to get into an FBI field office than it is to get in here,” Marc muttered. “The only difference is that here I’m allowed to keep my driver’s license and cell phone.” He glanced up as a male nurse headed in their direction. “Correction. The system here is a helluva lot faster than the Bureau’s.”
Casey didn’t have time to answer before a young man in a blue uniform approached them. His name tag read William Cook, RN.
“Ms. Woods? Mr. Devereaux?” he asked. Seeing their nods, he continued, “Dr. Oberlin is expecting you. Please follow me.”
He escorted them to the elevators, where he waited for them to precede him. He then pressed the third-floor button and stood, hands clasped behind him, as the doors shut.
“I’ll be taking you directly to Dr. Oberlin’s office,” he informed them. “She’ll have a brief meeting with you and then take you to see the patient you’ve requested to see—Dr. Westfield. He has a time limit on his visitations, so you’ll be allowed only a designated amount of time with him.”
“We understand.” Casey exchanged a quick glance with Marc. It felt like they were in the friggin’ military rather than a recuperation center.
The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and Nurse Cook led them down a few corridors until he reached an office whose gold plaque read Marie Oberlin, M.D.
He knocked.
“Yes?” came a crisp female voice from inside.
The RN opened the door partway. “Ms. Woods and Mr. Devereaux are here.”
There was the sound of a chair being rolled back, and then the click of heels on the floor. A tall, slim, middle-aged woman with chin-length dark hair and an understated pantsuit opened the door the rest of the way and gave them a professional smile. “Come in,” she said, gesturing. She shot a quick glance at the nurse, who was making his exit. “Thanks, Bill,” she added.
She shut the door, turned and shook Casey’s and Marc’s hands. “I’m Marie Oberlin, Dr. Westfield’s primary attending physician.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Oberlin,” Casey replied. She quickly scanned the office—lovely and elegant, but as understated as Dr. Oberlin herself, with rich walnut rather than stark, in-your-face marble furnishings. “We thank you for your time,” Casey added. “We realize it’s valuable.”
“Not as valuable as my patients.” Dr. Oberlin spoke with candor rather than arrogance. “I’m a little uncomfortable having private investigators as visitors. This isn’t exactly a social call, and I don’t want Dr. Westfield to suffer any setbacks. He’s here to recover, not to be agitated.”
“We understand that.” Casey nodded. “I’m sure Madeline Westfield explained the nature of our visit. We only want to ask her ex-husband a few questions as this involves her life and her safety.”
“She did explain that, which is why I’m permitting this visit. The stipulations are that I be present during the interview, and that when I say it’s over, it’s over.”
Casey wasn’t happy, but she wasn’t surprised, either. Conrad Westfield was a psychiatric patient. His physician wasn’t about to let him feel vulnerable and alone while being grilled by two P.I.s.
“Fair enough,” Casey responded. “And just so Marc and I know what to expect, could you summarize Dr. Westfield’s current mental state without compromising doctor-patient confidentiality? We know he had a psychotic break after the loss of his friend and that he came here in a severely depressive state. Is he clearheaded?”
Dr. Oberlin looked a little put off by the question. “If you’re asking if Dr. Westfield is in his right mind, the answer is yes. He’s depressed, not unaware. If his condition were more severe, or if he were unable to understand or answer your questions, I wouldn’t permit this visit, regardless of how dire the circumstances. In addition, he’s expecting you. I don’t surprise my patients. The final decision of who they do or don’t see is theirs. Dr. Westifield chose to have you here.”
“I understand—and we’re very appreciative.” Casey cautioned herself to tread lightly. The last thing she wanted to do was to offend the woman they needed as their ally. “I certainly wasn’t questioning your judgment. I only wanted to know what to expect so that Marc and I can accomplish what we need to as quickly and easily as possible. We’re not here to upset your patient, Dr. Oberlin. You have my word.”
That seemed to relax the psychiatrist a bit. “All right, then.” She scooped up a file and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Just one more question.” Casey held up her palm for an instant. “How much did you tell Conrad Westfield about his ex-wife? Does he know she was burglarized? Almost hit by a car?”
“He knows both,” Dr. Oberlin replied. “And he’s very concerned.”
“Good.” Casey nodded. “Then we’re ready for our interview.”
* * *
From a rear view, Conrad Westfield looked like any successful middle-aged man standing in his living room on a day off from work.
He was at the room’s bay window, back turned toward them, gazing outside. Dressed in designer sweats, he was tall, broad-shouldered and tan, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He looked strong and healthy, and not at all bent and broken.
Casey and Marc exchanged glances.
Dr. Oberlin intercepted the look. “Appearances are often deceiving,” she murmured. “At the same time, any manifestation of normal behavior is a positive sign.” Aloud, she said, “Conrad, your visitors are here.”
Conrad Westfield turned around. He was a handsome man, but instantly, Casey could see that Dr. Oberlin was right. Put together or not, Conrad’s face was drawn and his eyes were hollow and faraway.
“Dr. Westfield, thank you for seeing us.” Casey stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Woods, and this is my associate, Marc Devereaux.”
“Ms. Woods. Mr. Devereaux.” Conrad shook both their hands. There was no reaction at all when he said Marc’s name or met his gaze—again, not a surprise since Madeline had told them she’d never mentioned Marc’s name to her ex. But Marc indiscernibly tensed up, and his stare intensified, however subtly, as he scrutinized the man who’d been married to his former lover.
Casey knew Conrad wouldn’t notice, but she certainly did. And it concerned her. She intended to watch Marc like a hawk. If he couldn’t keep his personal feelings in check for this interview, then he was being relegated to the background on this case. No second chances. No questions asked.
Marc must have sensed his boss’s thought process, because he settled into his usual professional self ASAP.
“Please, sit down,” Conrad said, gesturing at the high-backed chairs on either side of a matching sofa, complete with coffee table. He glanced at Dr. Oberlin. “Are you staying?”
“Yes, unless you would prefer I didn’t,” she replied.
He made an offhand gesture. “I have no problem either way. I just don’t want Ms. Woods and Mr. Devereaux to feel they can’t be open and honest.” A wry smile. “Or to think they’re dealing with a crazy person.”
“That thought never occurred to us,” Casey said. “And Dr. Oberlin is more than welcome to stay. We won’t take up much of your time.”
That comment made Conrad’s smile widen. “Time is one thing I have an infinite amount of.”
The group of them sat down, Conrad on one end of the curved sofa, his physician on the other. This way she had a full view of him and his reactions.
Conrad opened the conversation right away. “How is Madeline?”
“Understandably anxious and upset,” Casey replied. “And still in pain. She took a nasty fall when she tried to avoid that SUV.”
Worry, not guilt, furrowed Conrad’s brow.
“I don’t understand it,” he said. “Why would someone want to hurt Madeline? She doesn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“Clearly that’s not true.” Marc spoke up for the first time, and he was all business, without a trace of personal involvement. “Our best guess is that the offender thinks she knows something incriminating, and that she has proof of it in her possession.”
“I don’t understand. Did she witness a crime?”
“Not that we know of,” Marc replied. “So far we haven’t found the offender’s trigger. But we will.”
“The police don’t have the manpower to do anything without solid evidence of our theory,” Casey added. “But Forensic Instincts does, which is why Madeline hired us.”
“I’m grateful.” Again, Conrad looked and sounded genuine. “And please, whatever extra funds need to be spent, I’m more than happy to cover them. Just keep her safe.”
“That’s the plan,” Casey said. “Which is why we wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Starting with, did I hire someone to try to kill my ex-wife.” Conrad spoke very matter-of-factly. He waved away any forthcoming clarification from Casey. “I’m not mentally healthy right now. But I do have my full wits about me. The husband—or former husband, in this case—is always the first suspect. The answer is no, I most certainly did not try to harm Madeline. Do whatever you need to do, look into whatever phone records you’d like—anything required to back up my claim. You have carte blanche to dig into my life—or whatever’s left of it.”
“Thank you.” Casey was wary about how extremely forthcoming Conrad was being. It could be that his complete and open honesty was real, and based only upon his fondness for his ex-wife. On the other hand, it could be that he was trying to throw them off track.
Either way, his cooperation made things a hell of a lot easier.
“You asked if Madeline witnessed a crime,” Casey said aloud. “As Marc told you, the answer is no—nothing overt. Can you think of any situation she might be overlooking that would make her a target?”
Conrad spread his palms wide. “No, but I’m at a distinct disadvantage. I haven’t seen my ex-wife in months, and my exposure to her life, most especially to her work, is nil.” He paused. “My former place of employment is not a topic that’s introduced to me unless I bring it up in a session.”
“Your former place of employment?” Marc responded to that one. “I was under the impression that you planned to return to your previous position—or your new one, when the hospital merger goes through.”
“You don’t have to discuss this if you’d rather not, Conrad,” Dr. Oberlin was quick to point out.
Conrad stared down at the carpet for a moment, then lifted his gaze—that sad, hollow gaze. “That’s all right. I’m just not sure how to answer your question. Whether or not the position is still open to me isn’t the primary issue. The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be capable of performing surgery again. I’m not even sure how I’d react to walking into an operating room.”
Casey couldn’t help but feel pity. The man was visibly suffering. A huge portion of his life and his identity were gone.
“I’m very sorry about Ronald Lexington,” she said quietly but directly. “I can’t imagine how painful his loss has been for you. But from what I understand, you’re a brilliant surgeon. Hundreds of people could benefit from your skills. Life happens. That doesn’t make it your fault.”
“We’re not here to analyze Dr. Westfield or to discuss his ghosts,” Dr. Oberlin interrupted. “Do you have any other questions for him—ones that relate to his former wife’s predicament?”
Casey took the hint, and fast. She backed off from any reference to Ronald Lexington or to Conrad’s state of mind. “We won’t keep you.” She rose and handed Conrad a business card. “If you could make arrangements for us to do the necessary background check that you so kindly offered, that would be great. Also if you think of anything—however small—that might give us a lead, please call Forensic Instincts anytime, day or night.”
“Of course.” Conrad took her card and came to his feet, as well. His forehead was still creased. “Is Madeline being protected?”
“She has 24/7 security detail,” Marc stated flatly. He was letting Conrad know that if he was concerned about Madeline, he had nothing to worry about. And if he wasn’t—if it was access to his ex-wife he was looking for—that wouldn’t be happening. “No one is going to reach Madeline again, much less harm her. We’ve made sure of that.”
“Thank God.” Again, relief—genuine or otherwise—swept Conrad’s face. “I realize we’re divorced, but I still care deeply for her. Madeline is a wonderful and special woman who places everyone’s needs above her own. I want her kept safe, regardless of the cost.”
“She will be.” Marc’s tone was still firm, his expression still impersonal. Whatever he was feeling, he was keeping it under control.
“I’d appreciate if you’d keep me posted,” Conrad added. “I’ll arrange with Dr. Oberlin for your phone calls to be put through to me immediately.”
* * *
Marc stared out the window as Casey steered the van up the winding driveway leading to the iron gates.
She edged him a sidelong glance. He looked tense and introspective. “Brooding?” she asked.
“Aren’t you subtle,” Marc returned drily. “No, I’m not brooding. I’m thinking. Westfield is either a decent guy and the best ex-husband any woman could hope for, or a consummate actor and con artist...and an attempted murderer.” A pregnant pause. “And yes, I’m being objective.”
“Actually, I think you are.” Casey’s eyes were back on the road as she slowed down at the gates and signaled the guard that they were leaving. “I also think you’re purposely avoiding stating the obvious, because you think I’ll call you on it. Well, I won’t. Because I see the same thing. Conrad Westfield still has feelings for his ex-wife.” She paused. “Feelings that Madeline is totally unaware of and that she doesn’t return.”
Marc grunted. “I wonder how that factors into this little equation.”
The iron gates swung open, and Casey steered the van onto the main road.
“It could exacerbate it. And it could mean nothing. But you’re right,” Casey continued. “The depression is real, and it’s deep. So is the self-blame. But Conrad is very intelligent and very aware. Could he have orchestrated the attacks on Madeline—out of pain, spite, whatever? Cognitively, yes.”
“So now we check out his phone records, which are going to be squeaky-clean or he wouldn’t have offered them up. Then what?”
“Then we have Ryan dig deeper. Figure out if Conrad has a burner phone or some other means of communication. Find out if he has any seedy connections inside the facility who might be willing to do his dirty work for him. Conrad’s rich and well-connected. This meeting we just had is only step one where it comes to Madeline’s ex.” Casey frowned. “My concern is the long list of hospital employees Madeline gave me, every one of whom is a potential suspect until we figure out the assailant’s motive.”
“Some of them will talk to us willingly,” Marc said.
“And some won’t. Plus, who knows who’ll be lying and why? Between the skills you learned from your days at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit and my psychological training, we’ll be able to do a pretty good job of figuring out who’s lying. But their motives? That’s another story entirely. We’ve got to find a nonconfrontational way into that hospital to get a thorough take on the names on Madeline’s list. We have to plan our approach carefully. We’ll only get one chance at this before we lose the chance to keep our role in Madeline’s life a secret.”
“The dedication ceremony to Ronald Lexington is our best shot at doing that,” Marc replied. Casey had told him about the hospital courtyard ceremony on the drive to Connecticut.
“Exactly.” Casey nodded. “But we can’t just walk in there. We’ll need to go as Madeline’s guests. Just a few of us, not the whole team.”
“That few will include me.”
The emphatic tone of Marc’s response wasn’t lost on Casey.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asked.
Marc pivoted to face her. “Look, Casey. You and I agreed that I was going to assume my usual role in this investigation. I haven’t given you any reason to doubt that I can. So keeping me away from Madeline is ridiculous. I’m the most qualified person on the team to protect her, while simultaneously scrutinizing and assessing the attendees. I think it should be you, me and Claire who go.”
“And Emma,” Casey surprised him by saying.
“Emma?”
“Uh-huh. Let’s go back to the office. I have a plan that I think will work.”
7 (#ulink_8eab1a37-71b5-5db5-b737-9b9bd474436c)
THE HOSPITAL COURTYARD was lovely, and not just from the natural beauty of the red, orange and gold trees around it. The area was lined with miniature boxwoods and colorful, manicured plants, and surrounded by an iron fence that gave the entire area a close, intimate feel, despite being surrounded by tall hospital buildings. There were several benches situated around the courtyard’s periphery, so that employees could sit and enjoy the view. And, most impressive of all, there was a brass plate planted in the grassy entranceway that was engraved In Honor of Ronald Lexington.
Casey glanced around as the small group of FI team members and Madeline approached the site, noting that there were already so many attendees they were barely able to be contained within the courtyard itself and were spilling over onto the hospital grounds.
“Clearly Ronald Lexington was a well-respected man,” Casey murmured.
“Or everyone is just kissing the necessary asses,” Emma responded under her breath.
Claire bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Such a cynic.”
“She’s probably right,” Marc said. “For the most part, this is a political event, not a lovefest.”
“Shhh.” Madeline put her finger to her lips as a few people spotted her and started to walk over. “We’re on.”
“Wait.” Casey touched Madeline’s arm, then pointed at an attractive, middle-aged woman with frosted blond hair who was flanked on either side by a young woman and a young man. Given the resemblance, it wasn’t a long shot to guess that those were her kids. All three of them were surrounded by attendees. There was an air of importance about her as if she was central to the occasion, and Casey could guess why.
“Is that Ronald Lexington’s widow?” she asked Madeline.
“Nancy Lexington, yes,” Madeline confirmed. “Those are her two children, Ron and Felicia. Not really children anymore. I think Ron is twenty-five and Felicia twenty-four.”
Casey took all that in. “I’ll need to meet the three of them later when the masses have left their sides.”
“No problem. I’ll make it happen.”
The next half hour was spent with Madeline introducing her “friends” and discussing her accident with what seemed to be an endless flow of people. Casey had suggested that Madeline get as many introductions as possible out of the way before the ceremony, so that the FI team could mingle comfortably and do their own behavioral analysis as the event unfolded, while Madeline paid the appropriate respect to Ronald Lexington’s memory. There was no point in arousing any suspicions of her motives for being here.
On the other hand, Casey had also instructed Madeline to be up front about who her FI “plus-ones” were. Much to their chagrin, Forensic Instincts team members had been interviewed too many times by TV media sources to assume that no one would recognize them. Candor was their best defense.
“If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything,” Casey said, quoting Mark Twain. “In this case, you’ll just tweak the truth to make it work for us. Explain that while you were a nurse in Bethesda, you treated Marc for an injury he sustained, and that, ironically, you ran into each other again in New York. And tell them that Claire and I were both recently patients in this hospital. We received excellent care and wanted to support the facility with a donation.” Casey stopped right there. The reasons for hers and Claire’s hospital admission were not things she wanted to discuss, nor did she need to. The details were no secret. The media had made sure of that.
“As for Emma,” Casey had concluded, “she’s fascinated by the medical field, and she loves helping people. She was hoping that by meeting someone in hospital administration, she could land a candy-striper job.”
Emma hadn’t blinked. She knew her dual roles in today’s visit.
Madeline didn’t, but she’d accepted Casey’s strategy at face value. “So, when you heard Marc was coming, you all opted to join him, each for your own reasons.”
“Exactly. We gave you a call, you offered to bring us as your guests, and that’s that.”
“Okay. That works.”
And it had. No matter how fascinating Forensic Instincts was, the crowd of hospital employees was far more interested in hearing about Madeline’s misfortunes and the severity of her injuries.
That gave the FI team the access they needed.
Their agendas had been laid out by Casey.
Emma headed off to begin her search for the right target.
Claire, keeping a low profile, moved about and stopped here and there to hover near clusters of people. Sipping her sparkling water, she listened, seeing if she picked up any negative energy. There was plenty to be had.
Casey noted the same thing as she chatted with the various employees. She listened to their feelings about Ronald Lexington, watching their body language as they spoke and assessing who was disingenuous and who was for real. The gist of what she heard was positive, and it was obvious that Lexington had been an affable guy whose only flaw was that he liked women just a tad too much for a happily married man. But if you played into his charm, all would be cool.
There was an entirely different vibe that came through when people talked about Jacob Casper. No matter how diplomatically people spoke, it was clear that there was no love lost between the staff and their interim hospital administrator. Listening to what wasn’t said as well as to what was, it was obvious that the hospital employees felt that Casper’s interests were totally self-centered, and that he didn’t give a damn about anything but money and power.
Casey wanted to form her own opinion. The employees were hardly unbiased at this particularly vulnerable time. There were anxious whispered conversations about the hospital merger—fears of job loss, reduced benefits, staff cuts and the resulting overwork for those who remained. The lack of job security and fear for financial survival was crushing—and naturally, those feelings were directly aimed at Jacob Casper. So Casey would have to meet him and decipher what he was for herself.
Multitasking as always, Casey glanced around, her expert gaze seeking and finding the specific individuals Madeline had named and provided physical descriptions of as being those who’d been closest—either in a professional or a personal capacity—to Ronald Lexington. She’d find a way to talk to all of them after the formalities were complete. She wanted to get a feel for who might have it in for Madeline.
Marc, for his part, was keeping a close watch on Madeline.
Periodically Casey would make sure to look around and check on the progress her team members were making. Everyone seemed to be gleaning something from their efforts. When her gaze found Emma, it took enormous restraint not to smile. Emma was busy chatting up the most stereotypical IT guy she could find in the group. He was tall, skinny and definitely dorky looking, with eyeglasses he kept shoving up on his nose and a tendency to blink furiously. Clearly he was awkward around people and, Casey suspected, far more at home hiding behind a computer monitor and a keyboard. On the other hand, he was over the moon about Emma’s interest in him, visibly entranced by her vivacious personality and her California-girl looks. As for Emma, she was standing close to him, head cocked as she hung on to his every word, asking question after question about his fascinating job. The more questions she asked, the more enthusiastic he got—and the more distracted.
Good girl, Casey thought. She’d been dead-on right to bring Emma here. If Emma ultimately accomplished her two goals, Forensic Instincts would have a clear shot at getting what they needed here.
The next step would be for Madeline to introduce Casey to Jacob Casper so that Casey could get an actual read on him. He represented the new regime, and talking to him was crucial, especially in light of how edgy the staff was around him, and how overall their dislike for him was. That could simply be the fear of losing their jobs, given that Casper was so pro-merger and would work hard to see the due diligence process succeed, or it could be more. As a necessary bonus, Casey would have Madeline introduce Emma to him—and put in a good word for her as a potential candy striper. That was going to have to happen fast to make Casey’s plan work.
Jacob Casper was a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy, solidly built and all about the bottom line. He was pleasant enough, but Casey could tell that affability didn’t come easily to him. He was trying to make people like him to ease his way, but doing that took a great effort on his part. His mind was on money, not relationship-building.
Casey let him chat with Madeline for a few minutes while she observed. Bottom line or not, he seemed genuinely saddened by Ronald Lexington’s passing and equally saddened by the effect it had had on Conrad.
“My greatest pleasure will be to see Conrad walk back through those doors and resume doing what he does best,” Casper told Madeline. “That man is a surgical genius.”
“I agree on both counts,” Madeline said.
So Casper was aware that Madeline and her ex-husband had an amicable relationship. Nice point of interest.
“Would chief of surgery still be in the cards for Conrad if he returned after the hospital merger goes through?” Casey asked.
Casper looked a little surprised that Casey was so plugged into the goings-on at the hospital. His eyes flickered from Casey to Madeline and back.
“I see that Madeline had filled you in on the offer that was on the table during the original negotiations,” he replied. “I don’t know how things will play out this time. But if I have any say, Conrad will be my first choice for the position.”
“If he’s up for it,” Madeline said softly.
“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Casper amended. His jaw tightened just a fraction. “I’d never put pressure on him. But I remain optimistic.”
“We all do.”
Casey noted the subtle change in Casper’s body language, and his quick response to Madeline’s qualification. It might mean nothing more than that the interim hospital administrator was stressed out by the time pressure involved in getting Conrad back before the high-level position was filled by someone else. Then again, it might mean more.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Casper,” Casey said, extending her hand.
“Please, call me Jacob.” He met Casey’s grasp, the tension easing from his body. “It was great meeting you, as well. I’ve heard and read so much about the Forensic Instincts team.” A smile. “You’re like the avengers of evil.”
Casey laughed. “I like that image. I’ll pass it on to the rest of the team.” She paused, just long enough for impact. “But today I’m here as a grateful former patient. Forensic Instincts would like to make a donation to the hospital. Can we wire it directly to the administrative office?”
Genuine gratitude flickered across Jacob Casper’s face. “That would be wonderful. We appreciate your generosity.”
“And we appreciate the health care services you provide.” Casey was ready to mingle with more of the crowd. She had no worries about leaving Madeline alone with Jacob. Casey could feel Marc’s presence nearby, and his trained gaze fixed on their client. Plus, she wanted to give Madeline time alone with Jacob so she could put in a good word for Emma as a potential—and immediate—candy striper. What better time than when FI had just pledged a nice donation to the hospital?
“I think I’ll get a cup of coffee.” Casey left the matter in Madeline’s hands. She knew what she had to do. “Madeline told me you’d be making a short speech in a few minutes. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Jacob replied.
Casey headed toward the beverage station, leaving Madeline to her task and filing away the conversation she’d just had for later analysis.
“How did things go with Jacob Casper?” Claire murmured, joining Casey at the coffee urn.
“Interesting. More later. How about you? Any strong energy?”
“A few individuals stand out. Especially when Madeline is near them.”
“Then we’ll have lots to discuss at the office.”
Claire edged a glance to her right and laughed softly. “Emma is really working this. You’ve got to give the girl credit. She’s a talented little thing.”
“Yeah, like the Artful Dodger.” Casey followed Claire’s line of vision, and chuckled as she watched Emma ease a bit closer to her enamored target. “I think the guy is going to come in his pants.”
“I hope not. That might kill the objective.”
Their conversation was interrupted as Jacob made his way to the platform and tapped the mike that had been set up for him.
“Good morning, everyone,” he began. “We’re all here for the same reason—to honor the memory of Ronald Lexington. Ronald was an exceptional man, an exceptional husband and father and an exceptional hospital administrator. He had a way with people that drew them to him, including our patients, whom he cared deeply about. He wanted nothing more than to see people heal and our hospital to thrive.”
Jacob cleared his throat, his gaze flitting about with obvious discomfort. “This is a very difficult time at Manhattan Memorial. The upcoming merger is a bit unsettling. I know that Ronald had his reservations about it, and I respected those. But the realities of the health care industry have changed significantly since his death, and I feel certain that, at this point in time, he would have supported this merger for the benefit of all. As we move forward, we will keep his spirit alive. The combined strengths of Manhattan Memorial Hospital and New York Medical Center will be more profitable than the sum of its parts. We’ll be able to serve more patients faster and with better outcomes. All of that would mean the world to Ronald. I’m proud to have known and worked with him, and I’m proud to dedicate this beautiful courtyard in his name. Thank you.”
Jacob’s brow was dotted with sweat as he left the podium.
For a brief instant, there was dead silence. Then came a round of robotic applause—accompanied by drawn expressions, furrowed brows and frightened gazes.
“The negative energy here just went through the roof,” Claire said, stating the obvious as she clapped politely.
“I don’t blame these people,” Casey replied quietly. “That was more of a campaign speech than a heartfelt dedication. I’m sure Ronald Lexington was not a fan of Casper’s, nor would he be any more pro-merger now then he was three months ago. This situation is ugly.”
As she spoke, Casey caught Emma’s eye. A quick nod told Casey that part one of Emma’s job was done. Now their new team member was heading toward Madeline, who was beckoning her over to meet Jacob Casper.
Smooth sailing for their plan.
On to meeting Nancy Lexington and her kids. Then it would be chat time with the three people on Casey’s list.
Casey caught Madeline’s gaze, and Madeline nodded, excusing herself from the group of nurses she’d been chatting with—one gray-haired, seasoned-looking woman in her early sixties, one petite, dark-haired girl who didn’t look much older than Emma and one round-faced, smiling guy in his mid-thirties. Beneath their jackets, they were all in their uniforms and all in deep conversation.
“What’s the topic being discussed in that group?” Casey asked Madeline, once she’d made her way over. “It seems intense.”
“More of the same,” Madeline replied. “Fears about the merger. Everyone’s very anxious.” She sighed. “Dan and his wife are expecting a baby. Carolyn is a couple of years away from retirement and is terrified of being forced into it prematurely. And Diana is a young, fairly new hire, who figures she’ll be one of the first to go.”
“I feel for them.”
“So do I.” Madeline winced a bit. “The anticipation is deadly.”
“Do you need to leave?” Casey asked quickly. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I’ll manage. I want you to meet Nancy, her kids and the three people I mentioned in our earlier conversation and put on my list—Dr. Sharon Gilding, Dr. Doug Wilton and Janet Moss.”
“I’m ready. But first, I have to ask you again—is there anyone here that you have problems with? Anyone who might have a motive to hurt you?”
A rueful smile. “I don’t know about hurting me. But you’re about to meet someone who dislikes me intensely.”
8 (#ulink_f2c61ec4-679b-50f6-8ac7-8014e319533b)
“NANCY LEXINGTON?” CASEY looked surprised.
“None other. She still blames Conrad for Ronald’s death. She’s never let it go. And maybe because we socialized together as couples or because of some other reason I don’t know about, she sees me as an extension of my ex-husband.”
“So she hates you, too. Interesting. I’m more eager than ever to have this introduction.”
“Let’s go.”
They walked up to the Lexington family, who were now standing alone in a unified group, in quiet discussion.
“Hello, Nancy.” Madeline’s smile was cordial but tight.
Nancy froze the instant she saw who was addressing her. “Madeline,” she said. “I’m surprised to see you attending the dedication ceremony.”
“I was very fond of Ronald, both personally and professionally. His presence in the hospital is deeply missed.”
“I agree. He had a great deal of life left to live. Unfortunately, it was cut short.” Nancy’s gaze flickered to Casey. “And you are...?”
“Casey Woods.” Casey extended her hand. “I asked Madeline to introduce us. She and I met through one of my business associates.”
Casey’s statement was a purposeful attempt to separate herself from Madeline so as to nip any guilt-by-association in the bud. The best way to behaviorally assess Nancy was to make sure their meeting was on unbiased terms. It would only cloud the process by having Nancy dislike her from the get-go.
“I’m a former patient and small benefactor of the hospital,” Casey said. “This was all fairly recent, so I didn’t know your husband. But from everything I’ve learned, he was a special man. I wanted to extend my belated condolences and to tell you how lovely the courtyard garden is.”
Nancy’s expression altered completely, and she shook Casey’s hand. Her grip was friendly, but her gaze kept edging toward Madeline, a bitter look in her eyes. “Thank you. Ronald was totally devoted to this hospital. It’s not the same here—or at home—without him.” She turned to gesture at her children. “These are my children, Ron and Felicia.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Casey turned from one to the other. “My condolences to you both, as well.”
“We appreciate that,” Felicia said. Her words were directed at Casey, but both she and her brother were eyeballing Madeline. They looked almost as thrilled to see her as their mother did. “We’re grateful for today’s overwhelming turnout. Our father was an extraordinary man. We miss him every day.”
“I’m sure you do.” Casey took a step backward. “I don’t want to intrude or to take up any more of your time. I just wanted to meet you, to pay my respects and to offer my gratitude. I received excellent, compassionate care at Manhattan Memorial.”
“That’s good to hear,” Nancy replied. “It was lovely to meet you.”
Not a word to or a glance at Madeline.
“Wow,” Casey murmured, giving a low whistle as she and Madeline retraced their steps. “That woman despises you. She bears looking into, as do her kids. Any other enemies you failed to mention?”
For the umpteenth time, Madeline searched the sea of faces.
“No one I can pick out,” she said truthfully. “If someone out there hates me, I don’t know about it.”
“Then that’s up to us to find out. In the meantime, let’s go meet Gilding, Wilton and Moss.”
* * *
Jacob Casper had separated himself from the crowd to scrutinize the scene between Nancy Lexington and Madeline Westfield. Now he scowled. This wasn’t a good sign.
He made his way over to Dr. Harold Majors, who was head of Manhattan Memorial’s psychiatric department.
“I was hoping this ceremony would appease her,” Jacob murmured, “but that doesn’t seem to be happening. I need to know how bad she is and how far she’d go to hurt the hospital.”
“As I’ve said, she’s not my patient, Jacob. All I can give you is an informal evaluation,” Majors replied.
“That’s all I need. Go over and chat with her. Figure out if she’s just stuck in the anger phase of mourning, or if she’s going off the deep end and becoming a major threat.”
Majors nodded. Waiting for the right time, he walked over to offer his condolences to Nancy Lexington.
* * *
Dr. Sharon Gilding was a piece of work, Casey noted. Attractive, blonde and as cold as her icy-blue eyes, she was in her mid-forties and reputed to be the best neurosurgeon in the hospital—and next in line for Conrad’s position if he weren’t able to fill it. She was also, like Conrad, a close friend of Ronald Lexington’s—although what he saw in her, Casey couldn’t fathom. No, that wasn’t true. If Ronald liked women as much as Casey had been hearing, then she could see him going after Sharon Gilding. Her looks were striking, and her figure was great. But her arrogance? Her haughtiness? Maybe Ronald liked a challenge.
Sharon Gilding’s arctic stare moved from Madeline to Casey as Madeline introduced them. Her eyes shot daggers at Madeline, but she inquired politely about her health, and then turned and shook Casey’s hand.
“I’ve seen news flashes about Forensic Instincts on TV,” she said. “Congratulations on your well-earned success.”
“Thank you.” Casey could feel Sharon’s dislike for Madeline even when she wasn’t addressing her. “From what I understand, neurosurgery is one of the most complex areas of medicine. You must be very talented.”
“My career is my life. And yes, I’m exceptional at what I do. The human brain is the most fascinating organ in the body. It controls every nerve and motor function.” A tight smile. “I could go on, but the complexity of it would probably bore you.”
Wow, did this woman come on strong. Then why did Casey sense that she was protecting herself in some way?
“I hear you’re second in line for chief of surgery.” Casey went for blunt and fast, wanting to see Sharon Gilding’s undisguised reaction. “What happens if Conrad Westfield comes back and accepts the job?”
Surprise mingled with something else shot across the neurosurgeon’s face. “Then I continue doing what I’m doing,” she responded, schooling her features. “Conrad is a genius in his field. He deserves the position as much as I do.”
“That’s very magnanimous of you.” Casey softened her words with a smile. “Clearly you respect talent in all areas of the medical field.”
“I do.”
“Were you and Ronald Lexington friends?”
Sharon’s shoulders lifted. “We were good colleagues. Ronald discussed administrative issues with me, and I kept him up to date on surgical issues. He was fascinated by every aspect of this hospital, medical or otherwise. I admired his commitment. So yes, we spent time together—as much time as I could spare.” She glanced at her watch. “Speaking of which, I really have to be going. I have to be in surgery in an hour.”
“Of course.” Casey nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” She was already walking away.
“That was interesting,” Casey murmured.
“Yes, Sharon is never one for diplomacy,” Madeline replied.
“She dislikes you.”
“She dislikes everyone.”
Casey stifled a grin. “Who’s next on the list?”
“Doug Wilton. He’s in cardio with Conrad, although he’s a cardiologist, not a surgeon. He was one of Conrad’s and Ronald’s golfing buddies. He’s pretty plugged into what goes on at the hospital, but he’s also a good guy.”
“I could use a good guy after Dr. Gilding.”
As it turned out, Madeline was right. Doug Wilton was a good guy. He chatted with them about both Ronald and Conrad, and told funny stories about their golfing excursions.
“Ron and I didn’t spend much time together at the hospital. But we had a hell of a good time outside these walls. He had a big heart. I miss him. As for Conrad...” He paused, visibly upset. “I consulted with him on almost every one of my cases. He was an invaluable asset, to me and to the hospital. I can’t tell you how much I hope he’ll be back. Losing Ron was personally painful for me. Losing Conrad would be devastating.”
“I hope it won’t come to that,” Madeline said.
“So do I,” Doug responded. He didn’t look surprised by Madeline’s compassion for her ex. Casey wondered how much he and Conrad had discussed Madeline—and if Doug had any reason to dislike her.
Casey tucked that thought into the bears-further-investigation category.
Once that conversation was over, Madeline led Casey over to Janet Moss, who was the assistant to the hospital administrator, and probably a walking wealth of information.
“Janet has been here for years,” Madeline confirmed in a whisper as they neared her. “She worked closely with Ronald, and she works closely with Jacob. She knows everything that goes on in the administrative offices.”
“A good person to talk to.” Casey gave Janet Moss a quick once-over. About average height. Slender. Chestnut-brown hair worn in a simple chignon—one that might look too dressy for work on most women, but one that Janet pulled off with utter grace. High-styled eyeglasses that said designer. Not a lot of makeup, but well-applied and far from cheap. A put-together, professional woman who’d clearly worked her way up to making a decent salary, consistent with Madeline’s description.
“Madeline, hi.” Janet caught a glimpse of her out of her peripheral vision and turned away from the group of people she’d been talking to so that she could speak to her. “How are you feeling?”
Her tone and expression were concerned. She did shoot a curious glance at Casey, but that was to be expected. Janet was a woman who knew everyone in her hospital, and Casey was not one of those people.
“I’m on the mend,” Madeline was replying with a small smile. Actually, Casey noted, Madeline looked as though her energy level was fading. Just this one meeting, then Casey was taking her home.
“Thank you again for the beautiful floral arrangement,” Madeline continued. “Just looking at all those vivid colors made lying on the sofa, doing nothing, more pleasant.”
“I’m so glad you liked them,” Janet replied. “I wish I could have done more.”
“It’s not necessary. I’m really fine.” Having caught Janet’s second questioning glance in Casey’s direction, Madeline turned and made the introductions.
“No wonder you look familiar.” Janet was visibly impressed as she shook Casey’s hand. “Your picture’s been in the newspapers and on TV. Your investigative firm—Forensic Instincts, right?—has been in the limelight. Wow. It’s good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, too.” Casey smiled. “I hear you hold the administrative wing of the hospital together.”
Janet chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I’ve been in the administrative wing for nineteen years. Before that, I did clerical work for four different departments in the hospital. I hate to say it because it ages me, but I’ve worked at Manhattan Memorial for twenty-six years.” A teasing grin. “Since I was twelve.”
Casey laughed with her. “Well, if it matters, you certainly don’t look old enough to have worked anywhere for that long.”
“Makeup is magic.”
“How true.” Casey was ready to get down to business. “Jacob Casper seems, in a very short time, to have a firm grip on his job and on the upcoming merger. That’s pretty impressive, considering the big shoes he had to fill. You worked for both him and Ronald Lexington. Is there a big difference in their styles?”
Janet looked a little wary, as well she should. Casey was asking an inside question.
“They each have their own strengths,” she answered diplomatically. “Jacob is the hospital’s future. But Ronald cared equally as much. Both men are and were totally committed to their jobs and powerful advocates for the hospital.” She steered the conversation to safer ground. “I do have a soft spot for Ronald. He gave my daughter a job here. She had several offers, but selfishly, I love having her close by.”
“I don’t think I met your daughter,” Casey replied.
“She’s over there.” Janet pointed at the group Madeline had been chatting with earlier. “Diana.”
“Oh.” Casey remembered the pretty young woman. Madeline had said she was a fairly new hire, and afraid of losing her job once the merger was finalized.
“She’s a circulating nurse,” Janet said. “She graduated at the top of her class, specialized in surgical nursing and then earned her registered nurse license and her operating-room nurse certification at a ridiculously young age. Ronald hired her about six months before he passed away. He felt strongly about that decision—even more so as Diana proved herself. Jacob feels the same way. Diana is a very talented young woman—and I’m not just saying that because she’s my daughter.”
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Andrea Kane
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Триллеры
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: WHO WANTS MADELINE WESTFIELD DEAD? AND WHY?Forensic Instincts′ first order of business is to find out who′s targeting their client. Under the leadership of Casey Woods, the investigative team has the resources to do just that, working inside the law–and outside it. FI′s strength is its members, among them Casey′s associate Marc Devereaux, former navy SEAL and a man who′s equal to any situation.Except maybe this one…Madeline′s case hits too close to home for Marc. She′s the only woman he ever loved, and she′s his only weakness. Now a nurse at Manhattan Memorial, she′s terrified because someone is trying to kill her. So she turns, reluctantly, to Marc and FI for help and protection.Meanwhile, Manhattan Memorial is in turmoil. With a merger in the works, the staff is still haunted by their hospital administrator′s sudden death–during heart surgery performed by Madeline′s ex-husband, Conrad. A surgery at which Madeline was present. The killer seems to blame both Madeline and Conrad…With a growing list of suspects–including the grieving widow and a string of scorned lovers–Forensic Instincts will have to figure out who has the greatest incentive to get rid of Madeline. And FI has to work fast to save her…before she′s permanently silenced.