The four of them had shared a warm, lighthearted hour at a local bar, toasting Victoria's engagement, with Meg and Paul making good-natured I-told-you-so jokes, and Paige examining Victoria's ring at different angles and in different types of light.
Zach was right. The time with her friends had been good for her, if for no other reason than to distract her for a while.
But once she was alone in Zach's hotel suite, with only a long, dark night and indefinite hours of uncertainty looming ahead, the apprehension had returned big-time.
It was now daybreak. And the apprehension hadn't faded.
What was happening inside the Hope Institute? What had Zach found out? Had he seen Audrey? And, most important, had he managed to keep his identity a secret? Because, if not. ..
Her secure cell phone rang, breaking into her thoughts and causing her to spill the entire contents of her coffee cup as she lunged to answer it.
"Hello?" she snapped out, her fingers biting into the receiver.
"It's me." Zach voice was terse, hushed.
"Thank God. Are you all right?"
"Fine. But I've got to talk fast. Beatrice is guarding my door, making sure no one's coming. If I hang up suddenly, you'll understand. I saw Audrey. She's okay, just kind of drugged up. From the way she's acting, I'd say they were giving her sedatives to keep her under control, not some miracle drug to treat her bulimia. But I'm not sure. The important thing is, she's not in any danger. I couldn't tell her who I was—not yet. There wasn't time, and she wasn't really lucid. But I'll find a way."
"Don't, Zach. If they figure out who you are—"
"They won't," he interrupted, continuing to speak in that same urgent whisper. "I'm giving all the information I've got so far to you, since I don't know when I'll have the chance to call Meyer."
"I'll call him."
"Not yet. I need more time. I have to find proof tying the Hope Institute to the drug syndicate. I also need to find out who their damned CEO is. I'll have to get into their computer system for that, because whoever this CEO is, he's practically invisible. Not a surprise, given what he's mixed up in. There's a hell of a lot more going on here than just drug money and fraud."
"Like what?"
"I'll get to that in a minute. In the meantime, I was busy last night. I found the crematorium; it's in the basement, along with a steel storage cabinet I'm willing to bet holds urns filled with ashes—the remains of patients whose relatives have yet to be told of their parting. I also found the audio engineer's room. He's got to be our wiretapper. He has a cabinet loaded with audio tapes of the patients' therapy sessions. And he's got lots of equipment, including digital editing gear. My guess is that's how the Institute keeps relatives paying—by making them think their loved ones are alive. They cut and paste the patients' words, then use them to leave phone messages saying all is well. Voilà—life after death. The bodies are cremated, no death certificates are filed—at least not for a while—and no one's the wiser, so the money keeps pouring in. If I'm right, that's the technique they used to leave Audrey's first telephone message. They spliced her words together to say what they wanted. You thought her voice sounded stilted? It was."
Victoria sank into a chair, her mind reeling. "That's enough to arrest them on, Zach. I'll call Meyer and he'll send in his men, so you can get out of there—"
"No. Not yet. Not until I have proof. Right now, there's too much speculation, and too much wiggle room that would allow them to explain their way out of the charges— especially with your fattier representing them. Besides, I'm onto something more. That's what I was alluding to before. I found a room with some cryogenic medical containers, the kind used to transport body organs or medical samples. They get through customs with a letter of authorization or a permit. The procedure's highly regulated by the Centers for Disease Control, so the containers don't usually get opened by customs."
"You think that's how the drugs got into the country?"
"Yes and no. Not the kind of drugs you mean, but, yes, that's how I think the drugs got here." Zach paused, probably glancing over at Beatrice to make sure he wasn't risking discovery. "I think the FBI's barking up the wrong tree. That's why they're coming up empty, and why their dogs aren't sniffing out any narcotics. That room with the medical receptacles—I saw Gloria Rivers go in there empty-handed. When she came out, she had containers of medicine, marked with patients' names. You know, the ones Beatrice said are proprietary drug combinations developed by the Institute?"
Reality punched Victoria in the gut. "You think she took them from those receptacles. You think the Hope Institute is importing illegal drugs and using them on their patients."
"It would explain a lot. But I need evidence. I can't even get a warrant to search the place without it. And I need the name of the Institute's CEO. Hopefully, I'll find it in their computer files. I don't want him slipping through our fingers. Gloria Rivers is nothing but a pawn." She might not even know what she's handling—although I suspect otherwise."
"Zach—"
"Sweetheart, I've got to hang up. The morning shift is starting to arrive. I can't risk anyone seeing me with my cell phone. I'll call the next chance I get. Remember, Atkins is keeping an eye on you in case Mr. Cigar tries anything. But he won't. Not if you spend the weekend in my hotel suite. And when you do go out, only go to places you'd normally go. That'll keep him satisfied. We're nearing the home stretch. I love you."
With a soft click, the call disconnected.
Victoria was shaking as she punched End and lowered the phone to the chair. Yes, everything Zach suspected made sense. Too much sense. Illegal drugs, smuggled from outside the country, but not to sell. To use on patients as guinea pigs, making obscene profits in the process. It would explain the secrecy, the restrictions placed on outsiders, the demand for cremation. The Institute kept the evidence inside their private walls, then destroyed it afterward, so no one would know.
That prospect shed new light on the elaborate posthumous arrangements delineated in the Institute's legal documents.
Documents prepared by her father.
Sickness welled up in Victoria's throat. Did her father actually know all this was going on? Was he really so hungry for wealth and power that he'd stooped to this?
She couldn't—wouldn't—believe it. He was many things, but not a sacrificer of lives.
Maybe his guilt was limited, but to what extent? And even if it was, did it matter? To her, yes. To the courts, no. As legal counsel, he signed every contract. And he'd go down with the CEO.
Legal ethics warred with the fine bonds of family loyalty. He was her father, for God's sake. When she'd committed herself to this investigation, she'd done it to uncover his part in all this so she could bargain for leniency. She'd believed there was a limit to his unscrupulousness, even if that limit was only a respect for human life.
She believed it still.
On that realization, she raked both hands through her hair. She had to give her father one chance, one chance to prove himself before this entire thing broke wide open and the FBI brought down the Hope Institute, together with everyone involved, including him.
But how? How could she go to him and tell him what she knew without jeopardizing Zach in the process?
Zach needed the name of the Institute's CEO. There was no guarantee their computer files could give him that. But there was every guarantee Walter Kensington could. He was an officer of the corporation. He'd have to be to sign all their contracts, including the original contract of sale he'd drawn up between Benjamin Hopewell and the buyer of the Hope Institute. He knew who was behind the smoke screen of that Swiss holding company. He'd known who he was dealing with then, and he knew it now. He'd never agree to represent an anonymous client—not only would it be like walking a minefield blindfolded, it would mean relinquishing control.
Unthinkable.
So her father knew this CEO's name. It was up to her to get it—and hopefully throw her father a life preserver in the process.
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There was only one way to go about this. That was to leave Zach out of it. No one knew he was David Karr. No one knew he was in the Institute right now, digging for evidence. So if she handled this right, his involvement would never come up.
She'd have to play her hand carefully, make sure her father stayed the mouse and she the cat, whichever direction he veered in. And she'd have to go about it in such a way that it gave Mr. Cigar nothing out of the ordinary to report. But she had to try. Not only to spare her father, but to help Zach. He needed proof. She could get it. Besides, she couldn't just sit tight, doing nothing but waiting and worrying.
Her gaze fell on the clock. Almost 7 a.m. She'd have to hurry.
She rose and headed for the shower.
Waters, Kensington, Tatem & Colder
8:15 a.m.
It was raining again, just like the Saturday morning two weeks ago when Audrey had collapsed at her feet in Central Park.
Her father wasn't at the club. Victoria had called to make sure, and the golf pro told her that he'd been there at six, canceled his game, and said something about heading to the office if anyone asked.
Good. This conversation would be easier there. And Mr. Cigar would assume she was going to her desk.
She slipped her key card into the slot beside the door and walked in.
The office was quiet, only a few junior partners and their secretaries in, busting their tails on a corporate merger agreement that had been dropped on them late yesterday. Otherwise, the activity level was nil, the outer office quiet, the inner sanctuaries dark.
She made her way directly to her father's office and knocked.
"Yes?" His voice sounded mildly surprised, and none too pleased. When he went in on weekends, it was to catch up. He liked peace and quiet.
Well, he wasn't getting any this morning.
Victoria went in, shutting the door in her wake. "Father, I need to see you. It's urgent."
Walter Kensington looked up from behind his formidable cherry desk. His brows snapped together, more in annoyance than concern. "Victoria, you're not dressed for the office."
She glanced down at herself and realized that, compared to her father's crisp suit and tie, her cable-knit sweater, khakis, and blazer made her look as if she were going slumming. Ironic that was all he cared about. He didn't ask why she was underdressed in his precious corporate domain or, for that matter, what she was doing in the office at all at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning, in an obviously agitated state. All he commented on was the fact that she hadn't abided by the dress code.
"I realize that," she replied. "I'm not here to work. I'm here to see you—privately."
Something about her tone must have conveyed the gravity of what was on her mind. Her father studied her for a moment, then lowered the pages he'd been reading, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his desk and steeple his fingers. "What is this about?"
She advanced toward him, flattened her palms on the desk's gleaming cherry veneer, and stared him down. "It's about me trying to save your skin."
Ice glittered in his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about. What's more, I don't care for your tone."
"And I don't care for your actions. But you're my father. So I'm intervening—before it's too late. Either listen to me, or I guarantee you'll end up in prison."
"Prison," he repeated, his lips thinning into a tight, angry line. "What kind of threat is that?"
"It's no threat. It's a reality based on your involvement with the Hope Institute. And I don't mean as it pertains to Audrey. I mean your serving as the Institute's corporate counsel, drafting agreements that call for all patients to relinquish their control—over their lives, their deaths, their estates." She swallowed, determined to keep her emotions totally in check. "I need to know—how deep is your involvement, Father? How much are you aware of, based on firsthand experience, and how much has transpired while you conveniently looked the other way? I need to know if I'm going to effectively represent you—or even be able to look you in the eye."
Walter Kensington's color had deepened, and his features were taut with fury. "Where did you get this alleged information?"
"It's not alleged. It's factual." She picked up the Silver Seraph, turned it upside down, pointing at the Smart Card. "I saw the forms firsthand on your computer files. All of them, right down to the cremation clauses. It's a neat little arrangement. The bodies are destroyed, the Hope Institute is protected, and Waters, Kensington, Tatem and Calder gets all the trust and estate business. I'm sure you make a fortune."
For the first time in her life, Victoria saw her father's control snap. He rose slowly, like a cobra ready to strike. "You broke into my computer?" he fired out, gritting his teeth to keep the sound from echoing outside his walls. "How dare you!"
"How dare I?" Victoria stood her ground. "You're using people as human guinea pigs, and you're questioning my methods of gathering information?" Her heart was thundering in her chest. "Did Audrey find out, Father? Is that why she ran away and tried to find me? Or did she already know firsthand? Is she one of your human guinea pigs, too?"
Her father slapped her across the face, hard, something he'd never done. "Don't you ever say such a thing to me," he spat, a vein throbbing at his forehead. "Your sister might be a self-destructive, pitiful excuse for a Kensington, but she's my daughter. I would never harm her. As for what you call . human guinea pigs, I call them desperate people looking for a second chance at life. And as for the proprietary medica-tions, the patents should be . . ." He stopped himself before he could say anything incriminating. "You came here to tell me you're going to the police with this?"
Despite the stinging pain in her cheek, Victoria felt her first surge of hope. "Proprietary medications," she repeated. "Is that what you believe they are?"
"I don't believe it; I know it." He was still furious—furious enough to have abandoned his poker face. His certainty was genuine.
"You're wrong," Victoria informed him. "They're illegal drugs, smuggled into the country. And I don't need to tell the police. The FBI already knows."
Her father was silent for a minute. "Your facts are incorrect."
"No. Yours are." Victoria pressed her palms together. "Here are the accurate facts. You're representing a clinic that's receiving the medications it administers from an international drug syndicate. The Institute is also cremating its patients right there on the premises. And do you know why? To rake in extra cash by pretending the deceased patients are still alive and collecting a few more months' worth of payments from their families."
For the first time, Victoria saw doubt flash behind her father's anger.
She took full advantage, continuing with her itemized revelation. "Why do you think they were so upset when I started poking around? They sent someone out to follow me. I'm sure you know that. And last Saturday night, I doubt that was a drunk who drove me off the road. It was someone who was worried about my persistence. Maybe they knew I'd talked to Benjamin Hopewell at the party. Because I did. Is he still involved in the Hope Institute? Is he the CEO? I don't think so. But you drew up the contract of sale, and the articles of incorporation. So you do know. Tell me who it is, Father. Tell me and let me help you. Or do you want to take the fall for someone who'd be thrilled to let you?"
Walter pursed his lips. "You say the FBI knows all this. Why haven't they made arrests, then?"
"They're gathering the final pieces so they can grab everyone, including the CEO. Whether or not they do, arrests will be made in a day or two. I'm trying to get a jump on that by coming to you now, when you still have something to bargain with—the CEO's name. Right now, you can still give yourself up, give them a name, in exchange for leniency. Once you've been arrested, that opportunity vanishes."
"You've obviously been in contact with them. Did they send you here?"
"No." This, Victoria could answer honestly. "They'd be furious if they knew I'd taken this risk. Don't you think I realize I'm exposing my hand? I'm as
clever as you about keeping my cards close to the vest. But this time the stakes are very high, and very personal. You're my father. I didn't believe you could go that far. Evidently, I was right." She swallowed. "Tell me his name, Father."
"I can't. Not until I've spoken with my client. At this point, I have only your word to go on. As you know, that's not enough."
Yes, she did know. What she didn't know was how he'd respond to her next question.
"Fine," she acknowledged quietly. "Go to your client. Confirm what I've said. I'll give you twenty-four hours. Just tell me this: When he asks where you got your information, will you tell him?"
An odd expression crossed her father's face. "In other words, will I hand you over to this corrupt individual you're describing? No more than you handed me over to the FBI. I'll do what I need to do, and then you'll do what you need to do. All I ask is that you hold off until I've fulfilled my legal obligation and conferred with my client. You're my daughter. My reputation is on the line—a reputation I've spent a lifetime building. Respect that fact. Respect me and the position I'm in. I deserve that much."
Wordlessly, she nodded.
Her father cleared his throat, as if he'd come too close to an emotional display. "Tell me, Victoria, where does Zachary Hamilton fit into all this?"
Victoria had been prepared to field questions about Zach. She'd intended to answer only what the powers that be at the Hope Institute already knew or could surmise: that he'd helped her out by taking the cigar butt and having it dusted for fingerprints. That whoever had done the dusting had referred her to her FBI contacts. After that, it was imperative they all believed she'd run on her own.
She hadn't planned to do what she did next. It just happened.
She fumbled in her purse and pulled out her engagement ring, slipped it on her finger. "Zach's going to be my husband. That's how he fits into all this. He knows I'm worried about Audrey, and that I suspect I'm being followed. He wants to protect me. He has no idea things have gone this far. He certainly doesn't know I'm here with you." She held out her hand to display the ring, more for impact than approval. She neither expected nor needed her father's blessing. Still, on some fundamental level, she wished he could be happy for her. "I was waiting to tell you about our engagement. I wanted Audrey to be fine and out of the Hope Institute. And I wanted my instincts about you to be right so you could walk me down the aisle."