"I see." Victoria wanted to scream, Here she was, zooming in on odd behavior she'd convinced herself was tied to the dealings at the Hope Institute, when all she'd really picked up on the other night was the impatience of two lovers who wanted to be together.
So much for Elizabeth Bonner.
Strange, though, that Ian Block would be the one to so blithely mention this. It was totally out of character. He, who was the essence of protocol, determined not to make a ripple as he sliced the waters leading to his coveted senior partnership. Why would he divulge word of Elizabeth Bonner's affair with Benjamin Hopewell?
She shot him a sidelong glance.
What he'd told her had to be true. The affair was too easy to confirm, and Ian was too smart to get caught in an outright He.
No, he was playing mind games with her. He'd told her this intentionally—and made sure to add that the senior partners disapproved of the affair. By "senior partners," he was clearly alluding to her father. Well, he needn't have bothered. She knew her father's values only too well. In his book of rules, an attorney-client love affair would be appalling. In fact, this little tidbit more than explained his dismissive attitude toward Elizabeth Bonner.
Did Ian hope Victoria would be similarly offended? Was he hoping to drive a rift between her and Ms. Bonner? Doubtful. He'd done his homework on her. He knew from her caseloads alone that she was liberal in her acceptance of people's life choices.
He also knew from experience that her father wasn't.
Was that what this was about? Was Ian trying to pit her against her father?
Now that possibility made all the sense in the world.
A falling out between her and her father would clear the decks for Ian's promotion. And what better way to accomplish that than by baiting her—and by baiting her at no risk to himself, using a piece of throw-away gossip everyone already knew about?
So this whole Elizabeth Bonner conversation was part of Ian's agenda. It had no bearing on the information she'd come here to dig up.
Dammit.
She ran a hand through her hair in frustration.
Instead of solutions, all she was finding were more complications. And in the process, she was running into one dead end after another.
"Victoria? Have I shocked you?" Ian interrupted her thoughts to ask.
She looked up, found him studying her pensively.
She'd be damned if she gave him any food for thought. Let him wonder if his bait had been snatched.
"I don't shock that easily," she replied, her impassive tone and expression neither confirming nor countering that statement. "Actually, I'm relieved to hear you people take time out for recreation." She inclined her head, intentionally dismissing the subject before Ian could pursue it further. "Shall we go down to your office and get started familiarizing me with your clients?"
"Absolutely." Still scrutinizing her, he opened the door, gestured for her to precede him. "After you."
Outwardly composed, Victoria walked down to lan's office, her thoughts in a tangle.
If Elizabeth Bonner wasn't the link here, then she'd have to find another connection to the Hope Institute.
More and more, it seemed as if that connection could be no one but her father.
4.00 P.M.
Zach shut the door to his hotel suite, tearing open the package the FBI had just sent over by special messenger. He pulled out a videotape, which had a Post-it stuck on marked "Urgent. Start at 2:35. Profiles being run." He recognized Meyer's handwriting.
Whatever activity had been recorded taking place at the 2:35 spot on the tape, it was pretty critical. Critical enough for Meyer to be running profiles on whoever appeared there, and for him to want Zach to review it right away.
Curious as hell, Zach popped the tape into the VCR, pressed Play and then Fast Forward, so he could advance the tape to the right spot without missing anything along the way.
The images were flashing rapidly across the screen as he settled himself on the living room sofa. Keeping a careful eye on the VCR's time indicator, he glanced through the rest of the package contents. Included were copies of the Hope Institute's monthly bills and a pair of cell phones—the secure ones he'd requested when he visited the field office that morning. Good. Now Victoria could call him, or anyone else for that matter, without fear that someone was listening in. And he didn't have to waste time figuring out whether his hotel and cell phones were bugged as well.
He scanned the bills, which consisted primarily of the Hope Institute's last few utility statements: water, oil, gas and electric, phone. Meyer had finished doing his own check on these and, having found nothing out of the ordinary, was turning them over to Zach for closer inspection.
Actually, when Zach had stopped in earlier, Meyer had been almost through with that task. But he'd abandoned it in order to hear Zach's update. The feds were far more interested in the Merritt Parkway attack and Audrey's message than they were in a review of routine bills. Not to mention how intrigued they'd been by Zach's theory that Victoria's phones were bugged—a theory they immediately jumped on. They'd sent one of their men right out to Victoria's apartment to check out the place.
As expected, he'd found the bug in the basement at the interface box.
As requested, he'd left it there.
They were closing in on these bastards. Zach could feel it.
He examined the most recent telephone bill. Calls to Waters, Kensington, Tatem & Calder appeared five or six times. That would be explained away as updates to Walter Kensington on his daughter's condition. Zach skimmed the other calls. Even though they'd all been verified by the FBI as legitimate, he quickly compared them to the last few telephone statements to see if there were any changes.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Next came the electric bill. No change there.
Same with the fuel bills—oil and gas.
The tape was nearing the 2:35 mark, so Zach pressed Stop. He was about to refold the bills and put them away when something odd struck him about the fuel bill.
The costs for gas were high—very high, considering the Hope Institute had oil heat. He'd read that spec in the general description the FBI had first provided him. He'd also seen the oil truck arrive. True, the Institute's gas consumption was consistent from month to month, but that didn't explain why it was so high. According to his fact sheet, only their hot water was heated by gas.
He whipped out his pad and made a note to himself to double-check that detail and to see what, if any, additional cooking facilities or medical equipment the Institute had and if they operated on gas. Something here didn't ring true.
He shoved aside his notebook and hit Play, hunkering down on the sofa and staring intently at the TV.
First the usual stream of traffic.
Then a slow-moving maroon Lincoln Town Car turned into the Institute's private drive and descended into the underground garage. Interesting. That car didn't look familiar. He backed up the tape until he had a clear view of the rear license plate. Hitting Pause, he checked the numbers. Nope. He'd never seen it before. He rewound the tape a bit more, then squinted at the car windows.
A frail, elderly man was seated in the back. A new patient, Zach surmised. Either that, or a returning one, here for outpatient treatment. No matter. The man's image was too faint to run a profile on. And his arrival hardly warranted the kind of reaction Meyer's note suggested.
There had to be more.
Zach released the pause function and let the tape continue playing.
A few more minutes of passing traffic.
Abruptly, the doorman opened the front door of the Hope Institute, and five staff members—two men and three women—emerged, walked down to the curb, and stood there, gazing uneasily around.
Now, this was unprecedented. No Institute employees ever lingered outside the building for long periods of time. And certainly not five of them at once.
Zach peered closely. The two men were security guards, judging from their un
iforms. Two of the women were nurses. He recognized them, not only from their attire, but from their strides and general appearance. He'd seen them dash in and out of the Institute before, but he'd never gotten a clear view of their faces. He did now. The third woman was that militant receptionist Miss Evans.
What were they doing out there?
The question had barely formed when the answer presented itself.
A gray Rolls Royce glided down Seventy-eighth Street and up to the sidewalk in front of the Hope Institute, where it stopped.
This front-door activity was definitely a first.
Zach abandoned the sofa altogether, dragging a chair over so he could sit right in front of the TV.
The tape continued rolling.
The driver of the Rolls hopped out on the right side and opened the back door. A balding man emerged, then walked around and tugged open the opposite door, after which he reached in to help a stooped woman get out on the curb side. The driver unlocked the trunk and pulled out a walker, which he hastily placed ori the pavement beside the car. Glaring at him, the woman waved him away.
"I can walk on my own."
"Please, Mrs. Flanders." It was Miss Evans who spoke, her soothing voice clearly intercepted by the infrared bug and only slightly out of sync with the movement of her lips. "Why don't you have your driver take you in through our underground garage? There's a ramp there that leads to a lovely corridor, with no steps for you to climb. It would be so much more comfortable for you. Miss Rivers and Miss Groves"—a swift gesture at each of the two nurses in turn—"can meet you down there. I'm sure you'll find it far easier—"
"I'm not going under any building. I don't go through basement doors. I go through front doors. Do you know who I am? How rich I am?" Mrs. Flanders barked in a gravelly tone. "Janitors go through basements. I go through foyers."
"Yes, ma'am." Miss Evans sounded resigned. She darted another quick glance up and down the street, then scooted around to take Mrs. Flanders's elbow.
The balding man hastened to her other side, holding her arm in the loving manner of a son.
Behind them, the two nurses gathered up her belongings.
"Beatrice, take her coat and her walker. She'll need the walker once she gets inside." This time it was Miss Rivers who spoke. Younger by at least fifteen years than the gray-haired Beatrice Groves, she was attractive and trim, with honey-blond hair and an authoritative manner. She was obviously superior in rank—the Institute's head nurse would be Zach's guess.
'Til have someone from maintenance get the luggage," she continued. "I need to get back inside and administer medication to two outpatients." She picked up a vanity case that, opened and on closer inspection, looked more like a traveling drugstore. She glanced through it, studying the vials of medication. 'Til take these. They're old prescriptions. Mrs. Flanders's new medication is ready. As is her room. It's been made up since yesterday."
"Of course." Beatrice Groves's brow furrowed, and she shot an odd, probing look at her supervisor. Then she lowered her gaze, tucking a strand of gray hair back in her bun. "I'll take her coat and overnight case to her room."
Something about the older woman's tone must have alerted Miss Rivers, because she inclined her head and eyed her thoughtfully. "What's wrong? You haven't been yourself all day."
A brief hesitation. "1 keep thinking about poor Mr. Pratt, whose loom Mrs. Flanders is taking," Beatrice replied quietly. "I had such hopes that he'd improve . . ."She sighed, gave a sad lift of her shoulders. "We've lost four patients these past few months. I guess it's getting to me."
"I know." Miss Rivers patted her arm. "But think about all the patients we've saved, those who respond well and leave here cured. Hopefully, Mrs. Flanders will be one of the lucky ones."
"You're right."
"Of course I am. Now let's go inside. The last thing our patients need is for us to cause a spectacle on Seventy-eighth Street." She turned, including the two security guards in her instructions.
With a terse nod, they all complied. Beatrice followed Miss Rivers up the stairs and into the Institute, where Miss Evans, along with their new patient and her son, had already disappeared. The security guards did a final scrutiny of the area, then did the same.
Zach watched until he was sure the scene had played itself out. Then he whipped out his fact sheets and began poring over them. Four deaths, Beatrice had said. That was news to him.
There it was. No wonder the FBI was so eager for his take on things.
According to their reports, no death certificates had been filed by the Hope Institute in the past six months. Talk about a major discrepancy. And there was something else bothering Zach—something he needed to verify.
He continued leafing through the pages.
There.
According to the required documents filed by the Hope Institute, the clinic had only a thirty-bed capacity. On top of that, there was a four-month waiting list to get into this elite clinic. The natural assumption, therefore, was that all those beds were filled.
Clearly, they weren't. At least one new patient had been admitted today. And four others had died, without a shred of paperwork being filed.
What the hell was going on in this place?
Zach picked up one of the secure cell phones and punched in a number.
"Meyer," the harried voice at the other end answered.
"I see no record of any death certificates," Zach stated without preamble.
"Yeah, well, neither do we."
"Then where are they putting Mrs. Flanders—are there additional rooms we don't know about?"
"None on file with the city."
"I've got a bad feeling about this. When will the profiles be ready?"
"A day, maybe two. Because once we have the basic specs on each employee, we want to poke around, get any personal slants we can."
"Call me the minute you've got something to work with. Pay special attention to that Beatrice Groves. My instincts lell me she's on edge about something. We might be able to use it to get her to help us."
"You read my mind."
Zach paused, still bothered by the fuel bill amounts— amounts that seemed so out of whack. "Meyer, do me a favor and check out something else."
"Name it."
"See if any of the cooking facilities or medical equipment at the Institute run on gas. Because if they don't. . ." Zach frowned. "There's something going on at this clinic. Something beyond drug drop-offs. I'm beginning to think we've just uncovered the tip of the iceberg "
* * *
25
Dinner was a pizza and two glasses of wine, eaten in taut silence at Victoria's kitchen table. Zach delivered the food himself, showing up at Victoria's door at eight o'clock, overnight bag in hand, ready to hash over the day's events.
She'd let him in, looking utterly worn out, her nerves frayed and much closer to the surface than usual. Despite the lateness of the hour, she'd only just arrived home from her first grueling afternoon at Waters, Kensington, Tatem & Calder. She was still dressed in her business suit and pumps, her hazel eyes tired and troubled, her frustration palpable— and understandable, given the entire day of dead ends she began describing to Zach.
Hearing Zach's update left her even more on edge.
She stared grimly at the secure cell phone he gave her, listened as he explained he had its mate. Then, with a nod of thanks, she went and slipped the phone into her purse, returning to set the table, open a bottle of wine, and serve the pizza.
Afterward, they sat there nibbling as the clock ticked its way to eight-thirty. Victoria stared down at her food, her lashes veiling her expression.
Zach sipped his cabernet, studying Victoria's strained posture and trying to figure out how much of that strain was based on what he'd told her, how much on what she'd told him, and how much on the agonizing she was doing over what had happened in his bed at the Plaza Athénée this weekend.
Not what they'd done. What they'd felt.
Pensively, Za
ch chewed, weighing the risks of trying to draw her out. He might get results. Or he might widen the gap between them.
A sudden, totally unrelated thought struck—one that troubled him too much to leave alone. He shoved aside his plate, not mincing any words in pursuing the idea. "You're upset. Is it because I told the FBI details about your involvement in all this?" he demanded. "Nothing I relayed was a breach of trust, Victoria. I never mentioned Audrey's bulimia. And I purposely avoided exploring any avenues that might get sticky—namely, ones that would directly implicate your father. I just told the feds what they needed to know in order to protect you—and what I'm ethically obligated to tell them as my client. The truth is, I had no choice at this point. Not after the near miss on the Merritt, the bugging of your phones—"
"Zach—stop." Victoria waved away his explanation. She raised her head, and Zach felt a tug at his heart when he saw the combined fatigue and confusion in her eyes. "I am upset. But it's certainly not because you talked to the FBI. I knew you'd have to give them details. We're beyond the point where amateur sleuthing is enough to fix things. Something serious is going on at the Hope Institute. After what you told me you saw on that videotape"—she sucked in her breath— "I'm more worried about Audrey than I am about discretion. As for my father, I'll protect him to the best of my ability. More than that..." She gave a helpless shrug. "What I can't stand anymore is the waiting. Tomorrow I'm doing something."
"What?" Zach asked warily.
"Nothing drastic, just definitive. My father's got a lunch meeting. I heard him tell Ian that. He'll be gone from noon until two-fifteen. Miss Hatterman takes her lunch from twelve-thirty to one-thirty every day like clockwork. While they're both gone, I'm going into his office and poking around."
Zach frowned. "If anyone finds you there—"