by Cassie Miles
“Got it, sis.”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t joke about it.”
He finished his coffee and rinsed the cup in the sink. “Where do we start? You said you had a lead.”
“Dr. Trevor Latimer.” She went to the kitchen table, flipped open the condolence book and ran her finger down the page until she was pointing to the name. “Not only was he at the funeral, but I recognized his name from the clinic where Prentice met me for my supposed examination. Do you know him?”
“We probably shook hands at the funeral. I don’t remember.”
“He knew your father. And he knows Prentice. I say we start with him. Maybe your father had an address book.”
Blake gave a quick nod. “I’ve got a better idea. Follow me.”
She trailed him down the hallway toward his father’s office. When she found herself checking out his broad shoulders and tight butt, she groaned and looked away. Sisters do not notice if their brothers have cute bottoms.
He opened a door halfway down the hall, and she followed him into his bedroom. As soon as she looked at the queen-size bed with the navy-blue comforter, her imagination flashed an image of Blake sprawled out on that bed. Wrong! She turned toward the wall and faced an array of framed photos. The tidy grouping made her think this was his mother’s decorating work.
In a group picture of men in army fatigues, Blake stood with his buddies. All were shirtless. She couldn’t take her eyes off Blake’s muscular chest and six-pack abs. He had an incredible body. Wrong!
Standing at the desk, he powered up his laptop. “Let’s check out our suspect.”
His bedroom was fairly small. Apart from the chair behind the desk, there was nowhere to sit except for the bed, and she decided against lounging there. She fidgeted. “You said something about sleeping in the same room. That’s not going to work for me.”
“Not in here,” he agreed. “The guest bedroom next door has two single beds.”
“Terrific,” she muttered. They’d be separated by probably four or five feet of wide-open space. No temptation at all? Ha! “Anything on Latimer?”
He read from the computer screen. “He’s an M.D., an OB-GYN who specializes in treating infertility. That explains how he’d know Prentice.”
When Latimer allowed Prentice to use the facilities at his clinic, he might just have been doing a favor. “Any indication of how he knew your father?”
“I’m looking at Latimer’s photo. He wears glasses. Looks young.”
She moved toward the computer so she could see the picture, which meant she was also closer to Blake. Carefully keeping a space between them, she read the biography of Trevor Latimer. “He’s twenty-five years old, born in New Mexico.”
“Like us. And Vargas.”
Latimer had the smarts to be a superbaby. A doctor with his own clinic at age twenty-five had to be a genius. “I guess that answers the question of how he knew your father. He was part of the study.”
“We should pay him a visit.”
“Now?”
When Blake stood up, his arm accidentally brushed against hers, and they both took a step backward. He checked his G-Shock wristwatch which was typical wear for Special Forces. “It’s not even nine o’clock.”
It felt much later. This day had been packed with revelations—emotional highs and lows and everything in between. She knew that from this day forward, her life was changed. “I’m ready if you are.”
He strode to his bed, reached under the pillow and pulled out an automatic pistol. “Ready.”
Chapter Eight
Blake wasn’t drunk, not even close, but he left the driving to Eve and rode shotgun in the passenger seat of his dad’s station wagon. As she drove, he scanned the streets, looking for any anomaly that might turn into a threat: a person in a parked car, headlights following them, a loiterer with a cell phone.
Nothing he saw set off alarm bells.
Eve merged smoothly onto the highway leading toward downtown Denver. “How am I doing?” she asked.
“Smooth and steady.”
“I’m a good driver,” she said. “And an excellent partner.”
To tell the truth, he was glad to have her working with him. During the past several days since he had returned to town, he’d been butting his head against stone walls. The homicide detectives and their forensic teams responded quickly to his questions and had given priority to the autopsy so the body could be released for burial. But they’d been convinced from the start that his dad was the victim of a burglary gone wrong. Their investigation was cursory at best.
Likewise, the family attorney wasn’t much help. His focus was on putting his dad’s affairs in order.
His aunt Jean had advised him to accept his dad’s passing and move on with his life.
Until he hooked up with Eve, his investigation had gone nowhere. Together, they were taking action. It felt good.
He leaned back in the passenger seat and considered Trevor Latimer as a suspect. If his dad was killed to suppress information about the study, there had to be something in those stolen documents that threatened Dr. Latimer. Or maybe the young OB-GYN was a loyal protégé of Prentice, willing to kill to protect his mentor from embarrassing, possible actionable revelations. Why did Latimer come to the funeral? Revisiting the scene of his crime?
In central Denver, Eve parked at the curb outside an impressive two-story, white stucco house with a cupola on top of the red-tiled roof. She gave a low whistle. “Looks like Dr. Latimer has done pretty well for himself.”
“Like Vargas,” Blake said. “How come I didn’t get biological parents with the millionaire gene?”
“Me, neither.”
“Does that mean we’re kind of alike?”
She punched his arm. “I’m not your sister.”
Her voice was angry, frustrated. He could tell that she was a lot more shaken up by their possible genetic relationship than he was. To be sure, a brother and sister shouldn’t be hot for each other. He shouldn’t be yearning to touch her, shouldn’t be turned on by her scent or the way her mouth twisted when she was thinking. But this wasn’t the first time in his life that he had to stifle his sexual appetite. He could cope.
Together they proceeded along the curved sidewalk leading to the front door. The meticulous landscaping, groomed flower beds and artistically pruned shrubs were well-lit. A wrought-iron railing marked one edge of the path.
A golden light shone from the left side of the house. Through the polished glass of the bay window, he saw a tall, thin man with glasses playing a violin. The bluesy, mellow tones of “Harlem Nocturne” were audible. A piano accompanied.
Eve paused to listen. “Beautiful.”
And sexy. The music made him think of summer nights and sultry, forbidden desires. It made him think of Eve in stilettos and a black silk slip. He blinked to erase that inappropriate and totally unrealistic image. She probably didn’t own a pair of high heels.
At the carved, double door, he rang the bell. The music continued as the door was opened by a stocky, balding man in a button-down blue shirt and dress slacks. A five-o’clock shadow darkened his jowls. “May I help you?”
“We’re here to see Dr. Latimer. He was at my father’s funeral today. I’m Blake Jantzen.”
“Yes, I recognize you.”
“Were you at the funeral?”
“I’m Dr. Latimer’s driver. Please come in. I’ll see if he’s available.”
He and Eve waited in the tiled entryway. The design of the house reminded him of a soft-serve, vanilla ice-cream cone—all rounded edges and curved archways. From where they stood, they could see through the front room to a series of French doors that opened onto a garden, also well-lit. When the music stopped, the resulting silence felt ominous. He thought of Nero fiddling while Rome burned.
Blake unbuttoned his blazer, giving him access to the holster he wore on his hip. He counted the seconds. Latimer was obviously here; they’d seen him through the window. If he
refused to meet with them, it could only be because he had something to hide.
The driver returned and beckoned to them. “This way.”
The study with the bay window was furnished in earthy southwestern tones. The gracious proportions of the room and the floor-to-ceiling bookcase gave the impression of solidity, as if this home had been here for a hundred years.
The tall, blond man he’d seen through the window tilted his head and looked down his nose through his glasses. He held his violin in his left hand and extended his right. “I’m surprised to see you, Blake. Again, my deepest condolences for your loss.”
His linen shirtsleeves had been rolled up to the elbow, revealing thin forearms and long, skeletal fingers. Nonetheless, his grip was strong.
Standing behind a portable keyboard was someone else who had attended the funeral. His name was Peter Gregory. Blake had known him since they were teenagers but hadn’t seen him for a couple of years. Peter’s style had changed. He wore about four pounds of silver jewelry in rings, cuff bracelets, neck chains, earrings and a nose ring. Everything else was black and tight. His black hair stuck out in spikes. Eyeliner circled his pale gray eyes.
Blake introduced him to Eve. “Peter Gregory. His dad shares an office with mine.”
When he bumped fists with Eve, she said, “Your father is a psychiatrist. That must be interesting.”
“Not the word I’d use for daddy dearest.”
When she shook hands with Latimer, he noticed that the doctor didn’t move from where he stood. People came to him, not the other way around. He held on to her hand and leaned closer to her, squinting behind his thick glasses.
His lips thinned in a smile. “Are congratulations in order, Ms. Weathers?”
Eve snatched her hand away. “How did you know?”
“I’m an OB-GYN, specializing in infertility. I’ve come to recognize the glow that comes when a woman is pregnant.”
“Do you know Dr. Edgar Prentice?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. For a long time.”
When he reached back and felt the arm of the chair before sitting, Blake understood Latimer’s aloof manner. He was visually impaired. That explained the bright lights and the railing by the path.
What Blake didn’t readily comprehend was the connection with Lou Gregory’s son. The aristocratic Latimer and the leather-clad, obviously antisocial Goth guy were a mismatch. “How do you two know each other?”
“We met at the cemetery,” Latimer said. “After we talked, we discovered we were both part of an IVF study that your father did with Prentice.”
His dad’s funeral had pulled in the superbabies like a magnet. Not an unexpected result. Each of these subjects had communicated with his father once a year for the survey; he had been part of their lives.
“Us, too,” Eve said as she pointed to herself and to him. “We were part of the study.”
Blake watched both men for their reactions. Peter shrugged as if he couldn’t care less, while Latimer seemed mildly interested.
“I must admit,” Latimer said, “I never understood the purpose of the study, other than tracking a group of subjects born at about the same time. But I did enjoy my talks with your father. Dr. Ray employed techniques for the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder to help me cope with my recent disability.”
Eve settled at the end of the sofa nearest him. “Were you injured?”
“My, you’re direct.” He turned his head toward her. “What’s your profession? Scientist?”
“Mathematician,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be pushy about your injury.”
“Just curious,” he said. “I understand. Three years ago in Indonesia, I was infected by a virus that caused nerve damage and degeneration of my vision. I’m legally blind.”
She reached out and touched his hand. “Will you recover?”
“I like to believe there’s a possibility.”
“Hope is good.”
Her smile was bright and friendly. Though Blake wouldn’t have chosen such a straightforward approach, he thought she was doing a good job getting Latimer to open up.
Peter Gregory was another story. He’d gone behind his keyboard. His fingers floated above the keys as if playing a silent melody.
The stocky driver stepped into the room. “Can I bring anyone a drink?”
Though Eve looked as if she was going to say yes, Blake quickly refused for both of them.
“Nothing for me,” Peter said. “It’s time for me to hit the road.”
“So soon?” Latimer’s disappointment was evident in his voice. “Please come back any time. I very much enjoyed sharing my music with you.”
Peter came out from behind the keyboard and approached Latimer. “Before I go, may I? One more time?”
“Of course.” Latimer handed over the finely grained rosewood violin. To Eve, he explained, “This rare instrument was crafted by Scolari of Cremona. When Peter and I talked, he couldn’t wait to see the Scolari.”
With the violin settled under his chin, Peter flexed his ringed fingers and drew the bow across the strings. The resulting sound had a deep, incredible resonance. Peter closed his eyes and played. Each note trembled with distinct clarity. Blake recognized the piece as a concerto his mother had played on the piano, but the music truly came to life on the violin. Peter was brilliant. Like Vargas. And Latimer. It couldn’t be coincidence that three of the superbabies were gifted musicians.
As the last notes faded, Eve exhaled a deep, appreciative sigh. “Amazing. You’ve got to be a professional.”
“That’s right.” He carefully placed the violin on its stand and faced them. “I’m Pyro.”
“Wow, I’ve heard of you,” Eve said. “One of the guys I work with is a big fan. You do techno-metal rock, right?”
“I’m not into labels.” He sneered. “If I was, I’d call our music post-apocalyptic punk with a metal edge.”
“I know one of your songs. ‘Eat the Beast.’ Right?”
He gave a short laugh as he went back to his keyboard. “It’s ‘Beat the Beast,’ baby.”
He slammed out a series of chords and let out an unintelligible wail that set Blake’s teeth on edge. Why would somebody who played Mozart like an angel assault the ear drums with this crap? When he made eye contact with Peter/Pyro, he saw a reflection of darkness and rage. “Did you ever play for my dad?”
“Dr. Ray wasn’t into my original compositions.”
Because he had taste. Of the three superbabies they’d met, Pyro was the most likely to have had more than a superficial relationship with his father. Their families knew each other. “What about your dad? Does he like—”
“We don’t talk.”
The edge of hostility between them grew wider and deeper. Blake’s instincts told him that Pyro was an enemy.
Eve bounced to her feet. “I like your stuff. If you’re playing around here, I’d love to get tickets. For my friend.”
“Tomorrow night. At Bowman Hall on Colfax. It’s going to be my last show for a while.” He started packing up his keyboard. “I’ll leave backstage passes at the box office.”
“Thanks.” She beamed. “It’s been great meeting you both. Dr. Latimer, you have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you, but this house belongs to my parents. After my father left the military, he established a successful import/export business which he insists on running day to day, even though he’s in his seventies.”
“What’s the name of his business?” Blake asked.
“Latimer and Son.” A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. “His dynastic ambitions were thwarted when I went into medicine. My mother, rest her soul, encouraged me to be a doctor. Specifically, an obstetrician. She called Dr. Prentice a miracle worker. She was forty-four when I was born. She and my father had given up hope of having a child when Prentice approached them.”
“They could have adopted,” Eve said.
“I agree,” he said quickly. “But not my father. He wanted hi
s bloodline to continue.”
“So, he was happy when you came along.”
“My birth changed his life.”
A snapshot of Dr. Latimer’s history began to form in Blake’s mind. He’d been a late-in-life baby, much like Blake. After his son’s birth, his father quit the military and founded a business, something he could leave to his only child.
Latimer cleared his throat. “Though I’m glad to be better acquainted with you both, I can’t help wondering why you’ve come here tonight.”
“The study,” Pyro grumbled. “That’s what this is about.”
Blithely ignoring his hostility, Eve said, “Actually, we were trying to reach Dr. Prentice. Do either of you know where we could find him?”
“At his clinic in Aspen,” Latimer said.
“He’s on vacation,” Eve said. “Since you both have the same specialty, I thought you might have some idea where he’d vacation.”
He gestured toward the doorway where his driver stood silently. “Randall, would you please find the phone numbers for Dr. Prentice?”
Eve continued to press. “Have you ever consulted with Prentice?”
“Occasionally,” he said.
“I suppose that when he’s in town, he visits your clinic. Maybe even sees patients there.”
“He’s used my facilities.” Latimer steepled his long, slender fingers. “Frankly, my research has taken a far more experimental direction. Genetics is a vital, aggressive field, and Prentice hasn’t kept up with the times.”
“Whatever,” Pyro said. “I’m outta here.”
“Wait.” Blake wanted to see their reactions when he told them about the study. “There’s something you need to know.”
Pyro looked bored, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Spit it out.”
“Dr. Latimer, you asked why my dad would want to monitor the babies born in the study. It’s because we shared more than in vitro conception. The embryos were genetically engineered, using the sperm and egg of highly intelligent, physically healthy donors.”
Latimer paled. “Are you saying that my mother and father aren’t my biological parents?”