by Andrea Kane
There was an IV bag beside Conrad that was dripping fluids into his body to restore his strength and to replenish whatever nutrients he’d lost. There were also a couple of other monitors attached to him, blinking steadily and beeping in a regular rhythm.
Despite how tired and weak he was, Conrad gave a slight smile when he saw his ex-wife.
“Madeline.” He reached out a hand. “Thank you for driving all the way up here.” His voice was raspy from the endotracheal tube that had been put down his throat during the stomach-pumping process.
“I came as soon as I heard.” She took his hand, simultaneously dragging a chair closer to the bed and sitting down. “How do you feel?”
“Like I was run over by a truck. But thankfully, none of my organ systems was affected. The ambulance got me here in time.” Conrad’s gaze flickered to Patrick. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
“Not yet.” Patrick stayed back, not wanting to crowd Conrad. “I’m Patrick Lynch. I work at Forensic Instincts with Casey Woods and Marc Devereaux.”
“Ah.” Conrad nodded. “And you drove Madeline up here to safeguard her and to keep her from making this ridiculously long drive alone. I’m glad. Thank you.”
“It looks like you’re going to need some safeguarding, too,” Madeline said anxiously.
Before Conrad could reply, Patrick hit him with the unspoken question. It had to be now, before the conversation veered off in a different direction.
“Did you try to take your own life, Dr. Westfield?”
The start of surprise Conrad gave, the pained widening of his eyes and his hoarse “What?” told Patrick what he needed to know.
Conrad was still staring. “Is that what they’re saying?” he asked. “That I tried to kill myself?” He broke off with a bitter laugh. “Of course they are. Crest Haven is protecting itself and its employees. A murder attempt wouldn’t do much for their image. Plus, I might initiate a lawsuit. Bad for them, either way.”
“I told Forensic Instincts that you’d never do such a thing,” Madeline said. “Casey agreed with me.”
“I’m glad to hear someone has the ability to read people.” Conrad rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I’ve been severely depressed—I’ve never denied that—but suicide? Never.”
Patrick pulled a chair to the foot of the bed and sat down. “What sequence of events do you remember?”
Conrad grew thoughtful. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I watched a movie in my room. My aide brought me my nighttime meds, which I counted and identified, as always. I took them with the glass of water on my nightstand. Now that I think about it, I became very groggy very quickly, but that didn’t raise any red flags for me. I haven’t been sleeping well, so Dr. Oberlin has increased my bedtime dosage. That’s all I recall.”
Patrick processed that. “The water itself—did the aide bring it in or was a pitcher of it already on your nightstand?”
“He poured me a glass. That and the pitcher were already on my nightstand.” Conrad paused, abruptly meeting Patrick’s gaze. “I remember that the pitcher had been refilled when I returned to my room.”
“When was that?”
“A little after ten, when I got ready for bed. I’d been playing cards with a group of men.” His expression turned grim. “Are you thinking that someone spiked my water pitcher with additional drugs?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Patrick replied. “Which means that whoever wants to kill Madeline, wants to kill you, too.”
* * *
Marc was in the office by 6:00 a.m.
He waited until a little before seven, and then called Ryan.
“Hey.” Ryan sounded wide-awake and a little breathless.
“Did I interrupt something?” Marc asked drily. “You sound winded.”
“No, smart-ass. I just ran five miles. If you were ‘interrupting’ something, I would have let your call go to voice mail.”
“Nice to know.” Marc poured himself a second cup of coffee. “So I need your help.”
“Shoot.”
Marc explained the whole situation.
“Piece of cake,” Ryan replied. “I’ll jump in the shower, and then head right over to the office.” He paused, and then went for it. “You hanging in?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Come on, Marc, I’m not an asshole. You’ve got some major history with our client. I’m not asking for sordid details. I’m just checking on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Not even a little.”
“Okay.” Ryan didn’t seem the least bit surprised by Marc’s answer. Marc was Marc. “If you change your mind—”
“I’ll let you know,” Marc interrupted. “Now get moving. I’ve got a long night to plan for.”
“The shower’s already on.”
“Good. Hey, Ryan?”
“What?”
“Thanks.”
* * *
The alarm on Casey’s nightstand went off.
Rolling over in bed, she groped around until she found the off button and slapped her palm on it. She felt as if she could sleep another half day, but it was time to get her ass in gear. It was a quarter to ten—plenty late enough to put in a phone call to Nancy Lexington.
Ronald’s widow answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Lexington, this is Casey Woods. We met yesterday at the dedication ceremony for your husband.”
A thoughtful pause. “Oh, yes, I remember. Madeline Westfield introduced you.”
Not a good sign. Casey had to steer the conversation away from Madeline—for now.
“Yes, she did. I wanted to offer my condolences and to speak to you about donating money to the hospital in your husband’s name.” A bit of an exaggeration, but close enough to ring true.
“Of course.” Fascinating how a person’s tone could make such a rapid one-eighty. “How can I help you?”
“Would it be possible for me to drop by today? I’d love to get your opinion on my donation.”
Nancy hesitated. “My children are still in town,” she said.
Perfect. Ideal. Couldn’t be better.
“I completely understand. It’s just that it’s nearing the end of my company’s fiscal year, and if we want to make a charitable donation...”
“I see. Then that’s fine. Why don’t you join Felicia, Ron and I for a light lunch, say, at twelve-thirty. We can eat and talk at the same time.”
Bull’s-eye.
“That sounds perfect.” Casey grabbed a pen and paper. “What’s your address?”
Nancy lived in Yorkville, which was on the Upper East Side, while FI was in Tribeca, at the opposite end of Manhattan. Casey would have to allow herself about forty-five minutes to dash to the subway station, hop on and change over to the Lexington line before arriving in Yorkville and sprinting to the Lexington apartment. She’d better get moving—a quick cup of coffee, a shower and enough time to get dressed and put on some makeup.
She’d be there.
“I look forward to it, Mrs. Lexington,” she said.
* * *
It was just after noon, and Ryan’s lair was even more chaotic than usual.
Oblivious to the mess, Ryan narrowed his eyes in concentration, leaning over his worktable to epoxy another LED to the black wool face mask.
The door creaked open, and Claire stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.” Ryan shot her a quick, dazzling grin—one he reserved for the times when the two of them were alone. “If you’re here to have your way with me, it’ll have to wait just a little while. I’m on high alert here.” Another grin. “Can you hold out?”
Claire walked over and
punched his arm. “Asshole.”
“Careful,” he said with a chuckle. “I need to have steady hands for this creation.”
“That’s why I came down here,” Claire said. “Sorry to burst your egocentric bubble, but I was dying of curiosity. Marc is in his intense mood, waiting for something from you. His energy is so palpable that I had to see for myself what was going on.” She peered over Ryan’s shoulder. “What is that?”
“Insurance that Marc will remain unrecognizable to prying cameras when he breaks into Conrad Westfield’s apartment tonight.”
“Ah.” Claire understood immediately. Marc had filled her and Patrick in on Conrad’s overdose. It wasn’t a jump to figure out what was coming next. “How does your contraption work?”
Ryan was bent over the table again. “I’m gluing enough LEDs and mirrors to this mask to blind anyone. If the security tapes are reviewed, all that will be visible is a blinding light on top of a blurred black blob, that blob being Marc. No face. No mask. Just a miniature version of the Times Square ball on New Year’s Eve.”
“Very smart,” Claire had to grudgingly admit. “What about whoever’s manning the lobby?”
“That’s my job. I’ll take care of him.” Ryan winked. “A man needs some secrets. I’ll tell you about it afterward.” With careful precision, he put down the mask and his tools. “Maybe I could take a short break.” He tunneled his fingers through Claire’s hair. “What would you think about a quickie?”
Her eyes twinkled, although their light blue color darkened a bit. “I’d prefer a long-ie.” She ran her palms up and down the front of Ryan’s sweater. “I’m free tonight after your escapade. Wanna drop by?”
Instantly Ryan’s body reacted. This unprecedented weakness he had for this woman—a woman who was his total opposite—was maddening. It was the same way for Claire. Neither of them understood the powerful sexual and emotional cravings that drove them into each other’s arms, but neither of them was denying it anymore. It was what it was.
“I’m not dropping by,” Ryan replied. “I’m staying the night.” He tilted back her head and kissed her. “I’ll be late,” he said against her mouth. “But I’ll make it up to you. Don’t expect to sleep.”
“I’m flattered.” Her palms slid under his sweater and rested on his chest. “You’d give up a night’s sleep for me?”
“I’ve done it before, remember?” Another kiss, this one deeper than the last.
“I remember.” Reluctantly, Claire stepped back. “We’d better stop now, before things get out of hand.” She adjusted Ryan’s sweater.
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed, scowling. “We’d better.” He turned back to the ski mask. “Tell Marc I’m almost done and he can come down for his fitting.”
Claire laughed. “I will.” She headed for the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. “Tonight—be careful.”
“Always am.”
12
NANCY LEXINGTON OPENED the door and greeted Casey. “Ms. Woods. Come in.”
“Please, call me Casey.” Stepping into the foyer, Casey shrugged out of her coat.
Strains of a violin bathed the apartment in acoustical warmth. As Casey moved farther inside, the music got richer and more embracing.
“I’ve never heard the Pachelbel Canon sound so vibrant,” she said. “It feels as if there’s a live orchestra playing here.”
“Ronald was an audiophile,” Nancy replied. “He was constantly buying new equipment and tinkering with it to get the best sound possible. This version of the Pachelbel was his favorite.” Her eyes misted. “Listening to it makes me feel closer to my husband.”
“I understand.” Casey felt a twinge of pity, despite the reason for her being here.
“I doubt that, but thank you.”
The twinge of pity was rapidly extinguished. This woman certainly didn’t inspire compassion.
Casey glanced around. The Lexington apartment was much as she’d imagined—tasteful but not over the top. The polished oak floors matched the furnishings, which were carved oak with burgundy and gold accents. The floor plan was open, and there were expansive bay windows in the living room and dining room. Down the hall, there appeared to be a bathroom and two bedrooms, while the master bedroom was off the foyer.
Lovely, cozy, definitely not inexpensive, but not a multimillion-dollar penthouse, either. Ronald had made an excellent salary as the hospital administrator, but he wasn’t rolling in money, the way an eminent specialty surgeon like Conrad was.
“I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice,” Casey said, following Nancy into the living room. There was a tray of tea sandwiches and a steaming carafe set up on the coffee table. China, silver and burgundy cloth napkins were laid out beside their lunch. And in the matching wingback chairs sat Felicia and Ron like two sentries guarding their mother.
Nancy picked up a remote control and lowered the music. “You remember my children,” she said more than asked.
“Of course—Felicia, Ron, nice to see you again.”
Felicia’s smile was polite. “You, too.”
Ron said nothing. He merely studied Casey as if assessing whether she was friend or foe. Clearly the connection to Madeline in conjunction with the “Forensic Instincts factor” was still resounding with him. Not a stupid guy. Also, not a problem. Casey would be speaking directly to his questions.
Nancy’s children ate in silence, while Casey and their mother discussed a substantial contribution to the hospital in Ronald’s name.
“I’m very grateful,” Nancy said, sipping at her coffee. “But I have to ask, why are you doing this? I know you said that you had a positive experience at Manhattan Memorial, and I’m pleased to hear that, but there are hundreds of organizations you could be donating to. Why the hospital? And why in Ronald’s name?”
“Honestly? Two reasons—one altruistic and one not. You have no idea what a bad state I was in when I was admitted to the hospital. The details are very personal, and I’d prefer not to discuss them, but I was badly in need of the services I was offered—and they were offered with compassion and delivered with excellence. Your husband was running the hospital at that time. I feel a kinship and the need to give back.”
“That’s a lovely altruistic reason.” Nancy set down her cup. “And the not-so-lovely reason?”
Casey met her gaze head-on. “The hospital merger is a fait accompli. I believe it will result in medical care second to none. Meanwhile, news of it is dominating the media. Linking Forensic Instincts’ name with it is a wise idea.”
“Ah, good press for your company.”
“Exactly.”
Nancy leaned forward, her fingers linked tightly in her lap. “You know, of course, that Ronald was adamantly against the merger?”
Casey brows rose in feigned surprise. “I thought that had changed. Jacob Casper said—”
“I don’t give a damn what Jacob said.” Nancy’s eyes flashed. “Ronald would never have changed his mind. He cared about his employees and the quality of his hospital’s medical care, not creating a medical empire.”
“I see.” Casey fell silent for an instant. “Would you prefer I not make the donation? I wanted to honor your husband’s name, not to offend you. Madeline Westfield spoke so highly of him. She never mentioned—”
“Madeline Westfield?” Nancy spoke her name with venom. “She’s hardly a reliable source.”
“I’m sorry.” Casey spread her hands wide in apparent confusion. “I was under the impression that you and your husband were close friends of the Westfields.”
“According to whom?” Nancy was visibly fighting to keep her anger in check.
“Madeline. The hospital staff. Everyone I spoke to.”
“They were wrong.” There was a heartbeat of a pause before Nancy blurted out, “Conrad is the reason Ro
nald is dead. And Madeline’s reputed magical nursing skills did nothing to save my husband. They were our friends. Now they’re my enemies.”
“Mother,” Ron spoke up, a meaningful note in his voice. “Don’t.”
“Ron’s right,” Felicia added quickly. “You’ll only upset yourself.”
Nancy’s children were obviously protecting her. But from what? Saying something that might upset her or that might incriminate her? And how the hell did Madeline factor into Ronald’s death?
“I’m fine.” Nancy waved off her children. “I just want Ms. Woods to know with whom she’s dealing.”
“I barely know Madeline,” Casey admitted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I heard that Conrad Westfield was your husband’s surgeon and that he couldn’t save him. That’s all I know.”
“Conrad was brilliant. He didn’t make mistakes. But suddenly, with a merger in the works that would have made Conrad everything he always wanted to be, he lets his closest friend bleed out—a friend who might get in the way of his promotion? That was no accident. And his dear wife failed to do the job she always excelled at and save my husband—a coincidence? Not in this lifetime.”
Baffled, Casey shook her head. “You think Conrad intentionally let Ronald die?”
“Mother.” This time Ron’s tone was firm. “Stop this.”
Nancy nodded, getting herself in check. “I can’t know what was in Conrad’s mind,” she said. “Or Madeline’s.”
“How does Madeline factor into this?” Casey asked. “She’s an E.R. nurse, isn’t she? How would that relate to your husband’s surgery?”
“Because Madeline was on call that day. She was part of the code team.”
“Code team?”
“I’m not surprised she didn’t mention it. She can’t be proud of her failure.” Nancy’s lip thinned. “Each day the hospital assigns a different team to respond to codes. The team consists of an anesthesiologist—who’s usually a resident—a respiratory therapist and three nurses, all of whom carry pagers.”