Donovan watched as Turner excused himself. Montero eyed him warily, as if she were sizing him up for the first time. Whatever was going on, this felt more like an interrogation as opposed to a simple statement. What he wanted was to get out of here, but he also wanted to collect as much information as possible, because the moment everyone close to him was safe, he was going after the people who’d done this to Michael.
The door opened and Turner let himself back in and handed a folder to Montero. The detective took his seat, once again well out of the line of fire—this was clearly Montero’s deal.
Donovan waited as Montero skimmed through the paperwork. Over the years, he’d honed his people skills against the best and the brightest big business and politics had to offer. He watched as Montero read the first two pages and set them aside. His carefully altered history should stand up to Montero’s investigation, but there was always the threat that a loose piece of thread, no matter how small, could unravel everything if it was pulled hard enough.
As Montero flipped to the next page Donovan saw a brief flash of what could best be described as surprise. Her eyes widened and a sudden rush of color rose up her neck. She looked up from the paper and studied him, then down again. Donovan watched her intently and realized that she wasn’t reading, her eyes weren’t going left to right: she was thinking, processing—or comparing something. She glanced up one more time, then, as if immensely pleased with herself, slid her chair back. Something had piqued her interest and Donovan couldn’t help but feel like the stakes had escalated.
“You know what? I think we’re finished here. You can go now, Mr. Nash,” Montero said. “I think I have what I need.”
Donovan was instantly suspicious of her sudden shift of demeanor. He stood before Montero could slide the papers inside her folder and managed to see what she’d been looking at. The top sheet held six photos—mug shots. At the sight of the photo on the upper-right corner, he was forced to use every ounce of his self-control to remain passive. The photo was of Robert Huntington—the man Donovan used to be. He saw the word “deceased” stamped across the top. Montero closed the folder, snatched the recorder, and their eyes met. She tipped her head slightly and strode from the room.
“I guess that’s it, Mr. Nash. We’re almost finished.” Turner stood. “Wait here while I get someone to type up your statement, and then I’ll need you to sign it for me.”
Donovan nodded absently and tried to gather his thoughts, put everything into perspective. His heart sank when he remembered the flashlight; it had no doubt been logged into evidence and dusted for prints. They’d run what was probably a partial print and gotten multiple hits. He tried to imagine what Montero was thinking. Surely she’d dismiss Robert Huntington as belonging to the print. How could she possibly think for a moment that a dead man had left a fresh fingerprint at a crime scene?
Since the mug shot had been taken, he’d aged nearly twenty-five years and undergone months of facial reconstructive surgery. He’d changed his name, and possessed not only a complete new identity, but a carefully thought out past as well. With nearly unlimited financial resources at his disposal, it was as perfect as it could be. He’d never seen any reason to bother altering his finger-prints. But once, a long time ago, he’d been arrested and finger-printed.
As with most memories involving Meredith, he could remember it like it was yesterday. The images never dulled or faded with time. In fact, they seemed to expand and sharpen in his mind. Details he wished he could forget were but a thought away.
It was a Friday afternoon when they raced north out of Los Angeles in his meticulously restored 1961 Ferrari 250 GT. The gleaming red convertible was the latest addition to his car collection, the special roar from the V-12 engine brought a smile to his face each time he pushed the gas pedal. She’d insisted that they both needed to get away and a road trip would be a perfect way to unwind. Once they were out of the city they picked up the Pacific Coast Highway and headed north. Meredith loved the speed and the adventure and egged him on. Donovan could easily picture the scene. They roared down the breathtaking ribbon of highway with the top down, her auburn hair whipping in the wind as she raised her hands into the slipstream and let out a yell of pure joy.
A city limit sign flashed past, and before he could slow down, he was clocked going sixty miles an hour over the speed limit. The police immediately arrested him and threw him in jail. Meredith was a different story; they recognized her and she was treated like visiting royalty. She’d signed autographs while Donovan sat in a cell. It had taken a few hours before she’d been able to secure his release, but the damage had been done.
Whatever joy his memories of Meredith brought him was always short lived. As usual, he paid for his visits with the inevitable countdown toward her murder. Their trip in the Ferrari took place six months before she was murdered. The contrast of her happiness on the wind-whipped Pacific Coast Highway, followed by the image her broken body in a field in Costa Rica, was the price he paid for remembering.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They were the only people in the small intensive care waiting room. Lauren sat between Susan and William, waiting for word about Michael. All three kids were dozing. Susan was a wreck, and conversation ground to a halt as they fell into their own silent worrying.
Lauren turned her cell phone over and over in her hand. She kept touching the display, as if willing Donovan to call.
They’d landed over an hour ago and she’d expected him to be waiting when they’d gotten off the chartered plane. Instead, the police told her that he’d been taken to the station to make a formal statement. William had arranged a limo to whisk them to the hospital, so there had been very little time to ask the police more. Each time she tried to call Donovan, his phone had gone straight to voice mail.
“Excuse me.”
Lauren, lost in her thoughts of Donovan, was momentarily startled. She looked up and found a woman standing in the doorway. She was tall, her straight blonde hair tied in a ponytail.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m FBI Special Agent Montero.” She flashed her credentials. “I’m looking for Mrs. Susan Ross.”
“I’m Mrs. Ross,” Susan said, rising to her feet.
“Mrs. Ross, I know this is a difficult time. But I need to ask you some questions.”
“Okay,” Susan replied.
“In private,” Montero added.
“I need to stay here. In case the doctor shows up with news about my husband.”
“I understand. Is everyone here with you?” Montero said as she looked around the room.
“Yes,” Lauren replied. “We all flew down as soon as we heard what happened.”
“Your name, please?” Montero asked.
“I’m Dr. Lauren McKenna.”
Montero turned to face William. “And you are?”
“William VanGelder.”
Lauren saw Montero’s eyes flare momentarily. She wasn’t sure exactly why Montero had reacted to William’s name, but something had registered. There was another voice behind Montero and two people, both wearing scrubs, came into the waiting room.
“Hello. I’m Dr. Richardson.” He waited until he had everyone’s attention. “Is everyone here part of the Ross family?”
“Everyone except me, I’m Special Agent Montero, FBI. Do you have news?”
“Yes. Mr. Ross is doing very well. He came through surgery without any major problems. All things considered, he’s a lucky man. The bullet was most likely from a small-caliber handgun. Fortunately, the bullet’s angle was such that it didn’t penetrate his skull; instead, it glanced off, slowed down, and then traveled under the skin and lodged in his neck near the cervical spine. When we got in there to retrieve the bullet, we discovered tissue damage, but no permanent injury. We’re watching closely for any further brain swelling, but I think we’ve seen the worst. He’s in the recovery room right now. We’re still being cautious and we’ll know more in the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”
“I’m his wife. When can I see him?” Susan asked, brushing away tears of joy and relief.
“The nurse will be happy to take you now. But I’m afraid the rest of you will have to wait.”
“I’ll stay here with the boys,” Lauren said to Susan. “Take all the time you need.”
“Right this way,” the nurse said, ushering Susan from the room.
“Doctor, how long do you think it might be until Mr. Ross will be able to give a statement?” Montero asked. “Will he be able to remember the attack?”
“That depends on Mr. Ross,” Richardson replied. “In about half of these cases there will be no memory of the actual traumatic event. It can be days or even months before small memories begin to bubble into the conscious mind. There could also be varying degrees of partial amnesia, meaning that the memory loss before the injury could reach back from several hours to several days. We’ll know much more when Mr. Ross regains consciousness.”
“Thank you,” Montero said, and abruptly left the room.
“Doctor, before you go,” William said, “when can we take him home?”
“This is a serious injury, and there are still some risks. I’m afraid he’ll be with us for several days. I’ll be making rounds later today to check on his progress. After that we’ll be able to make a further assessment.”
“Thank you so much,” Lauren said as the doctor excused himself.
“My guess is that FBI agent is headed for Susan,” William said. “If you’re going to be okay here for a little while, I’m going to go after her. Susan doesn’t need to be interrogated right now.”
“Go.” Lauren nodded in agreement. She sat down on the sofa next to Abigail. Patrick and Billy were sleeping on an adjacent couch. Lauren cradled her child’s head in her hands and offered up a silent prayer of thanks that Michael was going to live.
Her cell phone rang and when she saw it was Donovan, she felt both immeasurable relief that he’d finally called, as well as a flash of irritation that it had taken so long.
“Where are you?” Lauren shot up from the sofa and hovered in the doorway so she could talk to Donovan without disturbing the sleeping kids.
“I’ve been at the police station giving my statement. Have you talked to Susan or William? I’m assuming they’ve made it to the hospital by now. Do we know anything about Michael?”
“I’m with them here at the hospital. Michael just came out of surgery. The doctor said everything went well and that he should be fine.”
“You’re here in Florida?”
“I had to come. I couldn’t just sit at home and wait.”
“I understand.”
“What’s wrong?” Lauren could hear the tension in his voice.
“I just hadn’t expected you to be here in Florida, I had it in my mind you were at home. We may have a problem,” Donovan lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “You need to ask William if he kept the chartered jet on standby.”
“He stepped out. An FBI agent was here a little bit ago wanting to talk to Susan. William went after her to try and run some interference.”
“Special Agent Montero.”
“You know her?”
“She’s our problem. She may have put some things together. We may need to start thinking about going to visit Stephanie.”
Lauren stiffened. Stephanie was William’s niece and one of the few who knew the truth about Donovan. There had been many discussions about what they’d do if his identity were going to be made public. The first phase had always been to leave the country and get to Stephanie’s flat in London. From London, they’d make their way to a secluded chateau in Switzerland to try and ride out the initial wave of public condemnation. The agreed upon code was: go visit Stephanie.
“How could this have happened?” Lauren replied, angry and scared. “What makes you think she could possibly know? Is she someone who knew you from before?”
“They lifted fingerprints. Robert’s mug shot was right in front of her. It’s just a gut feeling, but I think she suspects.”
Lauren had no idea that Robert Huntington had a police record or that Donovan had done nothing to alter his fingerprints. She wondered if that was why the FBI agent had such a curious reaction at meeting William.
“Are you still there?” Donovan asked.
“How soon?” Lauren said with more anger than she intended. Lauren looked across the room at her daughter and felt sick, like all of the dreams she’d held for Abigail had just been put in jeopardy.
“As early as this afternoon,” Donovan replied. “I’ll be there as fast as I can and we’ll talk.”
“I’ll be here.” Lauren ended the call and then thrust the phone into her pocket and went to Abigail. She gathered her daughter in her arms, feeling the need to hold and protect her. Abigail stirred and pursed her lips, then she turned her head to the side and drifted back to sleep. Lauren gently rocked her back and forth. From the moment Donovan had confided his secret, they’d both been resolute about one thing—that at all costs, Abigail would be protected.
Lauren felt an overwhelming sadness, not for herself, or even her daughter, she’d always promised herself that she would do whatever it took for her and Abigail to survive. At this moment she was far more worried about her husband. She couldn’t in all honesty convince herself that Donovan would be okay if in the next few hours everything he’d built over the last twenty years dissolved.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the short cab ride from the police station to the hospital, Donovan saw dozens of trees uprooted, branches strewn everywhere, grim testament to the severity of the storms that had ripped through the area the night before. The Boca Raton Community Hospital was tucked off the main road amongst mature trees and well-manicured grounds. As they wheeled up to the entrance, his cell phone rang. Donovan saw that the call was from Eco-Watch’s headquarters in Virginia.
“Hello, Peggy,” he answered as he peeled off some bills for the driver and stepped out of the cab.
“What in the hell happened down there last night? Are you okay? I just heard from our liaison at NASA that you cancelled the mission and that Michael is in the hospital?”
“Peggy, slow down. I was going to call you shortly.” Donovan backpedaled, he knew he should have called her earlier. Peggy had been with Eco-Watch from the beginning and thought of all the pilots as her children who needed looking after. She was his administrative assistant as well as aircraft dispatcher. Ruthlessly efficient, Donovan couldn’t imagine what he’d do without her. He started at the beginning and brought her up to date.
“What can I do?” Peggy asked, satisfied she had the facts.
“I need you to talk to the people at Gulfstream, I want them to send a maintenance team to Boca Raton and inspect the da Vinci. I want it airworthy as soon as possible.”
“What about a pilot? Randy and Nicolas are still in Alaska with the Galileo, you want me to send Kyle down to take Michael’s place?”
“Yeah, why don’t you. I’ll need him at some point. Tell him I’d like him to work with Gulfstream and oversee the maintenance. We’ll also need to coordinate with NASA to ensure that the imaging equipment is repaired.”
“Anything else?”
“Can you also get us three rooms down here for tonight? Book a room for Lauren and me, we’ll need a crib. Then get a suite for William and a suite for Susan and the boys. Maybe a couple of rental cars could be delivered to the hotel.”
“I’m on it,” Peggy replied. “I’ll text you the details when I have them. Tell everyone my thoughts and prayers are with them.”
“I will, and thanks.” Donovan hung up and walked toward the main entrance, intensely aware that Montero was probably somewhere in the building. He had no idea what the next move was, but he knew without a doubt that it was Montero’s, and all he could do was wait and react. Donovan pushed into the air-conditioned lobby and went straight toward the information desk.
“Excuse me. Where can I find Michael Ross
?”
She typed into her computer. “He’s just been moved from the recovery room to the Secondary Care Unit. Third floor, east wing.”
Donovan avoided the small crowd of people waiting at the elevator and opted for the stairs. He took them two at a time until he stepped out onto the highly polished hallway of the third floor. Donovan walked to a nurses’ station, which was strategically located at the intersection of three corridors. The enclosure was fairly large, there looked to be work areas for at least five or six people. One section held an array of monitors, full-size color screens that were filled with graphs and numbers. A single nurse positioned in front of the readouts was writing in a chart.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Michael Ross.”
“They just got him settled.” She pointed over her shoulder down the hallway to his left. “Room 310.”
Donovan walked down the hallway and gently opened the door. Michael was asleep on the narrow bed, his head slightly elevated. His arms were exposed and placed at his side, the sheet was pulled halfway up his chest. Michael’s head was wrapped as if he wore a white gauze stocking cap; his usually tanned face seemed drained of color. A bundle of wires snaked out from under the blanket and connected to a stack of machines. Donovan was mildly surprised that Susan or Lauren wasn’t in the room, but there was no reason to go look for them. They’d show up soon enough.
Donovan moved closer, his eyes went to the screen displaying his friend’s heartbeat; the constantly moving line rose and fell as it streamed across the monitor. He spotted the abrasions on Michael’s right hand. Montero had been right. Michael had gotten in at least one good punch before being shot. He pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat, feeling his fatigue.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t out there with you.” Donovan stared at the monitor, as if his words would suddenly register as a blip on the screen, give him some inkling Michael was aware of him. But pulse, respiration, and blood pressure remained constant. Donovan felt helpless. He had the means at his disposal to make nearly anything happen, but he couldn’t fix this, he couldn’t buy his way out of this regardless of how he felt. He hated seeing Michael this way, hated being unable to do anything but sit and watch.
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