The Silence That Speaks

  “You’ve got something on your mind,” Hutch stated flatly. “I can hear it in your voice. So let’s talk first. Then we’ll get to the phone sex. It’ll give me the incentive I need to listen.”

  That was a joke coming from Hutch. He was one of the best listeners Casey had ever met. His job required it.

  “You read me too well,” she said with a sigh. “I’d really prefer the phone sex.”

  “All in good time. What’s going on in the Big Apple?”

  “First tell me about you. Anything you’re working on that you can discuss?”

  “Nope. But I’m on a plane for Munich tomorrow. I’ll be gone for a few days. That takes care of me. On to you. What’s the case you’re working on that’s creating the tension in your voice?”

  “A client dealing with attempted murder and a long list of suspects.” Casey stopped there. That was all she could say. As always, she was dying to ask Hutch’s opinion, but she valued the confidentiality she promised her clients.

  “If you need to run theoretical scenarios by me, I’m here.”

  “I know. I guess I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.” Casey paused. “Actually, I didn’t promise confidentiality on a personal angle that I picked up on by myself. Not that it was a reach. But it might be a complication. And it’s definitely a first.”

  “Go on.”

  Casey knew that anything she ran by Hutch would stay with him.

  “Our client was once—not to sound corny—the love of Marc’s life. He nearly lost it when she walked into the room.”

  “That is a first. I never knew Marc was that close to anyone.”

  “It was years ago, during his navy SEAL days. But his reaction told me he never got over her.”

  “Is he able to be objective?”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know. He’s adamant that he can and will be. But that’s his brain talking.”

  “Yup. His heart and his dick are another story.”

  Blunt and direct. That was Hutch.

  “Exactly.” Casey rubbed her temples, feeling the beginnings of a lack-of-sleep headache.

  “Keep an eye on him. I should know. I’ve had my ass reamed out more than once for pushing the boundaries of my job because of my feelings for you. It’s a rough role to balance. And it usually sucks.”

  “I know. And I am.”

  Casey’s call-waiting buzz sounded. She glanced at her iPhone screen. Madeline. At 2:15 in the morning? That couldn’t be good.

  “Hutch, I gotta go. My client’s on the other line. Rain check on the phone sex?”

  “Okay.” He sounded about as thrilled as a kid who’d gotten his privileges revoked. “Take the call from your client. I’m taking a cold shower.”

  “I wish I could take it with you.”

  “Then I wouldn’t need it.”

  Casey smiled. “Call me from Munich. We’ll have international phone sex.”

  “Done.”

  Casey punched off and answered Madeline’s call.

  “Madeline? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry to call you in the middle of the night.” Madeline’s voice was trembling violently. “But Conrad is in the E.R. Patrick and I are about ten minutes away.”

  Casey sat straight up. “What happened?”

  “An overdose. The doctors are calling it attempted suicide.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m calling it attempted murder.”

  10

  CASEY SPED UP to Danbury Hospital, getting there in under an hour. It was still pitch-dark out, without a sign of dawn’s arrival, and a fine mist of rain was falling, making the roads slick with water and dampening leaves, and the visibility crappy.

  With a quick glance at the clock on her dashboard, Casey realized it was 4:00 a.m. She hadn’t even been aware of the time. She just wanted to get to Madeline ASAP.

  Thank God Patrick had been on security detail at Madeline’s apartment. No one was as good as he was. If anyone else had been on duty, Madeline would probably have found a way to give her guard the slip, made the drive alone—and risked her life in the process.

  After locking the car, Casey rushed through the front doors of the hospital. Madeline was pacing in the lobby waiting for her. Her face was drawn, and she’d obviously been crying. Patrick was standing close by her side. He and Casey exchanged quick glances. Patrick looked troubled and suspicious.

  “How’s Conrad?” Casey asked.

  “He’s alive and his vitals are weak but steady.” Madeline didn’t sound any better than she had on the phone. She looked like hell, white as a sheet, her face streaked with tears.

  “If an aide hadn’t found him when she did...” She stopped, and averted her head.

  “So he’s going to make it.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  Casey blew out a relieved breath, and then looked at Patrick. “What facts do we have?”

  “Conrad was prescribed a cocktail for his depression and anxiety,” Madeline replied before Patrick could speak.

  “A cocktail?”

  “Several different psychiatric medications given together. They were prescribed by Dr. Oberlin, and divvied out to Conrad each day, a few of them two to four times a day. The pills and dosages were strictly administered by licensed nurses. Medication was never left in his room.”

  “Okay.” Casey digested that information, and then turned her gaze, once again, to Patrick. “So the police think he did what—chose not to take the medication until he’d stored up enough to kill himself?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “No.” Madeline dragged a hand through her hair. “Conrad would never take his own life. He spent too much time saving others. Life was precious to him. Besides, he was doing better. I saw him right after Ronald was pronounced dead. He was shattered. If he was going to do something stupid, he would have done it then. He didn’t. As for now, there were absolutely no signs of this. Dr. Oberlin adamantly agrees.”

  “So do I, for what it’s worth,” Casey said. “I’m just a layperson, but when I met with Conrad, I didn’t see a man on the verge of suicide. I saw someone who was trying to reconcile himself to the past and move on.” She frowned. “The problem is, the police will never believe that someone got past the security at Crest Haven. That residential treatment center is like Sing Sing.”

  “I know.”

  Patrick cleared his throat. “It may be Sing Sing, but it’s also a hospital. So is Manhattan Memorial, which is filled with professionals who know just what types and dosages of medication are prescribed for Conrad’s condition.”

  “And how much it would take to kill him,” Casey finished for him. “So if this was attempted murder, our killer could be a doctor or nurse who found a way to get through security and blend in.”

  “Or pay off a Crest Haven employee. That might be an easier in.”

  Madeline pressed her palms to her face. “In which case, whoever broke into my apartment and then tried to kill me could be the same person who tried to kill Conrad. And that person works at my hospital.”

  “We have no concrete evidence to go on, but my gut instincts say yes, that’s where we’ll find our perp,” Casey said. She glanced at her watch again—4:20 a.m. “Is there any chance that I’ll be able to talk to Conrad?”

  “No.” Madeline shook her head hard. “Even if he wakes up soon, he’ll be too groggy to talk. It’ll be a while. Plus, he shouldn’t be overtaxed. Not until it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “I’d like to talk to his doctor. Who’s Conrad’s health care proxy?”

  “That would still be me. We never had the opportunity or the reason to change it.”

  “Then would you authorize my speaking with Dr....?”

  “Ger
aldine Lacy,” Madeline filled in. “And yes, I’ll authorize you to speak with her.”

  * * *

  Casey emerged from the meeting not knowing much more than she had earlier. Conrad had overdosed on antidepressants, mood stabilizers and antianxiety medication. Fortunately, an aide had discovered him unconscious soon enough to take instant emergency action, which had probably saved his life. Dr. Lacy had looked blankly at Casey when she’d asked if there was a way to tell if someone else had administered those meds to Conrad, or dissolved them in a liquid he’d consumed.

  “Are you actually suggesting foul play? In an institution like Crest Haven?” The doctor had sounded as taken aback as if someone had just told her she had a marmoset on her head.

  “Not suggesting. Just asking,” Casey had qualified. “I’m an investigator. I’m just doing my job.”

  Dr. Lacy had shaken her head. “The medical staff—including myself—concur with local law enforcement that this was an attempted suicide. There is absolutely no evidence that someone forced these meds on Dr. Westfield. They were all prescribed specifically for him, and administered directly to him.”

  “Thank you.” Casey paused. “Do you have any idea when Dr. Westfield will be awake?”

  “I’m not certain.” This time Dr. Lacy had stared Casey down. “And when he does awaken, I won’t be allowing him outside visitors, particularly those who want to interrogate him.”

  Casey shut her mouth and left. There was no point in shoving harder against a brick wall. Only Conrad could supply the answers they were looking for.

  As Casey headed to the elevators, she got a text from Madeline saying that she and Patrick were now in the waiting area near Conrad’s room. Meet us on the fourth floor. Make a right-hand turn from the elevators and walk down that corridor.

  Casey complied. When she reached the waiting room, she saw Madeline fidgeting in a chair, and Patrick standing beside her, scrutinizing the area attentively.

  Madeline’s head came up as Casey approached. “Well?”

  “I learned nothing,” Casey replied. “Other than the fact that if I show up in the hallway down there—” she pointed to the corridor “—I’ll probably be tossed out on my ass.” Casey’s sigh was filled with frustration. “I’m not going to be stone walled.”

  “You won’t be,” Patrick said. “But you’re not going to accomplish anything here, either. It’s after five. We don’t know when Conrad is going to wake up and be ready to talk. You’ve been banned from seeing him, anyway. But I haven’t.”

  Casey inclined her head. “They don’t know you’re with Forensic Instincts?”

  “Nope. They only know I brought Madeline here. So you go back to the city, catch a few hours’ sleep and then interview whomever you need to. I’ll stay here with Madeline and talk to Conrad when the time is right.”

  Relieved, Casey made eye contact with Patrick. She knew exactly what he was thinking—that he’d also be keeping a close watch on Madeline in case the killer was hanging around to see the results of his handiwork. He’d guard Madeline with his life.

  “We’ll stay right here,” he continued, giving Casey a meaningful look that said that no one would be getting near Conrad, either. “This way, Madeline can be close by when Conrad wakes up.”

  “Good.” Casey turned back to Madeline. “Do you happen to know what arrangements Conrad made for his apartment while he was away?”

  “He’s not subletting, if that’s what you mean,” Madeline replied. “He has a service that checks it out weekly. Why?”

  “Do you know the name of that service?”

  “Yes.” Brow furrowed, Madeline took out a scrap of paper and scribbled a company name on it. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that you should leave the investigating to us.” Casey squeezed Madeline’s arm. “We’re going to find whoever’s targeting you and Conrad. I promise.”

  “I hope so.” Madeline was still a wreck and rightfully so. “I’m even more terrified now, for Conrad and for me. Where are we safe? Not at work. Not at home. And obviously not at Crest Haven, either.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about arranging for additional security for Conrad,” Casey said. “Although I’m guessing the staff there, who all believe this was a suicide attempt, will be watching him like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t try anything again. I’ll talk to Dr. Oberlin and the facilities administrator and see if I can arrange for a couple of Patrick’s people to take shifts and post themselves outside Conrad’s door.” Casey gave an irritated wave of her arm. “Crest Haven will probably vet Patrick’s guys back to their elementary school days, but I’m guessing the powers-that-be will finally agree.”

  “Thank you,” Madeline managed. “I seem to be saying that to you a lot.”

  “Don’t. We’re doing our job. Just stay close to Patrick.” Casey’s gaze flickered to Patrick. “And keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  * * *

  Marc called Casey on her cell about five minutes into her drive home. Not a surprise. She’d texted him when she left the hospital.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Why are you in Danbury?”

  Calmly, Casey explained to him what had happened and what was going on.

  “Is Maddy all right?” The question slipped out before Marc could censor it.

  “She’s fine. Just very shaken and upset, but fine.” Casey didn’t fault Marc for his concern. This life-or-death situation was expanding. “Patrick is with her. They’re waiting for Conrad to wake up.”

  Marc made a disgusted sound. “You know damned well that when he does wake up, he’s going to confirm what we already know—that there was no suicide attempt involved. Someone wants him and Madeline gone.”

  “I know. What we still don’t know is why. What we do know is that we’ve been concentrating on Conrad as a possible perp. Now I’m shifting him to the victim category. Which means we have to add another component to our investigation.”

  “You want me to break into Conrad’s penthouse,” Marc said without missing a beat. “See if it’s been trashed and what the visitor might have been looking for.”

  It was never a surprise to Casey when Marc’s mind and hers were in sync. They had different histories, strengths and personalities, but their brains operated on the same wavelength. “Yes. We don’t have time to wait for Conrad to be conscious and capable of processing everything, so asking him for a key is out of the question.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I need you to do it tonight—after I call the security company that’s supposed to be keeping an eye on it.”

  “If someone wanted in, they could have easily canceled those security visits on Conrad’s behalf.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Casey said. “So while I’m checking it out, get Ryan to do some techno hocus-pocus so that the cameras can’t ID you. Then do your thing tonight. Conrad’s apartment hasn’t been lived in for three months. It could be pristine...”

  “Or it could be ransacked,” Marc finished for her. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’ll call Ryan?”

  “Yeah, right—in a few hours. You know how Sleeping Beauty gets if he’s sleep deprived. Plus, knowing him, he’ll have some contraption built by noon.”

  Casey smiled. “Good point. I’m heading back to catch a few hours of sleep. Then I’m calling Nancy Lexington and seeing if I can set up an appointment to explore the idea of donating additional funds to Manhattan Memorial.”

  “Gotcha. Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  11

  MADELINE JUMPED UP from her chair in the hospital waiting area the instant a young female intern emerged. The intern scanned the empty room until her gaze finally settled on Madeline.

  “Mrs.
Westfield?”

  “Yes.” Madeline and Patrick were already in motion.

  “Dr. Westfield is up to having visitors.” She stared at her clipboard with a frown. “Dr. Lacy asked about family. I realize you’re his health care proxy, but you’re also divorced. Is there someone we should notify?”

  “I’ve already called Conrad’s father and his brother,” Madeline replied. “His father is frail and elderly, and not up to making the trip from Arizona. His brother and his family are out of the country on vacation. Each of them is waiting to hear from me. You can contact them directly if you’d rather.” Madeline’s features tightened in concern. “Why? Is something wrong? Have there been complications?”

  “No, nothing like that.” The intern brushed an arm across her forehead. She looked tired, cranky and exhausted. “Dr. Lacy just likes to follow protocol. I’ll get those names and phone numbers from you after your visit.” A quick glance at Patrick. “And you are...?”

  “Patrick Lynch.” Patrick knew exactly what he had to convey. “I’m a close family friend of the Westfields. Madeline called me immediately after you called her. We drove up here together. I’d like to go with her to see Conrad, if Dr. Lacy has no issue with that.”

  The intern almost flinched at the sound of Dr. Lacy’s name, and based on what Casey had reported about her “talk” with the good doctor, Patrick suspected that Lacy was a slave driver.

  “It’s no problem,” the intern assured him. “Follow me.”

  They headed down the corridor and paused outside Room 43. The intern gestured for them to go in.

  So this was Conrad Westfield, Patrick thought silently as they entered the room. Or at least Westfield on a bad day.

  The man in the hospital gown, propped up on pillows, and with his headboard raised, looked as if he were normally strong and physically fit. Salt-and-pepper hair. Sharp features. Half-open eyes that were a keen blue in color, although slightly glazed right now. Lines of stress were visible on his forehead and around his lips. Calm, given what he had been through. Yup, the description matched what Patrick had expected.