The Other Daughter

by Lisa Gardner

  “We could look at having Holmes's body exhumed and do a DNA test. That would resolve it once and for all.”

  She nodded absently. “There are just so many inconsistencies. Why would my parents knowingly adopt Russell Lee's child—”

  “Maybe they don't know. Maybe Jamie O'Donnell arranged it.”

  “How, by dumping me at a hospital and assuming Patricia and Harper Stokes would magically adopt me?”

  “Whose idea was it to adopt you, Melanie? Did they ever tell you who suggested it first?”

  “My mother,” she said instantly. “She and I . . . we just sort of clicked.”

  “There you go. And it wasn't a random dumping. Your father did work there and was in the ER. Seems a fair bet that he'd hear about you, come see you for himself, maybe bring his vulnerable wife, who is hungering for a little girl . . .”

  “Still leaving a lot to chance,” Melanie muttered.

  “Fine. Spin it the other way. Your parents did know you were the daughter of Russell Lee Holmes. They agreed to adopt you for reasons we still don't understand, and provisions were made. The night Russell Lee was executed, you're dropped off at the hospital where Harper Stokes just happened to be on duty while the rest of his family was in Texas watching an execution you would think he'd also want to see.” He paused. “Larry Digger had a point about the coincidences. One or two is happenstance, but three or four?”

  Melanie's gaze dropped to the table. She rapped on it with her fingers many times. But then she looked up, and there was a clearness in her eyes David hadn't expected. It nailed him in the solar plexus, made him conscious of her golden hair and citrusy perfume and those haunting eyes. . . .

  She said quietly, steadily, “But even then . . . I still don't believe it, David. I don't. My parents didn't just give me a home, they've been good parents. Not reluctant, not grudging. Whatever I've needed, whatever I've desired, they've given it to me. If you assumed they were in on ‘it,' whatever it might be, wouldn't they be resentful? Wouldn't human nature dictate that every time they saw me, they saw the man who killed their daughter? I don't care what that damn altar was trying to imply. I'm not a second-rate daughter. My parents have never let me be a second-rate daughter. That's the kind of people they are, David. That's my family. It must be relevant that I love them so much, and they love me.”

  “Hey, family is family,” he tried. “Sure you care—”

  “Somewhere out there I have a birth mother,” Melanie interrupted. “I have a real name, a real birthday. If you believe Larry Digger, I could be on the verge of what every adopted child dreams about—discovering her birth parents. But I don't care. I'd give it all up, David, just to have my family back the way it was. I love them. I have always loved them. I will always love them. That is how I feel about my family.”

  David didn't answer right away. Faced with Melanie's earnestness, a trait he himself lacked, he studied the floor and the scuff marks made from all the long nights he'd spent pacing it.

  “Loving wives take home abusive husbands all the time,” he said finally, quietly. “They get strangled for their trouble. Loving parents bail their troubled kids out of jail and give them a second chance. Then they take a bullet to the head while they're sleeping one night. Love doesn't have anything to do with it in the end. It can't save a person's life. Just ask Meagan. I'm sure she loved your parents too.”

  He strode to the bedroom door, intent on grabbing his duffel bag, but Melanie caught his arm. He stopped but didn't look at her. He didn't want to see tears on her pale cheeks. For all his big speech, he wouldn't be able to handle that, and he knew it. He suddenly hated the fact that he always sounded so harsh.

  “I gotta pack a bag,” he grumbled. “We should go.”

  And she whispered, “My family is all I have, David. Please don't take them away from me. Please.”

  He pulled his arm free and walked away.

  FOURTEEN

  A FTER DAVID DISAPPEARED into his bedroom, pointedly closing the door behind him, Melanie wandered the living room, rubbing her arms. Ever since the shooting of Larry Digger, she couldn't seem to get warm.

  Now her head was filled with conflicting images. Her big, burly godfather whom she adored. Her strong, silent dad who'd always been there for her. Her fragile, tremulous mom, whom she loved beyond reason. Brian, her hero. Ann Margaret, her friend.

  A person capable of harming Meagan Stokes. A twenty-five-year-old cover-up.

  She tried to tell herself it was all a crazy mistake. Logic gone awry, conspiracy theory run amok. But her mind was too rational for her own good. She couldn't dismiss the altar and the pieces of evidence in her room. She couldn't dismiss Larry Digger's body and the shooter who had aimed right at her. She couldn't dismiss David's point that the police had never found any physical evidence tying Russell Lee Holmes to Meagan Stokes.

  Melanie didn't know what to do. She was tired, frustrated, and overwhelmed. She longed desperately for the comfort of her own home, and for the first time feared it as well. She wanted to hear her mother's reassuring voice. She had no idea what she would say. She wanted her family. She was beginning to feel as if they were all strangers.

  What were they so afraid of?

  Nine o'clock on a Monday night. Melanie didn't have answers, so she took the low road and sought distraction instead. David's apartment boasted a bookshelf crammed full of cheap metal trophies. One had a plastic guy on top that seemed to be pointing a gun. The dust-covered brass plate declared the owner to be the Junior Champion, .22 Target Pistol 25 feet.

  Tucked between it and six others were a collection of well-thumbed gun magazines and patches and bars still in their wrappers. Marksmen, Distinguished Expert, one said. So David Riggs was not only a loner but a gun aficionado as well. That didn't surprise her.

  But the largest trophy turned out not to have a thing to do with guns. It was pushed all the way in the back, as if David couldn't decide whether to be proud of it or not. A baseball player was poised on top, bat positioned on its dusty shoulder. The brass plate at the bottom was worn, as if thumbed over and over again. The letters faintly proclaimed: Mass All-Star Champion.

  She moved on to the picture of the baseball player on the wall. Shoeless Joe Jackson was scrawled across the lower right-hand corner. The name sounded vaguely familiar to her.

  She looked at the picture of Fenway Park, then returned to the bookshelf and found a scrapbook.

  The first picture was old, the edges crinkled, the color yellowed. The woman was young, dark hair neatly curled under at her shoulders, warm, intelligent gaze looking straight into the camera. David's mother, Melanie realized; she had passed on her rich hazel eyes to her son. She looked like a strong, sensible woman. The kind who ran a tight ship.

  She disappeared from the scrapbook much too soon. The split-level ranch house with its olive-colored carpet and brown linoleum disappeared as well, the family portraits becoming a thing of the past.

  David's mother died, and his scrapbook became about baseball.

  Here was David Riggs, age eight and decked out in a Little League uniform. Here was ten-year-old David with his whole team. Here was David, with Steven and Bobby Riggs posed on a baseball diamond. Here was Bobby Riggs tossing balls to his sons, who were now taller, leaner.

  Certificates appeared in the scrapbook, announcing pitching achievements. First no-hitter. Lowest number of hits allowed in a season. Best E.R.A. Then came the newspaper articles: “Promising Young Pitcher in Woburn” “Woburn High Grooming Best Ever” “The Major League Recruiters Arrive in Town—All Know They Are Eyeing the Riggs Boy.”

  And the pictures . . . Pictures of Special Agent David Riggs Melanie would not have thought possible. No grim expression or lined face. He beamed in color photos, posing enthusiastically with his glove, then in mid-pitch. He played with the camera. He winked at the crowd. He was the hometown hero and the photographs documented it diligently. Young David Riggs, who was going to go to the pros and make Woburn proud.<
br />
  Young David Riggs, arching up on the pitcher's mound to catch a ball, his face so earnest, so intent.

  Next shot. The ball in his glove, his body descending from the sky, and his face beaming with joy.

  Next shot. David holding up the ball, showing it to his father, who was screaming on the sidelines. For you, Dad, his expression announced. And Melanie could read Bobby Riggs's reply in his exulted look, his parted lips. That's my boy, the father was screaming, that's my boy!

  Melanie hastily closed the scrapbook. She had intruded too far. These were private photos of a private time that had come and gone. This was David with his family, and David with baseball, which seemed to be an even more personal relationship. She should've let it be. Everyone deserved their walls.

  Of course, she opened the scrapbook and looked again.

  God, he was magnificent when he was happy. The passion, the fire. She could see how that would make him a good federal agent, but as a baseball player . . . wow.

  And then Melanie entertained the worst of all female fantasies—she wondered if she could make him smile like that, if she could fill his eyes with such primitive joy. If she could heal a man and make him feel whole.

  This time she closed the scrapbook more firmly, then tucked it back in its place on the bookshelf. The images were emblazoned in her mind. She did her best to tuck them away as well.

  The bedroom door was still closed. She passed by closely enough to realize that he was talking in there. Phone call. To whom? Then she had another thought. Whatever he was saying, it probably had to do with her case. Which was her life. Which was her business, dammit.

  Melanie cupped her ear against the wood. She could hear every word.

  David was giving someone a thorough dressing-down. “Sheffield did not just stay home all night, dammit. He told Melanie's dad he won last night, which means he was out gambling. And apparently while he was out gambling, someone broke into his house. We're not even sure if anything was taken, but they left a note. Now, I want to know what the note said!

  “Yeah, Chenney. Do you understand now why sticking to your target is so important? Is this getting through to you yet? Just because people go home sick doesn't mean they stay home sick.

  “Look, I wasn't sure what I thought of this either in the beginning. The case did seem far-fetched. But we've moved way beyond coincidence at this point. We know Harper Stokes got a note. Melanie believes her mother may also have gotten a note. Now, I can't be sure, but I'm willing to believe someone played a game at Sheffield's house as well. We need to know exactly what happened there.

  “No, don't break into his house. Go through his trash. It's much simpler.

  “Okay, it's also messier, but that's the glamorous life. Sheffield works tonight, right?

  “Yes, I want you on his tail. And stick this time, even at work. I'm getting very curious about the hospital angle. So far our anonymous tipster seems to know exactly what he's talking about, so we may have much more of a fraud case than we thought.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know you don't know anything. God, they gotta start getting you guys more training. Well, do you have a pen and paper? I'll give you a lesson for the day.

  “Okay, pretend for a moment that our tipster is correct and they are installing pacemakers in healthy patients. Now, no single doctor or healthcare professional, no matter how brilliant, can summarily recommend a pacemaker. A cardiologist would have an opinion. The cardiac surgeon too. Then there's the ER docs who admitted the case, the nurses who attended the patient, and the anesthesiologist who would be monitoring all the patient's vitals and administering meds during surgery. All these people examine the patient, update the chart, and know what is going on. And that's assuming the patient never asks for a second opinion. Lots of people do, which means a whole new round of doctors reading charts and offering opinions.

  “So first off, it can't be as simple as faking a chart or misdiagnosing. Hospitals are set up exactly so that kind of situation can't happen. Given that, our suspects are going to have to find someone who at least exhibits symptomology. Probably a patient who comes into the ER as a “chest pain—rule out MI” admit, which means a person suffering from chest pains that they want to make sure isn't a myocardial infarction. A heart attack, Chenney. Myocardial infarction equals heart attack.

  “Now, following protocol, most ERs will slap an EKG on the patient, snap a chest X ray, as well as draw six to seven vials of blood to test for cardiac enzymes. But some of these enzymes can take twelve to thirty-six hours to show up, so even if the chest X ray is clear and the EKG good, a hospital will generally keep the patient for a day or so for observation, particularly if there is a history of heart problems in the family and the person appears at risk—overweight, high blood pressure, and so on. Now, City General has a notoriously aggressive cath lab, so their ER docs also send the patient to the cath lab to shoot the coronary—check for blocked arteries.

  “In the cath lab they have to feed a catheter through the femoral artery to inject the patient with dye. They'll heavily sedate the patient for the process, then send the patient to ICU for recovery and monitoring. They're also going to keep the patient under sedation because they don't want him or her to wake up in the middle of the night and pull out the catheter. So that gives us our first ‘opportunity' for nefarious deeds right there.

  “At night in the ICU, the nursing staff is generally spread thin and focusing on the more critical cases. You have a recovery patient who is drugged and certainly not going to notice what's what. Someone could easily slip into a room, inject a patient with a drug or tamper with the EKG, and probably escape with no one the wiser.

  “Ask around, Chenney. Have people seen Dr. Sheffield roaming the ICU a lot? That might tell us something right there.

  “No, I don't completely understand what healthcare fraud has to do with Meagan Stokes, only that our tipster seems to know more than we do. Anything back from the lab yet?

  “Two types of blood? Really? Jesus.” David sighed. “This case just gets weirder and weirder. Other findings?

  “Yeah, I know it's too soon, I'm being an optimist. Okay, have them do a DNA test. I imagine one kind of blood is probably Meagan Stokes's. As for the other, I haven't a clue. Has the Meagan Stokes case file arrived from the Houston field office yet?

  “What do you mean, they said the case file is unavailable? It's a twenty-five-year-old closed file. It's gotta be sitting in the archives.

  “A case file can't be just ‘out.' The Bureau isn't a library, for God's sake.

  “Shit, someone is yanking our chain. Okay, what about the Houston PD? Did they fax over their case file? Uh-huh. Give me a rundown.

  “Life insurance. On two children. One million apiece. Shit. What kind of parents insure their children for a million bucks? Then again, it does explain a town house on Beacon Street.

  “No evidence from Meagan ever found? Yeah, that's what I thought. Okay, when I get to the hotel tonight, I'll give you another call and have you fax the file over. Don't worry about Lairmore. I'm the lead agent, so I'll take the heat. Most likely he'll chew my ass tomorrow morning sharp, then we'll all get on with our lives. You all set with Sheffield tonight in the ICU?

  “I know you're tired, Chenney. So am I. Unfortunately, whoever the hell is doing this seems to be in a rush to make up for lost time. We had Larry Digger showing up on Saturday, the altar assembled for Sunday, and a paid assassin appearing on Monday. God knows what's happening right now as we speak. We're just going to have to deal for a bit.

  “I'm watching Melanie Stokes tonight.

  “I know, I get all the great jobs. Enjoy tagging Sheffield. Bye-bye.”

  Melanie scurried for the sofa. The bedroom door swung promptly open and David came striding into the room, scowling and looking preoccupied.

  “The lab hasn't had enough time for in-depth analysis,” he stated without preamble, “but we do know there were two types of blood on the scrap of blue fabric in your room. The
y'll run some more tests.”

  Melanie nodded. David didn't offer anything more. He was standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips and his mind a million miles away. He was tired too, Melanie realized. There were fresh lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. His skin was drawn too tight, making him look especially harsh and stern.

  He crossed the room to his answering machine. The message light was blinking and he punched play. Then he strode back into his room for his duffel bag while the tape rewound. He'd just returned to the living room when the first message began.

  “Hello, David, this is your dad. Still haven't heard from you. I guess the Bureau is keeping you busy? I'm reading now about some new methods for accurizing. Want to bring your Beretta in? I have some things I want to try out.” Bobby Riggs's voice petered out awkwardly. Melanie could hear the man swallow. “Ah, well. Just thought I'd see if you were in. No big deal. Give me a call if you have a chance. I got tickets to the Red Sox—or . . . ah, hell. It's been a while, David. Just call sometime.”

  Melanie looked at David. His face was still a mask.

  The next voice came on.

  “Riggs, check your goddamn voice mail. I have a message that you've been involved in a shooting. I got a Boston police chief talking to me about homicide. What the hell happened to eyes and ears only, Riggs? And what happened to procedure? When one of my agents discharges his weapon, I do not expect to hear about it from Boston P.D. In case you're still ignoring the voice mail, I want you in my office oh-seven-hundred tomorrow! And bring a damn report with you!”

  The call ended abruptly. David merely smiled.

  “That was my boss,” he said easily. “Guess I won't be getting that corner office after all.”

  A clipped professional voice came over the tape. “This is Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy from Quantico. Sorry to call you at home, Agent Riggs, but I was notified today by the Houston field office that you were requesting the Meagan Stokes case file. I would like to know why you are requesting this particular case file. You can contact me at . . .”