by Irene Hannon
He wasn’t certain what she’d seen in his face, but he did his best to slip a neutral mask back on. “I didn’t realize journalism was that dangerous.”
“That was an aberration. Most of the stories I do aren’t risky.”
“But you don’t shy away from the ones that are.”
She didn’t blink. “No. And I’m not going to shy away from this, either. I need to get to the bottom of it. For my own peace of mind, if nothing else.”
And she’d do it with or without Phoenix’s help. He’d make book on that. Any woman who had the guts and tenacity to stand up to gang members wasn’t going to back down from a pediatric surgeon.
Cal tapped his finger on the table. “I’ll tell you what. Let me talk to my partners. Get their take on this. Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Yes. And thank you for meeting me before going home.” She stood. “Please give my apologies to your wife.”
He stuck her cup in his and picked up her plate as he rose. “No apologies needed. My wife died five years ago.” For once his throat didn’t close down as he said the words. Odd.
Moira’s lips formed a small O and her eyes widened. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.” This time, his voice rasped.
He crossed to the trash can, deposited their cups, set the empty plate on the barista’s counter, and took a deep breath, buying himself a few seconds to regain control.
By the time he rejoined her and gestured toward the front door, he had his emotions in check. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“That’s not necessary.”
He managed to summon up the hint of a smile. “My mom would disagree—and I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”
With no further argument, she preceded him to the door. As they stepped outside, she indicated a silver Camry. “That’s it.”
“Convenient. I’m parked next to you.”
She surveyed the Mercedes to the right of her car. “Nice.”
“Try the other side.”
Her brow wrinkled as she sized up the van on the left. “That’s a carpet cleaning business.”
“Or a surveying firm, or an electrical company, or a half dozen other businesses. Depends on which magnetic sign I put up.” He took her arm as they descended the steps. “You don’t think I always dress like this, do you?”
She gave his uniform-like dark green slacks and beige shirt a quick sweep. “Cover for surveillance?”
“Bingo.” He opened her door, and she slid inside. “I’ll be back in touch before noon tomorrow. Your cell okay?”
“Yes. Thank you again.”
“Nothing to thank me for yet. Drive safe.”
He closed the door and circled around to the driver’s side of the van. While he fished out his keys and climbed behind the wheel, she backed out and accelerated toward the exit.
As he watched her disappear, a sudden impulse swept over him to take off after her, wave her over, and invite her to dinner. He was tired of eating alone, and she sounded fed up with macaroni and cheese.
But that was crazy. He’d never been the impetuous type.
Gripping the wheel, he quashed the renegade urge. His memories of Lindsey were enough to sustain him.
Besides, it seemed Moira Harrison might become a client after all. And the unwritten rule was that Phoenix PIs didn’t date clients.
Not even hot ones.
“You with us, Connor?” Cal positioned the speaker phone on the conference room table and took a seat beside Dev.
A yawn came over the line as a U2 song played in the background. “Yeah, I’m here. But I’d rather be in bed.”
“I’ll be back to relieve you at noon,” Dev reminded him.
“Promises, promises.”
“You guys got some nice shots last night when you followed our subject to the mall parking lot. We ought to be able to wrap this up soon.” Cal turned a pen end-to-end on the yellow tablet in front of him.
“I can’t believe he did the handoff out in the open like that, even if it was dark. The guy’s a real amateur.” Dev shook his head.
“Not to mention a scumbag.” Connor’s voice was laced with disgust.
“Go ahead, Connor, tell us how you really feel.” One side of Cal’s mouth quirked up.
“Hey. I don’t have to be PC anymore. That’s one of the beauties of this job. I can call it like I see it without pussyfooting around or worrying about department protocols. And what that guy’s doing is unconscionable.”
“I agree.” Dev’s face hardened. “We do our job, not even the best defense attorney will get him off.”
“Hopefully we caught him in the act with one of the motion-activated cameras you planted when you went to fix that ‘electrical problem’ last week at the hospice.” Cal checked out his partner’s blue work shirt, jeans, and tool belt. “Are you retrieving today?”
“Why else would I be dressed like this?”
“Because you have a secret wish to be Tim the Tool Man?”
“Cute.”
“I thought it was.” Cal uncapped his pen and switched gears. “Okay. Let’s move on to the reason I asked for this meeting so we can all get back to work.”
“Moira Harrison.” Dev grinned at him.
Cal shot him a disgruntled look. “How did you know that?”
Smirk still in place, Dev lifted one shoulder. “Call it intuition. Or it could be the fact that I just happened to notice her file is now front and center on your desk when I just happened to wander into your office to borrow your stapler before this meeting.”
“So you were trespassing?”
“Nah. We’re all friends here.”
“Don’t push your luck, buddy.”
“While this exchange is highly entertaining, could we get to the point? My talk radio show is about to start.” Connor’s last word ended on a yawn.
“Eat some of those pistachios you carry around or you’re going to fall asleep.” Cal played with the cap on his pen. “Okay, Dev’s right. This is about Moira Harrison. There’s been a new development.”
He could only see Dev’s body language as he spoke, but Cal suspected Connor was having the same reaction. Dev folded his arms over his chest. Cocked his head. Raised an eyebrow.
Translation? Curious but skeptical.
As he finished, Dev leaned forward. “This guy sounds like a boy scout. What do you propose?”
“We could dig a little into his background. There might be something that would help us get a handle on what’s going on. And Connor, just to be clear, this would have to be a pro bono case.” Moira’s macaroni and cheese reference last night flashed through his mind. Journalism might be a noble profession, but from everything he’d heard, it didn’t pay squat—even for Pulitzer prize nominees. “She doesn’t have the resources to fund a full investigation.”
“The hospice job is paying well. So did my gig in Bermuda. I don’t see a problem with pro bono unless this gets a lot more complicated than we expect. I’m okay with some preliminary digging.”
Cal looked at Dev.
The other man shrugged. “I’m in.”
“All right. I’ll work with Nikki on this. She loves projects.”
“Unless they involve filing,” Dev groused.
“Mountains of filing,” Cal corrected. “Besides, she got you squared away, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, but it took a Starbucks latte three days in a row.”
“Well worth the price.” Cal recapped his pen. “I’ll keep you guys in the loop as we . . .” His BlackBerry began to vibrate, and he pulled it off his belt. The number registered at once.
Moira’s cell.
Odd.
She knew he’d been planning to call her later this morning.
“This is her now. Hang tight for a second.” He pushed the talk button. “Burke.”
“Good morning. This is Moira Harrison. Am I interrupting anything?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I was in the middle of discussing your situ
ation with my colleagues.”
“Well, there’s been another development.”
“Do you mind if I put you on speaker? No sense me repeating everything after we hang up.”
“Sure.”
He pushed the speaker button and positioned the phone so Connor could pick up the conversation. “Moira, Jim Devlin and Connor Sullivan are also on the line. Go ahead.”
“I know you were going to call me later this morning, but I just checked my voice mail and discovered Dr. Blaine left a message for me late last night. He invited me to shadow him for a day as background for my article. I’m inclined to accept, although it’s not necessary for my story. But I wanted to get your read. I’ve done lots of personality pieces in my career, and this kind of offer is unusual.”
Cal exchanged a look with Dev. The other man nodded.
“Connor?” Cal directed the query toward the speaker phone.
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”
“Moira, there isn’t much downside to this. It will give you a chance to do some more observing, and maybe—if he is your man—he’ll slip and say something that gives us more to go on.”
“But if it is him, why would he want to take the risk of having me hang around? Wouldn’t he be afraid of making a mistake?”
The lady asked astute questions.
Dev supplied the answer to this one. “He might be worried about how much you know or suspect.” His partner rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “This could be an attempt on his part to pick your brain too.”
“I guess I can see that. Is there anything specific I should dig for?”
“No.” Cal jumped back in. “Unless you can somehow bring up that Friday night. It would be interesting to see his reaction—and what he offers about his own activities. When would you do this?”
“He suggested tomorrow.”
“Can you work it into your schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it. And touch base as soon as you finish. In the meantime, we’re going to do some digging into the good doctor’s background.”
“I already did a lot of searching on the net.”
Cal exchanged a smile with Dev. “We have other sources, including proprietary databases.”
“So you’re willing to work with me on this? Even though I can’t afford to pay much?”
“That’s not a problem. We’ve already discussed it, and the case interests us.”
Him more than the others, perhaps. But at least his colleagues had gone along with him. And Dev did seem intrigued.
Or was he just thinking of their hot new client?
He narrowed his eyes at the other man.
“All right.” Moira’s voice interrupted his dark thoughts. “Thanks a lot, all of you. Cal, I’ll call as soon as I finish tomorrow.”
“Talk to you then.” He tapped the end button on his BlackBerry.
“Cal? Moira? When did you two transition to first names?” Dev waggled his eyebrows.
Ignoring him, Cal rose. “I’ll keep you guys in the loop.”
Dev’s chuckle followed him out the door, sending a rush of heat to his neck.
One of these days, if his partner didn’t knock off the ribbing, he might have to pull out one of those old embarrassing stories he’d been saving. Maybe the one about Dev’s humiliating faux pas at his senior prom.
Cal dropped his tablet on his desk and smiled.
Now that would be sweet revenge.
6
Adjusting her surgical mask, Moira shifted into a more comfortable position as she watched the delicate procedure from a stool off to the side in the operating room. Three nurses and an anesthesiologist hovered around the newborn baby, all poised to respond instantly to Kenneth Blaine’s clipped instructions.
“Come in there. Shadow in. Really engage. Good. Cut it.”
Silence, broken only by the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor.
“Touch the nerve. In between there. Bring it over to your side as far as you can.”
She’d been listening to the man for hours, ever since her 6:00 a.m. arrival at the hospital. And the more she heard him speak, the more the voice of her Good Samaritan faded into the recesses of her memory.
“Saline in . . . okay. No bubbles. Get suction.”
Beep . . . beep . . . beep.
“Tim, give us a little downward pressure on the NG tube.”
The problem was, she was losing her ability to distinguish between the two voices. It wasn’t as if she had a recording of her Good Samaritan’s voice, after all. She was only relying on her concussion-clouded memory.
Besides, the man in the green scrubs and magnifying headgear was totally impressive. Incisive, authoritative, and meticulous with his surgical team; empathetic and reassuring with the worried parents he’d talked with after his first surgery of the day, a repair on the cleft palate of an eight-month-old.
“Right angle. Take your Bovie. We’re going to have to be up more.”
This surgery seemed more complicated. She double-checked her notes for the problem he was correcting. Esophageal atresia. The baby’s esophagus ended in a blind pouch rather than connecting to the stomach. Blaine had given her a matter-of-fact briefing, tossing out terms like cyanotic, aspiration of fluid into the trachea, and respiratory distress as they’d chugged down a quick cup of coffee before heading into the operating room.
“More forward thrust on the NG.”
Beep . . . beep . . . beep.
“Irrigate out and then we’ll bring our chest tube in . . . right up here.”
Cool. Confident. Competent. That described the pediatric surgeon to a T. How could he possibly be her Good Samaritan?
“Let me have that Blake drain as well. One on your side.”
But the ring was still a sticking point. No matter how hard she tried to dismiss it as coincidence, her investigative training refused to let her.
When the surgery at last wound down, Blaine motioned for her to follow him out.
As they exited, he stripped off his latex gloves, tossed them in the contaminated waste bin, and removed the magnifying headgear. “I hope that wasn’t too intense for you.”
“No. It was very interesting.”
“Glad you found it worthwhile. Let’s talk to the parents.”
She followed him out. Watched as he reassured the distraught mom and dad. Tagged along as he did his rounds. And learned nothing to suggest that her tenuous theory about his identity had any basis in fact.
This whole thing was turning out to be a bust. Six hours into her shadowing, she’d had no chance to have a real conversation with the man. He’d been on the go every single minute. If he’d wanted to impress her with his work ethic, he’d succeeded. But she hadn’t accepted his invitation to be impressed.
She wanted answers.
“Hungry?”
He tossed the question over his shoulder as they left the final patient’s room.
Her interest perked up. This might be her chance to probe a little. Perhaps her only one. “Yes.”
“Me too.” He waited until she drew alongside him before continuing down the hall. “Believe it or not, the hospital food isn’t half bad, and it’s convenient.” He checked his watch. “I start seeing office patients in an hour. Do you mind if we eat here?”
“Not at all.”
“Any questions about the day so far?” He punched the elevator button, and the door opened immediately. “That’s a first. There’s usually a wait.” He stepped aside to let her precede him.
Moira squeezed in among a man holding a squalling baby, a patient in a wheelchair manned by an aide, and assorted medical staff and visitors. No chance for conversation here.
But she intended to take full advantage of their quick lunch. All she had to do was find an innocuous way to broach the subject of that fateful Friday night.
Ten minutes later, after they’d gone through the line and claimed a table in the quietest corner of the cafeter
ia, he caught her off guard by providing the perfect opening.
“That looks like the remnants of a nasty bruise.” He unloaded a dish of fresh fruit from his tray and gestured toward her forehead. “I noticed it in the office on Tuesday. Accident?”
Her heart began to hammer as she removed her plate of baked cod.
Stay cool, Moira. Don’t blow this.
“Yes. My car ran off the road and into a tree three weeks ago in that bad rainstorm we had on a Friday night. You might remember it. I’ve never seen such incessant lightning.” She slid into her chair, watching him.
He took her tray, stacked it on top of his, and placed them at the far end of the table before settling into the chair across from her.
“I remember it well.” He picked up his fork and scooped up some chicken stir-fry. “I was at an Opera Theatre fund-raising dinner that night. My next-door neighbor is on the board, and he hit me up for a ticket. I’m not a big opera fan, but what can you do?” He lifted one shoulder.
Moira’s spirits took a dive.
He had an alibi.
She was back to square one.
If the doctor noticed her sudden deflation, he gave no indication. “I remember dashing from the car to the restaurant and spending the next three hours in a damp tuxedo. It was not an auspicious evening—and I’m sure yours wasn’t, either. Any injuries besides the bruise?” He slid another forkful of stir-fry into his mouth.
Moira broke off a piece of fish she didn’t want. “A mild concussion. I was lucky.”
“Very. Head injuries of any kind are nothing to treat lightly. Did you have family around to call on while you recovered?”
“No.” She moved her rice around the plate. Took a deep breath. Let it go, Moira. You were wrong. It’s over. Switch gears. “My dad lives a couple of hours away, though. In Columbia. I can always count on him in a pinch, but I didn’t need to bother him with this. It wasn’t that bad.”
“Is he affiliated with Mizzou?”
“Yes. He’s a professor. Classic philosophy.”
The doctor was making short work of his lunch, and she’d barely put a dent in hers. She forced herself to take another bite of fish. The man had patients to see; she needed to pick up the pace. No sense prolonging this.