“I’m so sorry,” Madeline responded, visibly shocked by what she was hearing. “I knew that Nancy tied me to Conrad and, as a result, to Ronald’s death. But I’m an E.R. nurse, not a surgical one. I wasn’t part of the operation. The code team never had the opportunity to lay a hand on Ronald. Nancy knew that.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s rational about it.”
With that, Casey rose and began pacing around, thinking aloud. “It’s the intensity of her anger and blame that concerns me. Also, her children concern me. They were very present at the luncheon. They sat by their mother’s side like two guard dogs.”
“And said what?” Madeline asked.
“Almost nothing—except when Nancy’s anger started spiraling out of control. Then they quickly interceded and calmed her down, finally cutting the luncheon short and leading her away to ‘rest.’ It seemed as if they knew she might say something incriminating, and they were trying to protect her. Or maybe it’s not just her they’re trying to protect. Maybe themselves, as well. If Nancy is guilty, I wouldn’t be surprised if her kids were in on this with her.”
Madeline gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
Casey continued relaying the necessary information to her client. “I saw the distaste in Felicia’s and Ron’s eyes, both at the ceremony when they looked at you and in their mother’s home when we talked about you. And Nancy’s loathing of you is over the top. That living room was so rife with anger and resentment it was suffocating.”
Madeline was visibly struggling to deal with the implications of what Casey was saying. “What are you going to do next?”
“Have my team dig. Find out the whereabouts of all the Lexingtons on the night that SUV almost killed you and on the night your place was trashed. We’ll be checking out Conrad’s place, too. I want to know if it was also ransacked. If it was—and I suspect it was—I want to know what was disturbed and what was taken.”
“I told you, Conrad had a security service....”
“A security service that, according to our findings, was canceled by ‘a representative of Dr. Westfield’s’ over a month ago,” Casey finished for her.
“Oh, my God. But there was never a report of a break-in.” Madeline paused. “Then again, why would there be? Conrad hasn’t lived there in three months.”
“Exactly.”
Abruptly Madeline gripped the edges of her chair, and looked at Casey. “You’re not involving the police. So that means you’re sending Marc in.”
“There’s no one better. Clearly you know that.”
“Will he be safe?” Madeline dismissed her own question. “Forget I asked that. Marc can handle himself.”
“He certainly can.” Casey paused, then threw caution to the wind and spoke her mind. “When Marc heard about the attempt on Conrad’s life, you’re the first one he asked about, too. Madeline, I never get personally involved in my client’s lives, but I’m going to make an exception—for your sake and for Marc’s.”
“All right.”
“In a nutshell, neither of you has gotten over the other. When this investigation is successfully behind us and the attempted murderer is locked away, I suggest you revisit your relationship. It’s none of my business, of course, and Marc would kill me if he knew I was discussing this with you, but he’s my right hand. I hold him in the highest regard. If you’re the one to make him happy, just get over yourself and do it.”
Casey’s diatribe made Madeline’s lips twitch. “You certainly don’t mince words, do you? It’s refreshing, after all the years I’ve spent being politically correct.” She glanced away, then looked back. “Since you prefer candor, I’ll give it to you. I never stopped loving Marc. What he and I had was a once-in-a-lifetime connection. Maybe that’s why my marriage to Conrad didn’t stand a chance, no matter how hard I tried to make it work. There was always Marc, right there between us.”
“Well, you’re divorced now, Marc is single, and he’s not a navy SEAL anymore. So there’s nothing to stand in your way. Don’t wait for him to make the first move. He won’t. God forbid he shows a crack in his armor. He might appear to be weak.” Casey rose. “I’ve got to get back to the office and get to work. I’ll be in touch.”
13
CONRAD LIVED IN a multimillion dollar duplex at Seventy-Second Street and York.
The building itself was old and architecturally beautiful, located in a pricey Upper East Side neighborhood. And the security guy manning the front desk was keeping himself awake with a cup of black coffee.
That’s just what Ryan had been counting on when he chose 10:00 p.m. for his delivery.
Dressed as generically as possible—jeans, a navy T-shirt and a well-worn army jacket with a navy Yankees cap he wore backward—Ryan looked less than memorable. The two boxes of a dozen doughnuts apiece that he carried would be the focus, not him.
Sure enough, the guard’s head came up when Ryan walked in.
“Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing the boxes.
“Actually, I’m the one helping you.” Ryan chuckled, placing the doughnuts on the front desk, in between the guard and his coffee. “Some of the tenants had these sent over as a thank-you for all your hard work.”
“Which tenants?” The guard was already tipping open the cover of the top box.