The Silence That Speaks (Forensic Instincts 4)

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.