The Other Daughter (7 page)

“What happened?” Harper demanded. He checked his daughter's pulse again, then took the towel from his wife and positioned it across Melanie's forehead. “Where was Melanie? How did you end up with her?”

“I found her in the park,” David said. Apparently the answer sounded as vague to Harper as it did to David, because the surgeon shot him a look. David returned the stare.

Of all the people in the room, David knew the most about Dr. Harper Stokes — he'd spent the past three weeks compiling a file on the man. Considered a brilliant surgeon by many, he'd recently been anointed the top cardiac surgeon in a town known for its surgeons. Others alleged he was an egomaniac, that his zealousness to heal had more to do with the recognition it brought him than honest interest in his patients. Given the growing Hollywoodization of hospital surgery, David found that a tough call to make. Most cardiac surgeons these days were after fame or fortune. After all, there were NBA athletes courted less aggressively than a good, charismatic surgeon who could bring in the bucks.

The only thing different David could find out about Dr. Harper Stokes was his background. In a day and age when a surgeon's career track started at the age of eighteen with enrollment in an Ivy League college, Dr. Stokes's academic career was mediocre at best. He'd graduated from Texas A&M at the middle of his class. He hadn't gotten into any of the top twenty medical schools, having to settle for his local “safety school,” Sam Houston University. There, he'd been known more for his upscale wardrobe and dogged work ethic than for a gift for surgery.

Oddly enough, the single event that seemed to transform Harper Stokes from average resident to surgeon extraordinaire was the kidnapping of his daughter. His personal life had disintegrated, and he had turned to work. The more chaotic the Stokeses' world became, the more time Harper spent in the hospital, where he did have the power to heal and redeem, and, what the hell, play God.

Russell Lee Holmes may have destroyed a family, but in a strange way he had also created one topnotch surgeon.

Recently the FBI had received three phone calls on the healthcare fraud hotline about Boston's number one cardiac man. Someone thought Harper's pacemaker surgeries were questionable. At this point in the investigation, David had no idea. Could be just a jealous rival blowing smoke. Could be that the doctor had come up with a way to make a few extra bucks — God knows the Stokeses lived high enough on the hog.

So far the only dirt David had found on the man was his penchant for beautiful women. Even that didn't seem to be much of a secret. He went out with his pieces of pretty young fluff; his wife kept looking the other way. Lots of marriages worked like that.

“But why was Melanie in the park?” Harper was asking with a frown, jerking David's attention back to the cramped bedroom.

Melanie answered first. “I wanted some fresh air. I was going to step out for only a moment.”

“I happened to notice her leaving the house,” David said. “When she hadn't returned for a while, I decided to see if everything was all right. I heard the sound of someone being ill across the street and found her.”

Harper remained frowning, then turned to his daughter with a mixture of genuine concern and reproach. “You've been pushing yourself too hard, Melanie. You know what stress can do to you. You have to remember to monitor your level of anxiety. For heaven's sake, your mom and I would've helped you more if you'd just said something—”

“I know.”

“You take too much upon yourself.”

“I know.”

“It's not healthy, young lady.”

Melanie smiled wryly. “Would you believe I get it from you?”

Harper harrumphed but appeared honestly sheepish. He glanced at his wife, and the two of them exchanged a look David couldn't read.

“We should let her rest,” Patricia said. “Honey, you just get some sleep, relax. Your father and I will handle everything downstairs.”

“It's my job,” Melanie tried to protest, but the pills were getting the better of her, making her eyelids droop. She made an effort at sitting up in the bed, but didn't even make it past halfway. Finally she curled up in a little ball in the middle of the big sleigh bed. She looked frailer than she had standing up to the reporter. She looked…

Patricia covered her with a quilt, then ushered everyone out.

“You just happened to notice Mel leaving the house,” William Sheffield said as David brushed by him.

David calmly responded. “Yes, I did. Did you?”

The ex-fiancé flushed, glanced quickly at Harper for support, and when he got none, slunk away.

“Thank you for helping our daughter, Mr.—” Patricia paused in the doorway long enough to place a light hand on David's shoulder.

“Reese. David Reese.”

Patricia kept her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Reese. Really, we are indebted—”

“Not a big deal.”

She smiled, an expression that was sad. “To me it is.”

Before David had to summon another reply, Jamie O'Donnell burst up the stairs, demanding to know what had happened to his Melanie. A trim woman with graying Brillo-like hair and nurses' whites was hot on his heels. Ann Margaret, David heard Patricia exclaim.

David used the opportunity to exit, then paused on the second-story landing to eavesdrop. O'Donnell was adamant about being informed. Ann Margaret insisted upon seeing Melanie. Harper uttered something sharp and low under his breath. David didn't catch it, but all four adults immediately hushed up. No more conversation from upstairs, just the sounds of four adults easing into Melanie Stokes's bedroom.

The hair was prickling on the back of David's neck. He hadn't felt this way in a long time. Not since that day he'd sat in the doctor's office, waiting for the final news, then saw the look on the M.D.'s face when he walked back into the examining room. At that moment David had known that life as he knew it — as his father knew it — was coming to an end.

There was no good reason for him to feel that way here. So far he had just a doctor, a family, and a drunken reporter. Nothing that sinister, nothing that promising as an investigative lead.

And yet …What was it Larry Digger had said?

He'd received his tip on Melanie Stokes's alleged parentage from an anonymous caller who declared that everyone gets what they deserve.

That was odd. Three weeks earlier, when the Boston field office had received an anonymous tip regarding Dr. Stokes's alleged illegal surgeries, the caller had also insisted that everyone gets what they deserve.

And David didn't believe in coincidences.

THREE A.M. DAVID Riggs's shift as a waiter for the reception finally ended and released him into the streets of Boston. He was limping badly, his back feeling the strain even more than usual. Playing waiter was hard work. It meant he got to serve drinks, replenish hors d'oeuvre trays, and scrub his knuckles raw cleaning up. It meant he got to run all over hell and back, trying to be both a decent server and a diligent agent. Next time Lairmore asked him to go undercover, Riggs would nominate Chenney. Let the rookie lead the glamorous life.

Beacon Street was deserted now, the rich folks asleep in their town houses. Farther down, however, he heard the telltale rattle of a grocery cart on city sidewalks. Not all of Boston's residents were wealthy.

David kept walking, cutting across the Public Garden, where hours earlier he'd eavesdropped on Larry Digger and Melanie Stokes. He should probably call Chenney, see how the rookie was holding up. The new kid in the Boston healthcare fraud squad was a serious bodybuilder, one of those guys who look like a giant slab of meat. Big square head on top of a big square neck on top of a big square torso. When he walked, his bulging arms arced out to the side, like an ape. He was hard to take seriously, particularly when he introduced himself as a former CPA.

David still wasn't sure what he thought of the kid. It didn't help that Chenney had no training. The academy gave agent wanna-bes only a sixteen-week basic intro to white collar crime. The real plunge into the fun-filled world of MDRs, HMOs, unbundling, uploading, Part A versus Part B claims wouldn't happen until time and budget permitted Chenney to take specialized training through the National Healthcare Antifraud Association. Until then it was sink or swim, the Bureau's favorite way of seeing what rookie agents were made of.

Tonight Chenney was supposed to be trailing Dr. William Sheffield, but David had caught the anesthesiologist leaving the party after two A.M., and Chenney hadn't been anywhere in sight.

Either he was very, very good, or asleep on the job. David knew where he'd cast his vote.

He grimaced in pain, caught sight of an on-duty cab, and made his decision. At this stage of the investigation, nothing was moving that urgently. He and Chenney could catch up in the morning.

The ride home was long, and by the end David was curled up on the floor, his nostrils filled with the rancid odors of sweat and tobacco while his lower back convulsed and he writhed helplessly. He stumbled out of the taxi as soon as it pulled up to his Waltham apartment complex, shoved money into the cabdriver's hand, and staggered to his feet. He walked around the parking lot. Had to work the muscles, had to get them to relax. Movement was important, exercise the only way to keep what flexibility he could.

Your sacroiliac joints are inflamed, Mr. Riggs — that's the joint where your spine is connected to your pelvis — and that inflammation will start to spread up your back, causing increased discomfort. Exercise, ice, and nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs are the key.

I was an athlete! I was supposed to be a major league pitcher! I know how to ice down. I know pain!

There's not much else we can tell you, Mr. Riggs. Ankylosing spondylitis symptoms vary intensely from person to person and are systemic. You may experience fever, fatigue, and digestive problems, and sometimes AS attacks organs such as your eyes, heart, and lungs. We can't predict how it will affect you personally. All we can tell you is that arthritis is chronic and those people who promise you a miracle cure are only trying to make a quick buck. You can still lead a full, satisfying life with AS, of course, Mr. Riggs, and there are many organizations out there to help you, but you will have to be more creative. Figure out the lifestyle that best works for you.

I have no life. I have no lifestyle. I am so damn tired.

The worst of the spasms finally passed. He kept walking anyway, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe because he'd gone so long without sleep, he'd forgotten how to do it. Maybe because he'd come to dread his bed, where he would start out in slumber and end up clutching his throat, gulping for air. He hadn't experienced that until two weeks ago. He didn't know if it was some kind of phase or if his arthritis had gotten worse.

And he didn't ask, because he was never sure if he wanted to know the answer.

He thought of baseball, the heady days of sweet sixteen.

Saturday afternoons, playing ball with his dad and his younger brother, Steven, talking about “the show,” because Bobby Riggs had been a pretty good pitcher in his day — made it to the minors — and now looked at his sons with hope. Then out of the blue Heather Riggs had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and her husband and sons had come to the field just to take a break from the pain. Then young, beautiful Heather Riggs had died from the breast cancer, and they'd come out to the field because it was all they had left.

A father and his two sons whacking balls and sliding around bases, learning to communicate with each throw, hit, and catch. Cancer could take a loving mother and wife and rip a family apart. But baseball would never let you down. Baseball was as good as gold.

And so was David's arm.

David's arm had been the best of the best. David's arm could take him to the show.

At seventeen he'd been a Mass All-Star pitcher, and the pro-team scouts were already knocking on the door. He and his dad would stay up late talking about which major league teams had the best pitching programs for him, which place
they
would choose.

Then the nagging pain in his lower back wouldn't go away. He had problems running. Bruised tendon, they thought. Maybe he was outpitching his arm, needed to give it a break. David had to ease up. Steven took over for a while.

But David's back got worse and his shoulder got worse, and one day he was in a doctor's office being told his joints were too inflamed for him to continue pitching, while Steven was throwing his first no-hitter.

The Riggs men had never been quite the same since. David gave up serious baseball — pro teams didn't recruit young studs with health problems — and went to college instead. He didn't play baseball anymore. He left that to Steven, who did get a college scholarship but was never scouted by the pros. Steven had an arm, but he didn't have
David's
arm, and they all knew it.

Steven was now an assistant baseball coach at UMass Amherst, happily married with two great kids and maybe the next major leaguer. And since David couldn't be an all-star pitcher for his father, he'd offered up federal agent instead. He'd put away murderers, catch a serial killer, get a movie of the week. When he'd been assigned to the Boston office, he'd fantasized about exposing Boston's Mafia. He'd work undercover to expose the prominent crime families and have a showdown with the head don.

First year out of the academy, a chiropractor finally diagnosed David as having AS. His “bad back” would never get better.

The Bureau assigned him to white collar crime, where the biggest field danger was paper cuts from sorting through hundreds of boxes of subpoenaed files. David got good reviews each year for his “analytics,” the Bureau's euphemism for being adept at speed-reading large quantities of gibberish while downing take-out Chinese. And he watched his academy classmates break up drug rings, foil terrorism plots, and get promoted first. Those were the breaks in the Bureau.

His back felt much better now. Did that mean it would let him sleep? Nearly five in the morning. Steven probably had a game today. He should drive over and watch. His father would be there.