by Peg Brantley
Stuart Wentworth had made his first million before his thirtieth birthday. A marriage to a department store sales girl he thought loved him for who he was rather than what he had made him feel complete. The son she gave birth to put him on top of the world. No one could ever hope to have this kind of perfection. They named their little boy Jeremy.
Three days before his thirteenth birthday, Jeremy died. Stuart expressed his grief by throwing himself into work more than ever. In less than a year he tripled his fortune. Four years later, his name appeared on every list of “desirables,” not only in Chicago, but New York and Washington.
Then Celeste got pregnant again. He thought he wanted another son. A son to replace the one he’d lost. He wanted a boy so bad he felt sure that’s what he’d get. A boy he could try and get things right with this time. But it wasn’t to be.
The little girl who held his heart from her first breath bore testament to the avenue of wealth for the young man of modest means. The bond market had changed his life—Bond changed the reason he lived.
Stuart Wentworth didn’t share this story with Chase until after David’s death. Until his daughter’s marriage almost fell apart, even the existence of Jeremy had remained a family secret. Bond hadn’t even known she’d had an older brother.
Based on what Bond told him last night, this family knew how to keep secrets. Bad ones.
The two men traveled the rest of the distance in silence. Not stressful exactly. But also not the comfortable companionship they’d forged over the years.
Chase pulled up the long drive to his house and took a deep breath. Please let this go well. He opened the door for his father-in-law, then followed with the man’s overnight bag.
When they walked in the house, Bond had her back to them, putting something in the oven. “What are you doing home in the middle of the day?” She turned, then froze, eyes wide. Her gaze went from her father to Chase and then over her father’s shoulder.
“Your mother didn’t make this trip, sweetheart. Just your dad.”
Bond swallowed and blinked several times. Then after another moment’s hesitation, she gave a strangled cry and flew into her father’s arms.
Chase took the luggage through the kitchen and down the main hall to the guest room. When he returned the older man, arms still around his daughter, nodded in silent thanks.
Chase reached for his wife. When Bond turned to him, her face blanketed with tears she hugged him hard. “I love you, Chase Waters. Thank you for bringing my Daddy to me.”
Chase handed her his handkerchief and she wiped her eyes.
“Now get back to work.” She gave him a squeeze and stepped back.
Bond tugged on her bathrobe, then touched a hand to her hair. “Dad, I’m sorry for the way I look. Why don’t you unpack and I’ll get dressed and put on a fresh pot of coffee or we have some sun tea.” Bond was filling the space with words.
Stuart took his daughter’s hand firmly in his and walked her over to the kitchen table. “Sit. Talk. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you until I know what’s bothering you.”
Chase’s cell rang as he walked out the door.
“This is Raul Ramirez. I have some information for you.”
The Santeria guy. From the frying pan into the fire. That’s what Chase felt like, going from his father-in-law to voodoo.
“I can meet you at the same place in twenty minutes.” Chase tucked the phone back in his pocket and refocused.
Chapter Sixty-Six
City Market Parking Lot
Tuesday, September 25
Chase worked to settle his stomach as he pulled into the City Market parking lot. It was unlikely that any information Raul Ramirez might have would be good.
He’d seen the worst mankind had to offer the world in the physical sense. From battered wives to abused children to broken bodies to eviscerated remains. But Ramirez represented something Chase could not fight against. He valued every man’s right to believe in whoever or whatever his heart followed. That’s what this country stood for. Still it left him feeling helpless.
The Toyota Camry sat idling at the far end of the lot. Smoke curled from the exhaust like a snake.
Chase pulled his car into the empty space directly across the parking aisle. He turned the engine off and waited. Let this be quick.
The driver’s door opened and a flip-flop-donned foot appeared to settle on the asphalt. Ragged jeans followed and finally the skinny profile of Raul Ramirez.
Chase’s gut did a strange lurch. Sort of a tighten and somersault at the same time. He swallowed.
“This will be the last time you and I meet,” Ramirez said. “After today I’m out of your field of reference. You don’t call on me and I have no obligation to contact you. Understood?”
“I didn’t call on you today.”
“My point. This is above and beyond, and I expect some gratitude.”
An RV cruised the length of the parking lot toward them, probably looking for some hookups for the night. Chase watched the ambitious camper, ready for a surprise. Why Ramirez would stage an ambush he had no idea. But the situation remained tense and no way would he be caught unaware.
Chase eyed the little man. Ramirez had dark, intense and intelligent eyes. “Why did you call me?” he asked.
“I have my reasons.”
“Look, Ramirez. I never wanted to contact you in the first place.” Chase gambled on the fact that anonymity ranked high on the Santeria follower’s wish list. “Your name came up—that’s all. But I’m not after you or your group in any way, based on the evidence we’ve accumulated thus far. And I’m more than willing to let your name get dusty if there’s nothing that points me back to it.”
Ramirez froze, deciding. Whatever information Ramirez had would come out now or Chase would have to bring him in for questioning. That would take time, and Chase didn’t even know if anything Ramirez had to say was important.
The voodoo practitioner stood in silent communion with whatever spirits he’d chosen in his life. Either he’d come across in the next few seconds or Chase would slip back into his car and move on.
“There’s one name that has come up,” Ramirez said.
Chase waited.
Ramirez sucked in a deep breath, held it, then expelled. “His name is Preston Adams.”
Related to the Preston Clinic? Shit. If not, one more asshole to check out. Chase heard a ticking clock and wondered if Ramirez might have an interest in a bad outcome.
“He’s dead,” Ramirez said. “But he had a twin brother.”
“Good for him.”
“Preston died because he needed a new heart to live. Fourteen years old. Kaput. End of the road.”
“It happens.” But Chase listened with an intensity that made his head hurt.
“Brother’s name?” Ramirez asked. “Are you interested in the brother’s name?”
Chase didn’t respond. His training was automatic. While a rookie might give in and answer the question, a seasoned interviewer would not. He waited, and by waiting kept the upper hand.
Ramirez looked like he wanted to kick someone but he took a couple of deep breaths and seemed to relax. “His twin brother, Presley, has made a fortune by providing medical answers to people who can pay for the best outcomes.”
As in the Preston Clinic.
“You need to remove Presley Adams from circulation. His greed is unacceptable, especially as it invades the privacy we require.”
“We’re working on it, Raul. Believe me, we’re working on it.”
Ramirez shook his head, got back in his car and drove off.
Chase called Bond to check on her. No answer. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He really wanted to hear her voice. He’d have to try again later.
Next he called Chief Whitman’s cell phone. “You should know I’m on my way to the Preston Clinic. I don’t plan on pissing anybody off, but I do plan on getting some answers.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
&
nbsp; The Preston Clinic
Tuesday, September 25
Clouds rolled over the mountains and the sky dropped closer to the earth. Gray tones replaced brilliant blue, and huge snowflakes began to feather to the ground. Chase sat in his car on the side of the road, a Twizzler stuck in his mouth. He would give Whit three more minutes to call him and tell him he had the go-ahead to appear at the Preston Clinic. Sometimes he hated the politics of this job.
Two minutes later, Chase put the car in drive and drove the last half-mile to the entrance. Go-ahead or no go-ahead, Chase needed to get some answers.
His phone rang. Whit.
The chief spoke first. “You’re almost there, aren’t you?”
“Just pulling up to the gates.”
Whit sighed. “Good thing you’re expected then.”
This time he didn’t need to use the intercom or wait. The gates parted like the Red Sea and he moved his vehicle through. As they had before, the second he’d cleared the gates they closed behind him.
Today he saw a stretch SUV parked in front of the clinic. He pulled up behind it, glad that this time his car was clean. One good thing about using a department vehicle—they washed the cars regularly.
The liveried doorman, probably some kind of security guard, watched him approach then opened the massive entry doors. Chase nodded his thanks to the man and moved into the lobby. A fire roared in the massive fireplace. Fresh flower arrangements, different from the ones that had been there yesterday, provided spots of color in the large room.
No one came to greet him so he wandered around. First he examined the artwork then the magazines. Still no one appeared. He paced a few times in front of the fireplace, walked the perimeter to see if he could hear any voices. Nothing. He figured they had hidden cameras in the lobby but they were well-camouflaged. The muted sound of a ringing phone caught his attention and he decided to see where it came from. He moved to walk down a wide hallway to his right.
“Detective Waters, I believe you’re here to see me.” The voice came from behind him and he spun around.
Bugatti man.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Aspen Falls Police Department
Tuesday, September 25
Terri finished her paperwork, left a message for Leslie James about the meeting agenda item, and tried to think of something else she could do on the case. Anything. Anything at all.
Finally she decided she didn’t want to call Carol Greene. She grabbed the extra jacket she kept in her locker and walked out into the snowy afternoon. Whatever bad news the woman had to say to her, Terri would make her say it to her face.
She texted Chase to let him know she’d be taking care of some personal business for a few minutes but would remain available in case of an emergency. Not a small part of her hoped an emergency might pop up in say, about four minutes, when she pulled up Carol Greene’s street.
The snow had turned heavy and would soon be sticking to more than just the grassy areas. It looked like the high country might be in for a great winter season. Terri’s skis, waxed and ready, stood like sentinels in her garage.
She didn’t even know if Lily knew how to ski.
Her phone didn’t ring. Terri checked it for messages or texts. Nothing. Damn.
What did her aunt always call times like these? Oh yeah—“come to Jesus meetings.” Her aunt knew a lot about fear and religion. Not so much about making a little girl feel loved.
Terri had waded through a lot of baggage to make sure she wanted to be an adoptive mother to Lily for all the right reasons. She knew to the back of her spine, to the deepest place in her heart, that she could make a difference for Lily. Terri’s reasons were for Lily and not for her. Well maybe a little for her, but more for what she could give—in the love she had to give—rather than what she could get.
She tucked her car into a parking place two doors down from the Greene home. She was ready to fight for the little girl, to make sure Lily had every hope of a strong future and wouldn’t be saddled with some family member who would want to cut off her light and force her into their own ideal of a perfect child. Terri pushed open her door.
Movement on the walkway in front of Carol Greene’s home made her pause. A familiar figure moved with quick purpose from the house to a car parked on the opposite side of the street, got in and took off. Terri stared, fighting to place the individual.
One of the things most cops got good at involved recognizing the same person in different, often surprising, places. Like the perp who showed up at a parent-teacher conference, or a judge spotted in a strip club. Terri hadn’t exactly mastered this, but she knew when she’d seen a face. And she’d seen this one before. But where?
She settled back in the car, unwilling to proceed until she figured this out. She mentally reviewed the last few cases she’d worked, the people she’d seen and places she’d been to in the last few weeks. Lunches with friends—including wait staff and other people in the restaurants—the night she went to the movies by herself because she really wanted to see that film, newspaper articles she’d read that contained photos, memos and informational bulletins and emails she’d received at the station for BOLAs. Someone. Recent. Who?
The ER. The last time she’d been there, Armand Fyfe had made himself a target by his attitude. There was another employee who stood at the nurse’s station and watched as she and Leslie James went for coffee.
What business did an Aspen Falls Memorial Hospital employee have at the Greene home? Had Carol taken a turn for the worse?
Terri opened her door again and raced to the front door. She rang the doorbell and waited. Knocked. Waited. Pulled her cell out at the same time the front door opened. Carol Greene stood there looking as healthy as she had at breakfast but with a very curious expression. Terri’s heart rate slowed.
“I saw the healthcare worker leaving your house and I thought… I thought—”
“Well as you can see, I’m doing fine,” Carol Greene bristled, her voice tight.
Terri took a breath and allowed herself to smile. “For that I’m glad.”
Carol’s face softened. “I believe you truly are.”
“Why was he here? Is Lily okay?”
“Lily is fine.” Carol opened the door for Terri to enter. “Frank is the son of my sister’s stepdaughter. He’s one of those lost souls who is trying to find his place in the grand scheme of things and having a tough time. Thankfully, for the last year or two he seems to have settled in well at Memorial.”
The two women stood, uncertain and uncomfortable.
“Did Frank happen to see you?” Carol asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Not that it makes any difference, but I’m just as glad not to have the confrontation.”
“Confrontation?”
“Frank is the one who came to me initially to tell me about your history.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The Preston Clinic
Tuesday, September 25
Chase turned to face the man who stood several feet behind him. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage.” No outstretched hand. Nothing. Bugatti man did not appreciate the presence of one of Aspen Falls’s finest.
“My name is Presley Adams, Detective. I own this clinic.”
“It’s quite impressive. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.” Chase knew Whit had presented an either/or case to the clinic representative he must have spoken to a few minutes earlier. Diplomatic but firm. Speak to my detective or run the risk of further scrutiny—maybe even some press. Always know the weak spot.
“What is it you want to know?”
“Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
Presley Adams looked around at the empty lobby but a surreptitious glance at one of the paintings where Chase assumed a camera was hidden made him change his mind.
“Follow me.”
Presley Adams led Chase down another wide hallway with soft lights and art niches on either side. The thick
carpet completely absorbed the sound of their footsteps. Adams turned a corner and walked to a set of eight-foot-high carved mahogany doors. He entered a code on a keypad hidden behind an ornamental piece of wood and the doors swung open. Once inside, he walked to his desk and pressed a button. A control pad rose on his desk and he pressed in another code. Chase wondered if he had just enabled the audio-visual system or disabled it. It didn’t matter.
“Please, Detective Waters. Have a seat.”
Two dark brown leather club chairs sat in front of the massive desk. Chase sat and tried not to run his hands over the buttery leather. He pulled out his small notebook.
“I understand you have some questions. I can give you only a minute or two so I suggest you ask them quickly.”
“Tell me about the transplant side of the clinic.”
“What specifically do you want to know?”
“Do you do many?”
“We do. We have an international reputation that attracts not only very wealthy, very ill patients, but also highly skilled doctors and surgeons.”
“Where do you obtain the organs you use?”
“Well, Detective, that’s an entirely private matter between the patient and their medical providers. The vast majority of our donated tissues and organs come through UNOS, just as for most hospitals. But our patients are often able to make private arrangements that don’t directly concern the clinic.”
“So the clinic never provides the organs?”
“I didn’t say that. We have contacts in countries all over the world, and it would be morally reprehensible for us not to access them if it means we can save a life. The clinic, in those cases, merely acts as a conduit. Once again Detective, it’s a matter between our patients and their doctors.”
The man rekeyed his code into the control pad on his desk, pushed another button and the doors swung open.