in Norfolk, Virginia. She was a nurse at Bethesda Naval Hospital. I went for a checkup. She was on duty. We hit it off. We got involved in a personal relationship. It ended. And no, I’m not bowing out. She and I haven’t seen each other in years. Plus, you know me. Nothing prevents me from doing my job.”
“Yes, I do know you. And I’ve never seen you react to another living soul the way you just did to Madeline Westfield. You were in love with her. That’s obvious. It’s also quite a departure from the Marc I’m used to. So you can understand my concern.”
“I understand it. I’m assuaging it. It’s not a problem. Am I excused now?”
Casey studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, stepping aside. “Yes, Marc, you’re excused. I won’t bring this up again unless it becomes necessary.”
“It won’t.” He was already heading out.
Casey stared after him as the door shut in his wake. “If you say so,” she murmured.
BY THE TIME Madeline unlocked the door and let herself and Patrick into her East Eighty-Second Street apartment, she was weaving on her feet.
Patrick scanned the place. It was damned impressive—modern furnishings, all chrome and leather, lots of windows, gleaming parquet floors, serious artwork on the walls. This postdivorce apartment must have cost Madeline a pretty penny.
Then again, she’d been married to a renowned cardiothoracic surgeon. He had to be rolling in money. From the preliminary information Ryan had provided them, Madeline’s original home—the one she’d shared with Conrad on East Seventy-Second and York—was a multimillion-dollar duplex, so this apartment was small potatoes in comparison.
Still, compared to Patrick’s modest home in Hoboken, New Jersey, this was a showplace.
Having assessed the foyer, the dining room and the sunken living room, Patrick’s gaze settled on the cocoa-brown leather sofa near the wall of panoramic windows. “Go lie down,” he instructed Madeline, pointing. “I can look around myself. I’ll fire questions as I need to.”
“Thank you,” Madeline said, making her way gingerly across the hall.
Watching her slow, unsteady progress, Patrick changed his mind and opted to take her arm and assist her down the two steps to the living room, leading her over to the couch. He stood there until she’d settled herself on the cushions and covered herself with a multicolored afghan.
“Can I get you something?” he asked. “Coffee? Soup?”
Madeline smiled. “You’re an excellent host, especially since I’m the one who should be asking you those questions.”
A return smile. “I’m not the one with the concussion and broken ribs. Plus, I’m not bad in the kitchen. My wife is the cooking wizard, but I can certainly heat up a can of soup.”
“I have no doubt. But honestly, I’m fine.” Madeline graciously declined his offer. “Thank you, though. It’s nice to know there are still some gentlemen out there. Your wife is a lucky woman.”
Patrick chuckled. “There are times when she would challenge you on that.” As he spoke, he surveyed the room, focusing on specific areas of interest.
Madeline followed the line of his scrutiny. “You’re eager to get started. Go ahead.”
Nodding, Patrick noted that the apartment appeared to be pretty tidy, despite the gaping spaces where electronic equipment had once stood. “Clearly you did a thorough cleaning and rearranging since the break-in. I need to know not only what was taken, but where most of the ransacking took place. Once I get a handle on that, I’ll get started looking for what the intruder wanted.”
“Okay.” Madeline nodded, her arm sweeping the room. “As you can see from the hollow spaces, all our...my,” she corrected herself, “electronic equipment was taken—a fifty-inch flat-screen TV, audio components, DVD player—you name it. The DVDs on the shelves had collapsed all over the floor, thanks to the fact that the intruders stole the statues that were holding them in place. The same applied to the matching statues and DVDs in the master bedroom. The kitchen drawers were emptied onto the floor. The credenza and the vitrine in the dining room were rifled.”
“Did they take the silverware in the kitchen? Or any china or collectibles that were in the dining room?”
“Neither. A few of the costlier sculptures from the dining room were gone, but all the paintings throughout the apartment were left on the walls.”
“Some of those paintings are valuable,” Patrick noted, scanning the walls again. “Which is another indication that robbery wasn’t the real motive here. Keep talking. What other rooms were disturbed?”
“The second bedroom was a disaster.”
Patrick’s brows rose. “And that room is for...?”
“I use it as a den. I have a futon, bookshelves filled with books, a small desk and some computer equipment. I also have a wall safe in there. I opened that right after the burglary. Obviously whoever broke in couldn’t figure out the combination because the safe was locked, and when I checked, none of my jewelry, personal papers or cash was taken. Oh, I also have some old file cabinets in the room. The intruder went through those, too.”
“How do you know? Were the contents dumped? The files sticking out?”
Madeline shook her head. “Everything looked perfectly in place—not a sheet of paper to be found. But I double-checked, anyway, just in case. I know my filing system, right down to my old recipes. Sure enough, the files were all out of order, as were the papers inside them. Somebody definitely went through the drawers and tried to make it look like they hadn’t. I have no idea if they found something or what that something was. Nothing jumped out at me as being missing.”
“Either they didn’t find what they were looking for, or they found it and it made getting rid of you that much more urgent.” Patrick scowled. “Besides recipes, what kinds of files do you keep?”
“My utility bills. My health records, lab results—that kind of thing. My receipts for items purchased. My medical insurance. The common charges for my condo.”
“You’re one organized lady. Although I can’t imagine any of those things being of interest to our offender. Still, you never know. One restaurant receipt, one item purchased...” Patrick loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Time for me to get started. Let’s see if we can figure out what you have that’s worth killing for.”
* * *
Marc gave Hero more exercise than the bloodhound was used to.
During the extralong walk around Tribeca, Hero’s ears were flapping in the crisp breeze, his paws crunching in piles of leaves, as Marc strode along at a speedier pace than usual.
All was forgiven, however, when Hero saw where Marc was finishing up their jaunt—at the dog park, which was alive with bright autumn colors and some fellow canines. Marc closed the gate and removed Hero’s leash, letting him run off and have some playtime with his peers.
Walk
