by Irene Hannon
Moira inspected the desk, bookcase, filing cabinet. All were meticulously neat and uncluttered, the few folders on the desk lined up with military precision. There wasn’t a single personal item in the room. No knickknacks. No coffee mug. No family photos. Were it not for the clinic photos and a couple of cascading pathos plants, the room would have zero personality—or warmth.
Not what she imagined after talking with the young mother in the waiting room.
The woman in the scrub top stuck her head in the door and smiled. “May I offer you a soft drink or some water?”
“No, thank you.”
“Dr. Blaine should be with you in less than five minutes. Follow-up visits tend to be quick, but you never know with him. He takes as much time as patients—or parents—need.” She hesitated. “Sure I can’t get you a beverage in case the wait is longer than you expect?”
“I’m fine.”
With a nod, the woman closed the door halfway and continued down the hall.
Moira looked at her notebook and reviewed the questions she’d prepared in case her subject was reticent. But she hoped he wasn’t; free-flow interviews produced far more interesting material.
She added a note about the doctor’s willingness to give out his cell number to distraught parents, then checked her phone messages and started returning calls.
Several minutes later, while she was setting up an interview for Friday, the door behind her opened.
Shooting an apologetic glance over her shoulder toward the doctor, she held up one finger and turned back to complete the call.
“Thursday at 1:00 sounds fine. Your office in the Ridgeway Center. Is there a room number?”
As the woman on the other end of the phone gave her further directions and she scribbled in her notebook, the doctor entered the room and took his seat behind the desk.
“Okay. Sounds great. I’ll look forward to meeting you.” After pressing the end button, Moira directed her attention to the surgeon. “Sorry.”
“I’m the one who should apologize. I kept you waiting far too long.” He smiled and leaned forward, extending his hand. “Moira Harrison, I presume.”
Once again, the uncanny similarity of his voice to her Good Samaritan’s unnerved her. It was downright weird.
Forcing up the corners of her mouth, she reached across his desk and took his hand. “Yes.” The strength of his grip surprised her, and she tried not to flinch.
He must have caught some nuance in her expression, however, because he loosened the pressure at once.
“I appreciate the Post’s interest in my work. Feel free to fire away with your questions and I’ll do my best to answer them. Or at least make something up.” He shot her an engaging grin.
She opened her notebook, trying to focus. Wishing she could check out his left hand to verify he wasn’t wearing a Claddagh ring.
Unfortunately, his hands were folded in his lap, hidden from her view. But she’d get a look at them before the interview was over. Not that she needed the absence of a ring to prove he wasn’t her man. Whoever had stopped on that rainy Friday night would be able to recognize her even if she couldn’t recognize him. And if it was Blaine, surely having her show up on his doorstep would unsettle him. Yet her presence didn’t seem to faze him. He was relaxed. Personable. Pleasant.
So much for her tenuous theory.
Moira gave him another forced smile. “Before we talk about your charitable work, could you tell me how you became interested in pediatric surgery?”
“Of course. I always knew I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps and go into medicine. He was a brain and spine surgeon. A remarkable man. Incredibly intelligent and brave. Anyway, in my early years of medical school, I planned to specialize in brain and spine surgery as well. Then I did a pediatric rotation and discovered I had a knack for working with children. They loved me and I loved them. You might say it was a mutual admiration society.”
“Did I read somewhere—perhaps another article—that you also have a special interest in geriatrics?” Moira checked her notes.
He didn’t respond at once, and she looked over at him.
This time his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve always had an affinity for older people too. And I do make nursing home visits through a program my church sponsors. Motivated by charity rather than medicine. But for a career, the younger set won, hands down. There’s nothing more gratifying than helping a young child heal and go on to fulfill his or her potential.”
Scribbling in her notebook as he spoke, Moira finished capturing his quote before moving on to the next question. “Do you have children of your own, doctor?” As she looked up, she caught a flash of sadness in his eyes.
“No. My wife and I weren’t blessed in that way. But I’ve always believed God has his reasons for everything. If we’d had our own family, I might not have had the time or energy to start Let the Children Come.”
The perfect segue to talk about his work in Guatemala.
“Tell me how that came about.”
His face grew more animated—and intent—as he described his first trip to a Guatemala clinic in the rugged western highlands.
“My pastor hooked me up with a volunteer medical mission. It was, to use a cliché, eye-opening. I’d never seen such destitution and incredible need. Especially among the children. Seventy percent are malnourished. Eighty-three percent live in poverty. Spina bifida is rampant, in large part due to dietary issues and poor prenatal care. It was appalling. I came home knowing I had to find a way to help on a more ongoing basis.”
He leaned forward, his passion about his cause almost palpable as he knitted his fingers together and placed his hands on his desk.
But as he continued to speak, Moira didn’t hear a word he said.
All she could do was stare at the gold Claddagh ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.
5
Chomping down on a carrot stick, Cal reached for the vibrating BlackBerry on his belt without taking his gaze off the employee exit of the upscale hospice. Once he had it in hand, he flicked a quick glance at caller ID.
Not a familiar number.
He hesitated. This wasn’t the moment to lose focus, not with his subject scheduled to come through the door any minute. But the guy’s car was at the end of the lot. He should have plenty of time to alert Dev and Connor even if he took the call.
Swallowing the mouthful of carrots, he pushed the talk button. “Burke.”
“Mr. Burke . . . it’s Moira Harrison.”
Now he was distracted.
He took a breath to steady the sudden leap in his pulse. “What can I do for you?”
“There’s been a new development. I’m sorry to bother you on your cell after hours, but I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to talk about this.”
“You’re not bothering me. And there’s no such thing as after-hours for a PI. What’s up?”
“A couple of things have happened in the past few days. They don’t prove anything, but the coincidences are unsettling.”
The door of the hospice opened, and Cal shifted his attention back to the task at hand as their thirty-six-year-old male Caucasian subject exited.
“Hold for a minute, okay?” He didn’t wait for a response. After setting the phone on the seat beside him, he grabbed the walkie-talkie and pushed the talk button. “Our guy’s on the move. Stand by.”
He watched through the dark-tinted windshield of the van as the man slid behind the wheel of his SUV. Waited until he started the engine and drove toward the street. Pressed the talk button as he exited.
“He’s heading west on Lamping. Over.”
“Copy.” Dev’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, followed by silence for thirty seconds. “Okay. I’ve got the eye. Connor, you with me?”
“One block back. You’re in sight.”
“It’s all yours, guys. Good luck. Over.” Cal set the walkie-talkie back on the seat and picked up his phone. “Are you still there, Ms. Har
rison?”
“Yes. But it sounds like you’re busy—and with a far more important job than mine. Look, I’m probably overreacting, so—”
Cal cut her off as he watched a few more employees exit. “You don’t strike me as the overreacting type. Where are you now?”
She hesitated. “In my car. I’m just leaving an interview with a doctor at Mercy Hospital.”
“I’m in West County too.” The proximity was too close to ignore. “Do you know the Starbucks at Mason and Clayton?”
“No. But I know those streets.”
“Why don’t I meet you there? I could use a cup of coffee, and it’s always better to talk in person.” That was a stretch. Phone calls were often more efficient—especially in a tenuous case that was also pro bono.
Moira’s hesitation told him she’d come to the same conclusion. “Are you sure? I’ve already taken up a lot of your time, and you haven’t charged me a dime.”
“This is off the clock. I’d be stopping for coffee with or without your company.” That was true—although the stop would more likely be at a QuikTrip rather than Starbucks.
No matter. It worked.
“Okay. I’m leaving the parking lot now. I think I can be there in less than ten minutes.”
“I’m even closer. I’ll grab a table. See you soon.”
He tossed the phone onto the seat beside him, made the final entry of the day in his surveillance log, and exited the lot.
Maybe it was a good thing her file was still on his desk after all.
Twelve minutes later, he spotted her through the window as she came up the steps to the Starbucks entrance.
Dev was right.
Moira Harrison was hot.
The setting sun caught the red in her hair, turning it to copper, and her fashionably short slim black skirt and dress heels showed off a pair of killer legs. The fitted, short-sleeved green-and-black plaid jacket that hinted at her appealing curves wasn’t too shabby, either.
His adrenaline spiked, and he took a sip of coffee. Steady, Burke. Remember, she’s a client—and you’re not in the market.
When she pushed through the door, he stood.
She spotted him at once, eyeing his disposable cup with dismay as she wove through the tables to join him in the far corner.
“I was going to get your coffee.”
The very reason he’d bought it before she arrived.
“I needed a caffeine boost after surveillance duty.” He thought about offering to buy her drink too, but before he could decide whether that was smart or not, she headed to the counter, tossing a comment over her shoulder.
“Give me a sec.”
He sat again as she placed her order, his back-to-the-wall seat giving him an excellent view of those amazing legs—and the interior of the coffee shop. An unnecessary precaution today, but old detective habits died hard. Especially ones that had saved his hide on more than one occasion.
When she turned to rejoin him, she was juggling both a disposable cup and a plate.
He rose as she approached to pull out her chair, and the courtesy seemed to surprise her.
“Thanks.” She slid into the seat, placing her drink and plate on the table. “I don’t run into such polished manners very often. Your mother must have raised you well.”
“She did. And my older sister finished the job after Mom died.”
“Were you young when you lost her?”
“Young enough. Fourteen.”
Her features softened in sympathy. “I’m sorry. That had to be tough.”
“It was. But I had good memories. That helped.”
“There’s a lot to be said for good memories.” She broke the scone in half. “Have you had dinner?”
“Not yet, but I’ve been munching on carrot sticks.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Healthy, but not very filling.”
“Better than chips for surveillance, though. High-carb stuff makes me sleepy, and nodding off is a no-no.”
“Makes sense.” She slid the plate his direction, placing half of the scone on a napkin in front of her. “It’s not much, but it might tide you over until you can get a more substantial meal.”
“I can’t take your food.”
“Yes, you can. After all the macaroni and cheese I’ve been subsisting on since I got my car repair bill, I don’t need a whole scone. Too many calories.”
Given her trim figure, he doubted she had to worry. But when his stomach rumbled in anticipation, he capitulated.
“Thanks.” He picked up the scone and took a big bite. “Much better than carrot sticks.”
“I’m sorry again for interrupting. It sounded like things were hopping when I called.”
“Yeah. All three of us are working the case, but I’m off the hook for the evening. Dev and Connor got night duty.”
“Three PIs on one case.” She broke off another piece of her scone. “Is that typical?”
“No. But the organization that hired us wants to deal with this problem quickly and without publicity.”
“Must be a messy situation.”
“Very.” His mouth settled into a grim line. An employee suspected of watering down codeine and selling the good stuff on the black market could badly tarnish the hospice’s reputation. They wanted the guy nailed. Fast. As did Phoenix. Anyone who would deprive suffering people of pain medication should be locked away.
“Why don’t they call the police?”
Cal forced his lips to relax. “We’re much more discreet and under the radar than cops. Also faster. Law enforcement doesn’t have the manpower to devote to an investigation like this. Once we have the evidence, we’ll turn it over to them for the cleanup.” He took a sip of coffee to wash down the last of his scone and got the conversation back on track. “Now tell me about your coincidences.”
She pressed her fingertip against the crumbs on the table, transferring them to a neat little pile in the center of her napkin. “This is almost as strange as my disappearing people story. Brace yourself.”
As she recounted the latest development, Cal gave her his full attention. But the more she revealed about Dr. Blaine, the more he was inclined to believe the voice similarity was, indeed, a coincidence.
Until she dropped her bombshell about the ring.
That put a different spin on things.
“So what do you think?”
At her query, he drummed his fingers on the table. “You’re right. It’s weird.”
“You don’t think the ring and the voice are just a coincidence?”
“Maybe. Coincidences do happen—a lot more often than people realize. But two with the same person?” He shook his head. “That’s pushing it. Did you mention anything to him about that Friday night?”
“There was no opportunity. Besides, once I saw the ring, I was barely able to form a coherent sentence for the rest of the interview.” She leaned forward, intent. “Plus, whoever that guy was on Friday would recognize me. Blaine didn’t give any indication he’d ever seen me before. So if it was him, he doesn’t intend to admit it. And why would a man like him stop and offer to help, then disappear, anyway?” She blew out a frustrated breath and combed her fingers through her hair. “None of this makes sense.”
No, it didn’t.
But he wasn’t sure he could offer her much help. The man wasn’t accused of anything. Just the opposite. He was being lauded—by the governor, no less. Nor would the police be of help. Without evidence of wrongdoing, they wouldn’t touch this.
“You think it’s hopeless, don’t you?” The taut line of Moira’s shoulders suggested aggravation more than defeat.
“I wouldn’t go that far, but it is a challenge.” Cal took another sip of coffee. “However, you’re a crack investigative reporter or you wouldn’t have been nominated for a Pulitzer prize.” At her startled look, he raised his cup in salute. “We did our homework. Congratulations. In any case, with those kinds of credentials, you must have sound instincts. What do they tell you ab
out this situation?”
She gripped her half-empty cup, her gaze never wavering from his. “That something’s out of whack. Big time.”
Her fervent response was convincing.
As Cal considered his options, several students from the nearby college hurried past to claim the oversized rectangular table in the center, intent on their destination. One of the girls caught the strap of Moira’s tote in her own dangling purse, pulling it off the back of the chair. Moira made a grab for it, her arm shooting out.
That’s when he saw the jagged scar. Three inches long on the outside of her upper arm, it looked to be a couple of years old.
She caught him staring as she straightened up and her sleeve settled back into place, masking the gash.
He wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t seen it.
“Accident?”
“Mugging.”
His heart skipped a beat. “When?”
“Two years ago. Except it wasn’t a mugging.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “I was doing an investigative piece on gang-related drug problems. Asking questions the leaders didn’t like. One night, I was supposed to meet a contact who’d promised me information. Instead, I ended up cornered in a dark alley by knife-wielding gang members who suggested that wandering in places I didn’t belong could be dangerous. They took my purse to make it look like a robbery, but it turned up a few days later in a dumpster with all my cards intact. And they left me with this souvenir.” She flipped her hand toward her arm as if the wound didn’t matter.
But it did to him.
Cold anger, his standard reaction to senseless violence, churned in his gut.
Moira had been attacked with a knife.
She could have been killed.
“Hey.” She started to reach out to him, her eyes wide. Then drew her hand back. “It’s okay. I’m fine. I got the story, and several gang leaders got indicted.”