Death's Door (37 page)

Madison couldn’t believe Chloe could be so callous. She realized Aiden’s troubles with this woman were probably just beginning.

“You got off lucky. Look at this as an opportunity to straighten out your life. Aiden loves you. He’ll help in any way he can, but you’ve got to do your part. You’ve already ruined one man’s career. Don’t destroy Aiden.”

Madison walked out of the bathroom without waiting for a response. She didn’t want to have another thing to do with Chloe. And though her love for Aiden was a thing of the past, she wished him luck—with Chloe in his life, he’d need it.

T
HE KILLER WATCHED
the press conference on a flat-screen television. The wide-angle shot took in a very military-looking Captain Callahan before the camera. His grim expression was a joke. One look at him and anybody with an iota of intelligence would know the man craved the limelight. No doubt he was angling for the mayor’s job or something.

“We have a very unusual case on our hands,” Callahan began. “We have linked two very different murders in our city to one killer. Erin Wycoff was strangled and Keith Brooks Smith was injected with a lethal substance.”

The jerk probably couldn’t pronounce
succinylcholine.

“We believe they were murdered because they were the donor-conceived children of wealthy philanthropist Wyatt Holbrook.”

Philanthropist? Okay, so he gave money away. Just to hide the fact he was an out-and-out thief.

The crowd tittered, obviously surprised. The captain waited for them to quiet down before continuing.

“We have reason to believe three other of Wyatt Holbrook’s donor-conceived children were murdered in the Boston area.”

“Unfuckingbelievable!” the killer muttered. “They figured it out.”

Now the crowd was really buzzing. Several reporters were yapping into their cell phones, probably telling their superiors to get news crews out to Palm Beach and over to the office towers.

“We need the public’s help on this one. Last night this vicious killer attached an explosive device to the bottom of Madison Connelly’s car. It was thought that Miss Connelly was also one of the donor-conceived children, but that is incorrect. She is not one of those children. Her biological father is the late Zachary Connelly of Miami. Anyone who saw anything suspicious on Hibiscus Lane in Coral Gables or—”

The killer shut off the television, seeing this sham for what it was. They wanted everyone to know Madison wasn’t related to Wyatt Holbrook. Those fools believed that information would protect her.

What had Shakespeare once said? “The devil hath the power to assume a pleasing shape.” Which play was that? It didn’t matter. Madison Connelly was pretty and intelligent. Even if she wasn’t related to the Holbrooks, she’d captivated the old coot.

Death was the only way to deal with the devil.

What is the number-one city for identity theft per capita?

W
YATT SHOWED
Madison an office next to Tobias Pennington’s after Mike Tanner made sure she was safely inside the building. Outside her new office was a large reception area and beyond it, Wyatt’s ocean-view office.

“This was Garrison’s office, but he’ll move over to the other tower, where he uses the labs.”

She gazed around and saw a few of Garrison’s things but not a lot.

“He won’t mind?”

“Of course not.” Garrison’s voice came from behind her.

Madison whirled around to find him smiling. “I really can’t imagine needing such a large office, if I’m just learning the ropes. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

Garrison’s friendly expression welcomed her. “After what you’ve been through just for trying to help my father, I don’t mind moving. I’m usually in the lab anyway, not here in the office.”

“You saw the press conference?” his father asked.

“They were watching it on a computer in my lab area when I came in. Jesus. What a mess.” Garrison shook his head in disgust. “Are you going to issue a statement?”

“I’m going to work with Tobias on it right now.”

“Good. Be sure to emphasize all the positive things you’ve done for this community,” Garrison said.

“Mention your donor number,” Madison suggested. “You may find a match.”

“Are you serious?” Garrison asked. “I hate to say this, but after what happened to the other donors and the bomb under your car, no one in their right mind is going to come forward.”

Wyatt didn’t respond, and Madison knew he had reservations about getting anyone else killed. Still, the police had given the number. It would be out there. With luck, the killer would be caught and Wyatt would be saved.

“Rose Marie will move the rest of your things for you,” Wyatt told his son.

“I’d rather move the contents of my desk myself,” Garrison said.

“Okay, I’ve got to work on that statement with Tobias,” Wyatt replied. “Madison, you have the legal documents for the foundation. Go over them. We’ll discuss them later.”

“I guess there’s a lot of legal stuff behind setting up a foundation,” Madison said to Garrison as Wyatt left.

“Absolutely. If a foundation isn’t set up correctly, it might be restricted later from doing what it was really intended to do.” He sat down behind his desk and began taking things out of drawers and putting them on top. “My father wants this foundation to have great latitude. Scientific advances are coming so rapidly and from different places—”

“Like the ocean.”

He chuckled and winked at her. “Exactly. Who knows what we’ll find in nature’s medicine chests in countries like Costa Rica? Or in outer space.”

Rose Marie Nesbit, the receptionist, an older woman with dark hair and intelligent brown eyes, came into the room with a stack of packing boxes. Madison liked her and knew she was the one who kept this penthouse suite of executive offices on track.

“Thanks,” Garrison said, taking the boxes. He put them on the floor and began to assemble one.

“Will I bother you if I ask you a few questions while you pack?” Madison said.

“No. I can pack and talk at the same time,” he said with a smile.

“It’s about the scope of the foundation. I haven’t read anything yet, but there’s an area I’d like to explore.” She sat in the chair beside his desk.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“The transplant system in this country. I’m talking about the whole organ transplantation of livers, kidneys, hearts, lungs. It’s so unfair. Especially with livers.”

“That’s true.” Garrison moved things from the drawers into the box he’d assembled. “Where you live makes all the difference. It’s a matter of geography. The United Network for Organ Sharing is a nonprofit group with a government contract. They broke the country into fifty-eight territories.”

“That’s what I read, but there are only one hundred and twenty liver transplant centers. If you don’t live near one, you aren’t getting a liver.”

“Even if you do live near one, you may not receive a transplant if there are too many people ahead of you on the list,” Garrett told her.

“It’s run like a medieval fiefdom.” She sighed heavily. “I understand that a liver is viable for up to fifteen hours refrigerated and kept in a special solution. That’s enough time to fly it across the country to the patient who needs it most, right?”

He looked up from his packing. “Correct. In a perfect world, that’s the way it would be done, but that’s not how the system works. I’ll give you an example. The area around the University of California at Davis has a population of around two million. That’s one small pocket surrounded by a huge population in the San Francisco area of over eleven million, give or take a million, which was put in another region. If you’re lucky enough to need a liver in the UC Davis area, you’ll get it, while you’re more likely to die in San Francisco.”

“Isn’t there a solution? Couldn’t the system be fixed? Wouldn’t this be a good project for the foundation?”

Garrison secured the lid on the box he’d been filling and put it on the floor. “It would be an uphill battle. A whole liver transplant runs over a quarter of a million dollars. That’s big money to hospitals in the transplant business. They have no incentive to change the system.”

“I’d still like to look into it,” she replied. “Your father is lucky. St. Luke’s in Jacksonville is part of the Mayo Clinic system and does fabulous transplants. It also has a short waiting list.”

“He’s on it, but with his immune system problems, it’s more likely that a partial lobe transplant from a living relative will be the solution. Believe me, I’ve looked into it.”

“Have you thought about going overseas?” she asked.

“Are you going to run the China connection by me?”

“What China connection?”

“The best livers are from young, healthy people who die in car crashes or other accidents, right?” She nodded, and he went on. “China executes thousands of prisoners each year with a single bullet to the head. Lots of good organs there.”

“Oh my God. I hadn’t heard that. I was thinking of India.”

“It’s illegal there to buy organs, but it’s a desperately poor country and it happens a lot. I guess my father would consider it as a last resort. Problem is you need to be within one hour of the transplant center. I can’t see my father sitting in India or China, but who knows what we’re going to do if we’re desperate.”

Madison silently watched him pack the next box. She knew from personal experience how difficult it was to see your father slowly die and not be able to help. If only they could catch this killer, then Wyatt might locate another child who would match and be willing to donate a lobe.

“You know, I’m running a special experiment tomorrow,” Garrison said. “If you’re around, maybe you’d like to watch.”

“Sure,” she said. “I plan to be here from now on.”

“Don’t mention it to anyone,” he cautioned. “My work’s secret even from my father. Just between you and me, I’m working on an enzyme derived from the saliva of a vampire bat. When a bat bites its prey, its incisors leave tiny pinprick marks that normally would begin to heal in less than a minute. But they don’t.”

“Because the bat is sucking, keeping the punctures open. Right?”

Garrison shook his head. “That’s a myth. Different bats found all over the world lap with long tongues. None of them suck. Feeding time is at least half an hour and they remove about a teaspoon of blood—their sole source of nourishment. The lapping allows air to hit the wound. Air combined with the natural coagulating components of blood should lead to bats licking up clots of blood.”

“You’d think.”

“You’d be wrong. Bat saliva contains an anticoagulation enzyme. It’s perfect for stroke victims.”

The excitement was reflected in his voice, his eyes. Madison couldn’t help but be enthused, too. This was going to be a great job. She’d be on the cutting edge of wondrous discoveries.

“You see, currently stroke victims must get to the hospital and receive treatment within three hours or the damage is usually irreversible. Most patients don’t get to the hospital that soon. With the bat enzyme, doctors will have up to nine hours to treat stroke victims.”

“Think of the lives that will be saved,” she said, truly awed. A thought occurred to her. “Aren’t you working on discoveries from the sea?”

“Yes, but I came across this bat while diving in Costa Rica.”

She picked up the sheaf of legal papers on the foundation. “I might as well get started on the legal stuff.”

“See you tomorrow. Don’t mention my bat saliva,” he said with a wink.

“M
Y MOTHER’S COMING OVER
and bringing steaks to grill,” Madison told Paul when he walked through the door with an armload of his clothes. She noticed he brought more clothes each time he came. Evidently, he swung by his own house every day. Mike Tanner had driven her from the office back to the guesthouse.

Paul pulled her into his arms and kissed her before answering. “Great minds think alike. I asked my father to dinner. I ran into him going in to see Wyatt. We’re planning to discuss strategy.”

“What strategy?” She leaned down to pet Aspen. He’d been home alone today. The staff had walked him, but she wanted to start taking him to work, if possible.

“How to guard you. To be sure word is out that you cannot help Wyatt.”

“Okay. Let me call Mom. She got a cell today, and a car. I’ll have her pick up another steak for your father.” She went to the telephone in the kitchen and called her mother, catching her still at the supermarket.

“I’m going to clean off the barbecue,” Paul told her after he’d emerged from the bedroom in a black T-shirt with bold white lettering that read Menudo: the Breakfast of Champions. His denim cutoffs were one rip away from unraveling.

She followed him outside, where he found a wire brush in the cabinet under the grill. “Paul, do you see your mother often?”

“Nope.” He put the brush back. “This grill is clean. You should see mine.”

“There’s a lot of staff here. The whole place is immaculate.”

Paul put his arm around her. “What do you say we open a bottle of wine while we wait? My father should be along any minute.”

“Great. I’ll get the glasses,” she said as they walked inside. She noticed he’d quickly changed the subject from his mother.

Paul opened a Pinot Grigio someone from the staff had put
into the small wine-cooling unit in the kitchen. She’d placed four glasses on the granite counter. “Where is your mother living?”

Paul didn’t look at her. “Beats me. I haven’t seen her since the day she walked out on us.”

“Really?” She took the glass he offered and touched his arm with her other hand. “Why not?”

“Not every mother is like your mother.”

There was a bitter edge of cynicism in his voice that she’d never heard before and she had to remind herself that despite great chemistry, she knew very little about this man. That’s why she was taking it slow. She refused to tell him she loved him until she was absolutely positive she wasn’t making a mistake.

“It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about it,” she told him.

“Come on. Let’s sit outside while the weather is still good, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” She let him guide her out the door, Aspen at their heels.

They sat in deck chairs facing the pool and sipped the wine in silence for a few minutes. She reached down to pet Aspen.

“One morning when I was seven, my mother kissed me goodbye the way she always did when she handed me my lunch box. I came home that night and she was gone. My father tried to break it to me gently, but even as young as I was I could see he was upset. I didn’t believe him. I ran to their room and opened her closet. Everything was gone.”

He’d said all this in a flat, emotionless tone, like someone reciting a well-memorized story. Madison felt the pain he wasn’t expressing. Losing a parent as an adult was traumatic enough. What must it have been like for a young boy?

“Where did she go and why?” Madison couldn’t help asking, even though she sensed he didn’t want to talk about this.

“She went to California. She always wanted to move there but my father didn’t want to leave Florida. He could have
switched to another police department in California, but my father is stubborn.”

Madison sensed there was more to this than a mother wanting to live in another state. Mothers didn’t just walk out on children. Did they? She recalled Garrison talking about his parents. His mother hadn’t paid any attention to him and neither had his father until Garrison showed an interest in research.

“So your father raised you all alone.”

There was a long silence punctuated by a bird’s warbling call from a nearby palm. “I raised myself. My father sent me off to military school—”

“At seven?”

“Yes. My father had no idea what to do with me. He was an only child, and both his parents were dead. He’d been raised abroad by an air force father after his mother died. My father had a career with odd, unpredictable hours. He had no choice.”

No choice? Madison wanted to retort.
Of course he had a choice.
Day care. A nanny. Something. What kind of man sent a little boy off to a military academy? “What about your mother’s parents? Couldn’t they have helped?”

Paul shook his head. “They were in California.”

“But you saw your father a lot, didn’t you?”

He took another swig of wine before he responded, and Madison sensed he was stalling. “Not really. I was in Georgia. He was down here. Sometimes I came home on holidays.”

“Sometimes?”

“Not always. Detectives trade holidays. If you work Thanksgiving, you get Christmas off. See what I mean?”

She absolutely did
not
see. All the happy holidays with both her parents came rushing into her mind like a whirling dervish of memories. Love and laughter colored each memory. That’s what nurtured a child. How incredibly lucky she’d been.

“There were always kids who stayed at school during the
holidays. Mostly kids whose parents lived far away or out of the country. Sometimes I went home with friends.”