Amanda Stevens Bestseller Collection: Stranger In Paradise/A Baby's Cry

by Amanda Stevens

  “Maybe I can check out a few things unofficially,” Dillon said. “But we’ll have to be careful. It could get a little sticky. I’ll try to take a drive out to the clinic, see what the setup is there. Sometimes you can scare up a little information just by flashing around a badge.”

  “Actually,” Taylor said. “I’ve already been out to the clinic.”

  Dillon’s glance was sharp. “When?”

  “A couple of days ago, right after I talked to Sergeant Jackson. When he wouldn’t agree to reactivate the investigation, I decided to go out there and ask a few questions myself.”

  Dillon glared at her. “And just what were you hoping to find out? Did you think someone would openly admit to stealing your baby?”

  “Of course not,” she said defensively. “But I thought…I hoped that somehow I could get a look at the records, find out who else was a patient at the clinic the night my baby was born. There was a terrible storm that night, and a lot of the staff couldn’t get through. The clinic was shorthanded, and there was a lot of confusion.

  “I remember hearing one of the nurses complain about all the patients going into labor at once. It was an exaggeration, of course, but other babies must have been born at the clinic that night. I thought if I could just find out who the other patients were…” Taylor trailed off with a shrug.

  “Did it never occur to you,” Dillon asked slowly, “that if something illegal is or was going on at the Westcott Clinic, if Brad was killed because of something he found out, you could be putting your own life in danger by going out there and asking all those questions?”

  Her chin lifted defiantly, but her tone sounded uncertain. “I…did think about that. But I decided it was worth the risk if I could find out what happened the night our baby was born.”

  “And if you find out the baby really died that night,” Dillon said. “Will you finally be able to accept it? Will you be able to accept the fact that Brad’s death was a suicide?”

  “If that’s what really happened. But I don’t think it is,” Taylor said softly. “And I don’t think you do, either.”

  Chapter Six

  “Lord have mercy, it’s hot out there.” Neal Heywood ambled into Dillon’s cubicle the next day and threw his jacket onto one of the metal chairs across from Dillon’s desk. He yanked on his tie. “I must have walked that vacant lot a hundred times.”

  Dillon glanced up. “I take it nothing turned up.”

  “Nada. I’m beginning to think Danny Quinlan ate that damned gun,” he said, referring to one of the cases he and Dillon were working on.

  “No, it’s out there somewhere.” Dillon tossed down his pen and leaned back in his chair. “You just have to keep beating the bushes until you find it.”

  “That’s easy enough for you to say. You’ve had your butt planted in here under the air conditioner all day.”

  Dillon grimaced. “Don’t remind me. I’d change places with you in a minute if I could.” He’d caught hell a few days ago from McCardy when he’d learned Dillon had been pounding the streets with Neal.

  “Yeah, that’s the weird part,” Neal said. “I believe you would.” He rolled up the sleeves of his crumpled white shirt. “So what’ve you been working on all day?” He craned his neck to get a look at the open folder on Dillon’s desk.

  “Oh, you know, just trying to clear away some old files.” Dillon closed the folder, but not before his partner was able to glimpse the name on the tab.

  “Brad Robinson,” Neal mused. “That wouldn’t be the high-society doctor who whacked himself a couple of weeks ago, would it? What the hell are you doing with that file? That was Lamar’s case.”

  “I’m not doing anything with it,” Dillon said. “I just wanted to have a look at the autopsy report.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m…curious.”

  “Hmm.” Neal sat down and folded his arms over his chest. “My guess would be that it has something to do with the Widow Robinson’s visit here yesterday.”

  “She was here?”

  “Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No, she didn’t mention it.”

  A look of triumph glinted in Neal’s eyes. “So she did manage to find you, then.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Mind telling me what’s going on? If Lamar catches you with that file, all hell’s gonna break loose around here. He’d like nothing better than to find a way to fry your ass. What are you thinking, messing around in one of his investigations?”

  “I’m not doing that.” Not yet, anyway. “I just wanted to see for myself if there’s any basis to think that Robinson’s death might not have been suicide.”

  “Is that what Taylor thinks?”

  Dillon gave him a hard look. “Taylor?”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. She and I had a nice little chat yesterday. After everything you’d told me about her, I felt like I’d known her forever.”

  “I never talked to you about Taylor.”

  “Sure you did.” Neal arched a brow. “Donovan’s bachelor party? Tequila shooters? Need I say more?”

  Dillon groaned inwardly, not just from wondering what the hell he might have told Neal about his relationship with Taylor, but also from the memory of the headache he’d carried around for two solid days after that party.

  Neal propped his feet on the corner of Dillon’s desk. “So she thinks her old man was murdered,” he mused. “How did she reach that conclusion?”

  Dillon hesitated for a moment, then took a quick glance around the squad room. He lowered his voice, too. “She’s been receiving anonymous newspaper clippings in the mail. One was about a suicide that turned out to be a homicide, and the other two were about baby-swapping incidents.”

  “Baby-swapping?”

  “Taylor had a baby nine years ago at the Westcott Clinic. She thinks someone’s trying to tell her that her baby didn’t die as she was led to believe. She thinks her husband somehow found out about it and was murdered to shut him up.”

  Neal rubbed his chin. “That’s kind of a large assumption, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The Westcott Clinic. Would that be connected to Dr. Elliot Westcott? The Dr. Westcott?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Neal gave a low whistle. “Good Lord,” he muttered. “You don’t like to wade into hot water, do you, Reeves? You like to just dive right in. That man has a pedigree a mile long.”

  “I know. Any kind of investigation into the clinic could get pretty hairy.”

  “To say the least.” Neal stared at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “This is all a pretty farfetched theory, Dillon.”

  “Yeah. But Taylor’s convinced she’s right, and I guess I’m beginning to think it might be worth a look myself.”

  Neal nodded toward the folder on Dillon’s desk. “Did you see anything interesting in the autopsy report?”

  Dillon shrugged. “It was pretty much handled by the book. A trace metal test was done on the hand that presumably fired the weapon, along with the usual toxicology tests. Substantial amounts of cocaine and alcohol were found in his bloodstream.”

  Neal flicked a piece of lint from his slacks. “Dosed himself up for courage. Nothing unusual about that.”

  “No. But it would make it a good deal easier for someone else to put the gun in his hand and pull the trigger.”

  “Been done before,” Neal agreed. “What about a suicide note?”

  Dillon shook his head. “No note ever turned up, which isn’t unusual, either. The only thing that stands out about this case are those damned clippings Taylor’s receiving.”

  “Could just be someone messing with her mind. Lot of crazies out there. Someone could have read about her husband’s death in the obits, and decided to have a little fun.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that.”

  Neal reached over and took the file from Dillon’s desk. He opened it and thumbed through the contents. “She have any enemies that you know of? Anyone who might have i
t in for her for some reason?”

  Again Dillon shrugged. “She mentioned something about the mother-in-law blaming her for Robinson’s death.”

  “Well, then, that would be the logical place to start.” Neal slid the file across the desk to Dillon. “If this were your case. Which it isn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “But that isn’t going to stop you, is it?” Neal shook his head in disgust. “Damn. We’ve been partners for what—two, three years now? Ever since you transferred up from Houston. I was just beginning to like you, Reeves.”

  TAYLOR GLANCED NERVOUSLY at her watch. She’d been dreading this meeting with the Westcotts all day. Although she’d asked them to come to her office at Claymore Academy to air her concerns regarding their nine-year-old daughter, Alisha, Taylor wasn’t at all sure she could manage to keep her suspicions regarding Dr. Westcott out of the discussion.

  How was she supposed to look the man in the face and talk to him about his daughter when all she could think about was what he might have done to her baby?

  But when she thought about Alisha’s sad, sweet little face, Taylor knew she had to somehow put her suspicions aside and make the Westcotts listen to her. They had to realize that their daughter had problems. Serious ones.

  No parent liked to be told his or her child was experiencing difficulties in school, but Taylor feared Dr. Westcott would take the news worse than most. Brad told her once that Westcott was a perfectionist, both in and out of the hospital, and he expected no less—in fact, demanded more—from those around him. Taylor suspected his daughter was no exception.

  Alisha was an adorable child, but so quiet and reserved. Too quiet. At times, she exhibited the kind of withdrawal that was sometimes characteristic in children from abusive homes.

  Taylor fervently hoped that wasn’t the case. Elliot Westcott’s reputation as a doctor was impeccable, but if what she suspected about him was true, if he had played God with her life and her baby’s, then there was nothing she would put past him.

  As an educator, Taylor was required by law to report even a suspicion of abuse to the proper authorities. It was a drastic step, and one she was fully prepared to take if necessary. But for everyone’s sake, especially Alisha’s, Taylor hoped this meeting would ease her mind to the contrary.

  “I don’t know what could be keeping Elliot,” Lorraine Westcott murmured apologetically. She’d arrived several minutes ago for the meeting. “I know I told him two o’clock.”

  “Perhaps he got held up at the hospital.” Taylor studied the woman sitting across from her desk. Lorraine was beautifully dressed in a royal blue linen suit accessorized with thick, silver jewelry. Her makeup was perfect, but her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glassy.

  Taylor wondered if she’d been drinking before she arrived for the meeting. The hands clasping her leather purse were visibly trembling, and when the door to the office opened suddenly, she whirled like a startled cat.

  Elliot Westcott, tall, slender and conservatively dressed in a somber gray suit, starched shirt and striped tie, strode into the room exuding an aura of power so potent the very air seemed to quiver with awareness.

  His hair was dark but silvered at the temples and his eyes were a light gray but so piercing they seemed much darker. His lips were thin, almost cruel looking, and his features were sharp and angular, very distinct.

  Taylor found herself slightly awestruck as she gazed up at him. When he’d been her doctor years ago, she’d been intimidated by his arrogance, his cold, emotionless visage. To her irritation, she realized the man was still intimidating, still cold and still arrogant. His attitude seemed to suggest that they both knew she was in the presence of greatness and she damned well better not forget it.

  “What’s this all about, Mrs. Robinson? I’m due at the clinic in exactly—” he checked his gold watch “—twenty-two minutes.”

  “I’ll try to be brief, then.” For God’s sake, they were here to talk about his daughter. Couldn’t the man spare even a half hour? Taylor cleared her throat and tried to hide her own exasperation. “As you know from the progress reports the school sends home, Alisha is an excellent student. Her grades are perfect and her behavior in the classroom is above reproach.”

  “Then why have you called us in here?” Elliot Westcott demanded.

  “I called you here because I’m very worried about your daughter. She’s always been quiet and shy, withdrawn even, but the behavior seems to be getting more pronounced. Your daughter has no friends. She spends her lunches and recesses completely alone. When I’ve tried talking to her about it, she withdraws even more. I’m wondering if you’ve noticed this same behavior at home.”

  Lorraine Westcott opened her mouth to speak, but Elliot cut her off. “I don’t see what the problem is. What you’re telling me is that my daughter is a quiet, well-behaved, studious child—exactly the qualities I would expect her to possess. If Alisha doesn’t run around like a delinquent at school, it’s because my wife and I have instructed her in the appropriate way to conduct herself.”

  He rose, staring down at Taylor with undisguised contempt. “And I must say, I deeply resent your attitude. There is no problem with our child so you insist upon creating one. I’m afraid that’s characteristic of society in general today.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Taylor said stiffly. She rose, too.

  The contempt in Westcott’s voice turned colder, more menacing. His eyes narrowed. “And while I’m here, I may as well voice my other concerns. I’m aware of your visit to my clinic the other day. I understand you were talking to my staff, asking a lot of questions about your husband’s suicide. Just what are you trying to prove, Mrs. Robinson?”

  “I’m not trying to prove anything,” Taylor said, her gaze never leaving Westcott’s face. She probed his eyes, looking for a glimmer of emotion. “I’m looking for the truth. And I only talked to one person at the clinic, a nurse named Doris Rafferty. You’ll probably be happy to know she was most uncooperative.”

  “Mrs. Rafferty is a loyal employee. She knows the value of discretion. If you have business at the clinic regarding your husband’s suicide or…anything else, perhaps you’d be good enough to take it up with me the next time.”

  “Perhaps I will,” Taylor murmured.

  “But I must warn you, Mrs. Robinson. I have little regard for busybodies. It has been my experience that when one goes looking for trouble, one is apt to find it. You would do well to remember that.”

  “That almost sounds like a threat,” Taylor said, trying to hide the shiver that suddenly coursed through her.

  “Take it however you wish,” Dr. Westcott said coldly. “As long as you mind your own business.”

  He turned and strode across the room to the door, pausing to call over his shoulder, “Lorraine?”

  Lorraine Westcott slowly stood. She seemed torn by some internal conflict, wanting, Taylor suspected, to stay and talk more about her daughter, but not daring to defy her powerful husband.

  “Thank you for your interest in Alisha,” she finally murmured.

  The displeasure on Westcott’s face deepened as he watched his wife carefully navigate the space between the chair in which she’d been sitting and the door by which he waited. When she walked up beside him, he took her arm and steered her through the door without so much as a backward glance.

  IT WAS AFTER SEVEN by the time Taylor was finally able to tear herself loose from her desk. She’d had three other parent meetings that afternoon—none of them as nerve-racking as her encounter with Dr. Westcott—and had stayed on to finish up her reports.

  Just as she was leaving her office, the phone rang. Her heart began to race when she heard Dillon’s voice.

  “How soon can you get downtown?” he asked tersely.

  “I’m leaving my office right now,” Taylor told him. “Give me twenty minutes or so, depending on traffic.”

  “There’s a restaurant on Front Street called Pier Twelve. I’ll be waiting
for you there.” And then he hung up.

  Taylor took Poplar downtown, and since she was going against what little traffic remained from rush hour, she made it in less than fifteen minutes. She parked on the street across from the restaurant.

  Dillon was waiting for her inside. He stood when she approached the table, and then they both sat. A waitress appeared to take their orders—coffee for Taylor and a bowl of chili and a beer for Dillon.

  After the waitress left, an awkward silence fell over the table.

  “Sure you don’t want something to eat?” he finally asked.

  “No, I’m having a late supper with Mother.”

  Dillon’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “How is Miranda?”

  “Busy. You know Mother. She always has a lot going on.”

  “Miranda has her fingers in a lot of pies, that’s for sure,” Dillon said, not kindly.

  Taylor took a long breath. “Look, I’m sure you didn’t call me down here to talk about my mother. What did you want to see me about?” She tried to keep the nervousness out of her voice, but every time she saw Dillon she seemed to get so rattled.

  At first she’d thought it was his anger that disconcerted her so, but looking at him now, Taylor was forced to admit that it wasn’t his anger or her guilt or their past that caused her to tremble in his presence. It was something deeper. Something more complicated and a lot more frightening.

  It had something to do with the way he made her feel on a primal level.

  Dillon had always been ruggedly handsome. His appearance, she had to admit, was what had attracted her to him in the first place. But now it was more than just his dark good looks that drew her. Even with his angry eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw and chin, he exuded the kind of raw sexuality that made women’s knees go weak.

  And Taylor was very much afraid she was no exception.

  He was looking at her now, those dark eyes probing her so intently she felt her pulse quicken.

  “Why did you call me down here?” she asked again, her voice wavering in the wake of his seductive gaze.

  “I had a look at Brad’s autopsy report today.”