Читать книгу The Silence That Speaks - Andrea Kane - Страница 11

6

CREST HAVEN RESIDENTIAL Treatment Center looked more like a posh and well-manicured country club than it did a health care facility—right down to the sprawling grounds and cast-iron entrance gates.

Casey drove the FI van up to the security booth, and provided the guard with both hers and Marc’s names and P.I. identification cards. The thin-lipped man with the balding head peered inside the car at the two of them, checked their IDs and finally made a brief phone call while squinting at his visitors’ list. Whatever he was told evidently satisfied him, because he pressed a button that made the heavy iron gates swing open.

“The visitors’ lot is at the far right of the grounds,” he said in a flat monotone. “Follow the signs. Avoid the handicapped spots. Enter the main building through the front doors. You’ll be met at the reception desk just inside. Do not proceed farther or you will be stopped and escorted out.”

“Thank you.” Casey shifted the van back into Drive and moved through the open gates and along the winding driveway.

“What a charmer,” Marc muttered. “He must attract women like a magnet.”

Casey smiled. “At least Dr. Oberlin left the right instructions about our visit. Otherwise, I think Mr. Charmer would be cuffing us right about now.”

“That still might happen. We’d better not put a toe beyond the reception desk or the fires of hell will swallow us up.”

Chuckling, Casey headed to the far right grounds and followed the signs to the visitors’ lot. She and Marc drove by a golf course, two tennis courts and an Olympic-size swimming pool.

“Nice accommodations,” Marc commented. “Certainly conducive to recovery.”

“If the patient has the mind-set to utilize the facilities. Severe depression puts a damper on all facets of life.”

“I know,” Marc answered quietly. “I’ve seen the results firsthand.”

Casey nodded. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the posttraumatic stress disorder and deep, dark depressions Marc had seen during his navy SEAL days.

“Madeline made it sound like Conrad was in bad shape,” she commented instead.

“Yeah, well, being a top-notch surgeon and having your best friend die on your operating table is pretty traumatic, especially after he begged you to do the surgery even though there was way too personal a connection for that to happen. Clearly Ronald Lexington had complete faith in Conrad.”

“And in Conrad’s eyes, he broke that faith in the most horrifying way possible.” Casey pulled into a parking spot and flipped off the ignition, then turned to face Marc. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

* * *

The security at the facility was every bit as tight as Mr. Charmer had implied. The doorman checked their IDs against a list he had, and then gestured for them to approach the white marble semicircular reception desk—an exquisite piece of furniture in an equally exquisite waiting room filled with mauve leather chairs and a gray-and-white marble floor.

A toned middle-aged woman with short salon-styled hair and a designer pantsuit looked up as they stopped in front of her.

“Yes?” she inquired.

For what seemed like the twentieth time, Casey and Marc presented their private investigator IDs and an explanation about Dr. Oberlin expecting them. Yet again, the woman checked out their story, this time on her computer, where she typed in their information with manicured fingernails.

“I’ll let Dr. Oberlin know you’re here,” she informed them. “Have a seat.”

Not a surprise that the seats she indicated were located in the front reception alcove. The guardian of the gates. No one would get by her, that was for sure.

“It’s easier to get into an FBI field office than it is to get in here,” Marc muttered. “The only difference is that here I’m allowed to keep my driver’s license and cell phone.” He glanced up as a male nurse headed in their direction. “Correction. The system here is a helluva lot faster than the Bureau’s.”

Casey didn’t have time to answer before a young man in a blue uniform approached them. His name tag read William Cook, RN.

“Ms. Woods? Mr. Devereaux?” he asked. Seeing their nods, he continued, “Dr. Oberlin is expecting you. Please follow me.”

He escorted them to the elevators, where he waited for them to precede him. He then pressed the third-floor button and stood, hands clasped behind him, as the doors shut.

“I’ll be taking you directly to Dr. Oberlin’s office,” he informed them. “She’ll have a brief meeting with you and then take you to see the patient you’ve requested to see—Dr. Westfield. He has a time limit on his visitations, so you’ll be allowed only a designated amount of time with him.”

“We understand.” Casey exchanged a quick glance with Marc. It felt like they were in the friggin’ military rather than a recuperation center.

The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and Nurse Cook led them down a few corridors until he reached an office whose gold plaque read Marie Oberlin, M.D.

He knocked.

“Yes?” came a crisp female voice from inside.

The RN opened the door partway. “Ms. Woods and Mr. Devereaux are here.”

There was the sound of a chair being rolled back, and then the click of heels on the floor. A tall, slim, middle-aged woman with chin-length dark hair and an understated pantsuit opened the door the rest of the way and gave them a professional smile. “Come in,” she said, gesturing. She shot a quick glance at the nurse, who was making his exit. “Thanks, Bill,” she added.

She shut the door, turned and shook Casey’s and Marc’s hands. “I’m Marie Oberlin, Dr. Westfield’s primary attending physician.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Oberlin,” Casey replied. She quickly scanned the office—lovely and elegant, but as understated as Dr. Oberlin herself, with rich walnut rather than stark, in-your-face marble furnishings. “We thank you for your time,” Casey added. “We realize it’s valuable.”

“Not as valuable as my patients.” Dr. Oberlin spoke with candor rather than arrogance. “I’m a little uncomfortable having private investigators as visitors. This isn’t exactly a social call, and I don’t want Dr. Westfield to suffer any setbacks. He’s here to recover, not to be agitated.”

“We understand that.” Casey nodded. “I’m sure Madeline Westfield explained the nature of our visit. We only want to ask her ex-husband a few questions as this involves her life and her safety.”

“She did explain that, which is why I’m permitting this visit. The stipulations are that I be present during the interview, and that when I say it’s over, it’s over.”

Casey wasn’t happy, but she wasn’t surprised, either. Conrad Westfield was a psychiatric patient. His physician wasn’t about to let him feel vulnerable and alone while being grilled by two P.I.s.

“Fair enough,” Casey responded. “And just so Marc and I know what to expect, could you summarize Dr. Westfield’s current mental state without compromising doctor-patient confidentiality? We know he had a psychotic break after the loss of his friend and that he came here in a severely depressive state. Is he clearheaded?”

Dr. Oberlin looked a little put off by the question. “If you’re asking if Dr. Westfield is in his right mind, the answer is yes. He’s depressed, not unaware. If his condition were more severe, or if he were unable to understand or answer your questions, I wouldn’t permit this visit, regardless of how dire the circumstances. In addition, he’s expecting you. I don’t surprise my patients. The final decision of who they do or don’t see is theirs. Dr. Westifield chose to have you here.”

“I understand—and we’re very appreciative.” Casey cautioned herself to tread lightly. The last thing she wanted to do was to offend the woman they needed as their ally. “I certainly wasn’t questioning your judgment. I only wanted to know what to expect so that Marc and I can accomplish what we need to as quickly and easily as possible. We’re not here to upset your patient, Dr. Oberlin. You have my word.”

That seemed to relax the psychiatrist a bit. “All right, then.” She scooped up a file and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Just one more question.” Casey held up her palm for an instant. “How much did you tell Conrad Westfield about his ex-wife? Does he know she was burglarized? Almost hit by a car?”

“He knows both,” Dr. Oberlin replied. “And he’s very concerned.”

“Good.” Casey nodded. “Then we’re ready for our interview.”

* * *

From a rear view, Conrad Westfield looked like any successful middle-aged man standing in his living room on a day off from work.

He was at the room’s bay window, back turned toward them, gazing outside. Dressed in designer sweats, he was tall, broad-shouldered and tan, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He looked strong and healthy, and not at all bent and broken.

Casey and Marc exchanged glances.

Dr. Oberlin intercepted the look. “Appearances are often deceiving,” she murmured. “At the same time, any manifestation of normal behavior is a positive sign.” Aloud, she said, “Conrad, your visitors are here.”

Conrad Westfield turned around. He was a handsome man, but instantly, Casey could see that Dr. Oberlin was right. Put together or not, Conrad’s face was drawn and his eyes were hollow and faraway.

“Dr. Westfield, thank you for seeing us.” Casey stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Woods, and this is my associate, Marc Devereaux.”

“Ms. Woods. Mr. Devereaux.” Conrad shook both their hands. There was no reaction at all when he said Marc’s name or met his gaze—again, not a surprise since Madeline had told them she’d never mentioned Marc’s name to her ex. But Marc indiscernibly tensed up, and his stare intensified, however subtly, as he scrutinized the man who’d been married to his former lover.

Casey knew Conrad wouldn’t notice, but she certainly did. And it concerned her. She intended to watch Marc like a hawk. If he couldn’t keep his personal feelings in check for this interview, then he was being relegated to the background on this case. No second chances. No questions asked.

Marc must have sensed his boss’s thought process, because he settled into his usual professional self ASAP.

“Please, sit down,” Conrad said, gesturing at the high-backed chairs on either side of a matching sofa, complete with coffee table. He glanced at Dr. Oberlin. “Are you staying?”

“Yes, unless you would prefer I didn’t,” she replied.

He made an offhand gesture. “I have no problem either way. I just don’t want Ms. Woods and Mr. Devereaux to feel they can’t be open and honest.” A wry smile. “Or to think they’re dealing with a crazy person.”

“That thought never occurred to us,” Casey said. “And Dr. Oberlin is more than welcome to stay. We won’t take up much of your time.”

That comment made Conrad’s smile widen. “Time is one thing I have an infinite amount of.”

The group of them sat down, Conrad on one end of the curved sofa, his physician on the other. This way she had a full view of him and his reactions.

Conrad opened the conversation right away. “How is Madeline?”

“Understandably anxious and upset,” Casey replied. “And still in pain. She took a nasty fall when she tried to avoid that SUV.”

Worry, not guilt, furrowed Conrad’s brow.

“I don’t understand it,” he said. “Why would someone want to hurt Madeline? She doesn’t have an enemy in the world.”

“Clearly that’s not true.” Marc spoke up for the first time, and he was all business, without a trace of personal involvement. “Our best guess is that the offender thinks she knows something incriminating, and that she has proof of it in her possession.”

“I don’t understand. Did she witness a crime?”

“Not that we know of,” Marc replied. “So far we haven’t found the offender’s trigger. But we will.”

“The police don’t have the manpower to do anything without solid evidence of our theory,” Casey added. “But Forensic Instincts does, which is why Madeline hired us.”

“I’m grateful.” Again, Conrad looked and sounded genuine. “And please, whatever extra funds need to be spent, I’m more than happy to cover them. Just keep her safe.”

“That’s the plan,” Casey said. “Which is why we wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Starting with, did I hire someone to try to kill my ex-wife.” Conrad spoke very matter-of-factly. He waved away any forthcoming clarification from Casey. “I’m not mentally healthy right now. But I do have my full wits about me. The husband—or former husband, in this case—is always the first suspect. The answer is no, I most certainly did not try to harm Madeline. Do whatever you need to do, look into whatever phone records you’d like—anything required to back up my claim. You have carte blanche to dig into my life—or whatever’s left of it.”

“Thank you.” Casey was wary about how extremely forthcoming Conrad was being. It could be that his complete and open honesty was real, and based only upon his fondness for his ex-wife. On the other hand, it could be that he was trying to throw them off track.

Either way, his cooperation made things a hell of a lot easier.

“You asked if Madeline witnessed a crime,” Casey said aloud. “As Marc told you, the answer is no—nothing overt. Can you think of any situation she might be overlooking that would make her a target?”

Conrad spread his palms wide. “No, but I’m at a distinct disadvantage. I haven’t seen my ex-wife in months, and my exposure to her life, most especially to her work, is nil.” He paused. “My former place of employment is not a topic that’s introduced to me unless I bring it up in a session.”

“Your former place of employment?” Marc responded to that one. “I was under the impression that you planned to return to your previous position—or your new one, when the hospital merger goes through.”

“You don’t have to discuss this if you’d rather not, Conrad,” Dr. Oberlin was quick to point out.

Conrad stared down at the carpet for a moment, then lifted his gaze—that sad, hollow gaze. “That’s all right. I’m just not sure how to answer your question. Whether or not the position is still open to me isn’t the primary issue. The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be capable of performing surgery again. I’m not even sure how I’d react to walking into an operating room.”

Casey couldn’t help but feel pity. The man was visibly suffering. A huge portion of his life and his identity were gone.

“I’m very sorry about Ronald Lexington,” she said quietly but directly. “I can’t imagine how painful his loss has been for you. But from what I understand, you’re a brilliant surgeon. Hundreds of people could benefit from your skills. Life happens. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

“We’re not here to analyze Dr. Westfield or to discuss his ghosts,” Dr. Oberlin interrupted. “Do you have any other questions for him—ones that relate to his former wife’s predicament?”

Casey took the hint, and fast. She backed off from any reference to Ronald Lexington or to Conrad’s state of mind. “We won’t keep you.” She rose and handed Conrad a business card. “If you could make arrangements for us to do the necessary background check that you so kindly offered, that would be great. Also if you think of anything—however small—that might give us a lead, please call Forensic Instincts anytime, day or night.”

“Of course.” Conrad took her card and came to his feet, as well. His forehead was still creased. “Is Madeline being protected?”

“She has 24/7 security detail,” Marc stated flatly. He was letting Conrad know that if he was concerned about Madeline, he had nothing to worry about. And if he wasn’t—if it was access to his ex-wife he was looking for—that wouldn’t be happening. “No one is going to reach Madeline again, much less harm her. We’ve made sure of that.”

“Thank God.” Again, relief—genuine or otherwise—swept Conrad’s face. “I realize we’re divorced, but I still care deeply for her. Madeline is a wonderful and special woman who places everyone’s needs above her own. I want her kept safe, regardless of the cost.”

“She will be.” Marc’s tone was still firm, his expression still impersonal. Whatever he was feeling, he was keeping it under control.

“I’d appreciate if you’d keep me posted,” Conrad added. “I’ll arrange with Dr. Oberlin for your phone calls to be put through to me immediately.”

* * *

Marc stared out the window as Casey steered the van up the winding driveway leading to the iron gates.

She edged him a sidelong glance. He looked tense and introspective. “Brooding?” she asked.

“Aren’t you subtle,” Marc returned drily. “No, I’m not brooding. I’m thinking. Westfield is either a decent guy and the best ex-husband any woman could hope for, or a consummate actor and con artist...and an attempted murderer.” A pregnant pause. “And yes, I’m being objective.”

“Actually, I think you are.” Casey’s eyes were back on the road as she slowed down at the gates and signaled the guard that they were leaving. “I also think you’re purposely avoiding stating the obvious, because you think I’ll call you on it. Well, I won’t. Because I see the same thing. Conrad Westfield still has feelings for his ex-wife.” She paused. “Feelings that Madeline is totally unaware of and that she doesn’t return.”

Marc grunted. “I wonder how that factors into this little equation.”

The iron gates swung open, and Casey steered the van onto the main road.

“It could exacerbate it. And it could mean nothing. But you’re right,” Casey continued. “The depression is real, and it’s deep. So is the self-blame. But Conrad is very intelligent and very aware. Could he have orchestrated the attacks on Madeline—out of pain, spite, whatever? Cognitively, yes.”

“So now we check out his phone records, which are going to be squeaky-clean or he wouldn’t have offered them up. Then what?”

“Then we have Ryan dig deeper. Figure out if Conrad has a burner phone or some other means of communication. Find out if he has any seedy connections inside the facility who might be willing to do his dirty work for him. Conrad’s rich and well-connected. This meeting we just had is only step one where it comes to Madeline’s ex.” Casey frowned. “My concern is the long list of hospital employees Madeline gave me, every one of whom is a potential suspect until we figure out the assailant’s motive.”

“Some of them will talk to us willingly,” Marc said.

“And some won’t. Plus, who knows who’ll be lying and why? Between the skills you learned from your days at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit and my psychological training, we’ll be able to do a pretty good job of figuring out who’s lying. But their motives? That’s another story entirely. We’ve got to find a nonconfrontational way into that hospital to get a thorough take on the names on Madeline’s list. We have to plan our approach carefully. We’ll only get one chance at this before we lose the chance to keep our role in Madeline’s life a secret.”

“The dedication ceremony to Ronald Lexington is our best shot at doing that,” Marc replied. Casey had told him about the hospital courtyard ceremony on the drive to Connecticut.

“Exactly.” Casey nodded. “But we can’t just walk in there. We’ll need to go as Madeline’s guests. Just a few of us, not the whole team.”

“That few will include me.”

The emphatic tone of Marc’s response wasn’t lost on Casey.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asked.

Marc pivoted to face her. “Look, Casey. You and I agreed that I was going to assume my usual role in this investigation. I haven’t given you any reason to doubt that I can. So keeping me away from Madeline is ridiculous. I’m the most qualified person on the team to protect her, while simultaneously scrutinizing and assessing the attendees. I think it should be you, me and Claire who go.”

“And Emma,” Casey surprised him by saying.

“Emma?”

“Uh-huh. Let’s go back to the office. I have a plan that I think will work.”