The Silence That Speaks (Forensic Instincts 4)

“Ah.” Claire understood immediately. Marc had filled her and Patrick in on Conrad’s overdose. It wasn’t a jump to figure out what was coming next. “How does your contraption work?”

Ryan was bent over the table again. “I’m gluing enough LEDs and mirrors to this mask to blind anyone. If the security tapes are reviewed, all that will be visible is a blinding light on top of a blurred black blob, that blob being Marc. No face. No mask. Just a miniature version of the Times Square ball on New Year’s Eve.”

“Very smart,” Claire had to grudgingly admit. “What about whoever’s manning the lobby?”

“That’s my job. I’ll take care of him.” Ryan winked. “A man needs some secrets. I’ll tell you about it afterward.” With careful precision, he put down the mask and his tools. “Maybe I could take a short break.” He tunneled his fingers through Claire’s hair. “What would you think about a quickie?”

Her eyes twinkled, although their light blue color darkened a bit. “I’d prefer a long-ie.” She ran her palms up and down the front of Ryan’s sweater. “I’m free tonight after your escapade. Wanna drop by?”

Instantly Ryan’s body reacted. This unprecedented weakness he had for this woman—a woman who was his total opposite—was maddening. It was the same way for Claire. Neither of them understood the powerful sexual and emotional cravings that drove them into each other’s arms, but neither of them was denying it anymore. It was what it was.

“I’m not dropping by,” Ryan replied. “I’m staying the night.” He tilted back her head and kissed her. “I’ll be late,” he said against her mouth. “But I’ll make it up to you. Don’t expect to sleep.”

“I’m flattered.” Her palms slid under his sweater and rested on his chest. “You’d give up a night’s sleep for me?”

“I’ve done it before, remember?” Another kiss, this one deeper than the last.

“I remember.” Reluctantly, Claire stepped back. “We’d better stop now, before things get out of hand.” She adjusted Ryan’s sweater.

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed, scowling. “We’d better.” He turned back to the ski mask. “Tell Marc I’m almost done and he can come down for his fitting.”

Claire laughed. “I will.” She headed for the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. “Tonight—be careful.”

“Always am.”

12

NANCY LEXINGTON OPENED the door and greeted Casey. “Ms. Woods. Come in.”

“Please, call me Casey.” Stepping into the foyer, Casey shrugged out of her coat.

Strains of a violin bathed the apartment in acoustical warmth. As Casey moved farther inside, the music got richer and more embracing.

“I’ve never heard the Pachelbel Canon sound so vibrant,” she said. “It feels as if there’s a live orchestra playing here.”

“Ronald was an audiophile,” Nancy replied. “He was constantly buying new equipment and tinkering with it to get the best sound possible. This version of the Pachelbel was his favorite.” Her eyes misted. “Listening to it makes me feel closer to my husband.”

“I understand.” Casey felt a twinge of pity, despite the reason for her being here.

“I doubt that, but thank you.”

The twinge of pity was rapidly extinguished. This woman certainly didn’t inspire compassion.

Casey glanced around. The Lexington apartment was much as she’d imagined—tasteful but not over the top. The polished oak floors matched the furnishings, which were carved oak with burgundy and gold accents. The floor plan was open, and there were expansive bay windows in the living room and dining room. Down the hall, there appeared to be a bathroom and two bedrooms, while the master bedroom was off the foyer.

Lovely, cozy, definitely not inexpensive, but not a multimillion-dollar penthouse, either. Ronald had made an excellent salary as the hospital administrator, but he wasn’t rolling in money, the way an eminent specialty surgeon like Conrad was.

“I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice,” Casey said, following Nancy into the living room. There was a tray of tea sandwiches and a steaming carafe set up on the coffee table. China, silver and burgundy cloth napkins were laid out beside their lunch. And in the matching wingback chairs sat Felicia and Ron like two sentries guarding their mother.

Nancy picked up a remote control and lowered the music. “You remember my children,” she said more than asked.

“Of course—Felicia, Ron, nice to see you again.”

Felicia’s smile was polite. “You, too.”

Ron said nothing. He merely studied Casey as if assessing whether she was friend or foe. Clearly the connection to Madeline in conjunction with the “Forensic Instincts factor” was still resounding with him. Not a stupid guy. Also, not a problem. Casey would be speaking directly to his questions.

Nancy’s children ate in silence, while Casey and their mother discussed a substantial contribution to the hospital in Ronald’s name.