The Silence That Speaks (16 page)

18

RYAN WAS IN
his lair with the encrypted files he’d stolen. He was at his desk, about to start working on trying to crack the encryption process, when Claire knocked and walked in.

“Bad time?” she asked.

“Good time,” Ryan replied, swiveling his chair around to face her. “I was just about to get into these files I took from the hospital.” He waved the USB drive at her. “But I haven’t shoved this baby in yet, so I’m all yours.” He frowned, seeing the upset expression on Claire’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“I just spent fifteen minutes with Dr. Gilding—which was all she would grant me. Sort of like a follow-up visit for a patient with a cold.”

“What did Bitch Doctor say?” Ryan asked. He could see that Claire was more than upset. She was pissed.

“Bitch Doctor is right.” Claire folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve met more than my share of nonbelievers. It’s a downside of my talent, and I accept that. But Sharon Gilding wasn’t just a nonbeliever. She went out of her way to insult me. And not just me. She covered the gamut, tearing apart the very idea of claircognizance, clairvoyance, clairsentience, clairaudience, clair—”

“Okay, I get it,” Ryan interrupted. “She beat the shit out of every clair in existence. Does that really surprise you?”

“Actually, yes.” Claire inhaled deeply, and then blew out her breath to calm herself. “Not her disbelief, but her scathing comments. I’ve never met a professional who was quite so vicious and denigrating.”

“Yeah, that is kind of extreme. So I assume that all you got out of this meeting was that Bitch Doctor lives up to her nickname, and that she gave off tons of negative energy about your skills.”

“Untrue.” Claire shook her head. “I picked up on lots of things. I’m on my way upstairs to see if Casey is here so I can to talk to her. Sorry I interrupted your computer hacking. I just needed to blow off steam.”

Ryan stood up, and walked over to Claire. He tipped up her chin, lowered his head and kissed her. “Don’t let Sharon Gilding get to you. She probably needs to get laid.”

“Oh, no, she doesn’t. She’s getting plenty of that already. I just need to figure out by whom.”

“Wow.” A corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted. “Poor guy, whoever he is. Now you’ve really piqued my interest. I’d come up with you to see Casey and hear all the sordid details, but I’ve got to get started on these files. It could take a long time to crack.”

“Then get started.” Claire reached up and brushed her lips against Ryan’s. “I’ll fill you in later.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

* * *

Casey was in the conference room having a heated negotiation with Emma when Claire walked in.

“Oh, come on, Casey,” Emma was saying, sitting across from her boss at the conference table and leaning forward as she pled her case. “I did everything you asked me to do and more. I sucked up to that loser forever, and I got Ryan what he needs. Why can’t I come back here now?”

Casey crossed one leg over the other, looking as if she were lecturing a petulant teenager.

“First of all, it was a week, Emma, not forever. And yes, you did a great job. I’m proud of you.” Casey held up a palm to silence Emma’s next outburst. She shot a quick look at Claire. “Urgent?”

“It can wait a few minutes. Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Emma said. “I could use some support.”

“You’re not getting any,” Casey replied. “Let’s clarify the situation. I didn’t say you couldn’t come back to FI. I said you can’t come back
yet.
”

“Why?”

Emma’s youth was showing, Claire thought. She had yet to learn patience and to sacrifice immediate gratification for the big picture. But she’d get there. Then she’d really shine. There was no doubt in Claire’s—or any of the other team members’ minds—that Emma was a natural addition to their team.

Two more months and it would be official.

“Because,” Casey was explaining, “it would be glaringly obvious that I’d put you there as a plant.”

Emma chewed her lip. She couldn’t argue with that one.

“That would undo everything the team did to work the hospital system,” Emma admitted grudgingly. “Yeah, I get it.” She gave Casey a measured look, and asked the dreaded question. “How long do I have to stay in that hellhole, changing bed pans and smiling as if I love doing it?”

Casey couldn’t stifle a smile. Neither could Claire, who was still hovering in the doorway. There was something very refreshing about Emma’s direct honesty.

“How about a business workweek—five days.” Casey wasn’t really asking. She was coming to a decision, one that would be nonnegotiable. “Five days would be long enough for me to come to the realization that our clerical system was getting out of hand and we needed our receptionist back without raising any red flags. I’ll explain the dilemma to Jacob Casper, and I’ll assure him that as soon as we get ourselves up to speed, you can resume candy striping.”

“What?” Emma shot up like a rocket.

“Calm down. You won’t be going back. I’ll work that angle when the time comes. Right now your job is to continue working at the hospital.”

“What about Loser? He asked me out for a drink.” Emma groaned. “And I said yes. What am I supposed to do about that?”

“Go.”

“You’re kidding,” Emma said.

“No, I’m not. You agreed to join him for a drink. If you blow him off now, he’ll have all kinds of questions. We can’t have that. Keep up the charm for another five days.” Casey grinned at Emma’s nauseated expression. “You don’t have to sleep with the guy. He’s too awkward to ask you to, anyway. So set the date for three days from now, and you’ll already have one foot out of the hospital door.”

“Fine. I’ll do it. But only because I want in on this team.” Emma pushed back her chair and rose. “When you said probation, you really meant it. Is there anything else? Want me to fall on a sword?”

“I want you to watch your mouth. I seem to remember mentioning respect when we first talked.”

A reluctant nod. “You’re right. I apologize. I’ll go back to Manhattan Memorial tomorrow.”

“Good. Then we’re all set.” Casey’s words brought the conversation to a close.

Emma took the hint and headed for the door. “Good luck,” she murmured to Claire.

The minute the door shut, Claire began to laugh. “She’s a handful.”

“Tell me about it.” Casey’s lips were twitching, too. “I feel like I’m negotiating with the rebellious teenage daughter I never had. But the truth is, her personality is working for us. She’s managed to piss off everyone at the hospital. They see her as a typical immature young woman—a kid who romanticized being a nurse and is now finding out the truth. Nursing means hard work, compassion that’s hard to muster under pressure and being up to your neck in bodily fluids. Given Emma’s attitude, no one would ever suspect that she’s a plant.”

“Obviously that’s true,” Claire agreed. “Because Ryan’s downstairs already trying to get into whatever is on that flash drive.”

“Good. I hope he deciphers it quickly. The clock is working against us. It’s only a matter of time before the killer decides to try again. You and I both know that security can only go so far. If someone wants Madeline and Conrad dead badly enough, they’ll find a way to breach our security team.”

“We can’t let that happen.”

“I know.” Casey took in Claire’s tone and body language, not to mention the pissed-off look on her face. “What happened with Sharon Gilding?”

“Nothing good.” Claire explained Gilding’s reaction to her talent and that she’d all but thrown her out after fifteen minutes.

“Nice,” Casey said drily. “She’s even more obnoxious than we thought.”

“That’s not all.” Claire walked over, poured herself a glass of water and took a seat. “The negative energy that emanates from that woman is overwhelming. She’s arrogant, she’s bitter and she’s having a torrid affair with someone—someone who could help her climb the ladder. I’m not even sure if she gives a damn about the guy, only that she’s using him for her own purposes.”

“She wants the chief of surgery job that Conrad is the frontrunner for.”

“She more than wants it. She’s obsessed with it. She’d go to scary lengths to ensure that she’s the next chief of surgery.”

“Scary? You mean like murder?”

“I think she’s capable of it. I just can’t figure out if she’s tried it.”

Casey processed that. “You have no idea who her lover is?”

Claire frowned. “I tried. The images of what was going on were very graphic. Truthfully I wanted to throw up. But all I could make out was Gilding and the silhouette of a guy going at it like two rutting animals. Judging from his physique, I’d say he’s not tall and not thin. He’s got a solid build with that slight middle-aged paunch. But his face...” Claire made a fist and brought it down on the table. “Dammit. I just can’t make it out.”

“You’ve done a hell of a job already.” Casey’s mind was working. “I can think of one guy who has that type of build and who’d be instrumental in getting Gilding that job. And it’s someone who’s not too popular with the hospital staff right now, but holds its future—and the future of the chief of surgery—in his hands.”

“Jacob Casper,” Claire filled in.

“You bet.” She paused. “Marc is going to be meeting with Casper. Talk to Marc and figure out a way that you can go together. I want to know how strong an energy you pick up there—and if it matches whatever you got from Bitch Doctor.”

* * *

A Starbucks was just three blocks from the hospital. One venti Americano and blueberry scone later, Trix sat down at the round table in the middle of the café. Trix put down the snack and pulled out a digital recorder, turning it on and placing it on the table.

It was time to collect a sample to test the capabilities of Audio Detracktor. Trix needed to know just how accurate the app would be in separating and enhancing even the most insignificant of sounds. It would be interesting to hear what noise would be the Starbucks equivalent of a guitar pick bouncing off the stage, just as the
Sound on Sound
review had described.

All the sounds of Starbucks filled the café. The squeal of the steam wands. The rush of hot coffee being poured from urns. The beep of the oven popping out freshly warmed pastries. The whirring of blenders mixing frappuccinos for the local teenagers.

Two such teens were at the next table over, taking selfies and shrieking at their iPhones as friends sent them photos via Snapchat. The recorder captured the girls’ conversation—something about their plans over the holiday break. Two more girls joined them at the table carrying bright pink blended beverages—cotton candy frappuccinos OMG—and Trix heard the sound of their tall green straws as the girls slurped up the diabetes-inducing liquid. Talk about a sugar rush. Trix pitied their parents. But the straw sounds were perfect for the audio test.

Satisfied that there was enough material captured, Trix finished the scone, packed up the recorder and began the walk to the subway, Americano in hand.

* * *

It was November, so darkness fell early. Cold. Windy. Naked trees casting shadows everywhere. And not even a sliver of moonlight to lessen the creepiness of the night.

Madeline rubbed her arms to warm the internal chill that pervaded her body. Then she looked out her bedroom window and down at the street for the fifth time in the past hour.

The same car was there, parked by the curb. A black sedan—maybe a Mercedes or a BMW. Madeline couldn’t make it out in the blackness, nor see how many occupants were inside. But the vehicle had been in the same spot for several hours now, right next to a fire hydrant. Once, a police car had made its rounds, turning down the street. Clearly having spotted the officers, the driver of the sedan had eased away, heading smoothly down the block.

Ten minutes later, it was back.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. The driver of that car was watching her apartment. Watching her.

Trembling violently, Madeline turned away, trying to be rational. So a car was parked outside. It could be an airport service picking up a passenger. It could be someone who was waiting for a friend and didn’t want to go to a parking garage.

Or it could be someone scrutinizing her apartment and her.

She drew the blinds, telling herself that she was being paranoid. Why would someone be watching her apartment?

Because they were trying to figure out the logistics of what was going on inside. They were trying to discern if there was a guard stationed in the apartment. And they were trying to determine how to get inside and finish what they started.

Was someone planning to kill her right here in her apartment?

Panic rising inside her, Madeline walked back to the window like a child who was terrified of a movie, but had to peek through their fingers to see what was happening, anyway. She shifted the blinds aside and pressed close to the window, squinting as she desperately tried to make out the driver or the license plate or something that could help her identify who and why the driver was there.

Abruptly the car headlights came on, as if they’d spotted her and were zeroing in on her.

Freezing in place, Madeline lost it entirely.

She rushed to the bedroom door, yanked it open and hurried into the foyer.

John was posted near the door, sitting on a folding chair and reading something on his iPad.

“Ms. Westfield?” He stood up, seeing her ashen coloring. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know.” Madeline was still rubbing her arms, more vigorously now. “There’s a car outside. It’s been sitting there for hours in direct view of my apartment.”

John went straight to Madeline’s bedroom, and moved the curtain at her window ever so slightly. “The black sedan?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call Patrick. He’ll cruise by and see what’s up. I’ll stay here with you.” He’d already punched on his phone.

“No. Wait.” Madeline had no idea what she was doing. She only knew she was doing it. “Before you call Patrick, I want to call another member of the FI team. He can stay with me while you and Patrick go out together.”

John shook his head as he headed back out to the foyer. “You call whomever you want to. I’m contacting Patrick.”