by Andrea Kane
Things had to be brought under control. And Janet had no clue of how to do that. All she knew was that she was about to explode.
So when Casey Woods called and asked her to dinner, Janet was thrilled for the chance to get away from the hospital, the lawsuit and the weight of the burden on her shoulders. She was flattered that Casey had sought her out, rather than the other way around. And she was more than eager to talk about the adventures and procedures of Forensic Instincts rather than the lawsuit threatening Manhattan Memorial’s very existence.
* * *
Casey had another agenda in mind.
The two women met at Lusardi’s, a lovely, gracious Italian restaurant on Second Avenue.
“I’ve never been here before,” Janet said after they’d both checked their coats and been escorted to their seats at a small square table near the back.
“It’s one of my favorite restaurants in this part of Manhattan,” Casey said. “I don’t get here often, but I’m never disappointed when I do.”
Janet nodded, smoothing her hair and looking around. “A combination of elegant and rustic. I really like it.”
“Wait till you taste the food,” Casey replied with a smile. “You’ll be back again before you know it.”
“I hope that’s true.” The upbeat tone of Janet’s voice took a distinctively downward turn. “Right now, I seem to be trapped in the hospital 24/7.”
“Really?” Casey gestured for the waiter. “You’ll have to tell me about it.”
That took a while. Their appetizers came and went. Their main courses arrived and were delicious. All the while, Janet was asking questions about Forensic Instincts—from the cases they’d worked on to the techniques they used to solve their cases. It was almost as if she were going to start her own investigation company.
Casey’s antennae went up. This was no longer the interest of a fan. This was someone probing for information. Had Jacob Casper sent Janet to figure out if FI’s acquaintanceship with Madeline went deeper than that?
If so, he was about to get his answer.
“I’ve done enough talking,” she said. “Tell me more about the lawsuit going on at Manhattan Memorial. Is there any chance of settling, or is Nancy Lexington going for blood?”
As Casey had expected, Janet became immediately guarded, slowly sipping her glass of merlot and watching every word that came out of her mouth.
“I’m not sure how this is going to play out,” she said. “All I’m sure of is that preparations for the legal battle ahead are dominating all the hospital resources, creating a media frenzy and making it increasingly difficult for the staff to do the exemplary jobs they’ve always done.”
“Does that include Madeline Westfield?”
“Pardon me?” Clearly that question caught Janet off guard.
“From what I understand, Madeline is being ostracized to the point where doing her job is a virtual impossibility.”
Janet’s eyes narrowed. “I assume you heard that from Madeline’s friend Marc?”
“Actually, I heard it from Madeline herself.” Casey didn’t even pretend to lie. The only thing she kept carefully hidden was the fact that she knew about the animosity that had developed between Janet and Madeline. That was imperative to what Casey intended to accomplish here.
“We’ve all become very fond of Madeline, and we’re all concerned,” Casey continued. “She’s told us that Conrad is specifically named in the medical malpractice wrongful death suit and that she’s been linked with it, as well. That means, at the very least, that she’ll be deposed. She’s frightened, so she came to us for help. I know how friendly you and Madeline are, so I’m hoping you can assist us with some information we’re trying to get at.”
Janet’s expression was carefully blank. She’d taken Casey’s bait—hook, line and sinker.
“What kind of information?” Janet asked. “I hope you’re not asking me to spy on the hospital, because—”
“No, of course not,” Casey interrupted. “Nothing illegal. Just data that might ring a bell for you, given your long-term affiliation with Ronald Lexington and your steel-trap mind.”
“Ronald? What does he have to do with this?”
“He is the object of the lawsuit. And Madeline and Conrad have to protect themselves in whatever way possible.”
“All right.” Janet sounded as if she were balancing on a tightrope.
Casey pulled the folded list of numbers out of her purse. She unfolded the page, smoothed it out and handed it to Janet.
“What is this?” Janet asked, scanning the page.
“Numerical data from one of Ronald’s files, given to us by a source I’m not at liberty to name. Unfortunately, it seems to be encrypted. We’re trying to figure out why Ronald would encrypt it and what the contents are.”
“All I see are random numbers.”
“That’s just it. We don’t think they’re random. We were able to decipher number 266, which is the sixth number down.” Casey leaned forward and pointed. “It’s a complete file on Valerie Pintar.”
“Valerie Pintar?” Janet looked shocked. “Why?”
“We’re not sure. But we’re wondering if each of these numbers corresponds to a woman Ronald was sexually involved with over the years. You worked with him for a long time and knew him better than anyone—maybe even his own wife.”
“Why do you need this information? How will it help Madeline?”
“We want to interview all these women. Maybe one of them knows something about Ronald’s health—his irresponsible use of medication, his overactive physical activity—anything that might have contributed to his death. That would help cast reasonable doubt, should things progress that far.”
Janet looked back down at the list. “So Ronald encrypted the entire file?”
“Yes.”
Biting her lip, Janet continued to stare at the numbers. “Do you know the encryption key? Maybe if I think about it, I could see a relationship between Valerie, the number 266 and the encryption key that could help you crack the other files much faster. Would that help?”
“More than you know.” Casey had already whipped out her iPhone and was busily texting Aidan. “I’ll get you the encryption key now.”
She pressed Send, and waited.
A minute later, Aidan’s reply arrived: veaLmarsalA$187.56 penneputtanescacannoli.
“Here you go.” Casey texted the information on to Janet, carefully leaving Aidan’s name and information out of the text.
Janet’s phone went bing, and she looked down at it. Her eyes were huge. “I feel as if I’m being disloyal to Ronald.”
“How?” Casey asked. “It’s not as if it isn’t common knowledge that Ronald’s charisma resulted in a lot of sexual affairs. But if anything, or anyone, other than fate was responsible for his death, doesn’t that deserve to be known? Shouldn’t the right person be punished?”
Nodding slowly, Janet replied, “Yes.”
“So then you’ll help us?”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
* * *
Emma was in the largest of the FI bathrooms with her makeup case spread out across the countertop.
She brushed on two coats of mascara, smoothed on her glossy lip stain and then stood back to check out the total effect.
Nice job, she congratulated herself. Too bad she was wasting it on Roger.
She’d made sure to pick out a party dress. After all, she wasn’t going to some sleazy bar. Thanks to Ryan’s influence, she was meeting Roger at a hopping Tribeca club—one she’d actually been dying to try. So her outfit had to be up to the decor.
And it was.
Her sapphire-blue minidress was formfitting with a keyhole cutout in the sheer illusion neckline that showed off the top of her cleavage. The back
was also sheer, plunging down to the small of her back. Sexy but not slutty. Her legs were bare, showing a good amount of thigh. Completing her look were four-inch stiletto, open-toe strappy silver sandals and a blinged-out statement necklace with matching drop earrings. Her hair was down, arranged around her shoulders in loose curls.
The total package would turn the loser on like a lightbulb.
And hey, you never knew. Maybe some hunk would sidle over and ask for her phone number, which she could give him on the sly. That way the evening wouldn’t be a total bust.
Emma packed up her makeup case, stacked everything neatly next to her folded sweater and jeans, picked up her purse and headed out of the bathroom.
She walked past Ryan and Claire, who were chatting in the hallway.
Ryan did a double take. “Wow. You clean up nice. No more little brat girl.”
Emma made a face at him.
“Ah, I stand corrected,” he said. “Still little brat girl, only in supermodel disguise.”
Claire poked him in the ribs. “What Ryan is trying to say is that you look beautiful. Roger won’t know what hit him.”
“Speaking of hitting him, you’re wearing the long-range transmitter I gave you, right?” Ryan asked. “Just in case Roger gets too friendly?”
“Yes, Dad, I’m wearing it.” Emma patted the upper edge of her dress. “And if you think it was easy to clip that thing on this skimpy little backless bra I bought, think again. I practically had to tape it to my boobs.”
“TMI,” Ryan replied, shaking his head. “As long as you’re wearing it, that’s all I need to know.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Remember my juvie roots. I’ve dealt with a whole lot worse than Mr. Virgin. Believe me, I can handle him.” She grimaced. “But after this, I’m done. If Casey wants me to go on a second date, one of you is going.”
She shot Ryan a mischievous look. “I’ll loan you my dress. You’d look so hot in it—almost as hot as you looked in a custodian’s uniform.”
Claire’s laughter drowned out whatever nasty retort Ryan muttered under his breath.
29
EMMA WALKED THE three blocks to the club. She stopped when she reached the line outside the door. She could hear the pounding music and see the flashing lights even from here.
It was showtime.
She scanned the crowd of people, searching for Roger.
She spotted him without any trouble. Talk about finding your mark. He stuck out like a box of prunes in the candy aisle.
His pants were about two inches too short, his sweater was from the dark ages and his sports jacket had more wrinkles in it than the prunes themselves. But he broke into a broad smile when he saw her, waving frantically as if she might miss him.
No chance of that.
She walked over, relishing the admiring stares of the other guys in line. Hey, she could still get lucky for another night.
“Y-you look incredible,” Roger stammered, shoving his glasses back on his nose. Doubtful they would stay put, given the fine sheen of nervous perspiration on his nose and forehead.
Emma gave him a charming smile. “Thank you.”
“I guess you hear that all the time.”
“Not nearly enough. You’d be surprised.” Emma glanced around. She was already impatient. She couldn’t deal with the throngs of vapid girls, fixing one another’s hair and makeup and chattering nonstop about meaningless gossip.
Grabbing Roger’s hand, she pushed her way to the front of the line. Roger looked positively green with anxiety. Emma ignored the nasty comments and slurs being thrown her way. Too bad. Those slutty bitches could suck it. She was on a mission.
When they reached the bouncer at the door, Emma gave him their names. Never changing his expression, the bouncer robotically asked for their IDs. Emma whipped hers out while Roger fumbled with his wallet. The bouncer glanced down at their licenses. No problem, thanks to Ryan—he’d hacked into the club’s server and gotten their names added to the guest list.
Awesome—now they wouldn’t even have to pay the cover charge.
Still running the show, Emma didn’t wait for Roger to get the door. Flinging it open, she absorbed everything: the pumping music, flashing lights, dancing crowds. This was amazing. Except for one thing: someone was wearing way too much cheap perfume. It mingled with the smell of sweat and alcohol. Emma felt nauseous.
Snatching Roger’s clammy hand again, she practically dragged him to the enormous bar set up in the back of the club. It was time to catch up—time to drink. While Roger looked around with huge owlish eyes, Emma scanned for a bartender, preferably young, male and straight so she could get her drinks ASAP. Her eyes narrowed as she honed in on a bartender who met her specifications. Putting on her most seductive smile, she headed in his direction.
“Are we getting drinks now?” Roger asked.
Shit. Emma had forgotten about the little worm.
“Yes. What would you like to drink, Roger?” Emma’s voice was pure honey.
Roger began stammering so hard at this point, she almost felt bad. Almost.
“Um, whatever y-you’re h-having?” It was a question, not a statement.
Emma grinned and turned back toward the bar. She reached her bartender of choice and waved her arm to get his attention. It must have been her natural blond hair coupled with the amazing dress. The bartender came over right away.
“How can I help you?” The guy was practically oozing testosterone through his fake tan and tattoos.
Choking back vomit, Emma ordered two Long Island iced teas, then winked at the bartender. Hopefully that would motivate him to move faster. Less than a minute later, the two beverages were waiting for her. The bartender seemed quite pleased with himself.
Emma handed him two twenties. “Keep the change,” she cooed. The bartender flashed a grin, even more excited by the generous tip than by Emma’s flirting.
Drinks in hand, Emma walked back to where Roger was awkwardly standing. She handed him a glass. He eyed it nervously, like a parakeet inspecting a pretty new toy.
Amateur. Emma almost said the word out loud. Catching herself in time, she instead explained, “Long Island iced teas. They guarantee us a good time!” She flashed a persuasive grin.
Not wanting to displease her, Roger grabbed one of the drinks and pretended to be enthused.
Emma almost started to laugh. Not only did Roger have no idea what an LIT was, he’d probably never had a drink in his life that didn’t come with a little umbrella in it.
The two of them searched around for a bit, finally finding a table in a quieter section of the club. Emma plopped down on one of the cushy couches, putting her drink on the low table just in front of it. She patted the seat right next to her, indicating that Roger should sit. He eased down onto the couch.
“You know they have speakers in the walls?” Roger was vibrating with excitement. “They conduct the vibrations so that the thumping bass you feel resonates through the whole club.”
Frankly, Emma couldn’t care less, but nodded appreciatively as she downed her drink. Even with the multiple types of liquor in it, the LIT still didn’t have enough alcohol to make this pasty loser seem tolerable.
As if he sensed her boredom, Roger sheepishly admitted, “I’m sorry for going on about the speakers. It’s just that anything technological like video games and sound systems gets me excited.”
Figures he would be a gamer, Emma thought in disgust.
“Drink up,” she encouraged him.
They sat for a good thirty minutes, drinking their beverages, while Roger droned on endlessly about technology, superheroes and video games. He kept mumbling about some blonde princess named Zelda. Whoever she was, Emma felt sorry for her.
Time to regroup. She was about ten seconds away from punching Rog
er in the face, glasses and all.
“Let’s dance.” Emma snatched both of Roger’s hands and pulled him to the dance floor, which had now taken over the entire club. Moving with the massive crowd, she let the beat guide her. Roger was not that coordinated. He stumbled around the dance floor, waving his arms like a deflated puppet.
Roger didn’t even notice. Clearly the alcohol had kicked in. As the bass thumped louder, Roger waved his arms more violently and started shrieking something about techno music and how much he loved it. Emma couldn’t wait for the night to end. Talk about a terrible waste of an awesome club. Maybe Ryan could get her back in some other time so she could actually enjoy herself.
Roger was completely oblivious to Emma’s inner monologue. Still stumbling around like a seasick sailor, he stopped right in front of her.
Uh-oh, Emma thought. Liquid courage. This was going to be bad.
“You’re so unbelievably beautiful,” Roger slurred. “My princess...” And in one quick motion, he wrapped his arms around her and rested his wormy hands on her ass. Before Emma could register this invasion, he squeezed her—hard—and lowered his head, attempting to stick his tongue down her throat.
“Let go of me.” Emma struggled to get free.
When he showed no signs of doing so, she yanked out of his grasp and slapped him across the face with all her strength. The force of this motion, coupled with the alcohol and his lack of coordination, sent Roger reeling back a few steps.
Angry red fingerprints marred his face. He looked stunned.
That’s it. Emma was done. Bad enough that she’d wasted her entire night out with this sketchy loser, but she didn’t need him groping her ass, looking for a hookup, too.
Furious, she stalked out of the club, slamming down those four-inch stilettos with every step. She pushed past the sweaty, drunk people congregating around the door and made her way outside.
Instead of taking the hint, Roger weaved his way out of the club, as well, grabbing Emma’s arm just as she was taking off.
“What the hell?” he slurred. “Where are you going?”
