Death's Door (11 page)

“I know,” she replied, her voice a shade shy of a whisper. For a suspended moment, like holding her breath underwater, her words hung there. She hadn’t allowed her mind to take her down this trail until now. Rob’s words forced her to consider the possibility this man could be her father. Then she dismissed the crazy idea.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering what Wyatt Holbrook was like.

P
AUL HAD NEVER BEEN
comfortable in a monkey suit, even though he’d bought this one when he’d needed a tux for a friend’s wedding and discovered he was too big to rent one that fit properly. Being a homicide detective required pressed slacks, a sport coat and his nemesis—polished shoes. When he was off-duty, Paul wore jeans or shorts with one of the numerous T-shirts he’d accumulated over the years.

But taking Madison Connelly to meet Wyatt Holbrook tonight required a tux. Paul thought the guy could have cleared some time in his schedule to meet a woman who could possibly save his life. But no, Holbrook was on a treadmill of work and fund-raising to establish his research foundation and consulting with specialists about his illness. The black-tie dinner tonight at his Palm Beach estate was the first opening in his schedule.

Mike Tanner, Paul’s father, had explained that the Palm Beach season was ending. How the hell “Big Mike” Tanner, who’d spent his career on the Miami PD and now ran a private security firm, knew so much about Palm Beach society was a mystery to Paul. But then, many things about his father had always been a mystery.

What wasn’t a secret was the success of Tanner Security Solutions. Mike Tanner had made a bundle providing security and running background checks for large corporations in South Florida. He employed two dozen people with sophisticated
security skills. Some were ex-cops, while others had experience with state-of-the-art alarm systems or were experts in computer security. His father’s company didn’t tail men’s wives to check for lovers or perform any type of divorce work. They restricted themselves to corporate security, but Mike had made an exception to help save Holbrook’s life. After all, his father had explained, Holbrook Pharmaceuticals was one of his biggest clients.

Mike claimed the heavy hitters who could contribute big bucks to Wyatt Holbrook’s foundation would soon be heading home. The Holbrooks lived in Palm Beach full-time, but many of the other residents did not. Tonight was the final party the Holbrooks would host before the season ended.

Paul waited beside Madison in some damn receiving line in the foyer of the five-acre estate that had been built for a steel tycoon in the 1930s. Holbrook had acquired the place in the late ’80s and restored the badly deteriorated mansion to its former glory. Okay, the guy had taken it beyond its former glory to new heights.

Tonight Corona del Mar—houses in this neck of the woods had names—sparkled like the crown jewel in a royal necklace. That’s how Paul thought of the string of mansions lining the island’s shore in Palm Beach. A royal necklace of money and power. Now referred to as Millionaire’s Row, Palm Beach used to be the haven of old money in the days when being a millionaire meant something. Many of the estates had been built at least fifty years ago, but over time they’d changed hands, and self-made men like Wyatt Holbrook had replaced the old-money crowd who’d made their wealth the old-fashioned way: they’d inherited it.

Some of the original mansions had been knocked down and replaced, but not Corona del Mar. It had been lovingly restored. The place was full of what Paul supposed were beautiful people, although most of them were old, with sunbaked hides. But enough glittering diamonds, emeralds as big as eggs and
bloodred rubies could make some folks overlook a few wrinkles.

“Oh, my,” Madison said in a low voice. “This place is an outstanding example of Mizner Mediterranean architecture.”

“Mizner Mediterranean?” Paul had heard of Mizner, of course. The well-known architect had designed many buildings in the Miami area and his name was plastered everywhere.

“Yes. Mizner introduced the Spanish-Moorish Mediterranean style to the area just after the First World War.”

Paul glanced up at the dome ceiling painted with bare-assed angles and meringue-style clouds. Like a conga line, the stream of people was snailing its way through the mammoth foyer into the main house. He didn’t know much about architecture, but he’d bet the Porsche his father had lent him for the evening that Holbrook could bankroll the foundation he was so hot to establish just by selling this house.

“Do you know a lot about architecture?” he asked, to encourage her to talk. On the way north from Fisher Island through Miami and Bal Harbor, Madison hadn’t said much, answering his comments with a yes or no whenever possible.

“I didn’t study it, if that’s what you mean,” she responded, “but one summer I worked as a docent at the Flagler Museum. I learned a lot about the history of the city.”

“I get it,” he said, mentally noting there had been nothing about this in the detailed profile his father had given him. He wasn’t surprised. Madison had a depth to her that most other women lacked. You couldn’t capture her on paper. Or predict what she would do. Sure as hell, he hadn’t anticipated her phone call, asking to meet Wyatt Holbrook.

He ventured a sideways peek at Madison. Her jumble of blond curls had been swept up into a cluster at the top of her head. A few wisps of hair had strayed and framed her face to give her a charming appearance—a more sophisticated look than she sported at the office.

The black evening dress she wore appeared demure, with a halter top that suggested but didn’t reveal much cleavage. Yet when she turned around at her place to pick up her purse, Paul had barely managed to stifle a gasp. The damn dress had no back at all—meaning she couldn’t be wearing a bra. So she was still working with her original equipment, unlike so many women who’d had boob jobs, but Madison was sexy as hell even though she wasn’t a centerfold candidate.

He leaned close to whisper in her ear and caught a whiff of the fresh floral fragrance he’d come to associate with Madison. Sexy as hell didn’t cover it. Everything about her was erotically charged. He was attracted to her, but the feeling clearly wasn’t mutual. Even though he’d shaved twice, slapped on some pricey aftershave an old girlfriend had given him and worn his stupid monkey suit, Madison had barely looked at him.

Get over it,
he told himself. Madison’s mind was on the Holbrooks. His energy should be focused on convincing her to agree to be tested to see if she could be a donor. That’s what he was getting paid to do—not drool over a woman who couldn’t be less interested.

“That’s Garrison Holbrook,” Paul whispered to her. They’d moved forward a little and they could see Wyatt Holbrook’s children at the head of the line, greeting guests. “His sister, Savannah, is beside him.”

Madison cocked her head to look, then she trained her baby blues on him. “Where’s Wyatt Holbrook?”

Paul shrugged. “Inside, probably.”

“Maybe he isn’t well enough to stand around and greet everyone.”

“Holbrook doesn’t look that ill. He actually appears deceptively healthy.” He seized the opportunity to lean closer and sneak a look at her cleavage. “You see, transplants—especially partial transplants where the patient only receives a lobe of the donor’s liver—are most successful when the recipient is as
healthy as possible. Wyatt has always been very fit and he works out even harder now to maintain his body for a transplant.”

“If he has so much money, why does he need a fund-raiser to help a foundation he hasn’t even opened yet?”

“Good question. From what I understand, Holbrook wants to have an immense war chest. What he’s talking about doing will take more than one person could possibly have. I’m sure he’ll explain it all to you when you meet.”

Madison didn’t respond. Her gaze was focused on her would-be half siblings, Savannah and Garrison. “I don’t look anything like them,” she told him in a voice so low that the other guests couldn’t hear.

“True. Garrison and Savannah favor their mother, Claire Thorndyke Holbrook. She died a few years ago. She was a redheaded beauty from a society family—”

“I know who the Thorndykes were,” she snapped. “I didn’t expect to look like them because we’re
not
related.”

Damn. Madison gave a new dimension to stubborn. He’d assumed that since she’d agreed to come tonight, she’d accepted the fact that she’d been conceived through a sperm donation from Wyatt Holbrook. “If you don’t believe you can help the man, then why did you come?”

“Curiosity. I’m sure there’s a hidden agenda.”

Just what he needed—a sexy nutcase who was in this for kicks. Women—weren’t they a trip? But, as the saying went, you couldn’t live with them and you couldn’t live without them. For damn sure he couldn’t. He had avoided marriage but had a string of former girlfriends to his credit. You would have thought by now he might have learned his lesson when it came to relationships. Wrong. Dead wrong.

“I assure you, Madison. There’s no hidden agenda. Holbrook needs a transplant. You may be able to help. Why don’t you agree to have a compatibility test?”

“Do Garrison and Savannah know about me?” she asked, dodging his question.

“I don’t know what their father told them,” he said in total honesty. His own father wouldn’t have told him a damn thing, but who knew how open Wyatt was with his children. “I’m the one who came across your file. My father brought the others to Wyatt’s attention.”

Her blue eyes snapped with curiosity and he kicked himself for mentioning the files. “What do you mean?”

He kept his voice low. “Like I told you, New Horizons had been sued. Most of the files were in a warehouse where the attorney who agreed to defend the company stored them when New Horizons went bankrupt.”

“The file with my mother’s name wasn’t there?”

He could tell by her tone that this information simply added more kindling to her belief that something suspicious was going on. “No. A handful had been left in the attorney’s office. Sloppy filing.”

“How many files were in the warehouse?”

“About five dozen,” Paul hedged.

“How many half siblings do you suppose are out there?”

That was anybody’s guess. A lot. He kept his thoughts to himself. “Clinics claim they limit the number of inseminations from one donor, but this clinic was shady. A handsome guy with Mensa credentials—”

“Don’t forget tall. Short Mensa guys need not donate.”

Paul stifled a laugh. Madison wasn’t joking. “Miami has always attracted money, but it isn’t long on major universities with brilliant students like the Boston area. That’s why the clinic here was so profitable and why the Boston clinic sold them their samples.”

“Wyatt Holbrook ended up here, too. Don’t you find that weird?”

“No. Claire’s family was local. She attended Boston Univer
sity. She met Wyatt at a party in Boston and they fell in love, but she wanted to return home after college. Wyatt came with her.”

“Six degrees of separation. Wyatt Holbrook could have bumped into any number of his offspring at the local Starbucks or something and not have realized it. No doubt he thought they all were in the Boston area.”

“True. We’re still going through the records up there, attempting to locate others whose parents moved elsewhere.”

“Have you checked anyone else to see if they can donate?”

“Getting confidential records is trickier than you think, especially with the new health privacy laws. We were lucky, because New Horizon’s files were warehoused here. We’re just going through those now.” They inched forward a little as the line moved. “That’s how I found you. My father’s operatives did find two children in Boston but one had ODed and the other had been killed in a car crash. We’ve added manpower to locate the rest.”

“Obviously, Garrison and Savannah can’t donate.”

“Right. They both were tested immediately but they don’t qualify.”

“Savannah’s a knockout,” whispered Madison as they drew closer.

So what else was new? Savannah Holbrook was a drop-dead gorgeous woman with a killer body and long hair that he supposed some damn fashion magazine would call russet or chestnut or something. It was her eyes that got him. From the first second Paul had met Savannah, he’d wondered if she was wearing contacts that made her eyes such an intense shade of green.

As stunning as Savannah was, her brother, Garrison, was just as striking in his own way. Like a sleek pair of matched thorough-breds, both of Wyatt Holbrook’s children had hit the genetic lottery. They’d inherited their mother’s good looks and their father’s brains. They both were successful in their own fields.

“Savannah started Salon S. I checked her out on Google and found I already use her products,” confided Madison.

From what Paul had heard, the cosmetics were available only in pricey stores. At first, he’d assumed Savannah’s business was local, but his father informed him that it was a nationwide operation. He gave Savannah credit for her accomplishments, but Madison was just as successful without the benefit of a huge trust fund.

“What’s Garrison like?” Madison asked in a low voice.

“Garrison favors his father. He has his own research company. Apparently he’s on the verge of a top-secret breakthrough discovery.”

“Really? The Internet said he attended the California Institute of Technology, then did advanced studies and research in Switzerland.”

“That’s right. Like his father, Garrison is a scientist.” Paul didn’t add how similar Madison and Garrison were in many respects.

The line moved closer and Paul saw Nathan Cassidy, the family attorney and Savannah’s boyfriend, was introducing the guests. Paul had met Cassidy on an earlier visit to the house. The lawyer was in his midthirties, with a surfer’s tan and sun-streaked blond hair. Paul resisted the urge to judge the guy by his looks, but he was tempted.

Cassidy’s gaze swept over him and Paul knew the lawyer wasn’t expecting to see him. He quickly shifted his eyes to Madison, then whispered something to Garrison. Without really thinking about it, Paul put his arm protectively around Madison’s waist.

T
HE ANGEL OF DEATH
.

The killer liked that title. It implied a link to another world, to God. The killer was above mere mortals.

A white skull of a moon sulked overhead and the killer
looked up, feeling more a part of the greater universe than of this lowly world. Some people were like that. They were blessed with extraordinary intelligence and insight into the future. Ordinary people were too self-centered. What had Adam Smith said? Something about all interest stemming from self-interest.