The Silence That Speaks (2 page)

“I...” Emma was visibly taken aback.

“I like the wide-eyed innocent thing,” Ryan commented. “You’ve got a great combo going there—a disarming exterior and an iron core.”

“You’re smart, too,” Marc added. “You did research on each one of us.” He read the surprised widening of her eyes that she fought to conceal. “The way you studied each of us as you walked around—which you made sure to do,” he explained, answering her unspoken question. “Like you were making mental connections. That was your tell.”

“Wow, you people are just like the articles say.” For the first time, Emma looked impressed. “So let’s say I came here to mess with your minds, and you figured me out. You also guessed I was a lot guiltier than my record shows. Then why are you interviewing me?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Casey asked.

“You just said so yourself. I’m a criminal.”

“A
former
criminal,” Patrick qualified.

“And a good one,” Ryan said, ignoring Patrick’s scowl. “Here at Forensic Instincts, we not only admire excellence, we demand it. Also, you’ve got guts. Guts are a requirement for working here.”

“True,” Casey said.

“Plus your background piqued our interest,” Claire couldn’t help but interject. She pointed at herself. “And before you size me up further, yes, I am the soft touch of the team. I felt a pang of compassion when I read your history. That’s the upside. The downside is that none of my team members is as squishy as I am. So you’ll have some convincing to do.”

Emma acknowledged that with a nod. “I figured as much.”

Casey raised her chin. “Do you want this job?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it sounds way cooler than the other jobs I was applying for.”

“But you didn’t think you’d get it.”

“Truthfully? No.”

“Honesty. Another refreshing virtue.” Casey glanced around the table, making eye contact with each team member and reading their reactions.

Emma used that time to look around again, puzzled as her gaze searched the room. “I don’t know where it’s based, but I like your virtual intelligence system. How come you didn’t make that your assistant?”

“Smart girl,” Ryan muttered.

“Because Yoda is overworked,” Marc answered for the group.

“Yoda?” Emma grinned. “Great name.”

“
Really
smart girl,” Ryan muttered again.

Only half listening to Ryan’s wisecracks, Casey was eyeing Emma as their job applicant kept asking questions. What was going on in that cunning little blond head?

The girl was sharp. She was a walking contradiction. And she had a curious mind. She had the brains and the balls to fit right in.

But was she trustworthy? Loyal? Those were key requirements in Casey’s hiring practice.

Only one way to find out.

At that moment, Emma pushed back her chair and rose. “I want this job. What do I have to do to get it?”

“Prove yourself,” Casey responded.

“How?”

“A probationary period. Say, three months. Minimum wage. Show me unwavering loyalty to Forensic Instincts—the company and the team. Hard work.
Good
work. No bullshit. No games. Up front all the way. Then we’ll talk.”

“Fair enough.” Emma paused, chewing her lip. “In that case, I guess I should start out on the right foot, boss.” She reached into her tote bag and groped around for a minute. “Here you go.” She pulled out Patrick’s wallet, Claire’s bangle bracelet, Marc’s switchblade, Casey’s day planner and Ryan’s iPhone, placing each item in front of its respective owner. “No bullshit. No games. Up front all the way.”

You could have heard a pin drop as the team members each stared at their just-confiscated belongings.

“And who knows?” Emma added with an impish grin. “I might even teach you guys a thing or two.”

3

EMMA WAS STILL
getting used to the coolness of having her own desk and swivel chair in an alcove right off the front hall of the renowned Forensic Instincts.

Maybe if she played her cards right, she’d get business cards, too.

The doorbell rang, and she snapped to attention, grabbing her new scheduling book.

“Our nine-thirty prospective client has arrived,” Yoda announced. “Ms. Madeline Westfield. She’s listed in your appointment book on the left page, third column.”

“Yes, Yoda, I see that.” Emma grimaced. “Cut me some slack. I’m trying to learn. At least give me thirty seconds before you jump in.”

A brief pause. “That seems fair and acceptable. I’ll program my database accordingly.”

“You do that.” Emma rose and walked to the door, punching in the dummy alarm code Ryan had assigned her. Only the inner circle got the real code. Not the newbies on probation.

She opened the door and automatically ran through the physical assessment she’d learned during her pickpocket days, when she’d sized up her potential marks.

Madeline Westfield was pretty in a haunting kind of way. Mid-thirties. Chestnut-brown hair, classily styled and just grazing her shoulders. Fair skin. Deep, dark eyes. Medium height. Cute figure. Casually but expensively dressed in a cashmere coat, from beneath which peeked a sweater and pants that screamed designer. A badly bruised forehead—from a bad bang, not physical abuse—and an anxious look in her eyes.

The ideal client—rich and needy.

“Good morning,” Emma said brightly, extending her hand. “You must be Ms. Westfield. I’m Emma Stirling. Welcome to Forensic Instincts.”

“Thank you.” Madeline clasped her hand briefly. Her palm was icy. She was peering around. She was nervous. Emma wondered what that was about—the upcoming meeting or whatever had brought her here.

“The team is waiting for you right in there.” Emma gestured at the cozy meeting room down the hall. “I’ll take your coat. Can I get you something—coffee, tea, water?”

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you,” Madeline said, shrugging out of her coat and handing it to Emma. “Just black.”

“No problem. I’ll show you in and then bring it to you.”

Emma led the way, escorting Madeline straight to the open door. With a brief knock, she glanced at the team. “Ms. Madeline Westfield is here for her appointment.” She noted the steaming pot of coffee on a trivet in the middle of the center table. “Should I pour?” she asked Casey.

“No, thank you, Emma. We’ve got it. Just shut the door on your way out.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need me.” Emma left the room, closing the door to give them their privacy and heading back to her desk—and to Yoda’s tutoring.

* * *

Madeline stood just inside the meeting room, tightly clutching her handbag. She looked stiff, as if she was in pain, and there was a bad bruise on her forehead.

Casey was about to open her mouth when she caught the odd, strained expression on Madeline’s face. She was staring at Marc. And Marc had a look on his face that Casey had never seen before—a look of stark, raw emotion.

“Maddy?” He rose slowly to his feet.

“Hello, Marc.” She attempted a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It occurred to me that you might not realize I was the one who was coming here today.”

“No. I didn’t.” Marc’s emotions shut down and his usual unreadable expression snapped back into place. “The appointment didn’t list you as Madeline Stanton.”

“Westfield is my married name.”

“I see.”

The silence was so awkward that even Casey was hard-pressed to break it.

But break it she did.

Coming swiftly to her feet, she stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Woods. I see that you and Marc already know each other, so I’ll introduce the rest of the team.”

No questions. No observations. No belaboring the all-too-blatant reality.

Madeline’s relief was visible. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she said, shaking Casey’s hand. Her gaze shifted to the area rug, where Hero was lying beside Casey’s chair. “What a beautiful bloodhound.”

“Hero is a human-scent evidence dog,” Casey explained. “He’s part of the Forensic Instincts team.”

“Then he must be remarkable. Your company’s reputation speaks for itself.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do for you.” Casey ran through the rest of the introductions, poured Madeline a cup of coffee and gestured for her to have a seat on one of the buttery-soft caramel leather tub chairs in the room.

There were three other identical tub chairs, casually situated around the two matching leather couches. Sure, the room also had some high-tech equipment, but it wasn’t center stage. There was no point in making the place look like an interrogation room. Living rooms were far more relaxing, and leant themselves to calmer clients who were open and honest about their reasons for being here.

Madeline politely accepted the cup of coffee and gingerly sat down. Casey noted that she swiveled her tub chair ever so slightly away from Marc and kept her gaze fixed on Casey.

Those weren’t acts of anger. They were unconscious acts of emotional protection.

“I don’t know where to start,” Madeline said.

“Start wherever you’re most comfortable.” Casey sat back, ostensibly relaxed, but reading every tell that Madeline displayed. Ryan had run a preliminary background check on her, as he did on all their prospective clients. But nothing beat an in-person assessment. And, in this case, there was an additional—and very personal—nuance to observe.

“We’ll ask questions as we need to.” From Casey’s peripheral vision, she noticed that Marc had opened his portfolio and was ready to take notes. Business as usual. Marc preferred to go at it by hand, and then transfer his conclusions into the computer. It also wasn’t a shock that he hadn’t done more than a cursory read of Ryan’s report. He liked to go into a first meeting with just the facts and a clear mind.

Evidently, that method had backfired this time.

“Do you mind if we record this conversation?” Casey asked. “It helps us refocus on any details that might become important later on.”

“Not at all,” Madeline replied. “Just as long as everything remains confidential.”

“Absolutely.” Casey nodded. “I assume you received the confidentiality agreement that I messengered to you?”

“I did. And I reviewed it with my attorney.” Tentatively, Madeline leaned down, reached into her purse and extracted a folded document. “Here’s the fully executed original,” she said, unfolding the page and handing it to Casey. “I kept a copy for my records.”

“Good. Then let’s begin.” Casey sipped at her coffee, then called out, “Yoda, please turn on Inspector Gadget.”

Ryan grinned, proud of yet another of his accomplishments. Inspector Gadget was the iPhone hack he’d programmed into each team member’s iPhone, which turned the cell phones into secret listening devices. With Yoda in control, the iPhone microphone and cameras could be activated, streaming audio and video over the best available network, for live viewing and/or recording by the team.

“Inspector Gadget activated,” Yoda announced.

“Go, go, Gadget,” Ryan muttered under his breath with a quiet chuckle.

Madeline was looking around, her eyes wide and puzzled.

“Yoda is our artificial intelligence system,” Casey explained. “Ryan built him, so he’s smart but safe.”

A tentative nod. “Okay.” Madeline still looked bewildered. Then again, everyone did the first time they heard Yoda.

“Go ahead and tell us your situation,” Casey said.

Madeline cleared her throat. “Someone is trying to kill me,” she said bluntly. “I have no witnesses and no tangible proof, so the police can’t help me. Can you?”

“Who would be trying to kill you and why?” Marc spoke up for the first time, his demeanor all business.

“I have no idea.” Madeline couldn’t meet his eyes. “That’s the problem. But my apartment was broken into a few weeks ago. Yes, items were stolen, but the way the place was trashed so violently, I don’t believe that robbery was the reason for the break-in. And then three days ago...” Madeline touched the bruise on her forehead. “Someone tried to run me down when I was crossing the street. It wasn’t a drunk driver. It was very deliberate and very professional. I’d just stepped into the road when the SUV came at me. I literally had to fling myself back on the sidewalk to avoid getting killed. I have broken ribs and a concussion as souvenirs.”

Patrick’s forehead creased in thought. “If that’s the case, then whoever’s behind these attacks is convinced that you not only
have
something, but that you
know
something,” he said. “Otherwise, they’d just be going after your possessions, not you.”

“So you believe me?” Madeline’s voice was weak with relief.

“We have no reason not to,” Casey replied. “You make a solid argument.”

“But the police...”

“The police have to operate by a certain set of criteria that we don’t have to.” Casey kept it short and sweet. “So let’s move on to the obvious questions. What’s changed in your life recently? New relationships? New job? New routine?”

“None of the above.”

“Then let’s start close to home. Tell us about your husband.”

“
Ex
-husband,” Madeline corrected. Almost inadvertently, she darted a quick glance at Marc, then looked away. “Conrad’s and my divorce was final last month. But we were separated for six months before that. It’s hardly new.”

“Tell us about him, anyway,” Claire asked.

Madeline sighed, not a sigh of anger, but one of weariness and resignation.

“Conrad is a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon—one of the top three in the country. He was...is...the head of the cardio unit at Manhattan Memorial Hospital. He’s also a very complex man.”

“How so?”

“He’s bigger than life. Always striving for perfection. He not only needs to excel and to surpass others, but to surpass himself. And when all the pieces fall into place, he’s unstoppable. But when they don’t...” A helpless shake of her head. “He’s his own worst enemy.”

“Did you say he
was
or he
is
the head of the cardiothoracic surgical unit?” Casey asked, having not missed Madeline’s hesitation over the past or present tense.

“Is. He’s just taken a leave of absence.”

Something about the way Madeline said that gave Casey pause. “When you say ‘a leave of absence,’ do you mean an extended vacation, or a sabbatical to go abroad and study some new aspect of his craft?”

“Neither.” Madeline looked down at the floor for a moment, then met Casey’s gaze. “This isn’t common knowledge, but Conrad has been staying at Crest Haven Residential Treatment Center. It’s a private facility in Connecticut.”

“I’ve heard of it. It’s a top-notch mental health facility.”

Madeline nodded. “This has been a devastating time for Conrad. Three months ago, he lost a dear friend who he’d just operated on. He’s never forgiven himself. I doubt he ever will.”

“Why did he operate on a close friend?” Casey asked. “As I understand it, that’s ill-advised.”

“It is. But the friend was Ronald Lexington, the hospital administrator. The surgery was a delicate one, and Ron wouldn’t allow anyone but Conrad to perform it.”

“Wow.” Ryan let out a low whistle. “Talk about pressure. That’s a tough one to live with.”

“It must have taken a huge toll on whatever was left of your marriage,” Casey said tactfully.

“Our marriage was already over.” Madeline’s reply was straightforward, but she was fiddling with the pleat of her pants leg. “We’d been talking on and off for a year and a half about separation. The divorce process was already well under way when this happened. But no, our relationship wouldn’t have been strong enough to hold up—not given the severity of Conrad’s reaction or his resistance to share his pain with me.”

“Was he sharing his pain with anyone else?” Ryan asked.

Claire winced. There was brilliant but blunt Ryan. “Anyone that you know of—like a colleague or a clergyman?” she asked, trying to soften the glaring implications of Ryan’s question.

A small smile curved Madeline’s lips. “I’m not offended. I doubt Conrad was having an affair. That’s not where his head was. I also doubt he did much sharing with anyone—that’s just not his nature. So, for the record, I doubt I’m being hunted down by a jealous lover. The gossip mill runs wild in the circles we traveled in. The fact that our marriage was ending was common knowledge. As was the fact that it was an amicable divorce. We wished each other well. We still do.”

“What circles did you travel in?” Patrick asked.

“Oh, we had a real-life soap opera going on.” Madeline grimaced. “An elite social crowd of high-profile doctors and their spouses. It was compounded by the fact that I work in the same hospital as Conrad. I’m an emergency room nurse. So I was in the middle of the drama both professionally and personally. It was exhausting. I’m a private person, so I’m struggling to extricate myself from it as quickly as possible. But after five years, it’s not easy, despite the divorce.”

That opened the door to a whole separate cluster of questions and suspects. But Casey was studying Madeline’s body language. She was no longer sitting up straight and tall. She looked drawn, exhausted, pale. And every time she shifted in her seat, she flinched. The woman was clearly in a fair amount of physical pain. And the only motivator that had gotten her here today was fear.

This interview had barely gotten started. But it was about to end.

“You’re a nurse,” Casey said. “Why do I get the feeling you used your clout to check yourself out of the hospital sooner than the doctors would have advised?”

Another pained smile. “Probably because you’re perceptive—which is one of the reasons I want to hire you. Although I am on extended leave, pending my doctor’s permission to return. That, I couldn’t wiggle my way out of.” Her smile faded. “I’m terrified. I know someone wants me dead—and I have no idea why. Or when the next attempt on my life is going to be. I don’t feel safe anywhere—not at home, not doing errands, not even at the hospital. Please. I need your help.”