by Irene Hannon
When he turned, he found Ellen on the threshold. Her gaze shifted from the glass in his hand to the open decanter on the bar, surprise flickering in her irises.
He clamped his lips together and tightened his grip on the glass. “Did you need something?”
She blinked, and her usual expressionless mask slipped into place. “Your exchange called. They couldn’t reach you on your cell.”
Frowning, he pulled his phone off his belt. No wonder. The battery was dead.
That was a first.
And yet one more example of his growing distraction.
“Did you get a number?”
She held out a slip of paper but remained on the threshold.
He moved toward her and took it from her fingers. “Thanks.”
As he read the name and number, the silence was broken by the rattle of the ice in his glass.
His hand was still shaking.
Ellen’s expression didn’t change, but she slanted another look at his drink.
Heat surged on his cheeks, and he shot her an annoyed glance. “Did you need anything else?”
She stood there for a long moment. Her features remained impassive, but some indefinable emotion in the depths of her eyes registered at the fringe of his awareness. He’d seen it before, on the few occasions he’d paid any attention to her in the past couple of years. Was it . . . longing? Sadness? Disappointment?
But who had time for riddles? He had more important things to worry about than his wife’s enigmatic emotions.
She turned away. “No. I don’t need anything else.”
As she walked down the hall, he shut the door and forgot about her.
Cradling his drink, he circled his desk and set the glass on the blotter that protected the mahogany surface. Then he sank into his chair.
What a day.
For twelve hours, he’d watched Moira Harrison watch him. He’d dazzled her with his surgical skill. Impressed her with his empathy for patients. Fed her the information he wanted her to have. He’d done everything possible to eradicate her suspicion.
But as they’d parted, he’d still seen questions in her eyes.
Thanks to a stupid ring he should have taken off before the interview.
A ring that no longer meant anything, anyway.
He took a long swallow of the brandy, grimacing as it burned a path down his throat.
What was he supposed to do now?
In the corner, the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock picked at his frayed nerves. Why had he never noticed that annoying background noise before?
He took another drink. This one went down easier.
Leaning back in his chair, he forced himself to analyze the situation logically, as his father had taught him.
The nosy reporter might have her suspicions, but what could she prove? He’d been careful. Covered his tracks. Everything had gone smoothly, except for that one glitch.
He sighed and took another sip, letting the warmth spread through his chest. Who could have known mild-mannered Olivia would go ballistic?
But he’d taken care of that too, despite the inopportune appearance of Moira Harrison. So why do anything? Why not wait and see? No way would the police pay any attention to the reporter, on the remote chance she’d take her suspicions to them. The eminent Dr. Blaine, humanitarian of the year, deserting an injured woman on an obscure country road when he could prove he’d been at a civic fund-raiser that night? They might even laugh at her.
He swallowed the last of his drink, letting the alcohol chase away the vestiges of tension in his shoulders as a smile played at the corners of his mouth. The situation might not be as bad as he’d feared. All of this could blow over.
After a few more minutes, he rose and braced himself on the edge of the desk, giving the room a chance to settle. Then he crossed the plush carpet to deposit his glass on the bar. Natalie would take care of it when she came to clean the house tomorrow.
Once more he settled behind his desk and picked up the slip of paper Ellen had handed him. The Owens baby had gone home yesterday, but the mother was a basket case. No doubt she simply needed some hand-holding, which he was happy to provide. That’s what doctors did. Comfort, cure, relieve suffering. His father’s mantra had become his own.
As he tapped in the number, he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. He was Dr. Kenneth Blaine, respected surgeon, benefactor to the children of Guatemala, and a shining example of Christian charity in action.
And he would let no one—especially a concussed woman lost on a country road—undermine the legacy he’d created.
8
You want the goods on his wife, his father, and his charitable organization. Check. I’ll get right on it.” As Nikki rose from her seat across Cal’s desk, Dev swerved into the office.
“Ah, Nikki, me darlin’ lass. Would ye have a wee bit o’ time to do a little more filing today?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t try that blarney on me, James Devlin. Keep it for those airheads you date. Maybe they’ll fall for it. I have more important things to do.” She gestured toward her tablet.
He shot her a look of feigned indignation. “Are you impugning the intelligence of the women with whom I choose to socialize?”
“You mean like that nuclear physicist you brought to the company Christmas party? The one who thought computer forensics was some kind of new video game?”
“Very funny. But the filing still needs to be done.”
“I’ll do it later today. Or Monday.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
He disappeared down the hall, toward the small kitchenette in the back.
Cal leaned forward. “Look, Nikki, this is pro bono stuff. If you need to get to Dev’s filing, I can handle some of the background work.”
She waved his comment aside. “I’ll take care of Dev sometime today, but I’d rather start with your case. It’s a lot more interesting.”
With that, she retreated to the hall and went the opposite direction Dev had taken.
Half a minute later, Connor poked his head in the door. “I just read your email. Since when do you have an interest in opera?”
“I don’t. But I need to get my hands on—”
“Hey . . . what’s this all about?” Dev shouldered past Connor and invaded his office, pizza box in hand. “Did we miss a party?”
Cal stifled a groan. He’d meant to toss the incriminating evidence into the dumpster out back before he left last night. And he would have, if he hadn’t been distracted by a certain reporter.
“No party. A working session. Moira stopped by to brief me on her day with the doctor. That’s why I asked you about contact information for Opera Theatre.” He directed the latter comment to Connor. “Are you still on friendly terms with that woman you dated who volunteered with the group?”
“Yeah. I heard she’s engaged now, but I have her number.”
“Any chance she could get me a guest list and a seating chart for a fund-raiser?”
“I can ask. Why?”
“Dr. Blaine claims he was at an Opera Theatre event the Friday night Moira had the accident. I need to check it out. If you guys have a few minutes, I can brief you on the latest.”
“I’m in.” Connor dropped into one of the chairs across from Cal’s desk.
“Me too.” Dev claimed the other. Still holding the pizza box he’d found on the counter.
Cal gave them a condensed version of last night’s discussion.
“Your theory about her being drugged is . . . creative.” Connor sent him a skeptical look.
“How else would you explain the nonexistent glass, the bruise, and her lengthy stretch of unconsciousness?”
“I kind of like that premise.” Dev seemed to have forgotten about the pizza box. Good. “I wonder what he would have used? Morphine, maybe. It would take a few minutes to start working, which fits with her story. And an intramuscular injection would hurt, which also fits.”<
br />
Cal considered him. “Is that your undercover ATF experience speaking?”
“Yeah. I learned a few things.” A shadow crossed his eyes. “More than I wanted to know, actually.”
So his partner had secrets too. No surprise there. Cal suspected they all did. Despite their solid friendship, they didn’t share everything—and they respected each other’s boundaries.
“I think you’re both grasping at straws, but I’ll call my contact and see if I can get what you need.” Connor rose.
Dev stood too, and tapped the pizza box. “There were two perfectly good pieces inside, you know.”
“Yeah. I forgot to put them in the refrigerator.”
“Preoccupied?” Dev sent a pointed glance toward Moira’s case file.
Cal ignored that comment and spoke to Connor. “If your source doesn’t work out, let me know and I’ll come up with another angle.”
“You got it.”
As Connor exited, Cal steered Dev’s train of thought in a different direction. “By the way, Nikki told me she should be able to get to your filing later today.”
His face lit up. “No kidding? That’s encouraging. Stuff’s starting to spill onto the floor again.”
“You could always tackle it yourself.”
“Nah.” He juggled the box in his hand as he exited but stopped in the hall to throw one final comment over his shoulder. “Invite me to the party next time, okay?”
Cal watched his partner disappear, then swung toward his computer. Invite a guy who thought Moira was hot?
Not a chance.
“That was fast.” Cal looked over the faxed list of Opera Theatre gala guests, grouped by tables, that Connor handed him.
“Here’s a bonus. The agenda for the evening.” Connor set another sheet of paper on his desk.
“You and your ex must have parted on good terms.”
“It was all very friendly. We just discovered we had nothing in common.”
“Verdi and Puccini versus U2?” Cal’s lips flexed. “Yeah, I can see how that might be an obstacle to romance.” He lifted the sheets of paper. “I owe you.”
“Not a problem. Keep me in the loop. I’m beginning to get curious about this one myself. The doctor’s there, by the way. Table 16.”
Cal checked it out. Sure enough, Blaine’s name was on the list.
But had he actually shown?
“I’ll dig a little deeper.”
“I figured you would.” With a lift of his hand, Connor disappeared out the door.
Cal was already focused on the eight people at Table 16. Three couples, the doctor, and a woman. Were any of the doctor’s tablemates the neighbor he’d referenced?
He did a quick search of the online phone directory, typing in the last names for the three couples. One number was unlisted. The other two didn’t live on the doctor’s street. Perfect. He didn’t want the neighbor mentioning his call and possibly arousing suspicion. If the doctor had something to hide, his antennas would be up.
Choosing one of the two couples at random, he picked up his phone, pushed *67 to bypass caller ID, then tapped in the number and settled back in his chair. If he was lucky, someone would answer at one of the numbers. He needed a live person, not voice mail.
He hit pay dirt with the second number.
“Mrs. Williams?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry to bother you at home.” Sincere, apologetic, friendly. Just the right tone. “This is Bill Colbert. I’m trying to track down the owner of a Montblanc pen that was found near Table 16 at the Opera Theatre gala on April 15. We thought someone would eventually call and claim it, but no one has. I wondered if you or your husband might have dropped it?”
“No. Neither of us used a pen that evening.”
“Perhaps someone else at your table did?” He looked again at the seating list. “I believe the Russells were seated with you, and a Dr. Blaine?”
“I don’t recall Genevieve or Ed doing any writing at the table, and I’m afraid I didn’t see much of the doctor. We’d no more than said hello when he excused himself to take a call, just as the salads were being served. He never did return, poor man. A doctor’s life isn’t his own, is it? You have to be so dedicated to pursue that profession. It’s possible he jotted some notes down during the call. You might want to check with him.”
Blaine had disappeared early in the evening. No later than—Cal skimmed the agenda—7:05 or 7:10, if dinner had started on schedule at 7:00.
He set the agenda aside. “I’ll do that. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Well, I do hope you find the owner. And please tell your people the gala was lovely. I’m so looking forward to the season opening.”
“I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for your support.”
He set the phone back in its cradle, rocked back in his chair, and rolled his pen between his fingers.
Assuming Blaine had left the gala at the mid-county restaurant by 7:15 and jumped on the highway, he could easily have made it to Moira’s location in time to be her vanishing Good Samaritan, despite the rainstorm. He would even have had time to make a small detour.
So much for his alibi.
Dev tapped on his office door. “Don’t forget Mitchell is coming in this morning.”
Right. The defense attorney wanted to discuss some witnesses he needed them to locate so subpoenas could be served. The meeting was on his calendar—which he hadn’t bothered to check when he’d come in.
“Thanks for the reminder. By the way, Blaine’s alibi just went south.”
“Yeah?” Dev propped a shoulder against the door. “So what’s next?”
“I’ll see what Nikki turns up on the wife, the father, and the doctor’s charitable organization. I’m also considering a trash cover.”
Dev grimaced. “Messy job.”
“But often productive. You interested in pitching in?”
“When?”
“I’ll let you know after I find out the pickup schedule for his neighborhood.”
“Going through people’s trash isn’t my favorite part of being a PI.”
“I might be able to get Moira to help me sort through it if you help me collect it.” Not a bad idea, actually. He’d much rather spend time with her than Dev. “She’s got an investigative eye. I doubt she’d miss anything.”
“Excellent plan, but don’t expect it to win you any points with the lady. Count me in for the retrieval.” He checked his watch. “See you in the conference room in ten.”
As Dev exited, Cal swiveled back to his computer to answer a few emails before the meeting. And by the time it was over, maybe Nikki would have some more information for him on Blaine.
“So how goes it with the case of the vanishing duo?” Linda paused beside Moira’s desk in the newsroom, juggling a soda in one hand and a bulging file in the other. “I’ve been meaning to check in with you since I had to cancel out on our last walk, but things have been nuts.”
“Hot story?”
“Yeah.” She hefted the file. “Cole Taylor, the St. Louis County detective who gave me your PI’s name, and his partner just busted a cold case that’s been baffling the bureau for a year and a half. I’ve been printing out a bunch of the earlier articles and gathering police reports. Those two guys are amazing.” She settled a hip on the edge of the desk. “And speaking of amazing guys . . . I only have five minutes, but give me the lowdown on what your stalwart PI turned up.”
“Nothing new to report. Blaine offered an alibi yesterday for the night of my accident, and Cal’s checking it out as we speak.”
Linda arched an eyebrow. “It’s Cal now, is it?”
“We’ve been talking a lot. No one’s formal these days.” Moira picked up her can of soda and took a swig, hoping the chilly liquid would cool her cheeks.
“How informal have you two gotten?”
She set the can down, suddenly regretting she’d told Linda that Cal was a widower. “He’s not interested in romance. His wife mig
ht be gone, but he’s still in love with her.”
“How do you know?”
Because he was completely unreceptive to my not-so-subtle overtures.
And what had that been all about, anyway? That wasn’t her usual style.
Moira shrugged. “I can see it in his eyes when he talks about her.”
“I don’t know.” Linda studied her. “You might be wrong on this one. It could be he just doesn’t mix business and pleasure.”
An ember of hope ignited—but she quashed it at once. She wasn’t going to let herself get carried away. She’d already embarrassed herself with him once.
“I don’t think so. Besides, I’d rather focus on getting this mystery solved before I dive back into romance.”
“Hmm.” Linda stood and shifted the folder in her arms. “You want my advice? Sometimes men need a little prodding. Don’t be afraid to let him know you’re interested.”
“How do you know I am?”
Linda lifted her own can of soda in salute, and parroted her own words back to her. “I can see it in your eyes when you talk about him. I’ll check in soon for another update.”
As her friend walked away, Moira propped her elbow on her desk and planted her chin in her palm. If her interest was that obvious, she needed to tone it down. Especially around Cal. In the future, she’d be polite, pleasant, grateful, and businesslike. Nothing more.
And after this was all over, she’d walk away and leave the next move to him.
With a wish and a prayer that there was a next move.
When Cal returned to his desk after the meeting with the defense attorney, three file folders labeled Ellen Blaine, Dr. Alan Blaine, and Let the Children Come, Inc., were waiting for him.
One day soon he’d have to talk with the guys about another raise for Nikki. Speed, accuracy, and dependability were qualities worth rewarding.
He started with Ellen’s file, the thinnest of the group. It contained only a cover fact sheet and some attached clippings. He did a quick scan. Age fifty-four. Born Ellen Montgomery in Indianapolis. Married Kenneth Blaine in her hometown twenty-eight years ago. St. Louis resident since her marriage, at two different addresses. Active in the St. Louis Herb Society and a volunteer at the Missouri Botanical Garden.
