Deadly Double (3 page)

“Come in,” Rae instructed, when Marcus failed to do so.

Dr. Ambrose Turner gently pushed the door open. His brilliant head of flaming red hair was always a focal point for attention, second to the intriguing blue of his eyes. “The press is here,” he said in his usual think English accent.

Marcus didn’t know how he managed it, but he gave Ambrose a quick nod and watched as he disappeared back behind the door.

“Boy, that was quick,” Rae mumbled, and adjusted the black-rimmed glasses that made her look like an intense owl.

“Too quick,” Marcus added, returning to his desk—maybe guzzling a bottle of Mylanta
would
bandage his intestinal problem.

“Should we talk to Ms. Ferrell before she actually hears about her missing sister on the news?”

He glanced over at Dr. Coleman, halfway wishing he could stuff a sock down her throat in order to stop her from stating the obvious. “Yes, I suppose we should.”

“But before we talk with our attorneys?”

Marcus took a deep breath and trained his full attention on her. “It seems that we have little choice in the matter, Dr. Coleman. Now, I hate to delay you from your patients any further…”

“No, no. This is definitely more important…”

“There is nothing more important than the care of our patients, Dr. Coleman,” he said, forcing steel and patience, of which he was bankrupt, into his voice. “I’m rather surprised to hear you say such a thing.”

A rush of burgundy bloomed against Dr. Coleman’s creamy cocoa complexion as she raised her five-foot-two frame from her chair.

On any other day, the morning would have been a routine dance of harmless flirtation between the two, but this implausible crisis changed all of that.

Rae’s reluctance to leave was nothing more than a sad attempt to gather enough juicy detail to crown her queen of water cooler gossip for the day,

“I guess on that note, I’ll leave you to deal with Ms. Ferrell on your own.”

Marcus’s temples throbbed at the woman’s name. The woman was more than a handful, especially since she opposed her sister’s transfer to the facility in the first place. He could practically smell the pending lawsuit.

At Dr. Turner’s grave expression, Marcus braced himself to hear that the police had discovered that another doctor had been murdered and stashed in the trunk of their car, but instead Ambrose delivered worse news.

Instead, he spent the first few hours in his brother’s home, tending to the needs of his patient. So far, the hardest part was changing her out of the wet hospital gown and into a full-length flannel number he found in his sister-in-law’s dresser drawer.

His professionalism was challenged while he glanced at a body he once knew intimately. Even now, as she lay sleeping, he was drawn to her fragility and innocence.

William stared at her full lips and could feel his body give into a magnetic force, but shame was an equally powerful weapon in his arsenal, and he backed away.

He sighed and rechecked the dilation of her eyes, satisfied with his assessment of a mild concussion.

Once he’d finished tending to the cut along her right brow, he went to change out his disguise and clean up.

All the while, his mind never strayed far from the woman in the other room. He exhaled in a heavy breath and hung his head low beneath the steady stream of hot water.

“Josie,” he murmured, as water trickled down around his face. The sound of her name had a way of ripping open a wound he’d long thought healed. More than a decade had passed since he experienced pain with such intensity.

“A man should never wear his heart where his robs can’t protect it,” His father’s voice rang clearly in his head.

William didn’t listen the first time around, but conceded that at this point in his life it was sound advice.

Scrubbed clean, he finally shut off the shower and slid into one of his brother’s robes. Minutes later, he was back beside her bed, staring at a face seemingly untouched by time. His eyes lifted to the full-length mirror on the other side of the bed to stare at his own reflection.

Time had done a number on him.

Though good genetics, at thirty-seven, William possessed a full head of dark, wavy hair; though there were growing shocks of gray along the temples. He had the long hours at Grady Hospital to thank for the permanent thin grooves etched around his eyes. Character lines, someone told him. For years, he had dealt with people commenting about his strong resemblance to George Clooney, except for the color of his eyes. Where the popular actor’s were a dark brown, William’s were a bright baby blue.

What would she see when the drugs finally wore off? How would she feel?

Expelling a weary breath, he stood and crossed the plush carpet for his leather duffel bag and withdrew something else he’d snatched from Keystone: a medical chart.

Another look at the name on the chart and an avalanche of questions, possibilities, and doubts buried his good intensions. Suddenly, he had a vivid image of prison bars clanking with a note of finality.

“Stop it,” he commanded. “You’re doing the right thing.”

He returned to the chair next to the bed, made another quick assessment of Josie’s vitals, and settled back for a good read.

“Michelle Andrews,” he read, and was unable to stop his glance from briefly sliding over to the bed.
Patient transferred from Northside Hospital after stabilization of an apparent suicide attempt.
His eyes lingered on the word “suicide.” In now way did it describe the woman he knew. It was like trying to force a large square box into a small triangle. It just didn’t fit.

Toxicology reports lethal levels of lithium, Prozac, and Tefretol.
William shook his head and struggled through the rest of the report.
Hair strands from subject are inconclusive to history of abuse. Patient shows a lack of awareness to time and place and often shows high levels of agitation when called by her name. Behavior may be due to mental illness.

William lowered the chart and thought back on his first day at Keystone Institute six weeks before and remembered his reaction when he’s walked into Ms. Andrews’s room. It was perhaps the first time in his life that he was rendered speechless. When Dr. Turner inquired if he was okay, he forced his professional mask on and resumed his work. But in the days that followed, he couldn’t get Michelle out of his mind and her striking resemblance to Josephine Ferrell.

Closing his eyes, the sights and sounds of Paris some sixteen years afo welcomed him back like an old friend....

Rushing to get out of the rain, William and five of his closest friends ducked into Le Petite Opportun. They were looking for a jazz club and were pleasantly surprised that they had stumbled onto a nice one.

The rest of the groups, William, Ryan, and Eddie, laughed and rolled their eyes before turning and seeking a table large enough to seat them all.

A bass started up with a smooth melodic beat that had William immediately tapping his feet, and when the gentle tickle of the ivories came into play his mind searched for the name of the haunting tune.

Unexpectedly, the soft, silky voice of an angel flowed over a microphone. William’s eyes flew to the stage, where a gorgeous caramel beauty held him spellbound.

Willow weep for me. Willow weep for me. Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me.

Despite being dressed in all black, the sultry singer’s hourglass figure was obvious in a tight turtleneck and form-fitting stretch pants. Her eyes remained closed as she continued to belt out the tune. It was as if she’d experienced every word of that sad fable of lost love and, as a result, he was sure that everyone in the room felt it.

At the tug on his arm, he lowered himself into a chair without taking his eyes off the stage.

Her lush lips were something to behold, but it was the gentle flutter of her lashes that caught his attention. Given the depth of which she sang, he wanted them to open and reveal the mirrors of her soul or tears to slide from them.

A hand waved in front of his face, forcing him to blink.

“Looks like someone is on the prowl again.” Brenda chuckled and wiggled her eyebrows playfully at William. “I guess this means he’s gotten Sammy out of his system.”

“Thank God,” Ryan muttered.

Before William could respond, the rest of the group chimed in their agreement. His brief fling with Samantha Godfrey during his last semester at school started out well but quickly cooled into friendship.

Weeping willow tree, weep in sympathy. Bend your branches...

The waitress turned, glanced up at the stage, then turned back to him with a shrug. “I don’t know her name, but I’ve seen her several times.”

Whatever else was said, William didn’t hear it. He was on his feet and moving toward the stage. He didn’t plan what he was going to do next, he just allowed instinct to take over.

The song ended to a heart round of applause, and William tapped the piano player on the shoulder and politely asked id he could take over.

While he realized that his voice was no match for hers, their notes still complemented each other as they continued the song of longing.

He had never seen anyone like her.

She removed the microphone from the stand and sauntered toward William like a seductress on the prowl. And despite the melancholy tone of their song, a small smile lifted the corners of his lips as he watched her.

When she reached the piano, the faintest scent of her perfume tickled his nose, and he knew that he would remember the sweet fragrance for the rest of his life.

His fingers drifted over the final notes of the song just as she sat on the piano bench next to him and smiled. Not only did she look good, she smelled like flowers and sunshine. Was that even possible?

Their performance played out as if it was a well-rehearsed act, and the resulting round of applause finally dissolved their private world and jarred them back to reality.

“You’re pretty good, whispered to him before nodding at the audience.

“Thank you.” Pleasantly surprised by the husky lilt of her voice, he continued to smile. “But you’re
very
good.”

Together they stood from the bench and worked their way off the stage before he extended his hand in an awkward introduction. “William Hayes.”

Ming’s leather jacket did little to warm her against the early-morning chill. She uttered no complaint as she supervised the forensic team and the question process outside Keystone.

Detective Tyrese Simmons made his way over to her, shaking his head and flipping through his small notepad. Partners for five years, Ming and Tyrese had found their own rhythm when working a crime scene, but for the most part he was the brawn and she was the brain.