The Silence That Speaks

by Andrea Kane

  Tears filled Nancy’s eyes. “I was in the waiting room. Conrad came out to talk to me after the surgery. He was reassuring me that all was well when the Code Blue alert blasted over the PA system. It was Conrad’s name and operating room they were saying, summoning him back in and paging the code team.”

  “Madeline was part of the team that day?” This time Casey didn’t have to feign her surprise.

  “Indeed she was. Once she heard the announcement, she knew exactly who and where the Code Blue was. She and the others rushed down a minute after Conrad flew back into the O.R.”

  “I don’t understand. What was happening? What does the code team do?”

  “Ronald started bleeding out after Conrad had closed him up. That’s the point where the code team does its job. CPR, intubation, arrhythmia treatment—whatever. Once the patient is reopened, their job is done and they all leave. Only Madeline didn’t leave. She stayed on and watched while my husband died. She did nothing. And Conrad didn’t do enough. That’s why I loathe them both. I’ll never forgive them. They deserve—”

  “Mother!” Felicia was on her feet, going over to stand beside Nancy and squeezing her arm. “I don’t want you reliving this again.” She turned to Casey. “I don’t mean to be impolite, but I think it’s best that you leave. This is a very difficult subject for my mother. I want her to take a sedative and lie down.”

  “Of course.” Casey rose, setting down her plate of uneaten tea sandwiches. “I’m terribly sorry if I upset her.”

  “You had no way of knowing.”

  “I apologize, Ms. Woods.” At Felicia’s urging, Nancy stood up shakily. “I didn’t mean to draw you into my grief and anger. I appreciate your donation. Ronald would have, too. Now please excuse me.”

  She left the room with Felicia’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.

  “I’ll show you out.” Ron got up and gestured toward the foyer. “I’m sorry for the family drama,” he said as he led Casey to the front door. “Our father’s death hit us very hard. My mother is still reeling from the shock.”

  “I understand.” Casey shook Ron’s hand. “Thank you for having me.”

  Casey did nothing until she was heading out of the elevator on the ground floor. Then she whipped out her iPhone and called Madeline.

  “I need to see you now. I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  Joseph Buzak, another of Patrick’s security team, opened the door for Casey.

  “Hi, Joe,” she greeted him. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You, too.” He was a tall, husky man who’d retired from the Secret Service a few years back, and who’d known Patrick for ages.

  “Casey.” Madeline appeared almost instantly, her brow furrowed with concern. “You sounded urgent. What’s wrong?”

  “You tell me.” Casey didn’t even take off her coat. She just strode into the living room and sat down, pointedly waiting for Madeline to join her.

  Madeline complied, walking into the room and perching nervously at the edge of a chair. “You’re clearly angry at me. What did I do?”

  “You failed to mention to me that you were in the O.R. when Ronald Lexington died.”

  Madeline still looked blank. “I was part of the code team that day. I frequently am, as are anesthesiologists, respiratory therapists and most of the nursing staff. It’s routine. So yes, I was there along with the others. But we didn’t—couldn’t—do anything. Conrad had already opened Ronald up again and was trying to stop the bleeding. Once the patient has been reopened, the code team leaves. I stayed behind because I was praying that the expression on Conrad’s face didn’t mean what I thought it meant. Unfortunately, it did.” She made a wide gesture, using both hands. “I’m still not sure why that makes you so angry.”

  “Because it goes to motive.” The tension eased a bit from Casey’s body. Okay, so Madeline’s omission had been based on foolishness, not deception. That, Casey could handle.

  “Someone is trying to kill you,” she said. “They’re also now trying to kill Conrad. The FI team is searching for any common link. That’s a big one, especially given the meeting I just had with Nancy Lexington.”

  “You met with Nancy?” Madeline’s eyes widened, more in curiosity than discomfort. “What happened?”

  “She spewed a lot of pertinent rage.”

  “I told you that Nancy blames me, in some misguided way, for Ronald’s death.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t tell me why.”

  “It’s because I was in the O.R.?” Genuine surprise laced Madeline’s tone. “Are you serious?”

  “You bet. You have no idea how deep Nancy’s hatred runs. It would have helped if I hadn’t been blindsided by what she told me. She laid out the whole Code Blue scenario, with you as the villainess who did nothing to keep her husband from dying.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Madeline responded, visibly shocked by what she was hearing. “I knew that Nancy tied me to Conrad and, as a result, to Ronald’s death. But I’m an E.R. nurse, not a surgical one. I wasn’t part of the operation. The code team never had the opportunity to lay a hand on Ronald. Nancy knew that.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s rational about it.”

  With that, Casey rose and began pacing around, thinking aloud. “It’s the intensity of her anger and blame that concerns me. Also, her children concern me. They were very present at the luncheon. They sat by their mother’s side like two guard dogs.”

  “And said what?” Madeline asked.

  “Almost nothing—except when Nancy’s anger started spiraling out of control. Then they quickly interceded and calmed her down, finally cutting the luncheon short and leading her away to ‘rest.’ It seemed as if they knew she might say something incriminating, and they were trying to protect her. Or maybe it’s not just her they’re trying to protect. Maybe themselves, as well. If Nancy is guilty, I wouldn’t be surprised if her kids were in on this with her.”

  Madeline gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

  Casey continued relaying the necessary information to her client. “I saw the distaste in Felicia’s and Ron’s eyes, both at the ceremony when they looked at you and in their mother’s home when we talked about you. And Nancy’s loathing of you is over the top. That living room was so rife with anger and resentment it was suffocating.”

  Madeline was visibly struggling to deal with the implications of what Casey was saying. “What are you going to do next?”

  “Have my team dig. Find out the whereabouts of all the Lexingtons on the night that SUV almost killed you and on the night your place was trashed. We’ll be checking out Conrad’s place, too. I want to know if it was also ransacked. If it was—and I suspect it was—I want to know what was disturbed and what was taken.”

  “I told you, Conrad had a security service....”

  “A security service that, according to our findings, was canceled by ‘a representative of Dr. Westfield’s’ over a month ago,” Casey finished for her.

  “Oh, my God. But there was never a report of a break-in.” Madeline paused. “Then again, why would there be? Conrad hasn’t lived there in three months.”

  “Exactly.”

  Abruptly Madeline gripped the edges of her chair, and looked at Casey. “You’re not involving the police. So that means you’re sending Marc in.”

  “There’s no one better. Clearly you know that.”

  “Will he be safe?” Madeline dismissed her own question. “Forget I asked that. Marc can handle himself.”

  “He certainly can.” Casey paused, then threw caution to the wind and spoke her mind. “When Marc heard about the attempt on Conrad’s life, you’re the first one he asked about, too. Madeline, I never get personally involved in my client’s lives, but I’m going to make an exception—for your sake and for Marc’s.”

 
“All right.”

  “In a nutshell, neither of you has gotten over the other. When this investigation is successfully behind us and the attempted murderer is locked away, I suggest you revisit your relationship. It’s none of my business, of course, and Marc would kill me if he knew I was discussing this with you, but he’s my right hand. I hold him in the highest regard. If you’re the one to make him happy, just get over yourself and do it.”

  Casey’s diatribe made Madeline’s lips twitch. “You certainly don’t mince words, do you? It’s refreshing, after all the years I’ve spent being politically correct.” She glanced away, then looked back. “Since you prefer candor, I’ll give it to you. I never stopped loving Marc. What he and I had was a once-in-a-lifetime connection. Maybe that’s why my marriage to Conrad didn’t stand a chance, no matter how hard I tried to make it work. There was always Marc, right there between us.”

  “Well, you’re divorced now, Marc is single, and he’s not a navy SEAL anymore. So there’s nothing to stand in your way. Don’t wait for him to make the first move. He won’t. God forbid he shows a crack in his armor. He might appear to be weak.” Casey rose. “I’ve got to get back to the office and get to work. I’ll be in touch.”

  13

  CONRAD LIVED IN a multimillion dollar duplex at Seventy-Second Street and York.

  The building itself was old and architecturally beautiful, located in a pricey Upper East Side neighborhood. And the security guy manning the front desk was keeping himself awake with a cup of black coffee.

  That’s just what Ryan had been counting on when he chose 10:00 p.m. for his delivery.

  Dressed as generically as possible—jeans, a navy T-shirt and a well-worn army jacket with a navy Yankees cap he wore backward—Ryan looked less than memorable. The two boxes of a dozen doughnuts apiece that he carried would be the focus, not him.

  Sure enough, the guard’s head came up when Ryan walked in.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing the boxes.

  “Actually, I’m the one helping you.” Ryan chuckled, placing the doughnuts on the front desk, in between the guard and his coffee. “Some of the tenants had these sent over as a thank-you for all your hard work.”

  “Which tenants?” The guard was already tipping open the cover of the top box.

  “Don’t know. The service doesn’t tell me anything. I just make the deliveries.” Ryan’s right hand slipped into his coat pocket and extracted a vial of liquid. With one twist of his fingers, he opened it, then quickly poured it into the guard’s coffee before stuffing the empty vial back in his pocket.

  “Anyway,” he continued without missing a beat. “I do know that it was from a bunch of tenants. I guess they like you.”

  “I guess so.” The guard was grinning as he helped himself to a powdered jelly doughnut. “I’m here every night, all night long. It’s good to know someone appreciates it.”

  “Well, they do.” Ryan held up a palm, declining the dollar bill the guard offered him. “Nah. We working guys have to stick together.” He snapped off a salute. “Enjoy.”

  With that, he turned and walked out of the lobby and into the windy autumn night.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Ryan strolled by the building, glancing briefly inside. As expected, the guard was slumped in his chair at the front desk.

  “You’re cool,” he told Marc through the mike of his specially designed bike helmet.

  “Good.” Marc turned on the lights of his LED mask, feeling like one of the character’s walking in Disney’s Main Street Electrical Parade. He then pulled down the mask and yanked on his gloves. “Going in the service entrance.”

  “Going to the coffee shop down the street,” Ryan responded. “Check in when you need me.” He kept walking, jacket collar turned up.

  Marc glanced around briefly before tackling his job. He’d had a bad feeling about a young guy who was hanging around on the street corner. The kid appeared to be harmless enough—early twenties, fleece jacket, dark green backpack, talking on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette. He shouldn’t be raising any red flags—but he was.

  Marc made a mental note to check him out once he’d done what he came here to do.

  Turning to the task at hand, Marc made quick work of the back door lock. Three minutes later, he was in. He veered to the staircase door directly on the right. Conrad’s duplex was twenty floors up.

  Marc loped up the steps, rounded landings and continued ascending the stairs. He saw a video camera positioned in the upper corner of every landing, but Ryan’s LEDs would blind the cameras to anything except a moving figure in black. No one would have reason to review the footage, anyway. Why would they when there’d be no intrusion reported? And the security guy, who was snoozing at his desk, certainly wouldn’t be sharing news of his catnap without provocation.

  Marc reached the twentieth floor, and turned off the LEDs. Pulling up the mask, he angled his head and looked through the glass pane on the door, checking up and down the short hall several times.

  It was deserted.

  Marc slipped out and walked swiftly to Conrad’s apartment.

  A standard lock. Dead bolt not thrown. Piece of cake.

  Again, just a few tools needed from his tool kit, and Marc was inside the apartment, door shut behind him.

  He flipped on the light in the foyer, and almost tripped over an overturned decorative urn.

  Talk about trashed.

  The entire duplex looked as if an army squad had raided the room and cleared it of terrorists, leaving nothing unturned in their wake. There were items everywhere—lamps, books, papers, shattered glass—and that was only the part of the duplex that was visible from the foyer.

  Too bad, Marc thought, taking in the scene so he could decide where to begin. It was a hell of a nice place. Polished oak floors. A glass-enclosed winding staircase leading up to the second floor. An open floor plan, making it easy for Marc to scan level one. It consisted of a living room, dining room, state-of-the-art kitchen, art gallery lined with expensive paintings, study and master bedroom suite.

  Interesting, Marc noted, his gaze fixing on the art gallery. The paintings, all pricey and by noted artists, had been shoved aside so the intruder could see what was behind them. But none of those authentic paintings had been taken. And back in the kitchen, the floor was strewn with expensive sterling silverware and fine china—that latter of which was now smashed into pieces. Again, broken but not taken. So whoever had bulldozed their way through the place wasn’t there to burglarize it. They were clearly looking for something—just like they had been in Madeline’s apartment. With the blatant disregard for what they broke, it seemed not only intentional but malicious.

  That thought in mind, Marc went straight for the study. The cabinet drawers were all pulled open, and loose papers and empty file folders were strewn around the room—under the desk, chairs, sofa and coffee table.

  The first thing Marc did was squat down and sort through everything, using his iPhone to snap pictures as he went. Both the file folders and the loose papers appeared to be personal. Then again, very few professionals kept records in paper format anymore. Conrad probably stored anything of importance on his computer.

  Marc rose and scrutinized every inch of the room. No computer, only a rectangular mark on the desk where a laptop had been. But the laptop hadn’t been stolen. Marc remembered seeing it in Conrad’s room at Crest Haven.

  This study was way too generic.

  Frowning, Marc considered the options, then headed into the master bedroom suite to see if Conrad had a workstation set up there.

  The damned suite could easily house a small family, Marc thought, taking stock of his surroundings. His chest tightened as he saw little touches that he knew were Maddy’s—the soft lavender walls, the cream-and-lavender drapes and matching bed
spread. For a nanosecond, Marc pictured Maddy lying in this bed with Conrad, and then forced away the thought—along with the knot in his stomach triggered by the image. This wasn’t about Maddy’s marriage; it was about saving her life.

  He searched the entire bedroom and found nothing of substance. Yes, the contents of Conrad’s nightstand had been emptied on the floor, but there was little to speak of—mostly cuff link and wristwatch boxes and a pile of rubber-banded business cards. Maddy’s nightstand was open but empty, since she’d obviously taken all her things when she moved out. Nope, the bedroom was a total bust.

  Time to go upstairs.

  On the second floor, there was a huge media room, which had been ransacked in much the same way as Patrick had described Maddy’s place. CDs, DVDs, electronic components toppled everywhere, but nothing obvious that was missing.

  Again, Marc took pictures.

  Then he prowled around some more.

  Right outside the media room, before the hall that led down to the guest bedrooms and baths, was another smaller study. It had the kind of intimate feel that convinced Marc this was Conrad’s real study—the place he felt connected to when he was at home.

  Sure enough, there was an imposing Mac Pro desktop computer at his workstation—an industrial size and strength desktop—the kind that could hold a tremendous amount of graphics and data. That would make sense for a surgeon who stored hundreds of intricate images, articles and videos relating to his field.

  Marc walked up to the computer, wishing Ryan were here. Hacking wasn’t exactly his thing. He took some photos and was about to call Ryan for ideas when he noticed something that seemed wrong.

  One end of a small black cable was connected to the computer. But the other end was just hanging there, dangling alone, attached to nothing.

  Marc squatted down, took a few detailed close-ups and then texted them to Ryan. He waited a minute before calling.