by Debra Webb
The two of them would go into the office Monday through Friday until they drew their last breaths. Lucas still consulted on cases with his old team at the CIA. He and Thomas Casey, the former director of Lucas’s shadow unit, still had lunch once a month. It was hard to let go of a life’s work, and the powers that be still needed old-school spies like Lucas and Thomas.
Victoria felt immensely grateful that she and Lucas spent most of their time helping others. Life could be so difficult sometimes. They were both committed to seeing that her son Jim and Lucas’s son Slade followed in their footsteps. The Colby Agency had become a cornerstone of Chicago; that legacy must be carried on.
Victoria smiled. “I’m very pleased with Jamie’s ability to work without supervision. She’s learning quickly to anticipate the necessary steps in a case.”
Lucas folded the newspaper and set it aside. “It’s refreshing to see such ambition in a young lady her age.”
Victoria set her teacup aside. “I hope Luke is as excited about following in his father’s and his grandparents’ shoes as his older sister.”
Lucas laughed. “Give the boy time. Girls mature much faster than boys.”
Victoria had to laugh. “This is very true.”
The sparkle of mischief in her husband’s gray eyes made her smile. “But our women love us anyway.”
“We do, indeed.” She could not imagine her life without this man. They were two of a kind. “Tell me, did you discover anything useful in your search into Dr. Pierce’s past?”
Dr. Devon Pierce, former renowned surgeon and the genius behind the Edge facility, had a ghost from his past haunting his newly found success. He’d ignored it for some time but when he and Victoria had been discussing Eva Bowman’s troubles, Pierce had confessed to having a problem of his own.
Lucas raised his cup to his lips, savoring the bold flavor of his favorite blend. When he’d placed the cup in its saucer once more, he considered her question a moment longer. “Pierce’s background is littered with tragedy.”
Victoria was aware of his personal tragedy. He and his wife had been visiting her family in Binghamton, New York, for the holidays when an awful car accident left her gravely injured. Pierce had been severely injured himself and the local hospital simply wasn’t equipped to handle their needs. With no time to wait for his wife to be airlifted to another hospital and no surgeon available to help her, Pierce had tried to save her himself. She died on the operating table.
Eventually he had returned to work as the head of surgery at Chicago’s prestigious Rush University Medical Center. Within a year he had resigned to focus solely on reinventing the Emergency Department. Six years later his creation, the Edge, was the prototype for new facilities all over the country.
As much as Victoria respected Devon Pierce, she felt sympathy for him as well. He had not allowed himself to have a real life since his wife died. Work was his only companion. He continued to live alone in the massive mansion in Lake Bluff he’d built for her. Victoria and Lucas had been to his home once, before he lost his wife. They’d hosted a fund-raiser for a new wing at Rush. The Georgian-style mansion had been more like a castle than a home.
How sad that such a brilliant and caring man refused to open his heart again.
“You didn’t find anything that might have fostered trouble in his career since developing the Edge?”
Lucas propped his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of him. “Not yet, but, my dear, you know as well as I do that you don’t rise to the top in anything without leaving a few skeletons in your closet.”
Her husband was full of sage proverbs this morning. “Then we must find the one doing the rattling.”
Lucas gave her a nod. “You have the perfect investigator for the job.”
“Isabella Lytle,” Victoria agreed.
“Shall we schedule breakfast with Bella in the morning to discuss the case?”
Victoria reached across the table for her cell phone. “I’ll send her a text now.”
Once Dr. Pierce’s troubles were resolved, perhaps he would finally let go of the past and live the life he continued to ignore in the present.
As if he’d sensed her thought, Lucas laid his hand on hers. “Don’t worry, my dear, the Colby Agency never fails a client.”
That was one truth she intended to spend the rest of her life backing up.
* * * * *
Read on for an excerpt of SIN AND BONE,
another sexy Colby Agency: Sexi-ER story,
coming next month from Debra Webb
and Harlequin Intrigue!
SIN AND BONE
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Sin and Bone
by Debra Webb
Chapter One
The Edge Emergency Department, Chicago
Monday, June 4, 5:30 p.m.
Dr. Devon Pierce listened as administrators from more than a dozen hospitals in metropolitan areas across the nation bemoaned the increasing difficulty of maintaining Emergency Departments. Devon was the featured speaker once the opening discussion concluded.
He rarely agreed to speak to committees and groups even in a teleconference such as today’s when his appearance required only that he remain in his office and speak to the monitor on his desk. He much preferred to remain focused on his work at the Edge. There were times, however, when his participation in the world of research and development was required in order to push those who still stumbled in the darkness toward the light of the most advanced medical technologies. Emergency treatment centers like the Edge were the future of emergency medicine. There was no other more state-of-the-art facility.
Devon had spent six years developing the concept before opening the prototype in his hometown of Chicago. The success of the past year provided significant evidence of all that he believed about the future of emergency rooms. This would be his legacy to the work he loved.
The subject of cost reared its inevitable and unpleasant head in the ongoing discussion as it always did. How could one measure the worth of saving a human life? He said as much to those listening eagerly for a comment from him. All involved were aware, perhaps to varying degrees, just how much his dedication to his work had cost him. He’d long ago stopped keeping account. His work required what it required. There were no other factors or concerns to weigh.
Half an hour later, Devon had scarcely uttered his closing remarks when the door to his office opened soundlessly. Patricia Ezell, his secretary, moved to his desk. She passed him a note, not the sort of news he wanted to learn if her worried expression was any indicator, and it generally was.
You’re needed in the OR stat.
“I’m afraid
I won’t be able to take any questions. Duty calls.” Devon severed his connection to the conference and stood. “What’s going on?” he asked as he closed a single button on his suit jacket.
Patricia shook her head. “Dr. Reagan rushed a patient into surgery in OR 1. He says he needs you there.”
Ice hardened in Devon’s veins. “Reagan is well aware that I don’t—”
“He has the surgery under control, Dr. Pierce. It’s...” Patricia took a deep breath. “The patient was unconscious when the paramedics brought her in. Her driver’s license identifies her as Cara Pierce.”
A spear of pain arrowed through Devon, making him hesitate. He closed his laptop. “Few of us have a name so unique that it’s not shared with others.” There were likely numerous Cara Pierces in the country. Chicago was a large city. Of course, there would be other people with the same name as his late wife. This should be no surprise to the highly trained and, frankly, brilliant members of his staff.
“One of the registration specialists browsed the contacts list in her cell phone and called the number listed as Husband.”
Devon hesitated once more, this time at the door. His secretary’s reluctance to provide whatever other details about this patient at her disposal had grown increasingly tedious. “Is her husband en route?”
Patricia cleared her throat. “Based on the number in her contacts list, her husband is already here. The number is yours.” She held out his cell phone. “I took the call.”
Devon stared at the thin, sleek device in her hand. He’d left his cell with Patricia for the duration of the teleconference. His distaste for any distraction, particularly those of cell phones, was an admitted pet peeve of his. He reached for it now. “Thank you, Patricia. Ask the paramedic who brought her in to drop by my office when he has a break.”
The walk from his office in the admin wing to the Surgery unit took all of two minutes. One of the finely tuned features of the Edge design was ensuring that each wing of the Emergency Department was never more than two to three minutes away from anything else. A great deal of planning had gone into the round design of the building with the care initiation front and center and the less urgent care units spanning into different wings around the circle. The very center, rear portion of the design contained the more urgent services, imaging and surgery. Every square foot of the facility was designed for optimum efficiency. Each member of the staff was carefully chosen and represented the very best in their field.
As he neared the surgery suite, he considered what his secretary had told him about the patient. The mere idea was absurd. Without a doubt there was a mistake. A mix-up of some sort.
Cara.
Devon banished memories of his wife. Cara was dead. He’d buried her six years and eight months ago.
Two of the three operating rooms were empty. Devon moved into the observation area where all three rooms, spanning in a half circle, could be viewed. He touched the keypad and the black tint of the glass that made up the top half of the wall all the way around the observation area cleared, allowing him to see and those in the OR to see him. The patient’s hair was covered with the usual generic cap, preventing him from identifying the color. Most of her face was obscured by the oxygen mask. He turned on the audio in OR 1.
“Evening, Dr. Pierce,” Reagan said without glancing up, his hands moving quickly in a perfectly orchestrated rhythm that was all too familiar to Devon.
“Dr. Reagan.” Devon’s fingers twitched as he watched the finely choreographed dance around the patient.
“Splenic rupture. Concussion but no bleeding that we’ve found.” Reagan remained focused on the video screen as he manipulated the laparoscopic instruments to resect and suture the damaged organ. “She’ll be a little bruised and unhappy about the small surgical scars we’ll leave behind, but otherwise, she should be as good as new before you know it.”
Five or ten seconds elapsed before Devon could respond or move to go. “Watch for intracerebral hemorrhaging.” He switched off the audio, darkened the glass once more and walked away.
His wife had died of intracerebral hemorrhaging. There had been no one to save her and his efforts had been too late.
But this woman was not his wife.
Devon drew in a deep breath and returned to his office. Patricia glanced up at him as he passed her desk but he said nothing. With his office door closed he moved to the window overlooking the meticulously manicured grounds. He stared at nothing in particular for a long while. When his mind and pulse rate had calmed sufficiently, he settled behind his desk. A couple of clicks of the keyboard opened the patient portal. He pulled up the patient chart for the woman he’d observed in surgery.
Pierce, Cara Reese, 37. Her address was listed as the Lake Bluff residence Devon had built for his wife...the house he had inhabited alone for the past six-plus years.
He scrolled down the file to a copy of her driver’s license.
His breath trapped in his lungs.
Blond hair, blue eyes. Height, five-six. Weight, one ten. Date of birth, November tenth—all the statistics matched the ones that would have been found on Cara’s license. But it was the photo that proved the most shocking of all. Silky hair brushed her shoulders. Mischief sparkled in her eyes.
The woman in the photo was Cara. His Cara.
Devon was on his feet before his brain assimilated to the fact that he had stood. The DMV photo was the same one from the last time his wife renewed her license eight years ago. As if that September morning happened only yesterday, he recalled vividly when she realized her driver’s license had expired. She’d been so busy with her new project at the Children’s Center, she’d completely forgotten. He’d teased her relentlessly.
His chest screamed for oxygen, forcing him to draw in a tight breath. The name could certainly be chalked up to pure coincidence. The photo...that was an entirely different story.
A rap on his door pulled him back to the present. Devon reluctantly shifted his attention there. Why wasn’t Patricia handling visitors? He needed time to untangle this odd mystery. At the sound of another knock he called, “Come in.”
The door opened and a young man stuck his head inside. “You wanted to see me, Dr. Pierce?”
Devon didn’t recognize the face but the uniform was as familiar as his own reflection, maybe more so since he hadn’t scrutinized himself in a mirror in years. More than six, to be exact. The contrasting navy trousers and light blue shirt marked his visitor as a member of the Elite Ambulance service. The identifying badge above the breast pocket confirmed Devon’s assessment.
“You brought in the female patient from the automobile accident?”
He nodded. “My partner and I. Yes, sir. It appeared to be a one-car accident on the Kennedy Expressway near Division. It was the strangest thing.”
Devon gestured to the pair of chairs in front of his desk and the young man took a seat. The badge clipped onto his pocket sported the name Warren Eckert. “Strange in what way, Mr. Eckert?”
Devon lowered into his own chair as Eckert spoke. “Nobody witnessed the accident. There was a sizeable dent on the front driver’s-side fender, but nothing to suggest the kind of injuries the patient sustained.”
“What kind of vehicle was she driving?”
“A brand-new Lexus. Black. Fully loaded.” Eckert whistled, long and low. “Sharp car for sure.”
Just like Cara’s car.
“Do you recall seeing anything in the vehicle besides your patient? Luggage perhaps, or a briefcase?”
Eckert shook his head. “I don’t recall. Sorry.”
“What about the officers investigating the scene?” Obviously the police had been there, probably before Eckert arrived.
“Joe Telly was the only cop on the scene. He called us before he called backup.”
“The woman was not conscious when you arrived?”
�
��No, sir.”
“Was she able to speak to the officer before your arrival?” Devon’s instincts were humming. How had a woman involved in such a seemingly minor accident been injured so severely?
“She was unconscious when Telly pulled over to check on her.”
“How would you describe the woman?” Devon thought about the photo on the driver’s license. “I’m sure you concluded an approximate age and such.”
The other man nodded. “Blond hair, blue eyes. Medium height. Kind of thin. Midthirties, I’d say.”
“Well dressed?” Her clothes had been removed before surgery and very little of her body had been visible on the operating table.
Eckert nodded slowly. “She was wearing a dress. A short black one. Like she might have been headed to a party or dinner out or something. Not the kind of outfit you’d wear to work unless you’re a hostess in an upscale restaurant or something like that.”
“Thank you, Mr. Eckert.” Devon stood. “I appreciate your time.”
“Do you know her?”
The rumor had already made the rounds. “No. I don’t.”
When the paramedic had exited the office, Devon pulled up the record on this Cara Pierce...this woman who could not be his wife.
Preliminary tox screen showed no drugs. And yet if there was no intracerebral hemorrhaging, why had she still been unconscious when she arrived at the ER? Remaining unconscious for an extended period generally indicated a serious injury, illness or drug use.
Devon picked up his cell phone and made the call he should have made weeks ago. When she answered he dove straight into what needed to be said without preamble. “Victoria, I was mistaken. I will require your services after all.”
His old friend Victoria Colby-Camp agreed to have her investigator meet him at his residence at eight tonight.
Devon ended the call and tossed his phone onto his desk. Last month someone had left him an ominous message right here in his office. At first he’d been determined to have the Colby Agency look into the issue. It wasn’t every day that someone who knew how to best his security dropped by his office and left such a bold message.