Several of those semiprivate alcoves were occupied, and he drew the attention of every waiting client as he approached the receptionist's desk. Most of the women were well dressed, their faces smooth, with a faint sheen that said this was not their first visit to the center. But there were also a few male clients, a couple of businessmen types, probably looking to tighten up the paunch of middle age.
"Good afternoon," he murmured as he reached the front desk, where a young, attractive brunette greeted him with a smile. "I'm here to see Dr. Kean."
The woman leaned forward slightly. Keeping her voice low, she asked, "You're, uh, Mr. Blackstone?"
Obviously the "Supervisory Special Agent" part was to be their little secret. "Yes."
The woman rose. "This way, please. Dr. Kean asked me to bring you right back."
Following, he made a point of moving slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. He surreptitiously counted the number of exam rooms, and peered into offices with large, executive desks visible through open doorways.
On the walls between the offices were a number of framed photographs and articles. These pictured Alfred Underwood and various members of his family/staff with the rich and famous. Politicians. Actors. Many of whom had probably received their perfect noses and chins in this very building.
He did, however, also note the number of plaques and civic awards. Most of them honored Dr. Underwood for his good works, his donations to charities, especially those involving children. Wyatt paused before one particular photo, a large framed shot of a crowd of at least twenty people standing and sitting outside a lofty, beachfront house. Underwood stood in the center, several beaming adults surrounding him. One or two sullen, bored teenagers appeared on the fringes, and a few young children were rolling on the lawn. A big family photo shoot, apparently.
He took a few more steps, then paused again in front of the largest framed portrait yet. It depicted a handsome, smiling man, probably in his late forties. Hanging alone, it stood out, singular and dignified, at the very end of the corridor where two others branched off in a T. At least three feet tall and two feet wide, it was illuminated by a spotlight from below. Beside it, an engraved plaque read, In loving memory of Dr. Roger Underwood. Beloved son, brother, and husband.
They apparently grew physicians on the Underwood family tree.
"Handsome, wasn't he?"
Wyatt slowly turned as another voice intruded. A few feet away, watching from the open door of an examination room, was a stunningly beautiful woman. Eyes a warm shade of blue, with champagne-colored hair falling in a long, loose curtain over her shoulders, she was the kind of female who turned men stupid.
Men like Tom Anspaugh, he thought, remembering the other agent's stammering when he'd interviewed the women of this family. Because he immediately recognized the blonde as Dr. Judith Underwood, the plastic surgeon who'd provided her sister-in-law with an alibi the night the car was stolen.
If she was an advertisement for the skills of this practice, she was a damned good one. There wasn't an imperfect spot on her, yet she managed to look entirely natural and untouched.
"My late husband," she said, stepping over to stand beside him and eye the portrait. "Father… I mean, my father-in-law set up this pseudo-shrine. I think it's a little morbid, but I'm only an in-law, so I didn't have much say." Sadness visible in her eyes, she stared at the enormous portrait for a moment longer. "It's like he's still here."
Curiosity got the better of him. "He appeared young."
"Doctors make the worst patients, I suppose. Especially vibrant, otherwise healthy ones. He apparently didn't even recognize the chest pains for what they were. Heart attack at forty-nine, can you imagine?" She shook her head, adding in her soft voice, "One evening we're having a lovely dinner with his sister and her husband, who live right down the street. The next morning I find him dead on the living room floor, still holding the broken neck of the wine bottle he'd been opening when he collapsed. It's still hard to believe, even after all this time."
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Thank you." She looked up at him, flashing those blue eyes ringed with ultrablack lashes. "I'm Judith Underwood, by the way."
He nodded once. "I know."
"You're the FBI agent coming to visit Angela."
"Yes, I am." Ignoring the curiosity glittering in the young widow's eyes, he added, "And I'm afraid I'm keeping her waiting. Nice to meet you."
The receptionist, who'd been tapping her foot on the marble-tiled floor, flashed him an appreciative smile and led him up the hall. "Here we are." She knocked twice, then began to push the door in. "Your visitor is here, Dr.-"
The door was suddenly yanked open from within. A tall, distinguished-looking man with dark hair graying at the temples appeared, his expression glacial. Without a word to the receptionist, much less to Wyatt, he stalked down the hallway and stormed into one of the empty offices. The slam of the door punctuated his displeasure about whatever had just happened with Dr. Kean.
"The other Dr. Kean," the receptionist whispered, looking a little terrified. Something told him the angry scene was nothing new.
"Does this happen often?" he asked, sensing the woman was a talker.
"I'm just a temp and have only worked here a few days, but I hear they fight like cats and dogs."
"Come in, please," said a voice from within.
Doing as she'd asked, Wyatt assessed the woman rising to greet him from behind the desk. She was probably in her mid-forties, quietly confident. The same gray-green eyes he'd seen in her late brother's portrait watched him enter. Her attractive face was not pulled taut and immaculate like those women he'd seen in her waiting room. In fact, the doctor had a few wrinkles beside the eyes, a less-than-perfect chin, and a perfectly average nose and mouth.
He remembered the speaker on the tape, the one who had asked about women defying age through plastic surgery. And he began to worry. Perhaps the questioner hadn't been jabbing at the doctor after all. Because, though she was very attractive, he would lay money that this woman was not a physician who healed herself.
"Agent Blackstone," the woman said as she extended her hand to him. "Please forgive my husband's little display of temper. We disagree on treatment for a patient and," she said with a tiny smile, "the boss likes me better, so I'm sure to get my way."
The boss. Her father. Though the comment could have been snide, instead Angela Kean appeared quietly amused, as if she was only joking about going over her husband's head.
Wyatt had to wonder if her husband was in on the joke.
"Please sit down."
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
"It sounded very important," she said. She watched Wyatt take the chair opposite the desk, then returned to her own. "I received several messages from last Friday. I'm terribly sorry you were unable to reach me. As you can imagine, with a family business, we rarely get to take time off all together. It's become a sort of tradition that we close for the Labor Day holiday and go to our beach house. Extended family comes, too, from all over the place."
"I understand. Quite a few of you work here, don't you?"
Dr. Kean laughed, which emphasized those tiny lines beside her eyes. She was prettier when she smiled. "You've no idea. Father drilled family loyalty into our ears from a very young age. My husband's office is right up the hall, my father's down from his." Her smile faded a little. "My late brother was right across from Father, his wife one down from that."
"I just met her."
Dr. Kean's smile didn't fade, but the warmth in her eyes certainly did. "How nice."
He filed away that tidbit, knowing at once that the sisters-in-law were not close.
"There's also Philip Wright." Displaying more of that coolness, and an even tighter smile, she explained, "Father's stepson. He joined us last year, right out of medical school."
"Father's stepson." Not "my stepbrother." He made another mental note, remembering the young doctor who'd blasted out of t
he parking lot in his Ferrari.
"Everyone in the same field. I imagine you have pretty limited dinner-table conversations during family gatherings," Wyatt murmured.
"Oh, there are a few nonmedical types in the extended family, at least. Politicians, lawyers, even a novelist."
He noticed she didn't say sanitation workers, schoolteachers, or deliverymen.
"But as for the rest of us?" She shrugged helplessly. "What can I say? The family who does face-lifts together…"
Gets rich together. Very rich, he suspected.
"That's not to say shop talk doesn't get exceedingly tiring. That's why I insist on living close to Richmond rather than in one of the local neighborhoods like the rest of the family. My husband and I commute here every day." Laughing a little, she added, "It's a hike, but still a small price to pay to get away from everyone else at night."
"I understand."
He didn't, not really. Not ever having siblings, or much family, he honestly couldn't relate. But agreeing with witnesses, building a rapport with them, was an important part of the job.
"Now, your message said you wanted to ask me about my stolen car?" She shuddered visibly. "I still have nightmares thinking it was used by a murderer who wanted to harm little children. Imagine if he hadn't abandoned it, and had used it to kidnap a child?"
Wyatt schooled his features to remain utterly impassive. This woman-this witness-should not know so much. But since she'd been interviewed by Anspaugh, he wasn't entirely surprised. Dr. Kean was attractive enough to incite the other agent to puff up his own importance. And shoot off his mouth.
That was the one good thing that had come of this entire mess. Anspaugh, at least, had been put on a leash even tighter than Wyatt's. He only hoped that, like a chained dog, the brute didn't get meaner and hungry to bite anyone who came within range.
"I was hoping you might listen to a recording for me." He lifted the small digital recorder and placed it on the desk. Brandon had loaded the pertinent clip onto it. "I'm interested in identifying a man who asked you a question at the panel workshop you gave that weekend at the medical convention."
One of her brows shot up in surprise. "A voice identification? From over seven months ago?"
"I know it's a long shot, Dr. Kean. But it sounded to me as though this person knew you, and perhaps you, him. It could be someone who moves in your circle, someone whose voice you already know."
The doctor did not nod in agreement. Instead, she eyed him steadily. Warily. "Are you implying that someone I know, a physician at that workshop, was the one who"-she thought about her words carefully, then concluded-"stole my car?"
He knew what she was really asking. Did he think someone she knew was a cold-blooded murderer and potential child molester? "I'm not implying anything. Just following up on a lead. Now, would you please just listen?" he replied evenly.
A long pause, then she nodded once. "All right. But I'm not making any promises."
"I don't expect any."
He pulled his chair closer to the desk, sliding the digital device toward Dr. Kean. When she murmured her readiness, he pushed play, hearing the now-familiar voice asking his snide question.
Wyatt never took his eyes off the woman. She kept her head tilted down, staring at her hands, which were tented on her desk, as if she was in deep concentration. The pose also, however, gave her a chance to evade his stare, to keep him from seeing her immediate reaction. He was denied the opportunity to witness any flare of the eyes, a loss of color in her cheeks, a startled inhalation, or a frown that said she did recognize the voice.
When the clip ended, she remained very still. Then, her voice low, she said, "Would you play it again please, just so I can be sure?"
Wyatt's pulse picked up its tempo. The doctor was a calm, intelligent woman who would be deliberate and certain in her responses. Of course she would want to hear it again before confirming she knew the speaker.
He played the file, still watching her. Again, she remained still, so very still. Until finally, a full thirty seconds after the recording ended, she lifted her head and met his stare with an impassive one of her own.
Dread filled him. He knew what she was going to say before the words left her mouth.
"I'm sorry, Agent Blackstone. Truly. But I cannot identify that voice for you."
"You're certain."
"Yes. I'm certain."
Damn it. She didn't shift her gaze, made no obvious signs that she was lying. Her voice didn't quiver.
Of course, she had no reason to lie, so he shouldn't have been looking for such signs. But something about her hesitation before listening had made him wonder whether the doctor would be entirely honest. He didn't imagine anyone would relish the possibility of hearing a familiar voice, knowing the person might have done some horrible things.
By her demeanor now, however, the coolness of her tone and completely unflinching gaze, it appeared she was telling the truth. She couldn't help him.
He wasn't about to give up, though. Not when he finally had a solid lead for the first time in months. "Someone else might recognize him. Another of the speakers, conference attendees. Perhaps your father?"
Her mouth tightened an infinitesimal amount, and so did her jaw. "Can't help you there. My father is away. He and his wife decided not to return from the beach house for a few days. And my husband didn't even attend the convention. He was ill." Ill? Or taking advantage of a night away from his strong-willed wife and her family?
"Philip, my stepbrother, just moved back to Virginia last year and knows very few professionals outside our office. He attended only the banquet, to show support to Father. None of the other weekend events. Besides all that, he just left to return to the beach. He and Father have a standing golf date every Tuesday."
How chummy.
The doctor's tone said she didn't like that one single bit. A jealous daughter, perhaps, envious of her father's closeness to a young stepson who'd waltzed in to take the place of the son he'd lost? If he remembered correctly from the brief family background Brandon had put together for him, the senior Dr. Underwood had married his second wife, who had been raising two children of her own, at least twenty years ago. He hadn't adopted the children, but it sounded as though there was a father-son bond.
Not a sister-brother one, however.
"And your sister-in-law? Judith?" he asked, undeterred, wondering why she was trying to keep her family out of the situation. "She was one of the speakers on that panel with you, wasn't she?"
Again that hint of coolness appeared. "Yes, she was. But I doubt she'll remember any more than I do. There were hundreds of people there, our panel was hugely popular, and we could barely see a soul in the audience from up on the stage."
"Just the same…"
She waved a hand. "If you insist, though I hate for you to waste your time during what I sense is a very important investigation." She glanced at her watch, then rose to her feet. "I believe Judith is with a patient, and I have one to see myself. Why don't you wait here and I'll return with her when we're both free?"
Wyatt shook his head. "No, please don't trouble yourself. I can ask the receptionist to track her down. I've taken up enough of your time."
"It's really no trouble," the woman said. "Just stay here."
But before the doctor could leave, a knock sounded on her door.
"What is it?"
Dr. Judith Underwood herself opened the door and stuck her head in. "Sorry to disturb you, Ang. I need to consult with you when you have the chance."
Dr. Kean frowned, though whether because she just didn't like her sister-in-law, or because she no longer had an excuse to avoid letting the woman hear the audio file, he didn't know. But Wyatt wasn't about to waste the opportunity he'd been given.
"We were just talking about you, Dr. Underwood. I wonder if you might be able to help me." Ignoring Angela Kean's deepening frown, he explained the situation, concluding, "If you don't mind listening, perhaps you'll have more luck than
Dr. Kean did?"
"Of course," the other woman said, "I'd be happy to."
Like replaying the same song on an old record, Wyatt found himself again placing the digital recorder on the desk. This time, though, Dr. Kean remained standing, facing the windows, staring outside with her arms crossed over her chest. Judith, the blonde, sat on another visitor's chair, leaning down and listening intently.
He pushed play. He waited, listening to the familiar voice that had imprinted itself on his brain.
The tape ended. A long silence ensued. Then he was entirely disappointed once more.
"I'm sorry, Agent Blackstone," Judith said, as wide-eyed and impassive as her sister-in-law had been. "I just don't know anyone who sounds like that."
It had been a long shot. A stab in the dark. He should have known he wouldn't be fortunate enough to find someone who recognized that voice on the very first go-round.
This would crush Lily. She'd pinned a lot on this lead, hoping, as he did, that her nightmare of uncertainty would soon end.
The two women watched him impassively, never glancing toward each other. The tension between them could fill a lake. But whether it was simply because they disliked each other, or it had something to do with his presence-and the audio recording-he simply didn't know.
He wasn't about to give up, either. There were other ways to proceed. He had a few ideas and had already mentioned them to Brandon. Including gathering files from previous conventions, seeing if they could find the same man, identified for the recording this time.
That, however, would take a while. It would be easier if he could question anyone who had actually been in the room during the workshop in Richmond, when they knew the unsub had been present. Had, he wondered, Dr. Underwood's father been there? Her stepbrother?
Her angry husband, who might not have been as ill as she claimed?
A simple thing to ask, yet Dr. Kean didn't seem to want any other members of her family questioned. She didn't even seem to want Wyatt to meet them face-to-face.
Could it be because she didn't want him learning the identity of the man on the tape?
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