by Meryl Sawyer
She was glad Paul was with her. Not that she needed him for moral support or anything, but he’d brought her and she wanted him ready to whisk her away as soon as she’d spoken with Wyatt Holbrook.
“Madison, so glad you could make it.” The older man held out his hand and spoke in a friendly tone meant to put her at ease.
“Hello.” She shook his hand and held his incisive gaze, not sure what to say next. Paul was right; Wyatt Holbrook did not appear to be ill. Again, she wondered if there could possibly be a hidden agenda here.
“Have a seat,” he said, and turned to Tobias Pennington. “Tobias, we’d like champagne.”
Madison started to protest and say she needed to leave soon, but Paul grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the love seat near the desk. Two chairs flanked either side of the sofa that was opposite the huge desk.
“I’ll have the Veuve Clicquot brought in,” Tobias said as he headed out of the room.
Wyatt Holbrook’s personal assistant couldn’t be much older than Madison, but his tall, lean frame and gaunt face made him look like a long-distance runner in a seersucker sport jacket. His vampire-pale complexion among so many tanned people made her wonder if he’d been ill recently. He certainly looked worse than Wyatt, as if he were the one who needed a transplant.
“Tell me about yourself.” Wyatt Holbrook sat in one of the chairs near the sofa.
Madison had no intention of talking about herself. Besides, she knew Wyatt must have been given the same dossier on her that Paul Tanner had read. He could read everything he needed to know.
“I’d rather talk about you,” she told him in a clipped tone. “I’ve been wondering if you ever gave any thought to the other children you could have. Were they okay? Were they being abused?” She paused to glance around at the library and take in the valuable oil paintings and what must be original Remington bronze sculptures artfully showcased in special niches in the paneled walls. “You have so much, while your other children might be starving.”
Tobias had returned and was standing directly behind Wyatt. The assistant glared at her with deep-set brown eyes as if to ask: How dare you?
Wyatt didn’t appear to be the least bit disturbed by her questions. “When I donated, I was struggling to make it through medical school. A lot of guys were doing it. I honestly didn’t give it much thought.”
Madison managed a quick nod. She hadn’t expected him to be quite so candid.
“Years later, one of my top researchers came to me and said she needed a pregnancy leave. We were right in the middle of FDA trials and Natalie was a key member of the team. She’d always lived for her job, working harder and accomplishing more than three other scientists could have.”
Madison silently blessed her father. He’d warned her over and over not to let work consume her. There’s so much more to life than one thing—no matter how fascinating you find it, he’d told her. Explore the world around you. Never forget—people count the most.
“Natalie told me that her biological clock had become a time bomb. She’d spent her life in the lab, never meeting anyone or getting married. She’d undergone artificial insemination. It had taken several tries, but now she was pregnant and needed a leave.”
Madison wasn’t sure what this had to do with her question, but she found herself listening intently.
“Of course, I gave Natalie a leave and worked out a schedule so she could take care of her baby and spend time in the lab. Her situation made me think of the sperm I’d donated. Back then, most insemination recipients were couples who couldn’t conceive. I envisioned helping childless people who would be loving parents. Natalie made me think about single mothers for the first time.”
“You never wondered about the children who might not be lucky enough to have both parents.”
“I considered the possibility,” he admitted slowly, with what might have been a trace of regret in his voice. “I didn’t realize until recently that the clinic split my sperm donations and that I could have—may actually have—many more children than I thought possible. I was shocked. Of course, I wondered—”
“But you never tried to contact—”
“There’s no easy way to trace these children,” Tobias cut in. “Clinics guard patients’ privacy tenaciously. The HIPA law has made it even more difficult to access medical records.”
The room was silent for a moment, the only sounds the chatter of voices and music drifting in from the party. Finally, Wyatt spoke.
“I didn’t try to find any of my offspring,” he conceded, “until my doctor told me I had primary sclerosing cholangitis—PSC—and would soon need a liver transplant. The football star Walter Peyton died of the same disease. There is no known cause or cure. The only thing that works is a transplant.
“I hoped Garrison or Savannah could help but neither can. Then I realized I could try to contact children who might have been conceived from my sperm. I was told the first avenue to explore was Internet Web sites where children were attempting to find their biological fathers. They relinquish the confidentiality status of their records, hoping to find fathers or other siblings. We couldn’t locate anyone related to me.”
“Mike Tanner was able to find two children about your age,” Tobias told her when Wyatt stopped speaking. “They’d grown up in the northeast, which is what you’d expect.”
Madison was a little surprised that Wyatt’s personal assistant knew so much. It appeared that he was closer to his employer than she would have thought. She wondered how long they’d been together.
“I mentioned those children,” Paul told her, speaking for the first time since entering the library. She refused to look directly at him. “One ODed, while the other died in an auto accident.”
Madison never took her eyes off Wyatt. If the premature deaths of two of his children concerned him, nothing in his expression revealed it.
“How did you find out about New Horizons?” she asked.
“Paul’s father, Mike, has handled all my corporate security and…other problems,” Wyatt responded. “He’s a sharp investigator. He discovered one of the clinics in Boston resold sperm to a so-called Mensa clinic down here called New Horizons.”
A waiter arrived with a tray of flutes filled with the expensive champagne. Madison was offered one first and reluctantly took a glass. For an instant she felt like flinging it against the paneled wall. Instead, not sure what to do next, she studied the amber liquid, the bubbles streaming to the surface in an endless parade. Her impulsive trip here now seemed awkward. She had no idea what to say to get out of here. She glanced at Paul but he was taking a sip of champagne.
“Did you locate any other children from the New Horizons clinic?” she asked.
“Mike Tanner gave all the files to Tobias,” Wyatt told her. “They had been torn apart to prepare for litigation that ultimately didn’t go to court because the clinic declared bankruptcy. Tobias is still sorting through them.”
“In other words, the vultures called attorneys couldn’t suck any more money out of anyone so they just shoved everything into cardboard boxes,” Tobias said.
From the moment Madison had met Tobias, when he found them on the dance floor, he’d struck her as being an angry, bitter man. She felt he resented her. Why? Didn’t he want to help Wyatt?
“We thought we had all the files,” Wyatt continued, as if Tobias hadn’t spoken. “It wasn’t until Paul discovered another box of files and found your mother’s name that we realized we didn’t.”
“What made you think to look elsewhere?” she asked Paul.
“There was a list of numbers that corresponded to donors in the master file. Some of them seemed to be missing. It only stood to reason that all of the files hadn’t been found in the warehouse.”
“It was good work on Paul’s part,” Wyatt said. “Like father, like son.”
“I was the only one in that second batch of files?” she asked Paul. He’d told her about finding the files but hadn’t mentioned any other chil
dren. She wondered if he had told her everything.
“We’re still going through them,” Wyatt responded. The way he kept saying “we” made her believe others were doing the work. “I’m afraid Tobias is right. They’re a mess.”
Madison nodded, not knowing what else to do. A silence enveloped the group. She wanted to leap out of her seat and bolt for the door, but something kept her in place, not saying a word.
“We can arrange for you to take the donor compatibility test at St. John’s Hospital.”
Madison realized everyone in the room assumed she believed she was one of Wyatt’s children and was willing to donate a lobe of her liver if they were compatible. Apparently, Paul hadn’t revealed her reservations.
Wyatt broke the uncomfortable silence. “Of course, if you are compatible, we’re willing to pay—”
“I’m not interested in money.” Madison slammed her untouched glass of champagne on the table beside the sofa. She jumped up and headed for the door. Wyatt Holbrook was right behind her and it took her a few seconds to realize no one else in the room had moved.
“Let me show you something,” he said in a low voice.
“All right,” she replied slowly, not knowing why she didn’t tell him that she was leaving this minute.
He guided her out the door and down a wide hallway lined with more prints of shells and what she assumed were pieces of coral. They came to a closed door. Judging from where she’d been in the house, Madison decided this room must face an inner garden, not the sea or the rambling vista facing the lake with the swans. Wyatt put his index finger up to a button affixed to the doorjamb. It read his fingerprint, she realized with awe. She hadn’t noticed any security devices on other doors—just this room. She might expect such high-tech security in an office building, maybe, but not here in this classic Mizner mansion.
“My office,” Wyatt explained as he opened the door and waited for Madison to enter. “It’s not much, but I’m gearing up to work here full-time after the surgery.”
She knew he meant the liver transplant but she didn’t know what to say. She stepped into the room as he flicked on the lights. A small wood desk not much larger than the one she used at her office dominated the room. Books lined the shelves, but unlike the library, these volumes appeared to be medical journals. They all were paperbound and some were thicker than most books. Medical and scientific journals, she realized.
“Do you know what DNA stands for?” he asked, sweeping his hand to indicate the wall near the only window in the room.
“It’s an acronym for deoxyribonucleic acid, which encodes essential genetic information in every living organism.”
“Right,” Wyatt said, and she could tell he was impressed. Why? A college student with a biology major could have told him the answer. Then it hit Madison—Wyatt might not have seen her personal profile. They thought…thought what? She was merely a video gamer, not a former MIT student.
Wyatt again waved his hand to indicate the wall. “Here is all the research that led to Crick and Watson’s discovery of the DNA code.”
“Really?” She’d known that years of research had gone into the project and many others had tried—and failed—to break the DNA code. Seeing all the volumes gave her a new respect for the years in many laboratories that it had taken to crack the code.
“This is what I want to be my legacy,” Wyatt said in a low voice that rang with conviction. “New frontiers in medicine and science. We’ve only just begun to glimpse the discoveries on the horizon.” He walked toward the desk piled with papers. “I won’t be here to help future scientists. That’s why I’m establishing the Holbrook Foundation. It will generate enough money for scientists to explore all sorts of possibilities.”
“I see,” she replied very slowly, because she didn’t know where he was going with this and didn’t want to be caught off guard.
“I’m not the Getty,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding tired. “J. Paul Getty had nearly a billion dollars to contribute to his foundation. It’s been wisely invested and continues to grow so the Getty Museum is the richest museum in the world.”
“But they still don’t have a major collection of art,” she responded.
“True. The art they need is already in museums or in countries that won’t allow its export.” He walked behind the desk and dropped into a chair that was well-worn and appeared to fit the contours of his body. “My point is, my foundation has a sizable amount of money from the endowment I’m setting up, but it needs more funds. Scientists burn through money in search of discoveries that will benefit mankind. It can’t be helped. That’s the nature of research.”
“You’re right,” Madison said carefully. She didn’t know where this discussion was going, but she felt it was his way of persuading her to undergo the necessary tests.
There was a long, heavy silence in the room before Wyatt asked, “Do you know where the scientists in America’s labs are coming from?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Asia. Mostly India but also Japan, Taiwan and China.”
He regarded her for a moment with what she thought might be respect. “Exactly. America’s school system doesn’t promote the sciences so we aren’t producing them. The ones we do manage to nurture to graduate school are overwhelmed by opportunities in the business field.”
“Drug companies hire them.” She could have said, Like Holbrook Pharmaceuticals, but she refrained from taking an accusatory stance.
“Exactly. What I want to do is keep America’s scientists in the lab, keep them researching and helping mankind. That’s why I need to raise funds for the Holbrook Foundation. It will take more money than I have. After all, my money comes from Xeria, a drug I discovered, not oil like Getty. My funds are limited. I need more. It will take my time and my personal touch to set up this foundation and make sure it’s running properly.
“What most people don’t realize is medical discoveries are coming quickly. Twenty years ago MRIs and CT scans were only used in the most advanced medical centers. Now they’re commonplace. Fiber optics has made it possible to develop numerous scopes and probes that have led to less invasive surgeries. Other discoveries are on the horizon. That’s why I need a liver transplant. It will buy me the time I need.”
“What do the doctors say?” she asked, not knowing how to phrase the question delicately. “I mean, how much time do you have?”
He shrugged. “It’s hard to say. A year or so. Longer, of course, if I get that transplant.”
As far as Madison could tell, this man was totally sincere. He did want to do something that would benefit millions of people. Of course, these discoveries would be worth millions of dollars and would garner a place in medical history. She assumed Wyatt Holbrook sought that place in history. She honestly doubted she could help him, but how could she say no to being tested?
It certainly would be a quick way to prove she wasn’t related to this man. Madison knew exactly who her father was. She didn’t need a test to confirm it, but she realized these people wouldn’t agree. She had to take the test.
She heard herself say, “I’ll take the test. I doubt I can help you, but let’s see.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
PAUL STUDIED the murder book on Erin Wycoff’s death. Essentially, in almost a week, the police had no leads and no motive unless you counted Lincoln Burgess’s lame theory that Madison had killed her friend to inherit a piece of land that had recently become valuable. Paul wasn’t buying the “missing link’s” claim, especially now that he knew Madison.
She’d been silent on the drive home last night, but he figured it was best to back off and give her some space. It had taken a supreme effort not to try to kiss her again, but he’d managed. When questioned about the time she spent alone with Holbrook, Madison said she’d agreed to visit Holbrook’s office this afternoon. He assumed Wyatt was trying to persuade Madison to be tested to see if she could donate part of her liver, but then she’d informed him that she’d already agreed to take the te
st.
So why did Wyatt Holbrook want her to come to his office?
He closed the murder book and gazed across the crowded squad room, thinking about last night. The minute he’d taken Madison into his arms he’d felt…something. Aw, hell, he hadn’t been laid in a while and she had sex appeal in spades. When he’d held her, Paul could tell she was attracted to him. He wouldn’t have guessed it otherwise, but for those few minutes while they’d been dancing, he knew it.
Burgess breezed in, late as usual, but if you asked him, Link would claim he’d been chasing down a lead.
“What are you doing here, Tanner? Aren’t you still out on disability leave?”
“Yeah, but I’m curious about the Wycoff case.” He stood up. “It’s not every day I walk into a murder scene without someone having called the police.”
“You’re not supposed to be reading the book.” Burgess protectively grabbed the three-ring binder. “You’re a witness.”
Paul decided Burgess didn’t want anyone to know that the statements from the main witnesses, including Madison, hadn’t yet been typed up and put into the murder book.
“Any new leads?” he asked. There wasn’t anything in the book but there was always the wild-ass possibility Burgess was working on something.
Link glanced down at the book he was cradling in his arms. It took a minute before he reluctantly said, “The dog’s a problem.”
“Really? Got enough to book him?”
“Hysterical, Tanner. Just hysterical.” He dropped the book on his desk. “Guess you don’t want to know.”
Burgess had no sense of humor. So, what else was new? “Of course I want to know what’s going on. That’s why I came in. I’ll help if I can.”
That got him. Link was the laziest SOB on the force. How he’d ever made detective was a mystery that couldn’t be solved. He was always trying to get someone to do his work for him. Even though this was a sensitive case, Paul wouldn’t be surprised to learn Burgess had handed the tapes of the statements given by witnesses to one of the police volunteers to type up. A major no-no because too many volunteers leaked info to the media.