by Irene Hannon
But why couldn’t she get lucky in the romance department?
Before her melancholy degenerated into a pity party, she shut off the water, gave herself a vigorous rub with the towel, and tucked it around her sarong style. She had a nice life. A tad lonely once in a while, true, but there were other compensations.
Like Pulitzer prize nominations.
As she leaned down to retrieve her blow-dryer from under the vanity, a greenish spot on her left thigh caught her eye in the mirror. She shifted sideways to check it out.
Was that a bruise? Right where she’d felt the glass on Friday night?
Brow furrowed, she swiped a hand towel over the mirror to clear away the lingering steam and edged closer.
The skin wasn’t broken, but yes, there was a round, quarter-sized bruise.
She did a quick body check. Other than the purple-hued bump on her temple, that was the only other mar on her skin.
But if broken glass wasn’t the culprit, what had caused it?
Moira didn’t have a clue.
All she knew was that it added one more piece to an ever-growing puzzle.
4
Moira slid onto a stool at the pass-through island in her tiny kitchenette, picked up her fork—and wrinkled her nose. She liked macaroni and cheese just fine, but every other night since she’d gotten her car-repair estimate more than two weeks ago? Overkill.
It was, however, easy on a budget that had just taken a big ding.
She poked at the noodles, rested her elbow on the counter, and settled her chin in her palm. For some reason, the silence in her condo felt oppressive tonight. Maybe because it was Friday and, as usual, she had no social plans.
It was going to be a long evening.
As she reached over and flipped on the small television at the end of the counter, a muffled rendition of “Für Elise” drifted her way.
Leaving her dinner behind, she jogged into the living room to retrieve her cell before voice mail kicked in. After a quick glance at caller ID, she pushed the talk button.
“Hi, Dad.”
“How’s my favorite daughter?”
She smiled. Their phone conversations always followed the same opening script—one of the few things in her life that had been predictable of late.
“Your only daughter is fine.”
“Just wanted to check in and make sure you got your wheels back.”
“This afternoon. Almost good as new.”
“And you’re feeling okay? No side effects from the concussion?”
She dropped into her favorite reading chair and propped her feet on the footstool. “No. I’m almost good as new too.”
“I’m glad that’s behind you. An accident was the last thing you needed while learning the ropes on your new job.”
And that wasn’t the half of it. But her father didn’t need to know about the vanishing people. That would only worry him.
Besides, it was over. Once Cal Burke had called her the day after her visit to his office, she’d been forced to concede defeat. If a pro like him couldn’t find anything to investigate, there must not be anything to find. She had to let it go.
Even if she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d failed the terrified woman in her headlights.
“That’s how life works, I guess.” She pulled off her pumps and wiggled her toes to restore circulation. If she hadn’t had to attend that luncheon today and interview the celebrity keynote speaker, she’d never have subjected her feet to such torture. “And speaking of the new job, it’s going well.”
“Good to know. Steven said the same when he called a couple of days ago.”
“Where is he, again?” It was hard to keep up with her globe-trotting engineer brother.
“Finishing up that job in Dubai. Must be quite a place. He told me a great story about a trip he took out to the desert. Rode a camel, ate dinner in a bedouin tent, watched a belly dancer perform, tried all kinds of exotic food and—”
“. . . a great honor.” A voice from the television grabbed her attention, and she tuned out her father to listen.
“And I thank God for the opportunity to do such worthwhile work with the talents he gave me.”
Her heart stopped.
Stuttered.
Raced on.
That sounded like the voice of her disappearing Good Samaritan.
She scrambled to her feet and raced back to the kitchen. The man was finished speaking, but she caught a quick glimpse of him before the shot switched back to the anchor at the news desk. Mid-fiftyish and distinguished-looking, with a touch of gray at his temples. There was nothing familiar about him—except his voice.
“That’s very inspiring.” The female anchor spoke to the reporter who’d covered the story and was now seated beside her.
“Yes, it is. Dr. Blaine started Let the Children Come with his own seed money and a dream, and thousands of children have benefitted. As the governor said this afternoon, it would be hard to think of someone more deserving of the state’s humanitarian of the year award.”
“Thanks, Brett.”
The anchors moved on to the next story, but Moira continued to stare at the screen.
“Moira? Moira, are you still there?”
From a distance, her father’s question registered, and she forced herself to switch gears.
“Yeah, I’m here.” Even as she responded, she was pulling out her laptop. “Look, can I call you later? Or tomorrow? I need to follow up on some information I just received.”
“Sure, honey. But don’t work all weekend, okay? You need some downtime too. Remember what Euripides said: ‘The best and safest thing is to keep a balance in your life.’”
Despite her distraction, Moira had to smile. Leave it to Dad to view—and dispense—parental advice through the lens of ancient Greece. He’d been studying and teaching classical philosophy for so long, the words of the earliest sages were as much a part of him as his lifelong passion for tying trout flies and attending Shakespearean plays.
“I’ll file that away, Professor. Talk to you soon.”
After pushing the end button, Moira set the phone on the dinette table and booted up her laptop, drumming her fingers on the polished oak as she waited for the computer to wake up. This would probably be a dead end too. A physician who’d won a humanitarian of the year award would never leave injured people at an accident scene.
But the similarity in voices was too striking to ignore.
The computer finished its start-up gyrations, and she opened her browser, then typed in “Dr. Blaine Let the Children Come.”
There were plenty of hits.
She started with the first one and worked her way down the screen.
The more she read, the more she was convinced she was on the wrong track.
Dr. Kenneth Blaine, age fifty-six, was a respected pediatric surgeon in St. Louis. Twelve years ago, after visiting rural Guatemala with a group of doctors on a humanitarian mission, he’d been so moved by the plight of the children that he’d founded Let the Children Come. The 501c3 organization was dedicated to raising funds for a free children’s clinic that provided medical care, nutritional assistance, and prenatal counseling in that country. Dr. Blaine continued to take a team of volunteer doctors to the clinic for two weeks every year. He’d won national recognition for his work, including a commendation from the president, and was active in his church.
There was more. Much more.
Disheartened, Moira sat back.
What were the odds a man like that—pillar of the community, great humanitarian, benefactor to the most needy, stellar role model—would be her missing Good Samaritan?
Smaller than winning the lottery.
Yet the doctor’s voice seemed so familiar.
She needed to listen to it again.
Searching the local station’s website, she found the segment from the news program and watched the whole thing, beginning with the governor presenting a plaque to Dr. Blaine, followed by the brief c
lip from his acceptance speech.
She replayed it, closing her eyes to concentrate on the voice alone. Her Good Samaritan’s voice had been a bit gruffer . . . but the tonal quality was very similar. Still, three weeks had passed, and a voice was one of the hardest things to retain in memory. Even the voice of a loved one. Plus, many people had similar voices.
This was a real stretch.
Frowning, she rose and wandered back to the kitchen. Her macaroni and cheese was cold now, congealed into a hard glob on her plate. She considered nuking it, but why bother? Her appetite had vanished—just like the two people on that rainy night.
Fork in hand, she jabbed at the unappetizing mess. Maybe she should call Cal Burke. He’d been kind when he’d contacted her to break the news that there was nothing to go on. Apologetic, almost. As if he believed her story and wished he could help her. Why else would he have told her to call him if there were any new developments or if she remembered anything else that might be helpful?
Did this qualify?
Maybe.
But she needed to be more certain before she bothered him again. “Sketchy” was a more-than-generous way to describe this lead.
Moira pulled some plastic wrap out of a drawer, sealed up her dinner for another night, and mulled over an idea.
Why not ask her boss if she could interview Dr. Blaine for a feature story as a follow-up to his award? That would give her a chance to observe him up close, in person. And something he said or did might put her mind at rest. Reassure her he had no connection to her nightmare.
She slid the macaroni and cheese into the refrigerator and grabbed a container of yogurt, balancing it in her hand as she pondered that plan. As far as she could see, it had no downside.
And when it led nowhere, as it surely would, perhaps she’d at last be able to move on, knowing she’d done all she could to help the terrified woman who’d reached out to her for that one brief moment in the glare of her headlights.
“Who’s Moira Harrison?”
At Connor’s question, Cal swiveled away from his computer to find the third member of the Phoenix PI team eyeballing the file folder on his desk. The one he should have relegated to his dead case file two weeks ago.
The one he hadn’t been able to bring himself to put away.
“A case I’m not taking.” He slid the file closer to him and set his Connemara marble paperweight on top of it.
“Getting a little proprietary, aren’t we?” Connor’s teasing tone morphed into a wince as he eased into the chair across the desk.
“Getting a little old, aren’t we?” Cal leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against the palm of his hand.
“Don’t rub it in. And the next time a protection job in an exotic locale requires participation in sports, I intend to read the fine print. Especially if the sport involves water.”
“He asked up front if you were certified to dive.”
“But he neglected to mention the diving would be done in submerged caves and narrow passageways not designed to accommodate a six-foot-three body. I felt like a contortionist. Then he topped that off with kayaking and parasailing. Whatever happened to golf?”
Cal chuckled. “Did the guy ever work?”
“He made an occasional appearance to rev up the troops. But hey, he owns the company. Who’s going to call him on it if he plays while the minions have their meetings?” He gestured toward the file. “That must be the Pulitzer prize nominee with the vanishing people.”
So much for his diversionary tactics. “Yeah. Did Dev tell you about it?”
“Who else? Is she as hot as he claims?”
Cal compressed his lips. Usually he found Dev’s appreciation for pretty ladies amusing. Today it rankled him.
“It’s a moot point. We’re not taking the case.”
“Then why is the folder still on your desk?”
Sometimes it was a pain working with dogged ex–law enforcement types. Even if they were college buddies—and shared an Irish heritage.
On the other hand, they came in handy in dicey situations.
“I haven’t gotten around to putting it away yet.”
Connor inspected his neat, everything-in-its-place desk. Didn’t say a word.
Didn’t have to.
When his partner rose, his grunt of pain didn’t elicit one iota of sympathy.
At the door, Connor turned. “By the way, Dev told me to give you a hard time. Mission accomplished.” With a mock salute, he disappeared down the hall.
Shaking his head, Cal hefted the paperweight and weighed it in his hand. Dev’s hair might be dark auburn now, but he’d been a carrot top as a child, with a mischievous streak to rival Dennis the Menace. Or so his mother had confided one Christmas in college when Dev had invited Cal home because his dad had been on an overseas assignment and he had nowhere to go for the holiday. Much to Dev’s embarrassment, his mother had dragged out the old family album one snowy Minnesota afternoon and regaled Cal with tale after tale of her son’s escapades.
Cal smiled. The stories were great ammunition. And he still had a few of the most humiliating ones tucked away.
He pursed his lips and rocked back in his chair. Siccing Connor on him about Moira Harrison might merit pulling one out.
On the other hand, that might be a tactical error. It could suggest his buddies had gotten under his skin. That she’d gotten under his skin. Better to let it rest. Save his ammo for another day.
He set the paperweight back on his desk and ran a finger along the edge of the slender file. Better to let this sit too. If he reacted, put it away as a result of their ribbing, they could come to the same conclusion.
So he’d leave it there for another day or two. Solely as damage control.
At least that’s what he told himself.
Moira finished paging through a lone copy of Business Week for the second time, then scanned the other choices on the table beside her. American Baby, FamilyFun, Parenting. No Wall Street Journal. No Newsweek. No Economist.
Then again, it was the office of a pediatric surgeon.
Setting the magazine aside, she checked her watch. Whatever emergency had required Dr. Blaine’s presence at the hospital was lasting far longer than the woman behind the smoked-glass window had implied. One by one the other patients had rescheduled and left. Only one mother remained, cuddling a sleeping toddler whose arm was in a cast.
The woman looked her way and offered a tentative smile. “I guess we’re the last holdouts.”
“Seems like it. But I’m thinking about bailing too. I was supposed to be his last appointment of the day, but”—she tapped her watch—“the day’s almost over.”
“I know.” The little boy in her arms let out a sigh, and she brushed the fine hair back from his face with a gentle touch. “But I’m going to stick it out unless they tell me he’s not coming back at all.”
“Looks like your little one has had a tough time.”
The woman nodded. “My husband’s car was broadsided by an SUV two weeks ago. He’s down with a dislocated shoulder, but Tommy took the brunt of it.” Her voice choked, and she swiped her fingers over her eyes. “Sorry. It’s been rough.”
“I’m sure it has. Seeing any child hurting is hard, but when it’s your own son or daughter . . . I can’t even imagine.” Moira sent her an empathetic look. “Is his arm broken?”
The young mother swallowed, took a deep breath, and stroked her fingers over the boy’s forehead. “Yes. Plus he had a ruptured spleen. I don’t think I’d have made it through without Dr. Blaine. He even gave me his personal cell number when I fell apart one night in the hospital. Told me to call him anytime I got scared or needed answers. Now there’s a man who practices the Hippocratic Oath.”
At the glowing endorsement, Moira shifted in her seat. The accolades for Blaine kept piling up. In all her research, she hadn’t found a single negative comment about this paragon of pediatrics.
He couldn’t be her man.
Mean
ing all she was going to get out of this visit was a nice interview. The mystery woman would forever remain a mystery.
At least she’d tried.
“May I ask why you’re here? You don’t seem to have a child in tow.”
At the woman’s question, she managed a smile. “I’m a reporter with the Post. Dr. Blaine won the governor’s humanitarian of the year award recently, and we’re going to do a feature story on him.”
“I heard about that. And I’m glad he won. A doctor who goes above and beyond for his patients deserves to be recognized. Plus all the work he does for the children in Guatemala . . .” She shook her head. “He’s an amazing man.”
The door leading to the examining rooms opened and a woman in a scrub top stepped through. “Sorry about the delay, ladies. Dr. Blaine just returned. I can show you both back now.”
Moira joined her while the other woman stood carefully, keeping a firm grip on her son. Then they both followed her back.
“This is the doctor’s office.” The nurse paused beside a door and motioned Moira inside. “Make yourself comfortable. He’ll be with you as soon as he’s finished with Tommy.” She smiled at the sleeping toddler.
The nurse continued down the hall, and Moira touched the young mother’s arm as she passed. “Good luck with your son.”
She smiled. “Thank you, but he’s in great hands. I have every confidence in Dr. Blaine.”
As the small group moved away, Moira turned toward the office, trying to muster up some enthusiasm for the interview. It wasn’t as if she’d expected Blaine to be her man, anyway. All her research had painted him as a person of sterling character. This patient’s rave review simply reinforced the accolades.
Settling into the chair across from the burled walnut desk, Moira opened her notebook and took her usual inventory of the setting. You could learn a lot about people from the things they chose to display in their personal space—hobbies, family, passions.
In Dr. Blaine’s case, his passion was obvious. His walls were covered with framed photos from the clinic in Guatemala funded by his nonprofit corporation. Some featured only the children. Others included him. Several focused on the volunteer pediatric team from the United States that visited the clinic annually, showing them at work both inside the facility and outside the adobe structure. Blaine’s medical credentials were displayed as well, but the clinic shots dominated.