by MJ Rodgers
“You don’t doubt it?”
“No, and I’m sure Kevin and Linda know. But Commissioner Snowe has neither seen Patrice’s eyes nor those of the children. When Patrice donated her eggs, she must have done it at a local lab that sent them on to Vancouver in British Columbia for fertilization. There should be a way to track thepaperwork. I’ll put A.J. on it.”
“What do you think Commissioner Snowe will do when she learns about them?” Whitney asked.
“Patrice states that she has no children in her will. She obviously gave up all rights to her eggs at the time she donated them. She leaves a third of her estate to Huntley and Brinkley. I believe Commissioner Snowe will consider them adequately provided for. If your opinion as G.A.L. is that they should receive a larger split, I’m sure Snowe will be open to any arguments you present.”
“I don’t intend to present anything except a plea to conduct this probate behind closed doors,” Whitney said. “Learning of Huntley and Brinkley Carmichael’s real parentage should be sufficient grounds to convince Snowe.”
“That’s unlikely,” Adam said.
“She has to understand the kind of headlines that would follow should the truth get out,” Whitney protested.
“Such headlines could embarrass no one but me. 1 doubt Commissioner Snowe will consider my discomfort sufficient grounds for concealment.”
Whitney had to admit he was probably right. Frustration for many things began to flower inside her. “Damn.”
“What’s wrong?” Adam asked in his cool, unemotional tone.
“What’s wrong? What’s right? I keep telling myself Patrice must have had a dreadful time during her early years. She probably was subjected to terrible abuse before Linda found her and Esther took her in. She likely thought what she was doing for Linda was a way to repay her earlier kindness. But to have never even discussed giving away her eggs with you…to have just done it…like you didn’t matter at all.”
Adam pulled up in front of Whitney’s house and cut the engine. He turned to her. “You’re angry at Patrice.”
Whitney laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “Angry? I’m furious. If she weren’t dead, I’d be tempted to wring her neck.”
Whitney snatched at the handle and pushed against the passenger door.
The gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder was enough to stop her from getting out of the car.
“Don’t be angry. It will only hurt you.”
She turned toward him, resenting his calm, steady voice in the face of her currently upset state.
“How would you know, Adam? You never get angry.”
His other hand rose to feather his fingers lightly through her hair, sending a warm, tingling feeling through the nerve endings down her spine.
“I get angry,” he said.
The admission surprised her. She turned more fully toward him, resting her back on the passenger door, her fury dissipating with every second she gazed at the warm look in his eyes.
“How is it you never show that anger, Adam?”
“I’ve learned that anger’s energy is much more useful when it is leashed and controlled.”
She looked into his calm, handsome face and was amazed anew at how strong he was. She found herself responding with a warm rush of feelings to that strength and the deep, beautiful cadence of his voice and the gentle touch of his hand.
Very slowly he began to lean toward her. Her heart began to pound; her breathing began to quicken. He was going to kiss her again. And she wanted him to. Oh God, how she wanted him to!
The passenger door suddenly pulled away from Whitney and she nearly fell backward out of the car. She probably would have taken a tumble onto the pavement if Adam hadn’t quickly caught hold of her shoulders and held her steady.
“Whitney West?”
Whitney swung around on the car seat toward the gray-faced man who had called out her name and now held open the passenger door.
“Who are you?” Whitney demanded of the stranger. She was thoroughly angered by both his interruption and the manner in which he had achieved it.
“Detective-Sergeant Ryson, King County Sheriff’s Office,” he said in an authoritarian tone, flashing his badge while still holding on to the door. “Would you please step out of the car?”
Whitney moved to the edge of the seat and felt Adam’s hands immediately releasing her. She scrambled out of the car, startled by the man’s identity and his somber-voiced request. Once on her feet, Whitney saw there was a heavyset man. standing behind Sergeant Ryson. He flashed her his badge.
“Detective Ferkel, ma’am.”
“What do you want with me?” Whitney asked.
“We need to talk to you regarding an investigation, Ms. West,” Ryson said. “I suggest we go inside.”
Ryson gestured toward Whitney’s house.
Adam had gotten out of the car and come to stand next to Whitney.
“What is this all about, Sergeant?” he asked.
“We intend to talk with Ms. West privately, Mr. Justice. We can do this inside her home now, or we can do this inside the sheriffs office, also now.”
Adam and Sergeant Ryson faced each other. Whitney watched as something changed in Adam’s stance and demeanor. It reminded her of the way Adam had looked when he faced Edgar Kirkbin—formidable and forbidding. She understood now what he had said about leashed anger.
The palpable tension between Adam and this sergeant alarmed Whitney. Adam’s expression and tone were perfectly controlled, but the emphatic quality in his deep voice sent a warning vibration down her spine.
“Sergeant Ryson,” he said, “Ms. West has a very busy schedule today. If you wish to talk to her, call her office and make an appointment.”
“What are you afraid of, Justice?” Ryson asked, a daring taunt clear in the curl of his mouth and words. “What she’ll tell us? Or what we’ll tell her?”
Watching Adam face this sergeant, Whitney didn’t know how she could have ever doubted that he got angry. She was seeing it so clearly now. Oh, yes, it was ultracontrolled. But it was also as cold as ice and scary as hell. She didn’t know what was going on between these two men, but she did know it was time for her to step in between them.
If Adam had left any room. He hadn’t.
She moved closer to him and stared up into his face, pressing for his attention. “It’s all right, Adam. I appreciate your concern, but I’ll handle this. Thank you for the ride home.”
Adam paused in his response just long enough to make Whitney’s nerves dance. Finally he stepped back. “As you wish.”
He pivoted and circled back to the driver’s seat of the Jaguar. She waited until he drove away before turning up the sidewalk to her home.
Once she and the detectives were inside and she had closed the door, she turned to Detective-Sergeant Ryson, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Now, Sergeant, what in the hell is all this about?”
“Wouldn’t you rather have this conversation in the living room, where we can all sit down?”
“No, Sergeant. I don’t extend the welcoming mat to anyone who resorts to yanking open a passenger door to get my attention.”
“But you were about to extend the welcoming mat to a murderer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Patrice Feldon was murdered by Adam Justice, that man who you were just about to invite inside your home.”
The sergeant’s words sent a shiver through Whitney. She uncrossed her arms. “I don’t believe you.”
“The crash that killed Patrice Feldon and her lover, Peter Danner, seven years ago was no accident.”
“There’s been nothing in the papers—”
“We’ve been keeping the investigation quiet until we had the goods on him.”
Whitney’s mind was racing over the facts she possessed, and the conclusion she was reaching rejected everything she was hearing from this detective.
Adam Justice was no killer. He was an honorable
man. A gentle man. A caring man.
“If you had any so-called goods on Adam, you would have arrested him.”
“The only reason we haven’t arrested him, Ms. West, is because we don’t have everything we need yet. Which is why I’m here. Detective Ferkel and I need to ask you some questions.”
“I can’t help you.”
“You can tell us everything Patrice told you about Justice that day she left her will with you. You realize, of course, that the reason she prepared it was because she knew Justice was dangerous and had already threatened to kill her.”
“I know nothing of the sort. The day Patrice gave me the envelope containing her will, she told me Adam Justice was wonderful and that she was in love with him.”
“Then why was she running away from him in fear of her life not six months later?”
“She wasn’t in fear of her life. She had met and fallen in love with someone else.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do, Ms. West.”
The more she had gotten to know Adam, the harder that part was to believe. Still, Whitney had no intention of admitting any doubts to this thoroughly disagreeable man.
“Don’t presume to tell me what I believe, Sergeant.”
“Well, then I’ll tell you what I believe. Patrice was scared to death of Justice. When Peter Danner agreed to take her away from him and protect her from her pseudohusband, she jumped at the chance. The only trouble was Peter Danner couldn’t make good on his promises.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it? Justice fixed Danner’s car so he’d lose control and the two of them would plunge to their deaths.”
“Adam wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“Why? Because you two just spent a cozy night together in Las Vegas?”
Whitney was taking a very strong dislike to this detective-sergeant. A very strong dislike.
“I don’t like being followed.”
“Then maybe you should stay out of the company of murderers.”
“You’re throwing around a lot of accusations, Sergeant, but you haven’t given me any proof that Adam was involved in Patrice’s death. And until you have such proof, you can just get the hell out of here.”
Ryson smiled as he headed for the door. It was not a nice smile. “Don’t make the mistake of falling for the man, Ms. West. The last woman who did ended up dead.”
Chapter Eleven
Adam punched in Whitney’s office number. He had no idea what Sergeant Ryson had said to her the day before when he’d dropped her off at her place, but he could guess. When a secretary who identified herself as Isabel put him directly through, he knew at least Whitney wouldn’t refuse his call.
“Hi, Adam,” Whitney said a second later. “I’m so glad you called. What’s up?”
Adam tried not to feel so pleased with the warmth in her tone as he imbued his own with cool formality. “Our first debtor claimant to Patrice’s money has come forward.”
“Uh-oh,” Whitney said. “Who is it?”
“Stanford Carver, an attorney representing this claimant, is waiting in my outer office, insisting on telling me in person. Would you care to sit in?”
“You know I would.”
“How long will it take you to get here?”
“I just interviewed my last bogus claimant for the day. I can be there in half an hour at the most.”
“I’ll stall him.”
“Adam?”
“Yes?”
“Sergeant Ryson is an idiot. Why don’t you slap a slander suit on him?”
Adam quickly squashed the leap of satisfaction that sprang up at hearing her unqualified belief in his innocence.
“He has to hurt my reputation first, Whitney. As you know, slander is about injury. And since you have obviously failed to take his accusations seriously, you leave me with no grounds.”
“So, what you’re saying is, it’s all my fault you can’t go after him?”
He heard the smile in her voice and imagined those mischievous golden lights collecting in her brandy eyes.
“Yes, Ms. West,” he said in his most formal tone. “Perhaps the next time you might try to be more cooperative when someone accuses me of murder.”
Her answer was a warm laugh that circled in a snug little ring around his heart.
“MR. JUSTICE, MS. WEST,” Stanford Carver said in a quick, sharp voice as he took the chair next to Whitney’s in front of Adam’s desk after Adam had performed the introductions.
Carver was a tall, slender, well-dressed man with thinning brown hair, a long, bony nose and deep-set eyes that darted around Adam’s office, clearly assessing it for prestige value.
Carver didn’t offer his hand for a shake and Adam retook his seat without offering his.
“My secretary tells me you represent a debtor claimant against the Patrice Feldon estate,” Adam said.
“That’s right,” Carver replied. The words shot out of his mouth like from a pop gun, loud and fast. “I’m the chief in-house attorney for Crowe-Cromwell, a major pharmaceutical company headquartered in Olympia.”
“I’ve heard of Crowe-Cromwell,” Adam said.
“Of course you have,” Carver replied. “We’ve been on the leading edge of the latest in medical research for four decades.”
There was a pompousness about this man that was beginning to get on Adam’s nerves.
“What is Crowe-Cromwell’s interest in the Patrice Feldon estate?” Adam asked, careful to keep his voice cool and unemotional.
Carver leaned over the side of his chair and reached into his briefcase to pull out a dark brown, accordion-type cardboard file. He got up and placed it on the desk in front of Adam. Then Carver sat down again and leaned back in his chair as if his actions had given Adam his answer.
Adam made no move to open the cardboard file, but maintained steady eye contact with the man. “Mr. Carver, I have a very busy schedule. I would appreciate your stating your business.”
Carver motioned to the file he had placed before Adam. “It’s all in there, Justice.”
“What, Mr. Carver?”
A frown of impatience formed on Carver’s brow. “All you have to do is read the file.”
Adam rose. “Mr. Carver, I don’t intend to read about the reason for your visit. If you don’t wish to discuss it, this meeting is over.”
Carver looked distinctly put out. Adam understood that the man had wanted Adam to rummage through the material in the cardboard file, no doubt intending the discovery process to create some form of suspense or dramatics.
The fact that Adam refused to be orchestrated in such a manner was not sitting well with Carver. He was obviously a man used to dominating and receiving deference in return.
He came forward in his chair with undisguised irritation.
“All right, Justice. You want the cold, hard facts? I’ll give them to you.”
Adam sat back down.
“Patrice Feldon worked for Crowe-Cromwell in our research-and-development lab for nearly three years.”
“What was the full name of the Patrice Feldon who worked for Crowe-Cromwell?” Adam asked.
“Patrice Dulcinea Feldon, born August 2, 1964,” Carver said, shooting out his answer. “And you and I both know that information has not gotten into the news. There’s only one way I could have known it.”
“Go on.”
“During her last year with Crowe-Cromwell, Patrice Feldon performed as an assistant to Dr. Lydon Miller, one of Crowe-Cromwell’s top research scientists. Her position was a sensitive one. It necessitated our giving her a top-security clearance.”
“Are you saying Patrice was given a government security clearance?” Adam asked.
“A top-security clearance is also an in-house term with us,” Carver said. “Our security team is manned by some ex-Feds and it’s just as thorough as the FBI’s. Patrice Feldon’s fingerprints were run through all the right computers to check for any prior criminal acts. She came up clean—otherwise,
we would never have let her on the lot to the R-and-D wing.”
“All right. You checked her background. Then what?”
“Then one day, nine years ago, she failed to show up for work. No notice. No nothing.”
“Why did Patrice do that, Mr. Carver?” Whitney asked.
Carver turned to her. “The department manager believed she was despondent over the death of the research scientist she had been assisting.”
“The Dr. Lydon Miller you spoke of?”
“Yes. He lost his wife to cancer. It unbalanced him mentally. He committed suicide.”
“That’s…tragic,” Whitney said. “I can understand how Patrice could have been so distraught that she stopped going to work.”
“That isn’t why she stopped going,” Carver said, no sympathy in his tone.
Whitney leaned forward. “Then why did she?”
“The answers are all in those records sitting in front of Justice. All you have to do is read them.”
“All you have to do is come to the point, Mr. Carver,” Adam said, still making no move to read the indicated records. “Neither Ms. West nor I are fond of having our time wasted.”
Pink bands slashed into Carver’s cheeks. A frown dug a trough in his forehead.
“The point is that when Patrice Feldon was assisting Dr. Miller that last year before his death, Dr. Miller was working on a revolutionary new fertility process, better than anything anyone else had on the market. He had just finished his final experiments and entered his data into the computer when his wife died, and he made that tragic decision to take his own life. Naturally the whole R-and-D section was stunned by his death. It wasn’t until after Dr. Miller’s funeral that his department head even thought of looking. And that’s when he discovered it.”
“Discovered what?” Whitney asked.
“That Dr. Miller’s formula for his new fertility process and all his research data had been deleted from the computer data base.”
“Why would he have done that?” Whitney asked.
“He didn’t.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because the computer records showed the files had been cleaned out the day after Dr. Miller’s death.”
