came first. In the meantime, Hank closed enough routine cases to avoid becoming a blip on the sheriff’s radar.
“Detective Collins?” As if he had read Bryce’s mind, Sheriff Remington stood in the doorway of his office. “Got a minute?”
Bryce blinked and refocused. “Sure thing, Sheriff.” He got to his feet and dragged up another smile, one he hoped was convincing. “What can I do for you?”
“Bring the Orcadol file.” He went back inside.
Folder in hand, Bryce felt like a kid who’d been summoned to the principal’s office. He took the plain wood chair facing the sheriff’s desk. Among themselves, the deputies called it The Hot Seat.
“Have you got anything new to tell me?” Remington sat back, his hands steepled and his fingertips grazing his mustache. He gave Bryce his full attention.
“No, sir.” Bryce knew from painful experience how pointless it was to jerk his boss around. “I wasn’t able to interview Dr. Bingham today like I planned, but I will.”
The sheriff’s gaze narrowed, but he didn’t ask any more questions. Instead he removed a folder from a drawer and slid it across his desk. “This came in a little while ago. It’s the analysis on the handwriting recovered from the drug raid.”
Bryce itched to open the folder and read the contents. When they’d paid the dealer a surprise visit, they’d confiscated a variety of illegal substances, as well as what looked like torn prescriptions with Mari’s name. The signatures were illegible, but the department had ordered a comparison with a sample of her handwriting obtained by its office.
“The handwriting isn’t Dr. Bingham’s,” Remington said. “It wasn’t even a good forgery.”
Bryce was surprised by the relief that flowed through him. What he should be experiencing was disappointment, since the findings of the report made his case a whole lot tougher.
“I see,” he said stupidly.
Remington narrowed his piercing blue eyes. “I’ve been taking a lot of heat from the mayor’s office on this, and I’m damned tired of seeing my name in the Mage.”
He was referring to the town newspaper, which had run several editorials questioning the sheriff’s priorities. His re-election campaign had included a promise to clean up the county and get illegal drugs off the street, but the arrests they’d made so far hadn’t yielded much in the way of either drugs or useful information.
He ran a hand through his white hair. “Last week a reporter from a TV station in Lexington called. She was looking for an interview.” Clearly the request hadn’t made him happy. “I’m starting to feel like a duck in a shooting gallery, Detective. What’s your next move?”
Bryce tapped his finger on the report. “Whoever is responsible for switching Orcadol at the clinic with a different painkiller has got to work there. I’ll need access to their personnel records.”
The sheriff frowned thoughtfully. “Do you have a plan?”
“I’ve got an idea that I’m pursuing,” he replied, hoping the sheriff didn’t ask for details.
The sheriff tapped his fingers on his desktop. “Let’s not rule out the doctor yet as a person of interest. She may be connected somehow, since I doubt this is a solo operation. If you lean on her, she may crack.”
“Yes, sir.” Bryce picked up the folder. The idea that Mari might have sold or given out illegal prescriptions for Orcadol had never made much sense to him, despite how much his bitter, angry side wanted to believe it. Illegal drug trafficking was a damned risky way to get the money for her research center. Now he was back to square two, looking for the link to the Foster Clinic.
The sheriff reached for his phone. “Keep me informed.”
“How are you feeling?” Mari asked Milla as they left the clinic for the day and walked toward the employee parking lot. “Nausea all gone?”
Milla blushed prettily as she glanced up at the man beside her. Mari was sure Milla’s high color wasn’t just because of the temperature, even though the day was especially warm.
There wasn’t a breath of air to stir the tree branches overhead. Even the last of the summer flowers bordering the sidewalk appeared wilted.
“My ankles are a little swollen,” Milla confessed. “Other than that, I’m fine.”
Milla’s fiancé and the father of the baby she was carrying, Kyle Bingham, took her hand in his as he made a point to peer down at her legs in loose-fitting uniform pants and thick-soled white shoes.
“You have the ankles of a gazelle,” he told her with a straight face.
Kyle was a resident at the hospital, as well as Mari’s cousin. Although Uncle Billy had never gotten around to marrying any of his numerous lady friends, he’d managed to father several children, including Kyle, before perishing in the crash of his plane. Each of Billy’s descendants had a different mother. Adding to the confusion, the boy who Kyle was helping Milla raise, named Dylan, was another of Uncle Billy’s progeny. Young Dylan was Kyle’s half brother.
Despite the dinner that Mari had recently hosted to introduce Kyle into the Bingham family, she hadn’t known him well until he’d met Milla. He had done the right thing when Milla got pregnant, but he’d also rescued both her and the clinic in another way.
During a recent home visit, Milla had discovered a new mother dead of a drug overdose and her baby girl in critical condition from ingesting contaminated breast milk. Milla called Kyle and together they managed to save the baby’s life.
As fate would have it, the baby’s aunt and uncle were the same couple who had filed a malpractice suit against Milla and the clinic for sending their own newborn to intensive care some months ago. When they saw Milla treating their niece, they confronted her.
Kyle overheard the loud exchange and leaped to Milla’s defense. He explained to the Canfields that without her quick thinking, the tot wouldn’t have survived. He didn’t mention his role in the rescue, instead giving Milla full credit. By the time he was through talking, he’d convinced the Canfields that no midwife as caring as Milla deserved to have her career damaged by a lawsuit.
Now she radiated with happiness, despite her swollen ankles and the fact that the day had been a hectic one. Love, Mari thought with a little curl of envy, must do that for some people.
Milla must have read something in Mari’s expression, because her smile faded. “This is all so unfair,” she exclaimed. “I wish there was something I could do to help the police find out who’s really been stealing Orcadol, so they’d leave you alone.”
Patting her shoulder, Mari felt the sudden tension. Milla didn’t need this kind of stress, not in her condition.
“You’ve both been wonderful,” Mari said. “Milla, I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate everything you did yesterday.”
Milla had quietly dealt with Mari’s patients after Bryce hauled Mari to the sheriff’s office. She had made excuses, rescheduled appointments and fielded questions from other staff members.
“You don’t have to keep thanking me,”
