The Silence That Speaks - Andrea Kane

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if not particularly well-liked. Ron was a real person. Jacob is a corporate guy.”

      “And he’s pushing for the merger.” Casey tapped her index finger against her lips. “Do you have any idea what his inclinations are where it comes to Conrad? Does he endorse his becoming chief of surgery? Is he open-minded about his return? Or has he temporarily—or permanently—written him off?”

      Madeline turned up her palms. “I have no idea. As Conrad’s ex, all I hear about him is gossip—nothing I’d place any stock in. And even before the divorce, no one in the hospital would have discussed Conrad with me. That would be unethical and unprofessional.”

      Casey processed that with a nod. “We can find a way into the hospital to conduct some interviews, including Jacob Casper. But some of what we need access to requires a more delicate approach.”

      A hint of a smile curved Madeline’s lips. “I think the detective shows call that infiltrating the place.”

      “I call it getting what’s necessary to keep you safe.” Casey paused, recalling a tidbit of information that Ryan had run by her earlier. “Ryan caught a brief internet post on the hospital’s website—something about a courtyard dedication to Ronald Lexington?”

      “Yes,” Madeline replied. “After Ronald’s death, donors contributed money to the hospital in his name. Ronald loved the outdoors, so all the donations went toward building a small courtyard near the administrative wing. It was just completed. There’s going to be a dedication ceremony next week.”

      “Perfect,” Casey said. “How small and private is the ceremony?”

      “Anyone employed by the hospital is free to come. And it’s not high security or anything, so I’m sure you could find your way in.”

      “We’d do better as invited guests—invited and accompanied by a respected hospital staff member.”

      Madeline’s brows rose. “Me?”

      “Will you be up to it?”

      “If you think it will help, I’ll make myself be up to it.”

      “Good,” Casey replied. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

       6

      CREST HAVEN RESIDENTIAL Treatment Center looked more like a posh and well-manicured country club than it did a health care facility—right down to the sprawling grounds and cast-iron entrance gates.

      Casey drove the FI van up to the security booth, and provided the guard with both hers and Marc’s names and P.I. identification cards. The thin-lipped man with the balding head peered inside the car at the two of them, checked their IDs and finally made a brief phone call while squinting at his visitors’ list. Whatever he was told evidently satisfied him, because he pressed a button that made the heavy iron gates swing open.

      “The visitors’ lot is at the far right of the grounds,” he said in a flat monotone. “Follow the signs. Avoid the handicapped spots. Enter the main building through the front doors. You’ll be met at the reception desk just inside. Do not proceed farther or you will be stopped and escorted out.”

      “Thank you.” Casey shifted the van back into Drive and moved through the open gates and along the winding driveway.

      “What a charmer,” Marc muttered. “He must attract women like a magnet.”

      Casey smiled. “At least Dr. Oberlin left the right instructions about our visit. Otherwise, I think Mr. Charmer would be cuffing us right about now.”

      “That still might happen. We’d better not put a toe beyond the reception desk or the fires of hell will swallow us up.”

      Chuckling, Casey headed to the far right grounds and followed the signs to the visitors’ lot. She and Marc drove by a golf course, two tennis courts and an Olympic-size swimming pool.

      “Nice accommodations,” Marc commented. “Certainly conducive to recovery.”

      “If the patient has the mind-set to utilize the facilities. Severe depression puts a damper on all facets of life.”

      “I know,” Marc answered quietly. “I’ve seen the results firsthand.”

      Casey nodded. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the posttraumatic stress disorder and deep, dark depressions Marc had seen during his navy SEAL days.

      “Madeline made it sound like Conrad was in bad shape,” she commented instead.

      “Yeah, well, being a top-notch surgeon and having your best friend die on your operating table is pretty traumatic, especially after he begged you to do the surgery even though there was way too personal a connection for that to happen. Clearly Ronald Lexington had complete faith in Conrad.”

      “And in Conrad’s eyes, he broke that faith in the most horrifying way possible.” Casey pulled into a parking spot and flipped off the ignition, then turned to face Marc. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

      * * *

      The security at the facility was every bit as tight as Mr. Charmer had implied. The doorman checked their IDs against a list he had, and then gestured for them to approach the white marble semicircular reception desk—an exquisite piece of furniture in an equally exquisite waiting room filled with mauve leather chairs and a gray-and-white marble floor.

      A toned middle-aged woman with short salon-styled hair and a designer pantsuit looked up as they stopped in front of her.

      “Yes?” she inquired.

      For what seemed like the twentieth time, Casey and Marc presented their private investigator IDs and an explanation about Dr. Oberlin expecting them. Yet again, the woman checked out their story, this time on her computer, where she typed in their information with manicured fingernails.

      “I’ll let Dr. Oberlin know you’re here,” she informed them. “Have a seat.”

      Not a surprise that the seats she indicated were located in the front reception alcove. The guardian of the gates. No one would get by her, that was for sure.

      “It’s easier to get into an FBI field office than it is to get in here,” Marc muttered. “The only difference is that here I’m allowed to keep my driver’s license and cell phone.” He glanced up as a male nurse headed in their direction. “Correction. The system here is a helluva lot faster than the Bureau’s.”

      Casey didn’t have time to answer before a young man in a blue uniform approached them. His name tag read William Cook, RN.

      “Ms. Woods? Mr. Devereaux?” he asked. Seeing their nods, he continued, “Dr. Oberlin is expecting you. Please follow me.”

      He escorted them to the elevators, where he waited for them to precede him. He then pressed the third-floor button and stood, hands clasped behind him, as the doors shut.

      “I’ll be taking you directly to Dr. Oberlin’s office,” he informed them. “She’ll have a brief meeting with you and then take you to see the patient you’ve requested to see—Dr. Westfield. He has a time limit on his visitations, so you’ll be allowed only a designated amount of time with him.”

      “We understand.” Casey exchanged a quick glance with Marc. It felt like they were in the friggin’ military rather than a recuperation center.

      The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and Nurse Cook led them down a few corridors until he reached an office whose gold plaque read Marie Oberlin, M.D.

      He knocked.

      “Yes?” came a crisp female voice from inside.

      The RN opened the door partway. “Ms. Woods and Mr. Devereaux are here.”

      There was the sound of a chair being rolled back, and then

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