Touching her arm as they neared the automatic doors, he said, “Genie. About what happened back at my place—”
She stopped and looked up at him, her bruised face wary, her gray eyes tired and faintly defiant. “Please don’t say it was a mistake, Nick. I don’t think I could bear that right now. Say the timing was bad and that we’ll talk about it after all this is over. Say it was nice and you’ll call me, even if it’s a lie. But don’t say it was a mistake. Don’t take it away from me quite yet.”
Though he had told himself all those things and more on the ride to the hospital, they had all rung false because the truth was, ill-timed and ill-advised as their interlude might have been, he’d loved every hot, slick moment of it. Every whisper and sigh, every suckle and bite. And given the same circumstances, he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
And again. And again.
So he grinned a fierce grin, touched her cheek while his eyes lingered on her lower lip and he saw the breath catch in the back of her throat, and said, “Sorry, Genius, but you’re dead wrong. You might want to recheck your hypothesis the next time you’re tempted to put words in my mouth.”
“Oh? Then what were you going to say?” She must have tried for an arched tone, but it fell short and came out sounding wistful instead, and Nick felt his heart lurch in his chest.
He lowered his voice a notch, aware that several of the E.R. doctors on a smoke break—didn’t they know smoking was bad for their health?—were listening avidly to the conversation. “I was going to say that I enjoyed every minute of it.” He dropped a quick kiss on her lips, delighted in the way she flushed at the simple contact. “And that I’m sorry for the interruption.”
Afraid that if they stayed there much longer he was going to drag her off, find a free gurney and an empty exam room to show her just how sorry he was, Nick broke away and headed for the doors.
“Nick?” He turned back and was fascinated by the quick play of emotions across her face—shyness to temptress, awkward to empowered. She had put her own brown skirt and shoes back on, but kept his shirt. He hoped that was a good sign. She patted the breast pocket. “Maybe next time.”
He grinned. Nodded. “Next time. Count on it.”
Then she marched past him, whacking him on the fanny with the gray folder as he passed. “Good. That’s settled. Now let’s go get this bastard.”
She strode down the narrow E.R. hallway with her hair flowing freely down her back and an aggressive wiggle beneath the dark brown skirt, and was apparently unaware of the low buzz that followed her.
“Was that Watson?” Nick heard one masculine voice ask. “When did she get so hot?”
Nick smiled. She’d always been hot.
She was just a bit behind the curve in realizing it.
GENIE PORED OVER the Collins folder until the little words and the circles and squares of the pedigree began to dance and swirl before her eyes. She glanced at the clock on the green waiting room wall—2:30 a.m.
“It’s Thursday,” she said to nobody in particular. She hadn’t been to bed since…Tuesday morning. And then she’d been recovering from a concussion, so it almost didn’t count.
Nick dozed in one of the hard plastic chairs and she envied him the ability to nap. Detective Peters, who’d insisted on staying with Steph, had poked his head out several times in the past few hours, as had the doctors assigned to her care. They had treated the obvious wounds and had stabilized Genie’s new friend, but Steph still hadn’t regained consciousness. For all that modern medicine knew about healing the human body, it couldn’t always predict the course of a head injury.
She could be in the coma for hours or days. Weeks or months. There was just no way of knowing.
Genie glared down at the gray folder. She was missing something, she had to be. If Nick was correct and Richard Fenton’s millions were the motive for the recent attacks, then the culprit had to be someone who stood to lose or gain money based on—what? Whether or not they had glaucoma? That didn’t make any sense. The disease was treatable.
“Nick. Hey, Nick, wake up!” He shifted and muttered something foul before his eyes popped open and he half stood.
“What? What’s wrong? Is there word on Steph?” He glanced around wildly in search of a doctor or a boogeyman.
“No, I’m sorry. Relax. I didn’t mean to startle you, but I need a rich opinion.”
He sank back to the chair and stretched, causing all sorts of interesting muscles to press against the white shirt she had unbuttoned five or six hours ago. Now that she knew what he looked like underneath all that cloth, it was going to be a real challenge to keep her imagination to herself at work. She frowned at the reminder that one of these days—if she lived to see it—she and Wellington would go back to their proper roles.
“A ‘rich’ opinion as in one that is complex and well-suited to a man of my many talents?”
She shook her head. “No, as in an opinion given by a man with more money than he could ever hope to spend.”
Nick scratched his ribs and ran a hand across the fuzz on his chin, which was a darker gold than his hair. “Ouch.”
“Shut up and take a look at this.” She moved to sit beside him and held out the pedigree. “Which of these players stands to gain or lose the popcorn fortune based on something found in a genetics screen?”
He squinted at the paper and traced the lines of descent with his finger. “Well, Gray’s Glaucoma isn’t fatal, right?”
“That’s correct. Blinding in some cases, but not fatal.”
The finger stopped on generation III, Richard Senior’s children. “The kids probably stand to inherit the money. Depending on how traditional Richard Sr. is, he might pass the bulk on to this guy—” the finger tapped Richard Fenton Jr. “—because he’s the eldest son. Then there are three middle daughters and the younger son.”
Genie frowned at the chart. “But they’re all pretty normal according to the clinical notes. The scary ones are the descendants of Richard’s brother-in-law, Mac. He’s only related to the Fenton fortune by marriage and, according to Steph, Patty and her brother haven’t had anything to do with each other since long before Mac was tossed in jail. So how are the sociopathic Collins thinking they’ll get their hands on Richard Fenton’s money? Assuming we’re on the right track, that is.”
Nick tapped the blackened square that represented the eldest Fenton son, Richard Jr. “Tell me about this guy.”
Recalling from memory, Genie recited, “Affected with Gray’s Glaucoma of an unusually early and severe onset, although his sight was saved by filtration surgery and drops. Seemed comfortable with the study when he was first admitted, but since then, he’s called to speak with me about confidentiality issues, just like his father has.” She paused. “I haven’t gotten back to either of them yet because of all the things that have happened this week in the lab.”
“And his wife? Why is she colored in with pen?”
“Deborah Fenton. I don’t know her maiden name. When she came in for the eye exam we require along with blood samples, the ophthalmologist I work with diagnosed her as also having Gray’s Glaucoma, which is very strange since she’s only related by marriage, not blood.”
“Did Sturgeon ever tell us who’s office was broken into over at the Eye Center?”
Genie shook her head. “Nope, but if you’re right about this, I’ll bet you money it was the ophthalmologist who saw this family.”
“I never bet on a sure thing, Dr. Watson.” Nick’s finger traced a line of descent. “What are these diamonds under Richard and Deborah?”
“Spontaneous abortions. Miscarriages. It looks like they’re trying to have kids and either their genetic material isn’t combining quite right, or she has a reproductive problem that prevents her from carrying to term.”
“Dr. Watson? Dr. Wellington?” Peters stood in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically haggard. “Steph— Ms. Andrews is awake. She wants to speak with you both.”
But by the time
they reached Steph’s room, she had sunk back beneath quiet waves of unconsciousness. She looked impossibly young beneath the stark fluorescent lights, and to Genie it seemed unbelievable that the motionless figure lying so still on the hospital bed could be the same woman who’d bragged about her new boyfriend and chivied Genie into buying a dark red dress that didn’t suit Dr. Watson at all, but looked just great on the new and improved Genie.
“She’s resting comfortably now,” said the terrifyingly efficient nurse—the one with the mustache that had so worried Genie earlier in the week.
Dear God, was it really only Thursday?
“Did she say anything while she was conscious? A name or description of her attacker? Anything?”
The nurse pursed her lips, making the fine hairs ripple, and frowned as though trying to decide whether to tell them or not. Finally she nodded and Genie’s brain spat out an irrelevant song lyric about being a walrus.
“She said a name. Roger something. But I couldn’t tell if she wanted us to call him, or wanted to tell us that’s who hurt her.”
“Roger’s her boyfriend,” Genie clarified, and Sturgeon scowled. She hadn’t even noticed his arrival, but he stood near the door. Peters sat by Steph’s bed and Genie had a feeling he’d been there all night.
“That’s no help.” Sturgeon pulled an index card and a stubby pencil from his pocket, followed by a shower of empty peppermint wrappers. The translucent plastic bits fluttered to the floor. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know his last name.” Genie looked to Nick, who also shook his head in the negative. “But he was the local sales rep for Petrie Pharmaceuticals. That’s how they met.”
“That’s right, Petrie.” Nick lowered his voice at the nurse’s shushing motion, then gestured that they should all leave. It was obvious that while the doctors were promising a full recovery for Steph, she wasn’t going to be in a position to answer any questions for some time. “Weren’t they one of the companies with Fenton’s Ataxia patents?” Then he stopped himself. “Right. Never mind, wrong Fenton.”
Sturgeon popped a fresh mint into his mouth. “We’re not discounting anything. As soon as Petrie’s open in the morning, I’ll call about this Roger and see if anything comes up. In the meantime, why don’t you two review everything you have on this family and see what you come up with—and what you can use in court.”
Genie felt fatigue drag at her. She’d forgotten about that little sticking point. “Like what? Someone has to see him attack me?”
“That’d do it, though I’d rather not go that far.” Sturgeon looked at her gravely. “It would help if you remembered what happened to you in that darkroom. Maybe you saw his face.”
She took a deep breath and glanced sideways at Nick. “I’ll go in there again. This time I’ll turn on the dark lights. Maybe that will trigger something.”
Red lights splashed like blood against the warm, cloying darkness. The smell of chemicals, excited man, and—what else?
She shook her head in frustration. She had to make her brain behave. Had to.
“No way. I won’t let you do it. That’s ridiculous, Genie. Don’t you remember what happened the last time you went in there?”
“I remember,” she replied, and let her face show him just what she remembered. She remembered kissing him. Needing him.
Wanting him.
“I’ll station uniforms on the lab floor. You’ll be safe,” Sturgeon promised, but Nick only snarled.
“I won’t let you do it.”
Tired beyond words, Genie couldn’t take it anymore. She had to get some sleep before she screamed. “Let it go, Wellington. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” She glanced at the wall clock, which now showed that it was four in the morning. It would be dawn soon. “I mean later today. I’ve got to get some sleep someplace safe.”
“I’ll drive you to my place,” Nick offered, though he was swaying on his feet.
“You’re too tired to stand up, never mind drive. Detective, you said there were uniforms on the thirteenth floor already?” Sturgeon nodded. “Then I’m going to my office. I don’t know about you, Wellington, but I’ve got a folding cot in the closet for those experiments I just can’t leave alone overnight.”
Nick nodded. “I’ve got a really comfy chair that does me just fine. I’ll walk with you.”
SHE BRUSHED HER TEETH in the eerily empty bathroom and heard the water gurgle down the pipes as she thought of how soothing she used to find sleeping alone in the lab.
Not anymore.
But she consoled herself with the fact that she wasn’t alone now. There were two police officers in the elevator lobby, and Nick…well, Nick was around somewhere. He’d disappeared right after they arrived on the floor and she hadn’t seen him since.
The cot unfolded to a narrow six feet, plenty of room for her though not enough to share. Not that Nick seemed inclined to stay with her. The single pillow and pair of blankets might have seemed primitive in other circumstances, but after a head injury and nearly fifty hours without sleep, Genie would have dozed on cement and been grateful for the few minutes of peace.
But once her head hit the pillow and her eyes closed, she found she couldn’t sleep. The events of the past few days, both wonderful and horrible, churned and spun in her brain until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.
There was a noise in the darkened doorway and Genie tensed, knowing that she must be safe, but scared nonetheless. She cracked an eyelid and relaxed. It was Nick.
Not really wanting to talk or to argue or to even be awake all the way, Genie lay still. He watched her for a moment as though memorizing her, and then he turned and dragged a cushioned chair into the doorway. He sat, tilted it back so he could rest his head on the door frame, put his feet on the opposite wall of the narrow office corridor, and was snoring softly in minutes.
And, not long after, so was Genie.
NICK AWOKE WITH AN enormous crick in his neck and an annoying squeaking sound nagging at his ears. He shifted, groaned, and nearly fell off his desk chair as it tilted and spun at the same time, a stuffed and wheeled bronco trying to dump its rider in under eight seconds. The squeaking paused.
“You’re awake.”
It wasn’t the most enthusiastic of greetings, but Nick supposed that “good morning” was a little inappropriate under the circumstances. Besides, with a day’s growth of beard on his chin, the imprint of textured wallpaper on his temple, and something really revolting growing on his teeth, he supposed that “awake” was about all he could claim.
“Yeah. Seems so.” The squeaking resumed as Genie bent her head over the lightbox on her desk and rubbed at a film with a wad of tissue. A squeeze bottle of pure ethanol—rubbing alcohol—sat at her elbow, and as he watched, she directed a thin stream at the film and rubbed off another set of pen marks. “Make a mistake?”
She muttered something and he half expected her to tell him that geniuses didn’t make mistakes, but instead she pushed away from the desk and stood, pressing her hands to the small of her back and arching. She was wearing a flowing navy skirt now, with a white shirt that had a touch of lace at the wrist and neck—she obviously kept a change of clothing at the lab for emergencies just as Nick did—but she hadn’t bothered with a bra. As she stretched, Nick saw the darkness of a nipple slide past the fabric, and he wished he could walk across the room and press his lips to that place. Wished he could wet the cotton over her breast with the tip of his tongue and tease the flesh beneath to a rosy point.
Wished he could lock the office door, clear the scattered films off Genie’s desk and finish what they’d begun the night before. He ran a tongue around his mouth and amended, After I go find that toothbrush I left in the break room.
Genie frowned and sat back down, shaking him from his imaginings of them in the office, the break room, the gel room.
The darkroom.
She shook her head and poked at the films. “No mistake, this just doesn’t add up.�
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Nick slid his chair into the office so he could read the films across the desk without breathing on her. He saw that the films, crisscrossed with pen lines and radiograph shadows, were labeled with the names of the Collins/Fenton family. “What’re you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to haplotype this family.”
Nick knew a haplotype was a way to look at longer stretches of DNA to figure out relatedness. A child should inherit one haplotype from each of his parents. Brothers and sisters should share, on average, half of their haplotypes. Cousins should share one fourth, and so on.
Something niggled at the back of Nick’s brain as he bent over the films. “You can’t figure them out?”
Genie shrugged. “I can figure them out, but they don’t make sense. See Richard Jr.?” She pointed to a blackened square. “He’s got both of his mother’s haplotypes, which should only happen if his parents are closely related, which they’re not. Then look at his wife, Deborah.” Genie pointed at a darkened circle. “Not only does she have the disease—which she shouldn’t, because she’s a married-in—but she’s got haplotypes that make her look like she’s related to this bunch.” She pointed to the Collins branch, with their jailbirds and runaway daughters. “I’m beginning to think this family’s DNA got royally mixed up during the blood draw and that we’re on the wrong track entirely.”
She sighed, rolled her head on her neck. “Maybe we should be thinking more about those drug companies. I wonder whether Sturgeon’s found Roger from Petrie yet. I called the hospital already and they said Steph’s resting comfortably, but is still unconscious. Peters is still with her.”
Nick glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that it was early afternoon. But he supposed it made sense since they hadn’t gone to bed—well, in his case gone to chair—until nearly dawn. He wondered how long Genie’d been up. She looked tired.
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