WHO WANTS MADELINE WESTFIELD DEAD? AND WHY?

Forensic Instincts’ first order of business is to find out who’s targeting their client. Under the leadership of Casey Woods, the investigative team has the resources to do just that, working inside the law—and outside it. FI’s strength is its members, among them Casey’s associate Marc Devereaux, former navy SEAL and a man who’s equal to any situation.

Except maybe this one…

Madeline’s case hits too close to home for Marc. She’s the only woman he ever loved, and she’s his only weakness. Now a nurse at Manhattan Memorial, she’s terrified because someone is trying to kill her. So she turns, reluctantly, to Marc and FI for help and protection.

Meanwhile, Manhattan Memorial is in turmoil. With a merger in the works, the staff is still haunted by their hospital administrator’s sudden death—during heart surgery performed by Madeline’s ex-husband, Conrad. A surgery at which Madeline was present. The killer seems to blame both Madeline and Conrad…

With a growing list of suspects—including the grieving widow and a string of scorned lovers—Forensic Instincts will have to figure out who has the greatest incentive to get rid of Madeline. And FI has to work fast to save her…before she’s permanently silenced.

The Silence That Speaks

New York Times Bestselling Author

Andrea Kane

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To our newlyweds, Wendi and Will, whose union adds a whole new and precious dimension to our lives. Wendi, you’ve always been the joy in our hearts, an amazing friend, daughter and human being. And now we have Will, your wonderful husband—a fine man we’re proud to call our son.

We love you both so much and wish you a lifetime of joy and the happily-ever-after you deserve.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dedication

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Acknowledgments

Extract

Copyright

1

MADELINE WESTFIELD NEVER saw the car coming.

It was late at night, and chilly for the beginning of November. She’d turned up her coat collar, and was waiting to cross Park Avenue at East Eighty-Eighth Street. Lost in thought, yes, and with more than enough reason these days. She was an emotional wreck. But navigating between pedestrians, taxicabs and speeding motorists was second nature to her. She’d been a Manhattan resident for most of her life.

She’d watched for the walk sign to flash from red to green. Even then, she’d paused briefly to glance around.

The crosswalk was still.

She took her initial steps into the street.

The screech of tires was her first warning. Then came the flash of motion from her peripheral vision.

Her head snapped around, and she came to a dead stop, staring like a deer in the headlights. A black SUV was roaring in her direction. It veered sharply at her, leaving no doubt that its goal was to hit her head-on.

Self-preservation kicked in. She lunged away, hurling herself backward and crashing to the sidewalk, a pile of wet leaves doing nothing to cushion her fall.

The impact of her body slamming against the concrete rocketed through her. Her head struck the ground—hard. She cried out in pain, saw stars.

Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind, she heard the screech of brakes and the sharp swerving of tires, and the terrifying thought occurred to her that the driver was going to try again.

“Miss, are you all right?” a gravelly male voice inquired as the man it belonged to rounded the corner.

Madeline had never felt such great relief at the sound of another human voice. She looked up to see an elderly gentleman, with a full head of white hair and a lined face, holding a leash. The Brussels griffon at the other end of the leash was eye level with her. He trotted over to take a sniff.

“No, Max!” the man said. He was staring down at Madeline, his forehead creased in concern. “Did you trip? Can you move?”

He hadn’t seen what happened. He wasn’t a witness.

As Madeline opened her mouth to speak, she heard the SUV’s engine roar in the distance as it sped down Park Avenue.

“I...” She shifted her weight and winced. Her right side was killing her. Her head was throbbing violently. And “Max” looked like two dogs, not one. Double vision. A concussion. Not to mention some major bruises—possibly even some broken bones. As an RN, she recognized the signs.

Seeing the agony in her eyes, the man reacted.

“I’m going to call 9-1-1 and get you an ambulance.” He took out his cell phone.

Madeline nodded her thanks. She tried again to move, and was rewarded with jolts of pain. She inhaled sharply, causing shooting pain in her chest. So she lay there quietly and waited.

The ambulance seemed to take forever to arrive. Maybe it was the pain talking. Or maybe it was her nerves. But she finally saw the red whirring light and heard the siren. Lenox Hill Hospital was nearby. That’s where the EMTs would transport her. It wasn’t the hospital she worked in, but she did know some people there.

Not that it mattered. She passed out as they arrived at the E.R.

* * *

When she came to, she was in a hospital bed with a bandaged arm, a taped midsection and an ice pack resting on her hip. Her head felt like a jackhammer was splitting it in two.

She lay there for a moment, willing her mind to work. Then she remembered what had happened and everything inside her tensed up.

It hadn’t been an accident. It was attempted murder. That SUV was gunning for her. The cops wouldn’t believe her story. Why would they? They hadn’t believed her the first time. And that had only been a robbery. Now someone wanted her dead.

She flinched, knowing she had a concussion, a few broken ribs and a badly bruised hip. She wished she had some painkillers—anything to take away the throbbing and to knock her out. She wanted to sleep. She knew she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until the doctor saw her and checked out her neurological responses.

She’d be here overnight. They’d keep her for observation. Then, if she remained stable, they’d let her go home.

A wave of panic set in, followed by utter resignation. She couldn’t do this alone, not anymore. She’d put off the inevitable for as long as possible. It was time to get help—and from a specific source.

Seeking out that source was going to be even more painful than her injuries.

2

IT WAS 8:45 a.m.

The Forensic Instincts investigative team was hard at work—but not on a case.

Instead, they were scrambling around their Tribeca brownstone, trying to get the place into some semblance of order before their next job applicant arrived.

Having just wrapped up a high-profile corporate espionage case, they’d normally be debriefing. Instead, all their notes, reports, follow-ups and computer files were in uncharacteristic disarray. The phone was ringing off the hook. Their voice mailboxes were exploding. And this was not the way Casey Woods intended to run her company.

She’d made her position clear several weeks ago. The minute their current case was closed, they were hiring a receptionist-slash-assistant. From a small start-up investigative firm, they’d catapulted into a highly sought-after company, thanks to the combined efforts and stellar results achieved by their brilliant team.

Until now, there’d been the six of them, each of whom was a critical and integral part of FI. Starting with Casey herself—who was the company president and behavioral expert, and who had the extensive academic credentials and professional experience to be the firm’s anchor—every member of the FI team had a stand-alone résumé.

They were no longer New York’s best kept secret, and their client list was growing daily. Thus, the need for someone to man the front desk and to assist the team as needed.

So far, they hadn’t had much luck.

At the moment, Casey was upstairs on the fourth floor—the floor that served as her apartment during the few hours that she actually lived there—running a brush through her shoulder-length red hair and adjusting the collar on her green cowl-neck sweater. Hero, Casey’s bloodhound and the team’s human scent evidence dog, was already poised in the bedroom doorway, waiting expectantly for his mistress to leave her apartment and go downstairs to her real home: Forensic Instincts.

“I’m coming, boy,” she told him, looking in the mirror and giving herself a quick once-over, before heading for their morning interview. “God knows what we have in store this time.”

* * *

Ryan McKay was still downstairs in his man cave, affectionately known as his lair, which filled the entire basement level of the brownstone. It was the technology center of Forensic Instincts, complete with their servers—Lumen, Equitas and Intueri, from the Latin words for light, justice and intuition. Part data center, part electronics lab, Ryan had more high-tech equipment than a small university.

Despite its serious purpose, Ryan left enough room to maintain two areas of personal space—his free weights and fitness section, and a small competition ring for his self-built robots.

Right now, he was enjoying neither. He was printing out pages from FI’s just-closed case.

While the pages were printing, he was on his iPad, reading the latest issue of Sound on Sound magazine. The software review of Audio Detracktor was compelling. The reviewer described how it was developed by three of genius college students—a math whiz, a computer geek and a musical prodigy. Audio Detracktor would analyze an audio file, separating the component tracks and instruments into layers. Each isolated layer could be played independently, giving the listener the ability to hear insignificant sounds in a rich recording. Sound on Sound had written about experimenting with Eric Clapton’s “Layla,” Gene Vincent’s “Be-Bop-A-Lula” and Paul McCartney’s “Yesterday.” They were even able to isolate the sound of a flying guitar pick bouncing off the floor. Guitarists would often lose their picks in midperformance, which is why they always carried extras with them. But to actually hear the sound of a tiny plastic piece hitting the ground? Awesome.

Just as Ryan was about to swipe to the next page, his iPhone began vibrating in his pocket, reminding him of a scheduled meeting. Glancing at his calendar entry, he scowled at its purpose. Interview. Emma Stirling. Another teenybopper receptionist he had to talk to.

He understood Casey’s decision to establish a more professional office environment, as well as to get some help answering the phones and doing odds and ends. But he’d lobbied strongly for a virtual assistant, aka software, installed on one of their servers. A virtual assistant was smart, predictable, not female and never took a coffee or bathroom break.

The perfect receptionist.

Casey and Claire had overruled him. They felt a personal touch was needed. A flesh-and-blood human being, not a machine. Marc was indifferent, although he saw the value of both. And Patrick had been married long enough to know when to avoid a losing situation.

Ryan’s pocket buzzed again. Time to stop procrastinating and get this over with. Full of attitude, he marched upstairs ready to meet and nix Emma Stirling.

* * *

The rest of the team was already congregated in the second floor’s main conference room, pouring coffee and settling down around the sweeping oval conference table.

Marc took a gulp of black coffee and eyed Ryan. “Nice of you to join us.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “You look thrilled to be here.”

Ryan scowled. “You know how I feel about this. I was about to do something useful—like order a cool state-of-the-art app while I was preparing the case wrap-up. Instead, I’m here, ready to meet another substandard candidate.”

“Great attitude.” Claire walked over just in time to hear Ryan’s statement. “Did it ever occur to you that we might find a white elephant? There are still a few of those out there, you know.”

“Is that a prediction, Clairevoyant?” He loved to get at her with that nickname he’d coined.

“No.” She shot him a don’t-get-me-started look. “It’s an optimistic fact.”

Patrick was already seated, scratching Hero’s ears. He glanced over at them. “Play nice, kids. We have a reputation for professionalism to uphold.”

“Yes, we do.” Casey seated herself at the head of the table. “And, like it or not, we’re going to eventually have to hire someone. My standards are as high as yours, Ryan. Maybe higher. But I’m not giving up. This place is not going to continue as chaos central.”

“I hear you.” Ryan got himself some coffee and turned to peruse the group. “So should we do rock, paper, scissors to decide who’s going downstairs to let this one in?”

“I can handle that electronically, Ryan.” An invisible computerized voice echoed from everywhere in the room, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling video screens began to glow. A long green line formed across each panel, pulsing from left to right, bending into the contours of the voice panel.

“Good idea, Yoda,” Ryan replied. “Disarm the Hirsch pad when the doorbell rings and advise our job candidate to come upstairs. That alone should scare the shit out of her.”

Casey couldn’t help but smile at Ryan’s assessment. As for Yoda, Ryan’s extraordinary artificial intelligence system, he’d become an honorary FI team member. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that he wasn’t human. Then again, he’d been built by Ryan, who was very human. Bottom line? Ryan was a genius and Yoda was omniscient.

“Has everyone reviewed this candidate’s application?” Casey asked.

“Yup.” Marc was his usual straightforward self. “She sounds like a juvenile delinquent who never did hard time.”

“She sounds like a kid who needs a chance,” Claire chimed in. “She was bounced from foster home to foster home and spent a lot of time on the streets.”

“I have to agree,” Patrick said. “I know she’s got a juvie record, and that would normally turn me right off. But in this case—her parents died in a plane crash when she was eight. There were no relatives to take her in. So she spent ten years in the system. That’s tough.”

“And we’re not exactly squeaky clean ourselves,” Marc commented drily. He glanced at Patrick. “Other than you, Special Agent Lynch.”

“Not so much anymore,” Patrick retorted. “You’ve corrupted me.”

The whole group chuckled.

“Yeah, we’re the maverick investigators,” Ryan said, coining a phrase from an article written about them. “So, if this girl has a brain, I’m willing to cut her some slack.”

“Some slack?” Casey repeated, shooting Ryan a look. “I’m hoping you’ll do more than that.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. I still think a virtual assistant would be the best choice.” Ryan held up both palms to ward off oncoming arguments. “But I’ve accepted that I’ve been overruled. So let’s get this show on the road.”

Right on cue, the doorbell sounded.

“Applicant number twenty-seven has arrived,” Yoda announced.

“Punctual.” Casey glanced at her watch. “Okay, Yoda, go ahead and let her in.” She interlaced her fingers on the table in front of her. “Oh, and, Yoda? Leave out the applicant number when you announce her. Just stick to her name. Applicant twenty-six nearly took off when you made that reference. Let’s not scare off applicant twenty-seven. It’s starting to sound like we’re scraping the bottom of the barrel and each one of them is it. Either that, or we’re looking for perfection and can’t find it.”

“That would be accurate,” Yoda pointed out.

“True, but we don’t want to intimidate the girl before she even gets upstairs.”

“Very well, Casey. Name only.”

Yoda’s words were punctuated by the beeping sound of the alarm system as he disarmed it.

* * *

A loud thunk resounded in the FI hallway as the large steel bolt retracted, unlocking the front door.

“Please enter the building and proceed to the second floor,” Yoda instructed the young woman at the door. “Make a right turn into the main conference room. Your interview will be conducted there.”

“Thanks.” Without so much as a flinch, Emma Stirling walked through the foyer as the door bolt reengaged behind her. She climbed up the winding staircase, and paused on the landing to run her fingers through her hair and adjust her tote bag on her shoulder. Then she entered the conference room.

She fought back a smile as she saw the all-too-familiar startled reaction from the team at large. It was the same as everyone who’d read her history. They were expecting a scraggly looking brat from the streets. Instead, they were getting the equivalent of a prep school cheerleader—all blonde, blue-eyed and composed, with a fashionable short skirt and a formfitting top.

She’d worked hard to perfect that image.

“I clean up nice,” she said, putting aside the looks of surprise and assessing the challenge she was about to face.

Emma had done her homework.

The pretty, authoritative redhead at the head of the table was Casey Woods, the president of Forensic Instincts and a brilliant analyst of human behavior. On either side of her were two hot guys—one dark and brooding, the other sexy and charismatic—Marc Devereaux and Ryan McKay, respectively. Marc was Casey’s right hand, a former navy SEAL and former FBI agent in the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia. Quite simply, there was nothing Marc couldn’t do or couldn’t make happen. Ryan was nothing short of a techno-wizard and a strategy genius.

The willowy blonde who looked like a fairy princess was Claire Hedgleigh. Emma didn’t quite get what it meant, but Claire was a claircognizant and had an amazing psychic gift that took her into scary but productive places to help solve cases. The older conservative-looking guy was Patrick Lynch, a retired FBI agent with over three decades of law enforcement experience, and who grounded the team when they pushed the boundaries a little too far. Oh, yeah, and the cool bloodhound sitting up tall, ears erect, was Hero—an FBI-trained human-scent evidence dog whose olfactory sense was second to none.

Pretty thorough, Emma thought with an internal grin.

“Job candidate Emma Stirling,” Yoda supplied. “Twenty-two years old. Currently unemployed and available immediately. Have a seat at the table, Ms. Stirling.”

“Yes, sir,” Emma replied, looking around to see where the voice was coming from. It was the same voice that had greeted her in the doorway.

She placed her tote bag in the empty chair next to Patrick, but remained standing.

With self-taught courtesy, she proceeded to walk around the conference room table, shaking hands with each team member. First, she squatted down to stroke Hero’s ears. “He’s great. What’s his name?” she asked.

“Hero,” Patrick responded. He helped her to her feet and shook her hand. “I’m Patrick Lynch. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” She moved on to Marc and Ryan, who were sizing her up as they greeted her. She made sure to touch each man’s arm with her left hand. Men appreciated that in business introductions.

As she approached Claire and Casey, she tripped and toppled forward, struggling to right herself as they caught her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her face turning bright red. “I get clumsy when I’m nervous. And I’ll never get used to high heels.”

“We hear you,” Casey said with a chuckle. There wasn’t a woman alive who didn’t understand the battle between fashion and comfort.

“We certainly do,” Claire echoed, intent on putting the poor girl at ease. “Men don’t have to juggle looking great and professional without limping home. It’s one of the hardships of being a modern woman.”

“Thank you for understanding.” The color was fading from Emma’s cheeks as she regained some of her composure. Sheepishly, she made her way back to her seat and gratefully sank into it.

Once she was settled, Yoda continued. “Application and résumé displayed on the main screen.”

As he spoke, the large middle screen lit up, and Emma’s paperwork appeared, the pages arranged side by side.

“That’s just the good stuff,” she told them, having glanced up at the information displayed. “I’m sure you know the rest.”

“We do.” Casey leaned forward and studied the young woman. “We’ve all read every word. The bottom line—you were a juvie. According to our research, you were guilty of a lot more than you were convicted of. You were incredibly good at getting off.”

Emma startled. “What?”

“Not the reaction you were expecting?” Casey asked. “Sorry. We’re nothing if not thorough. We’re also not easily shocked. Or were you hoping we would be and that we’d bounce you out of here so you could feel vindicated and like you’d put one over on us?”

“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.”

Casey glanced around the room, reading her team’s expressions. Their usual procedure was to meet privately and make a group decision as to whether or not to take on a case. But Casey was reluctant to make Madeline wait when she was clearly in pain.

Plus, Casey knew her team. She knew what their reactions would be.

Except for Marc. This time, he was a huge question mark. So she saved him for last.

First, Patrick. He gave her an indiscernible nod. Ditto for Ryan. Claire’s lips mouthed the word yes.

Everyone accounted for. Casey angled her head in Marc’s direction. He was still writing—although Casey suspected that was more to keep himself occupied than it was to jot down notes about what was being said. Marc had a steel-trap mind, plus Yoda was taping the interview.

Well aware that Casey was looking at him, he raised his head and met her gaze. With an expression that was totally nondescript, he blinked his assent.

That settled that.

“If money is the issue, just name your fee,” Madeline interrupted the silence to offer. “Conrad gave me a generous settlement. I’m sure we can come to terms.”

“I’m sure we can.” Casey rose, extended her hand. “Consider yourself our client. We still have a lot to go over with you, but not today. You need to be in bed, recuperating. How did you get here this morning?”

“I took a cab. I live on the Upper East Side.”

“I’ll drive you home,” Patrick said at once. “I’d like to check out your apartment.”

Once again, Madeline reached into her purse. “I have a copy of the police report, if that helps. It lists the items that were stolen.”

“Great.” Patrick took the sheet of paper she unfolded. “That eliminates our having to contact the precinct. But actually, I’m more interested in seeing what specific areas of the apartment were ransacked. It might give me a clue as to what the intruders were looking for.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Also, while we’re driving, I’ll contact my security team and arrange to have a guard assigned to you immediately.” Over the years, Patrick had compiled a number of retired FBI agents and police officers to make up his expert security team. “That way, you’ll be safe and you’ll have peace of mind.”

“Thank you.” Slowly, Madeline stood up. “I truly appreciate it.”

“We’ll be in touch tomorrow,” Casey said. “If you’re up to it, maybe I can stop by your apartment and talk to you there. I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable in your own home.”

A nod. “I’m sure I would. I’ll wait for your call, then.” She paused, for the first time turning to look directly at Marc. “It was good to see you again, Marc,” she said softly, gripping her purse as if for moral support.

Marc met her gaze. “Good to see you, too.”

Patrick escorted Madeline from the room.

The rest of the team chatted briefly, and then disbanded, already divvying up assignments.

“Marc.” Casey stopped him before he could leave the room. “I need your input for a minute. Could you hang around?”

“Sure.” He stopped in his tracks, not looking the least bit surprised by Casey’s request. He knew her. And he knew what she wanted.

He remained silent, waiting for her to initiate the conversation.

Casey crossed over and shut the door, turning around to face him. She folded her arms across her chest. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

“Not really.”

“Fair enough. I’ll ask only what I need to. You answer only what you want to.”

“Shoot.”

“What was the nature of your relationship with Madeline, and based on that, do you need to bow out of this one?”

Marc shoved his hands in his pockets. “Madeline and I met when I was a SEAL, stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. She was a nurse at Bethesda Naval Hospital. I went for a checkup. She was on duty. We hit it off. We got involved in a personal relationship. It ended. And no, I’m not bowing out. She and I haven’t seen each other in years. Plus, you know me. Nothing prevents me from doing my job.”

“Yes, I do know you. And I’ve never seen you react to another living soul the way you just did to Madeline Westfield. You were in love with her. That’s obvious. It’s also quite a departure from the Marc I’m used to. So you can understand my concern.”

“I understand it. I’m assuaging it. It’s not a problem. Am I excused now?”

Casey studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, stepping aside. “Yes, Marc, you’re excused. I won’t bring this up again unless it becomes necessary.”

“It won’t.” He was already heading out.

Casey stared after him as the door shut in his wake. “If you say so,” she murmured.

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