he was being offered the position of chief of surgery of the new conglomerate.”
“I see.” Actually, Casey already knew that. But it was important that Madeline trusted her enough to tell her everything.
“Personally, Ronald thought that was wonderful for Conrad. But he was opposed to expanding the hospital into a huge, impersonal entity—and to having to eliminate staff in the process.”
“That was then. Let’s talk about now.”
“As I said, the merger was just announced,” Madeline replied. “Rumors are flying everywhere. The entire hospital chats about little else. There are a lot of people freaking out—not that I blame them. People are worried about losing their jobs, about pay cuts, about resource cuts, about increased responsibilities and fewer staff members to fulfill them. And the whole process is in everyone’s face, so the stress is through the roof. Due diligence has already started. There are accountants and lawyers meeting with Jacob Casper every day.”
“Jacob Casper,” Casey repeated, referring to the interim hospital administrator. “Tell me about him.”
“He was one of a dozen potential candidates, from what I understand. The board thought the world of him. They interviewed like crazy, but Jacob was appointed at Manhattan Memorial less than a month after Ronald’s passing.”
“And the general consensus on him?”
“He’s a good man for the job,” Madeline replied. “He was one of Ron’s key people, although they didn’t see eye-to-eye on many things. He’s well-respected, if not particularly well-liked. Ron was a real person. Jacob is a corporate guy.”
“And he’s pushing for the merger.” Casey tapped her index finger against her lips. “Do you have any idea what his inclinations are where it comes to Conrad? Does he endorse his becoming chief of surgery? Is he open-minded about his return? Or has he temporarily—or permanently—written him off?”
Madeline turned up her palms. “I have no idea. As Conrad’s ex, all I hear about him is gossip—nothing I’d place any stock in. And even before the divorce, no one in the hospital would have discussed Conrad with me. That would be unethical and unprofessional.”
Casey processed that with a nod. “We can find a way into the hospital to conduct some interviews, including Jacob Casper. But some of what we need access to requires a more delicate approach.”
A hint of a smile curved Madeline’s lips. “I think the detective shows call that infiltrating the place.”
“I call it getting what’s necessary to keep you safe.” Casey paused, recalling a tidbit of information that Ryan had run by her earlier. “Ryan caught a brief internet post on the hospital’s website—something about a courtyard dedication to Ronald Lexington?”
“Yes,” Madeline replied. “After Ronald’s death, donors contributed money to the hospital in his name. Ronald loved the outdoors, so all the donations went toward building a small courtyard near the administrative wing. It was just completed. There’s going to be a dedication ceremony next week.”
“Perfect,” Casey said. “How small and private is the ceremony?”
“Anyone employed by the hospital is free to come. And it’s not high security or anything, so I’m sure you could find your way in.”
“We’d do better as invited guests—invited and accompanied by a respected hospital staff member.”
Madeline’s brows rose. “Me?”
“Will you be up to it?”
“If you think it will help, I’ll make myself be up to it.”
“Good,” Casey replied. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”
CREST HAVEN RESIDENTIAL Treatment Center looked more like a posh and well-manicured country club than it did a health care facility—right down to the sprawling grounds and cast-iron entrance gates.
Casey drove the FI van up to the security booth, and provided the guard with both hers and Marc’s names and P.I. identification cards. The thin-lipped man with the balding head peered inside the car at the two of them, checked their IDs and finally made a brief phone call while squinting at his visitors’ list. Whatever he was told evidently satisfied him, because he pressed a button that made the heavy iron gates swing open.
“The visitors’ lot is at the far right of the grounds,” he said in a flat monotone. “Follow the signs. Avoid the handicapped spots. Enter the main building through the front doors. You’ll be met at the reception desk just inside. Do not proceed farther or you will be stopped and escorted out.”
“Thank you.” Casey shifted the van back into Drive and moved through the open gates and along the winding driveway.
“What a charmer,” Marc muttered. “He must attract women like a magnet.”
Casey smiled. “At least Dr. Oberlin left the right instructions about our visit. Otherwise, I think Mr. Charmer would be cuffing us right about now.”
“That still might happen. We’d better not put a toe beyond the reception desk or the fires of hell will swallow us up.”
Chuckling, Casey headed to the far right grounds and followed the signs to the visitors’ lot. She and Marc drove by a golf course, two tennis courts and an Olympic-size swimming pool.
“Nice accommodations,” Marc commented. “Certainly conducive to recovery.”
“If the patient has the mind-set to utilize the facilities. Severe depression puts a damper on all facets of life.”
“I know,” Marc answered quietly. “I’ve seen the results firsthand.”
Casey nodded. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the posttraumatic stress disorder and deep, dark depressions Marc had seen during his navy SEAL days.
“Madeline made it sound like Conrad was in bad shape,” she commented instead.
“Yeah, well, being a top-notch surgeon and having your best friend die on your operating table is pretty traumatic, especially after he begged you to do the surgery even though there was way too personal a connection for that to happen. Clearly Ronald Lexington had complete faith in Conrad.”
“And in Conrad’s eyes, he broke that faith in the most horrifying way possible.” Casey pulled into a parking spot and flipped off the ignition, then turned to face Marc. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
* * *
The security at the facility was every bit as tight as Mr. Charmer had implied. The doorman checked their IDs against a list he had, and then gestured for them to approach the white marble semicircular reception desk—an exquisite piece of furniture in an equally exquisite waiting room filled with mauve leather chairs and a gray-and-white marble floor.
A toned middle-aged woman with short salon-styled hair and a designer pantsuit looked up as they stopped in front of
