The Silence That Speaks

by Andrea Kane

  “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

  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 g
et 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 wo
rld.”

  “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?”