The Silence That Speaks (Forensic Instincts 4)

“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 the click of heels on the floor. A tall, slim, middle-aged woman with chin-length dark hair and an understated pantsuit opened the door the rest of the way and gave them a professional smile. “Come in,” she said, gesturing. She shot a quick glance at the nurse, who was making his exit. “Thanks, Bill,” she added.