"Black at Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parrish Leslie)

Chapter 8

Frank Addison wasn't as gulhble as the Pennsylvania dentist had been. Or the first two victims, who had been so caught up in their own excitement that they'd walked right into their own massacres.

Not this man. He was cautious, wary. He hadn't moved forward two steps without taking one back since the minute he'd exited his pickup, which was parked by the side of the motel. In fact, for a moment, it appeared he was going to slip away without ever entering the dark, dingy room where the scene had been so carefully laid out. The man's sixth sense had alerted him that something was off, and he'd hesitated before coming in, not driven by his insane need and anticipation of the clandestine evening awaiting him. Maybe because he was another predator, he'd smelled a trap.

Thankfully, though, the man's defenses had dropped when he heard little "Zach's" voice coming from inside the room right after he'd pushed open the unlocked door. Pitiable and soft. Vulnerable and alone. "Do you know where my mom is?"

Those small digital recorders were remarkable. They could not only distort voices in any number of ways, but they could also throw sound to make it appear that it was coming from another area of the room altogether.

"No, I don't," the man said as he stepped inside. "Did she leave you here…?"

In silence, the ax began to swing through the stale, cigarette- and skanky-sex-smelling air that lived in all rooms like this one. But the trucker was quick on his feet, alert and ready. He spun around, as if sensing someone was behind him, lurking behind the door. For one second, it appeared the blow would glance off a beefy shoulder, and then there would be serious trouble.

But fate decided otherwise. The newly sharpened blade, originally meant for the broad, flannel-covered back, instead kissed Frank Addison's throat, slicing across it as delicately and precisely as a scalpel. It really was surprising, a complete accident, certainly not the result of a carefully aimed blow. The blade could easily have swung across nothing but air, and then they'd be fighting to the death.

Instead, though, the sharp metal cut through layers of skin and clumps of sinew and cartilage as though they were blobs of congealed gravy. When the ax blade emerged from the other side, it took a good inch of the man's windpipe and most of his Adam's apple with it.

Blood immediately gushed out, spewing wildly. That hadn't happened before. The more typical blow, to the lower back, was neater, less messy, with a shirt or pants often sopping up the initial spurts of blood.

This was raw, violent, and explosive. Warm, viscous blood flew everywhere, hitting both their bodies, both sets of hands and feet and everywhere in between. Having taken the precaution of stripping down to bare skin, as always, and wearing only thin gloves and equally thin surgeon's booties, that wouldn't be a problem. Just a bit more to wash up in the mildew-stained bathroom when this was all over.

And it would be over soon. Addison gurgled, lifted his bloody hands to catch the larynx hanging out of his open throat. Finally, after what seemed an age but was probably less than thirty seconds, he fell to his knees, landing hard, his eyes widened in shock and pain. His mouth twisted, moved to try to form words, undoubtedly to ask the same question all of them asked.

Why? Why me?

"It's nothing personal."

Frank didn't reply. Couldn't reply, of course.

"You really should be glad it turned out this way."

"Gaaahh…"

"You see, chances are that you're going to bleed to death long before I cut your cock off and shove it into that hole in your throat."

Funny, for a nearly dead man without a voice box, Frank Addison still managed a sort of scream.

Not so funny, at least not for Frank Addison, was the fact that it took him a few minutes longer to bleed to death than he'd probably have liked.

Wyatt reached Williamsburg by two thirty on Tuesday afternoon, well in time for his three p.m. appointment with Dr. Angela Kean. He'd called the office first thing this morning, telling her it was urgent, and she'd offered to fit him in between other appointments.

The timing couldn't have worked out better. Throwing himself back into the case would help keep his mind off what had happened Sunday night, off the image of Lily, sitting up in that damned house with her computer, clicking away and reading about his past.

She wouldn't.

The thought calmed him. Because he knew it was true. She wouldn't pry. She would wait for him to tell her the truth.

"You're going to be waiting a very long time," he muttered before thrusting thoughts of that whole situation out of his head. As he always did when the memories threatened to arise.

Armed with the digital file he wanted Dr. Kean to hear, he parked outside the expansive, new-looking offices of Eastern Virginia Plastic Surgery, a few spaces down from the row of Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, and Lexuses that filled all the Doctor Parking Only spaces. Most of them had cutesy personalized tags containing messages like drs-toy, and none appeared to be more than a year old.

Nearly every space in the lot was filled. It appeared that, despite the economy, the plastic surgery business was booming. Possibly because, from the research he'd done, this particular practice, staffed by Dr. Alfred Underwood and several members of his family, was among the most renowned in the state. The rich women of Virginia trusted no one else with their lifts, rhinoplasties, implants, and ever-so-discreet liposuction procedures.

Before he even exited his own government-issued sedan, he saw a man, probably around thirty, bound out of the office doors. Dressed in khaki pants and a golf shirt, he also wore an expression of lazy self-indulgence. His clothes, though casual, screamed old money. Though he might have been one of the practice's own clients, the man headed instead for the reserved lot. He hopped over the driver's-side door of a hot red convertible, parked in a space reserved for Dr. Philip Wright.

Gunning the engine, the young doctor backed out of his space as though he were launching a rocket. As he threw the car into drive, grinding the transmission, he hesitated, staring at Wyatt from across the parking lot. He grinned slyly, then pointed one index finger in Wyatt’s direction. The tires squealed as he hit the gas, but above the sound, Wyatt heard him call, "Don't let them touch the face. It's perfect."

A doctor warning away the patients. Amusing.

The car sped away. "Doctor's hours," he murmured, glancing at his watch. He couldn't help wondering if Dr. Wright would have gone zero to one hundred if he'd known an officer of the law was in the vicinity.

Probably. The wealthy didn't always acknowledge that such mundane things as laws applied to them. Having come from such old money himself, he knew that to be true, even if he disagreed with the philosophy.

Heading inside the building, he noted the obvious elegance and atmosphere of the lobby and the waiting area. The place seemed more high-end spa than doctors' office, with plush carpeting, tasteful artwork on the walls, and massive bouquets of fresh flowers. A large silver punch bowl filled with ice and stocked with bottles of Evian water stood just inside the door, and the seating areas in the waiting room were separated into distinct alcoves, offering privacy in a nonprivate setting. Even the underlying music, emerging from some hidden speakers, was soft and classical, no canned Muzak or local radio station blaring tire ads or traffic updates.

Several of those semiprivate alcoves were occupied, and he drew the attention of every waiting client as he approached the receptionist's desk. Most of the women were well dressed, their faces smooth, with a faint sheen that said this was not their first visit to the center. But there were also a few male clients, a couple of businessmen types, probably looking to tighten up the paunch of middle age.

"Good afternoon," he murmured as he reached the front desk, where a young, attractive brunette greeted him with a smile. "I'm here to see Dr. Kean."

The woman leaned forward slightly. Keeping her voice low, she asked, "You're, uh, Mr. Blackstone?"

Obviously the "Supervisory Special Agent" part was to be their little secret. "Yes."

The woman rose. "This way, please. Dr. Kean asked me to bring you right back."

Following, he made a point of moving slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. He surreptitiously counted the number of exam rooms, and peered into offices with large, executive desks visible through open doorways.

On the walls between the offices were a number of framed photographs and articles. These pictured Alfred Underwood and various members of his family/staff with the rich and famous. Politicians. Actors. Many of whom had probably received their perfect noses and chins in this very building.

He did, however, also note the number of plaques and civic awards. Most of them honored Dr. Underwood for his good works, his donations to charities, especially those involving children. Wyatt paused before one particular photo, a large framed shot of a crowd of at least twenty people standing and sitting outside a lofty, beachfront house. Underwood stood in the center, several beaming adults surrounding him. One or two sullen, bored teenagers appeared on the fringes, and a few young children were rolling on the lawn. A big family photo shoot, apparently.

He took a few more steps, then paused again in front of the largest framed portrait yet. It depicted a handsome, smiling man, probably in his late forties. Hanging alone, it stood out, singular and dignified, at the very end of the corridor where two others branched off in a T. At least three feet tall and two feet wide, it was illuminated by a spotlight from below. Beside it, an engraved plaque read, In loving memory of Dr. Roger Underwood. Beloved son, brother, and husband.

They apparently grew physicians on the Underwood family tree.

"Handsome, wasn't he?"

Wyatt slowly turned as another voice intruded. A few feet away, watching from the open door of an examination room, was a stunningly beautiful woman. Eyes a warm shade of blue, with champagne-colored hair falling in a long, loose curtain over her shoulders, she was the kind of female who turned men stupid.

Men like Tom Anspaugh, he thought, remembering the other agent's stammering when he'd interviewed the women of this family. Because he immediately recognized the blonde as Dr. Judith Underwood, the plastic surgeon who'd provided her sister-in-law with an alibi the night the car was stolen.

If she was an advertisement for the skills of this practice, she was a damned good one. There wasn't an imperfect spot on her, yet she managed to look entirely natural and untouched.

"My late husband," she said, stepping over to stand beside him and eye the portrait. "Father… I mean, my father-in-law set up this pseudo-shrine. I think it's a little morbid, but I'm only an in-law, so I didn't have much say." Sadness visible in her eyes, she stared at the enormous portrait for a moment longer. "It's like he's still here."

Curiosity got the better of him. "He appeared young."

"Doctors make the worst patients, I suppose. Especially vibrant, otherwise healthy ones. He apparently didn't even recognize the chest pains for what they were. Heart attack at forty-nine, can you imagine?" She shook her head, adding in her soft voice, "One evening we're having a lovely dinner with his sister and her husband, who live right down the street. The next morning I find him dead on the living room floor, still holding the broken neck of the wine bottle he'd been opening when he collapsed. It's still hard to believe, even after all this time."

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." She looked up at him, flashing those blue eyes ringed with ultrablack lashes. "I'm Judith Underwood, by the way."

He nodded once. "I know."

"You're the FBI agent coming to visit Angela."

"Yes, I am." Ignoring the curiosity glittering in the young widow's eyes, he added, "And I'm afraid I'm keeping her waiting. Nice to meet you."

The receptionist, who'd been tapping her foot on the marble-tiled floor, flashed him an appreciative smile and led him up the hall. "Here we are." She knocked twice, then began to push the door in. "Your visitor is here, Dr.-"

The door was suddenly yanked open from within. A tall, distinguished-looking man with dark hair graying at the temples appeared, his expression glacial. Without a word to the receptionist, much less to Wyatt, he stalked down the hallway and stormed into one of the empty offices. The slam of the door punctuated his displeasure about whatever had just happened with Dr. Kean.

"The other Dr. Kean," the receptionist whispered, looking a little terrified. Something told him the angry scene was nothing new.

"Does this happen often?" he asked, sensing the woman was a talker.

"I'm just a temp and have only worked here a few days, but I hear they fight like cats and dogs."

"Come in, please," said a voice from within.

Doing as she'd asked, Wyatt assessed the woman rising to greet him from behind the desk. She was probably in her mid-forties, quietly confident. The same gray-green eyes he'd seen in her late brother's portrait watched him enter. Her attractive face was not pulled taut and immaculate like those women he'd seen in her waiting room. In fact, the doctor had a few wrinkles beside the eyes, a less-than-perfect chin, and a perfectly average nose and mouth.

He remembered the speaker on the tape, the one who had asked about women defying age through plastic surgery. And he began to worry. Perhaps the questioner hadn't been jabbing at the doctor after all. Because, though she was very attractive, he would lay money that this woman was not a physician who healed herself.

"Agent Blackstone," the woman said as she extended her hand to him. "Please forgive my husband's little display of temper. We disagree on treatment for a patient and," she said with a tiny smile, "the boss likes me better, so I'm sure to get my way."

The boss. Her father. Though the comment could have been snide, instead Angela Kean appeared quietly amused, as if she was only joking about going over her husband's head.

Wyatt had to wonder if her husband was in on the joke.

"Please sit down."

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"It sounded very important," she said. She watched Wyatt take the chair opposite the desk, then returned to her own. "I received several messages from last Friday. I'm terribly sorry you were unable to reach me. As you can imagine, with a family business, we rarely get to take time off all together. It's become a sort of tradition that we close for the Labor Day holiday and go to our beach house. Extended family comes, too, from all over the place."

"I understand. Quite a few of you work here, don't you?"

Dr. Kean laughed, which emphasized those tiny lines beside her eyes. She was prettier when she smiled. "You've no idea. Father drilled family loyalty into our ears from a very young age. My husband's office is right up the hall, my father's down from his." Her smile faded a little. "My late brother was right across from Father, his wife one down from that."

"I just met her."

Dr. Kean's smile didn't fade, but the warmth in her eyes certainly did. "How nice."

He filed away that tidbit, knowing at once that the sisters-in-law were not close.

"There's also Philip Wright." Displaying more of that coolness, and an even tighter smile, she explained, "Father's stepson. He joined us last year, right out of medical school."

"Father's stepson." Not "my stepbrother." He made another mental note, remembering the young doctor who'd blasted out of the parking lot in his Ferrari.

"Everyone in the same field. I imagine you have pretty limited dinner-table conversations during family gatherings," Wyatt murmured.

"Oh, there are a few nonmedical types in the extended family, at least. Politicians, lawyers, even a novelist."

He noticed she didn't say sanitation workers, schoolteachers, or deliverymen.

"But as for the rest of us?" She shrugged helplessly. "What can I say? The family who does face-lifts together…"

Gets rich together. Very rich, he suspected.

"That's not to say shop talk doesn't get exceedingly tiring. That's why I insist on living close to Richmond rather than in one of the local neighborhoods like the rest of the family. My husband and I commute here every day." Laughing a little, she added, "It's a hike, but still a small price to pay to get away from everyone else at night."

"I understand."

He didn't, not really. Not ever having siblings, or much family, he honestly couldn't relate. But agreeing with witnesses, building a rapport with them, was an important part of the job.

"Now, your message said you wanted to ask me about my stolen car?" She shuddered visibly. "I still have nightmares thinking it was used by a murderer who wanted to harm little children. Imagine if he hadn't abandoned it, and had used it to kidnap a child?"

Wyatt schooled his features to remain utterly impassive. This woman-this witness-should not know so much. But since she'd been interviewed by Anspaugh, he wasn't entirely surprised. Dr. Kean was attractive enough to incite the other agent to puff up his own importance. And shoot off his mouth.

That was the one good thing that had come of this entire mess. Anspaugh, at least, had been put on a leash even tighter than Wyatt's. He only hoped that, like a chained dog, the brute didn't get meaner and hungry to bite anyone who came within range.

"I was hoping you might listen to a recording for me." He lifted the small digital recorder and placed it on the desk. Brandon had loaded the pertinent clip onto it. "I'm interested in identifying a man who asked you a question at the panel workshop you gave that weekend at the medical convention."

One of her brows shot up in surprise. "A voice identification? From over seven months ago?"

"I know it's a long shot, Dr. Kean. But it sounded to me as though this person knew you, and perhaps you, him. It could be someone who moves in your circle, someone whose voice you already know."

The doctor did not nod in agreement. Instead, she eyed him steadily. Warily. "Are you implying that someone I know, a physician at that workshop, was the one who"-she thought about her words carefully, then concluded-"stole my car?"

He knew what she was really asking. Did he think someone she knew was a cold-blooded murderer and potential child molester? "I'm not implying anything. Just following up on a lead. Now, would you please just listen?" he replied evenly.

A long pause, then she nodded once. "All right. But I'm not making any promises."

"I don't expect any."

He pulled his chair closer to the desk, sliding the digital device toward Dr. Kean. When she murmured her readiness, he pushed play, hearing the now-familiar voice asking his snide question.

Wyatt never took his eyes off the woman. She kept her head tilted down, staring at her hands, which were tented on her desk, as if she was in deep concentration. The pose also, however, gave her a chance to evade his stare, to keep him from seeing her immediate reaction. He was denied the opportunity to witness any flare of the eyes, a loss of color in her cheeks, a startled inhalation, or a frown that said she did recognize the voice.

When the clip ended, she remained very still. Then, her voice low, she said, "Would you play it again please, just so I can be sure?"

Wyatt's pulse picked up its tempo. The doctor was a calm, intelligent woman who would be deliberate and certain in her responses. Of course she would want to hear it again before confirming she knew the speaker.

He played the file, still watching her. Again, she remained still, so very still. Until finally, a full thirty seconds after the recording ended, she lifted her head and met his stare with an impassive one of her own.

Dread filled him. He knew what she was going to say before the words left her mouth.

"I'm sorry, Agent Blackstone. Truly. But I cannot identify that voice for you."

"You're certain."

"Yes. I'm certain."

Damn it. She didn't shift her gaze, made no obvious signs that she was lying. Her voice didn't quiver.

Of course, she had no reason to lie, so he shouldn't have been looking for such signs. But something about her hesitation before listening had made him wonder whether the doctor would be entirely honest. He didn't imagine anyone would relish the possibility of hearing a familiar voice, knowing the person might have done some horrible things.

By her demeanor now, however, the coolness of her tone and completely unflinching gaze, it appeared she was telling the truth. She couldn't help him.

He wasn't about to give up, though. Not when he finally had a solid lead for the first time in months. "Someone else might recognize him. Another of the speakers, conference attendees. Perhaps your father?"

Her mouth tightened an infinitesimal amount, and so did her jaw. "Can't help you there. My father is away. He and his wife decided not to return from the beach house for a few days. And my husband didn't even attend the convention. He was ill." Ill? Or taking advantage of a night away from his strong-willed wife and her family?

"Philip, my stepbrother, just moved back to Virginia last year and knows very few professionals outside our office. He attended only the banquet, to show support to Father. None of the other weekend events. Besides all that, he just left to return to the beach. He and Father have a standing golf date every Tuesday."

How chummy.

The doctor's tone said she didn't like that one single bit. A jealous daughter, perhaps, envious of her father's closeness to a young stepson who'd waltzed in to take the place of the son he'd lost? If he remembered correctly from the brief family background Brandon had put together for him, the senior Dr. Underwood had married his second wife, who had been raising two children of her own, at least twenty years ago. He hadn't adopted the children, but it sounded as though there was a father-son bond.

Not a sister-brother one, however.

"And your sister-in-law? Judith?" he asked, undeterred, wondering why she was trying to keep her family out of the situation. "She was one of the speakers on that panel with you, wasn't she?"

Again that hint of coolness appeared. "Yes, she was. But I doubt she'll remember any more than I do. There were hundreds of people there, our panel was hugely popular, and we could barely see a soul in the audience from up on the stage."

"Just the same…"

She waved a hand. "If you insist, though I hate for you to waste your time during what I sense is a very important investigation." She glanced at her watch, then rose to her feet. "I believe Judith is with a patient, and I have one to see myself. Why don't you wait here and I'll return with her when we're both free?"

Wyatt shook his head. "No, please don't trouble yourself. I can ask the receptionist to track her down. I've taken up enough of your time."

"It's really no trouble," the woman said. "Just stay here."

But before the doctor could leave, a knock sounded on her door.

"What is it?"

Dr. Judith Underwood herself opened the door and stuck her head in. "Sorry to disturb you, Ang. I need to consult with you when you have the chance."

Dr. Kean frowned, though whether because she just didn't like her sister-in-law, or because she no longer had an excuse to avoid letting the woman hear the audio file, he didn't know. But Wyatt wasn't about to waste the opportunity he'd been given.

"We were just talking about you, Dr. Underwood. I wonder if you might be able to help me." Ignoring Angela Kean's deepening frown, he explained the situation, concluding, "If you don't mind listening, perhaps you'll have more luck than Dr. Kean did?"

"Of course," the other woman said, "I'd be happy to."

Like replaying the same song on an old record, Wyatt found himself again placing the digital recorder on the desk. This time, though, Dr. Kean remained standing, facing the windows, staring outside with her arms crossed over her chest. Judith, the blonde, sat on another visitor's chair, leaning down and listening intently.

He pushed play. He waited, listening to the familiar voice that had imprinted itself on his brain.

The tape ended. A long silence ensued. Then he was entirely disappointed once more.

"I'm sorry, Agent Blackstone," Judith said, as wide-eyed and impassive as her sister-in-law had been. "I just don't know anyone who sounds like that."

It had been a long shot. A stab in the dark. He should have known he wouldn't be fortunate enough to find someone who recognized that voice on the very first go-round.

This would crush Lily. She'd pinned a lot on this lead, hoping, as he did, that her nightmare of uncertainty would soon end.

The two women watched him impassively, never glancing toward each other. The tension between them could fill a lake. But whether it was simply because they disliked each other, or it had something to do with his presence-and the audio recording-he simply didn't know.

He wasn't about to give up, either. There were other ways to proceed. He had a few ideas and had already mentioned them to Brandon. Including gathering files from previous conventions, seeing if they could find the same man, identified for the recording this time.

That, however, would take a while. It would be easier if he could question anyone who had actually been in the room during the workshop in Richmond, when they knew the unsub had been present. Had, he wondered, Dr. Underwood's father been there? Her stepbrother?

Her angry husband, who might not have been as ill as she claimed?

A simple thing to ask, yet Dr. Kean didn't seem to want any other members of her family questioned. She didn't even seem to want Wyatt to meet them face-to-face.

Could it be because she didn't want him learning the identity of the man on the tape?

The idea might immediately have left the mind of someone like Anspaugh, who was easily cowed by the trappings of wealth and couldn't picture the dark, seedy side of the lifestyle. Wyatt, however, didn't discount any possibility, however violent, however bloody. He knew rage and bloodthirstiness were in no way limited to the average person.

He suddenly wanted to dig around. More so than before he'd come here. Because if these women weren't hiding something, then he had no business calling himself an FBI agent.

"Thank you both, very much, for your time," he murmured, rising to say good-bye to the two doctors. He wanted out of here, away from the ornate office and the aura of privilege and wealth. He would happily leave them to their tension and their family drama, to their rich patients and their soap opera lifestyle.

He didn't envy them one bit. And the idea that he might have been raised much the same way, if not for a twist of fate and a single night of bloody rage, served as a reminder that he was on the right path. He'd gone in the right direction with his life, and wouldn't trade places with the golf-playing surgeon or the angry husband controlled by his wife's family for anything in the world.

He headed through the building, hesitating near the front desk. The receptionist wasn't there. For a moment, he considered tracking her down to ask her to listen to the recording, but since she'd admitted she was new here, he didn't think it was worth it. Doing so would be an obvious sign that he didn't trust Drs. Kean and Underwood. And while that was true, he didn't see the need to put their guards up so quickly on a long shot with a temporary employee.

Wyatt proceeded to the front door. Opening it, he stepped back, out of the way, to allow yet another patient to enter, this one already attractive, though her severe hairstyle hardened her features. Her eyes widened behind her trendy glasses and she gave him a quick once-over, then quickly averted her gaze. She didn't even thank him for the courtesy, probably wanting to keep a low profile for this, a visit to a plastic surgeon who would remove a chin or fill a wrinkle or smooth some age spots. Holding on to youth and physical beauty had never been more important, or so it seemed in this little microcosm of society.

Funny. Even with her shaved head, her scars, her bandages, stitches, and bruises, Lily Fletcher was more beautiful than any woman in the building.

Outside, he walked toward the car, already planning his next move. He had come here looking for a witness. He wondered, though, with all the little details he'd heard from Judith Underwood and Angela Kean, if he might have stumbled upon a clue that could lead him to a suspect.

The family certainly bore more investigation.

Getting in his car, Wyatt couldn't deny his disappointment that he still didn't know whose voice was on that tape. He dreaded calling Lily and telling her. But he'd also make it clear that he wasn't about to give up. There had been hundreds of people at that convention, dozens in that workshop. Someone, somewhere, would recognize that voice. He had to believe that.

For Lily's sake. For all their sakes.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, she and her sister-in-law watched the handsome FBI agent exit the building.

They had been completely silent, just staring at each other for a long moment after he'd departed, before they moved, almost in unison, to the large tinted window overlooking the parking lot. And it wasn't until he was in his car, driving away-hopefully never to return-that she finally broke the silence. "You lied."

A shrug. "So did you."

Well, of course. There'd been no other choice. Not lying would have brought a damned murder investigation down on them. Reputations could be destroyed, all they'd worked for torn apart, the family crucified in the press.

And what happened to the family happened to the practice.

"Do you think he believed either one of us?"

"Probably not. But let's not panic just yet."

"Why now?" she murmured, torn between fear and resentment. "Why, after all this time, and why that one recording? What can it possibly prove?"

With a frown, the other woman replied, "I have no idea. But one thing is sure: We can't let this go any further. Do we have anyone in the family with FBI contacts? Somebody who can nip this thing in the bud, get rid of that tape?"

Good point; she should have thought of it herself "I'll work on that." Lowering her voice to a thick whisper, she added, "Do you believe it? That he was involved, somehow, with stealing the car? Stalking those children?"

A bitter laugh was her only response.

Yes. Her sister-in-law believed. God help them, they both did. Because there had been other signs, other children. And they were all damned for having known about it and yet doing nothing.

"We have got to get this under control. To make sure that agent never gets near Father."

She shuddered at the very thought, rubbing a shaking hand over her eyes. "This could destroy us all. Child molestation. Murder/' Then, not sure she even wanted the answer, she asked flat out. "I thought it was under control. That he'd been scared off after whatever happened last summer with that Web site he was so obsessed with."

The other surgeon, so brilliant, so charmed, sneered in response. "Only a fool would think he could resist those baser urges for long."

She shuddered, hating to even imagine it. Had he always been that way? Had the rest of them just been too blind to see? Was she herself one of the fools?

"If he did it, he certainly timed it well, knowing how busy the rest of us would be with the conference, while he would be assumed to be there, as well. Though we both know he made himself scarce that weekend and was hardly around."

"Almost as if he had planned it that way," her hated sister-in-law replied.

Perhaps he had. It hurt to think about someone she had once so loved. But perhaps he had.

They each turned from the window, walking toward the office door, saying nothing else. They were allies now, though neither of them liked it-or each other. But they had no choice. The family had to be protected; Dr. Alfred Underwood's legacy and the practice's reputation could not be tarnished by any hint of a scandal.

And a pedophilia/murder investigation would make for quite a scandal. It could bring down every single one of them. So for now, the two of them were trapped, helpless, and forced to shield each other. She and her sister-in-law would remain silent conspirators.

Together, they would have to make sure that the entire family wasn't headed for total destruction because of the actions of one sick, unbalanced member of it.