The Silence That Speaks (11 page)

“All right.”

“In a nutshell, neither of you has gotten over the other. When this investigation is successfully behind us and the attempted murderer is locked away, I suggest you revisit your relationship. It’s none of my business, of course, and Marc would kill me if he knew I was discussing this with you, but he’s my right hand. I hold him in the highest regard. If you’re the one to make him happy, just get over yourself and do it.”

Casey’s diatribe made Madeline’s lips twitch. “You certainly don’t mince words, do you? It’s refreshing, after all the years I’ve spent being politically correct.” She glanced away, then looked back. “Since you prefer candor, I’ll give it to you. I never stopped loving Marc. What he and I had was a once-in-a-lifetime connection. Maybe that’s why my marriage to Conrad didn’t stand a chance, no matter how hard I tried to make it work. There was always Marc, right there between us.”

“Well, you’re divorced now, Marc is single, and he’s not a navy SEAL anymore. So there’s nothing to stand in your way. Don’t wait for him to make the first move. He won’t. God forbid he shows a crack in his armor. He might appear to be weak.” Casey rose. “I’ve got to get back to the office and get to work. I’ll be in touch.”

13

CONRAD LIVED IN
a multimillion dollar duplex at Seventy-Second Street and York.

The building itself was old and architecturally beautiful, located in a pricey Upper East Side neighborhood. And the security guy manning the front desk was keeping himself awake with a cup of black coffee.

That’s just what Ryan had been counting on when he chose 10:00 p.m. for his delivery.

Dressed as generically as possible—jeans, a navy T-shirt and a well-worn army jacket with a navy Yankees cap he wore backward—Ryan looked less than memorable. The two boxes of a dozen doughnuts apiece that he carried would be the focus, not him.

Sure enough, the guard’s head came up when Ryan walked in.

“Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing the boxes.

“Actually, I’m the one helping you.” Ryan chuckled, placing the doughnuts on the front desk, in between the guard and his coffee. “Some of the tenants had these sent over as a thank-you for all your hard work.”

“Which tenants?” The guard was already tipping open the cover of the top box.

“Don’t know. The service doesn’t tell me anything. I just make the deliveries.” Ryan’s right hand slipped into his coat pocket and extracted a vial of liquid. With one twist of his fingers, he opened it, then quickly poured it into the guard’s coffee before stuffing the empty vial back in his pocket.

“Anyway,” he continued without missing a beat. “I do know that it was from a bunch of tenants. I guess they like you.”

“I guess so.” The guard was grinning as he helped himself to a powdered jelly doughnut. “I’m here every night, all night long. It’s good to know someone appreciates it.”

“Well, they do.” Ryan held up a palm, declining the dollar bill the guard offered him. “Nah. We working guys have to stick together.” He snapped off a salute. “Enjoy.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the lobby and into the windy autumn night.

* * *

Two hours later, Ryan strolled by the building, glancing briefly inside. As expected, the guard was slumped in his chair at the front desk.

“You’re cool,” he told Marc through the mike of his specially designed bike helmet.

“Good.” Marc turned on the lights of his LED mask, feeling like one of the character’s walking in Disney’s Main Street Electrical Parade. He then pulled down the mask and yanked on his gloves. “Going in the service entrance.”

“Going to the coffee shop down the street,” Ryan responded. “Check in when you need me.” He kept walking, jacket collar turned up.

Marc glanced around briefly before tackling his job. He’d had a bad feeling about a young guy who was hanging around on the street corner. The kid appeared to be harmless enough—early twenties, fleece jacket, dark green backpack, talking on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette. He shouldn’t be raising any red flags—but he was.

Marc made a mental note to check him out once he’d done what he came here to do.

Turning to the task at hand, Marc made quick work of the back door lock. Three minutes later, he was in. He veered to the staircase door directly on the right. Conrad’s duplex was twenty floors up.

Marc loped up the steps, rounded landings and continued ascending the stairs. He saw a video camera positioned in the upper corner of every landing, but Ryan’s LEDs would blind the cameras to anything except a moving figure in black. No one would have reason to review the footage, anyway. Why would they when there’d be no intrusion reported? And the security guy, who was snoozing at his desk, certainly wouldn’t be sharing news of his catnap without provocation.

Marc reached the twentieth floor, and turned off the LEDs. Pulling up the mask, he angled his head and looked through the glass pane on the door, checking up and down the short hall several times.

It was deserted.

Marc slipped out and walked swiftly to Conrad’s apartment.

A standard lock. Dead bolt not thrown. Piece of cake.

Again, just a few tools needed from his tool kit, and Marc was inside the apartment, door shut behind him.

He flipped on the light in the foyer, and almost tripped over an overturned decorative urn.

Talk about trashed.

The entire duplex looked as if an army squad had raided the room and cleared it of terrorists, leaving nothing unturned in their wake. There were items everywhere—lamps, books, papers, shattered glass—and that was only the part of the duplex that was visible from the foyer.

Too bad, Marc thought, taking in the scene so he could decide where to begin. It was a hell of a nice place. Polished oak floors. A glass-enclosed winding staircase leading up to the second floor. An open floor plan, making it easy for Marc to scan level one. It consisted of a living room, dining room, state-of-the-art kitchen, art gallery lined with expensive paintings, study and master bedroom suite.

Interesting, Marc noted, his gaze fixing on the art gallery. The paintings, all pricey and by noted artists, had been shoved aside so the intruder could see what was behind them. But none of those authentic paintings had been taken. And back in the kitchen, the floor was strewn with expensive sterling silverware and fine china—that latter of which was now smashed into pieces. Again, broken but not taken. So whoever had bulldozed their way through the place wasn’t there to burglarize it. They were clearly looking for something—just like they had been in Madeline’s apartment. With the blatant disregard for what they broke, it seemed not only intentional but malicious.

That thought in mind, Marc went straight for the study. The cabinet drawers were all pulled open, and loose papers and empty file folders were strewn around the room—under the desk, chairs, sofa and coffee table.

The first thing Marc did was squat down and sort through everything, using his iPhone to snap pictures as he went. Both the file folders and the loose papers appeared to be personal. Then again, very few professionals kept records in paper format anymore. Conrad probably stored anything of importance on his computer.

Marc rose and scrutinized every inch of the room. No computer, only a rectangular mark on the desk where a laptop had been. But the laptop hadn’t been stolen. Marc remembered seeing it in Conrad’s room at Crest Haven.

This study was way too generic.

Frowning, Marc considered the options, then headed into the master bedroom suite to see if Conrad had a workstation set up there.

The damned suite could easily house a small family, Marc thought, taking stock of his surroundings. His chest tightened as he saw little touches that he knew were Maddy’s—the soft lavender walls, the cream-and-lavender drapes and matching bedspread. For a nanosecond, Marc pictured Maddy lying in this bed with Conrad, and then forced away the thought—along with the knot in his stomach triggered by the image. This wasn’t about Maddy’s marriage; it was about saving her life.

He searched the entire bedroom and found nothing of substance. Yes, the contents of Conrad’s nightstand had been emptied on the floor, but there was little to speak of—mostly cuff link and wristwatch boxes and a pile of rubber-banded business cards. Maddy’s nightstand was open but empty, since she’d obviously taken all her things when she moved out. Nope, the bedroom was a total bust.

Time to go upstairs.

On the second floor, there was a huge media room, which had been ransacked in much the same way as Patrick had described Maddy’s place. CDs, DVDs, electronic components toppled everywhere, but nothing obvious that was missing.

Again, Marc took pictures.

Then he prowled around some more.

Right outside the media room, before the hall that led down to the guest bedrooms and baths, was another smaller study. It had the kind of intimate feel that convinced Marc this was Conrad’s
real
study—the place he felt connected to when he was at home.

Sure enough, there was an imposing Mac Pro desktop computer at his workstation—an industrial size and strength desktop—the kind that could hold a tremendous amount of graphics and data. That would make sense for a surgeon who stored hundreds of intricate images, articles and videos relating to his field.

Marc walked up to the computer, wishing Ryan were here. Hacking wasn’t exactly his thing. He took some photos and was about to call Ryan for ideas when he noticed something that seemed wrong.

One end of a small black cable was connected to the computer. But the other end was just hanging there, dangling alone, attached to nothing.

Marc squatted down, took a few detailed close-ups and then texted them to Ryan. He waited a minute before calling.

“I got them,” Ryan responded.

“And?”

“And it looks to me like it’s a USB hard drive with the hard drive itself missing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. The hard drive is a solid rectangular box just bigger than a pack of playing cards. It belongs at the other end of that cable wire.”

“So someone stole it.”

“Seems that way. But whether that someone knew or just guessed that the drive held the information they wanted so badly—that, I don’t know.”

“My guess is that Conrad’s place was the first target,” Marc said, still rummaging through loose papers. “So, if they did get something here, it wasn’t enough. Not if they still tore Madeline’s place apart.”

“True.” Ryan made a disgusted sound. “Man, do I wish I could get my hands on that hard drive.”

Marc frowned as he continued to find no other leads in any of the strewn file folders, most of which were labeled with technical medical names.

He straightened, knowing in his gut that he’d done all he could at Conrad’s place.

“The only thing we have in our favor is knowing that they probably haven’t found the information they’re looking for,” he told Ryan. “We’ve got to find it ourselves before they do. Meanwhile, I’ve got a quick matter to take care of before I head back.”

“What kind of matter?”

“When I got here, I saw this kid down the block who gave me a bad feeling. I doubt it has anything to do with us, but I’m going to check him out.”

“Okay.” Ryan sounded puzzled, but he accepted Marc’s gut instincts without further question. “Do what you have to. Then go home and chill out.”

Marc left the building the same way he’d come in. He unzipped his duffel bag, stuffed the mask inside and pulled out his parka. Once that was on, he looked like everyone else on the street—just not as classy.

He slung his duffel bag onto his shoulder and strolled along the sidewalk, turning in the direction where the kid had been standing before.

Sure enough, he was still there. Only this time, he was poised like a predator, staring intently across the street. There was a switchblade clutched in his hand.

Marc’s gaze shifted to follow the hoodlum’s view. There was a thirtysomething woman standing at the corner, waiting to cross the street. Dark hair, slim—she had the same body type and coloring as Madeline. She was texting somebody, and her handbag was swinging freely, half-open, on her shoulder.

The kid’s hand tightened on his blade handle, waiting for the woman to cross. He was clearly ready to be as violent as necessary to get his hands on that purse.

Something inside Marc snapped.

He reached the kid in a heartbeat, before the traffic light had time to change.

Accosting him from behind, Marc locked an arm around his neck, squeezing until the kid was gasping for air and struggling to free himself.

“Drop it,” Marc commanded quietly.

The switchblade clattered to the ground.

“I suggest you get the hell out of here now.” Marc’s arm squeezed tighter, and the guy whimpered in pain and fear. “If I ever see you around here again, I’m going to break your neck. Are we clear?”

Against the inside of Marc’s elbow, the kid nodded.

“Good. Now go.” Marc practically flung the kid into the street.

Scrambling to his feet, the kid took off like a gunshot. He never once looked back. Marc scooped up the switchblade and pocketed it.

The traffic light changed.

The woman stopped texting and crossed the street, passing right in front of Marc, without the slightest idea of what he’d just saved her from.

Turning up the collar of his parka, Marc walked off in the darkness.

* * *

Casey was waiting up, pacing in the conference room, when Marc got back. He didn’t look the slightest bit surprised to see her up and at ’em at midnight.

“Hey,” he greeted her, tossing his jacket and duffel bag onto a chair. “Where’s Hero?”

“Sleeping on my bed. What did you find?”

“Conrad’s place was tossed like a salad.” He scowled. “Other than that, not a fucking thing. On the plus side, it’s what I didn’t find that might mean something.”

He went on to explain what Ryan had told him about the Mac Pro and the missing hard drive.

“Dammit.” Casey sank down into a chair, crossing one leg angrily over the other. “We’ve got to find out who has that hard drive and what’s on it.”

“They themselves might not even know. It could be that they can’t crack it, or that they don’t understand what they’re looking at.”

“Either way, they’re still trying to kill Madeline and Conrad. So we have zip.”

“We have suspects,” Marc reminded her. “Now we need to explore them. Want me to take a look at Nancy Lexington’s apartment?”

Casey shook her head. “Not yet. If Nancy’s at the helm, the hard drive could be at either of her children’s apartments as well as her own. We’re not about to break into one place after another.”

Marc shrugged. “I’m game.”

“I’m sure you are. But there are other suspects we need to follow up on. In the meantime, I’ll have Patrick put a tail on each of the Lexingtons. We’ll know every move they make.”

“Ryan can up that security,” Marc said. “He can bug their phones and put tracking devices on their cars. That way we’ll also know who they visit and who they call—which could include the person or persons they employ to do their dirty work.”

“Smart idea.” Casey glanced at her watch. “It’s pretty late—but Ryan’s a night owl. I’ll give him a call.”

“Uh, unless it’s an emergency, I’d give him the rest of the night off. I think he has plans.”