by Andrea Kane
“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 supp
ort.
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
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. M
arc 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.”