He brushed his thumb across her mouth. He’d never kissed those lips, except in a friendly way, and he was tempted to remedy that situation. Not appropriate. Kissing her while she was in a coma ranked high on the creepiness scale.
Besides, he wanted her to be awake when he finally expressed his pent-up longing. He whispered, “Emily, can you hear me?”
She said nothing, didn’t open her eyes and didn’t squeeze his hand.
He continued in a quiet voice, “There was a deputy who came in here last night. His name is Sandoval. He looks young but said he was thirty-two, and he’s smart.”
Her silence disturbed him. It was too passive. Being with Emily meant activity, laughter and a running commentary of trivial facts, usually about art.
“Sandoval investigated,” he said. “He found skid marks on the road that might indicate two vehicles. One was your Hyundai, and the other had a wider wheelbase, like a truck. He couldn’t re-create the scene perfectly, but he thought the truck bumped your car toward the edge. You slammed on the brake, but it wasn’t enough. You crashed through the guardrail.”
She must have been scared out of her mind. If Sandoval’s theory was correct, a lot more investigation would be required. The sheriff’s department would need to haul the wreckage of her Hyundai up the hill so the forensic people could go over it. And Sandoval could start looking for the truck that had forced her off the road.
“Do you remember? Why would someone come after you?”
His only answer came from the blips and beeps from the machines monitoring her life signs while she was in the coma.
He asked, “Did you see who was driving?”
Even if it was possible for her to comprehend what he was saying, she might not be able to identify her attacker. He continued, “I don’t have evidence, but the attack on you has something to do with the Riggs family. If not, the timing is too coincidental.”
He could easily imagine a member of the family or one of their minions chasing her in a truck and forcing her car off the road. It would help if he knew why. There had to be a reason.
“On the phone, you told me not to come,” he said. “You expected things to get ugly between you and the Riggs family, and you didn’t want to force me to take sides. Don’t you know, Emily? I’m on your side, always.”
Jamison’s dumb-ass infidelities had pretty much ended their decade-long friendship. Connor was outraged by the betrayal of Emily. He hated the humiliation she’d endured. When she left Jamison, he’d worked with her Denver lawyer to make sure that she was financially cared for. By juggling the assets she shared with her wealthy husband, he’d finagled a way for her to have enough cash to cover her move back to her hometown of Denver, rent a bungalow and set up her own little art gallery. When that money had run dry, Connor dipped into his own pocket.
He wanted her to have a good life, a beautiful life. As a friend, he’d always be close to her. It wasn’t hard to imagine being more than a friend. If only Jamison hadn’t met her first in Manhattan, he and Emily would have been a couple.
After he brushed a light kiss across her knuckles, he placed her hand on the blanket, went to the window and raised the shade. The mountain view was incredible as night faded into pale dawn. If the window had been open, he would have heard birds chirping while the sunlight spread across rock faces, dark green conifers and a bright golden stand of aspens.
For a long moment, he stood and drank in the spectacular landscape. Between his Brooklyn apartment and his Manhattan office, he hadn’t come into contact with this much nature in weeks. This scenery knocked him out.
He checked his wristwatch. Five minutes past six o’clock meant it was after eight in New York. He pulled out his phone to check in with his assistant. Cases were pending, but there was nothing that required his immediate attention.
It was more important to deal with Emily’s medical issues. Last night, he’d culled the list of reputable neurologists and neurosurgeons down to a few. He needed to talk to them, to select a doctor for her. Then, he’d arrange for transportation to the hospital in Denver.
When Sandoval opened the door, Connor pivoted away from the window. Instantly alert to the possibility of danger, he added a mental note to his list: buy a weapon. A handsome black man with a shaved head followed the deputy into the room. He extended his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Jaiden Wellborn, FBI.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you,” Connor said as he shook SAC Wellborn’s hand. “You were at a memorial service for Jamison Riggs. Two weeks ago in Manhattan.”
“The service was well attended, two hundred and forty-seven people. Was there a reason you noticed me?”
“I liked your suit.” Connor didn’t usually pay any attention to men’s clothing, but Wellborn had stood out. His attire had been appropriate for a memorial service but not lacking in style. The man knew how to dress. Even now, at a few minutes after six in the morning in a hospital in Aspen, the agent looked classy in crocodile boots, jeans, a leather jacket and a neck scarf. “Your suit was dark blue, perfectly tailored.”
“Anything else?”
“You weren’t milling around in the crowd and seemed more interested in taking photos with your phone. That made me think you might be a reporter. Then I spotted your ankle holster. I had you pegged as a cop, Agent Wellborn.”
He didn’t bother denying Connor’s conclusion. “Did it surprise you to see a cop at your friend’s memorial?”
“I knew there was an investigation underway.” Whenever a healthy, young man succumbs to a mysterious illness, suspicions are raised, especially when the victim is filthy rich and deeply involved with complex investments and offshore banking. Supposedly, the cause of death was a rare form of cancer, but Connor didn’t believe it. “The medical examiner ran a lot of tests, and the police were reluctant to release his body for cremation.”
“Our only significant evidence came from the autopsy,” Wellborn said. “You might have heard that the real COD was a sophisticated, untraceable poison that was administered over an extended period of time.”
“Is that true?” Connor asked.
“I can’t say.”
“Is it classified?”
“I don’t have a definite answer about the poison. He didn’t suffer much until the last week to ten days, and the doctors focused on treating symptoms and saving his life rather than identifying obscure poisons.”
Connor glanced toward the bed where Emily lay quietly. It didn’t seem right to talk about this in front of her. Though she and Jamison were divorced, they’d been married for almost seven years. “Can we take this conversation into the hallway?”
“Go ahead,” Sandoval said. “I’ll stay with Emily.”
After being cooped up in the hospital room with all the beeping and blipping monitors, he was glad to step outside for a moment. The pale yellow corridors and shiny-clean nurses’ station were a welcome relief. He led the way around a corner and down a flight of stairs to a lounge with vending machines. Though the coffee was fresh brewed and free, the vending-machine snacks were a typical array of semistale cookies
