about Dr. Oberlin expecting them. Yet again, the woman checked out their story, this time on her computer, where she typed in their information with manicured fingernails.
“I’ll let Dr. Oberlin know you’re here,” she informed them. “Have a seat.”
Not a surprise that the seats she indicated were located in the front reception alcove. The guardian of the gates. No one would get by her, that was for sure.
“It’s easier to get into an FBI field office than it is to get in here,” Marc muttered. “The only difference is that here I’m allowed to keep my driver’s license and cell phone.” He glanced up as a male nurse headed in their direction. “Correction. The system here is a helluva lot faster than the Bureau’s.”
Casey didn’t have time to answer before a young man in a blue uniform approached them. His name tag read William Cook, RN.
“Ms. Woods? Mr. Devereaux?” he asked. Seeing their nods, he continued, “Dr. Oberlin is expecting you. Please follow me.”
He escorted them to the elevators, where he waited for them to precede him. He then pressed the third-floor button and stood, hands clasped behind him, as the doors shut.
“I’ll be taking you directly to Dr. Oberlin’s office,” he informed them. “She’ll have a brief meeting with you and then take you to see the patient you’ve requested to see—Dr. Westfield. He has a time limit on his visitations, so you’ll be allowed only a designated amount of time with him.”
“We understand.” Casey exchanged a quick glance with Marc. It felt like they were in the friggin’ military rather than a recuperation center.
The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and Nurse Cook led them down a few corridors until he reached an office whose gold plaque read Marie Oberlin, M.D.
He knocked.
“Yes?” came a crisp female voice from inside.
The RN opened the door partway. “Ms. Woods and Mr. Devereaux are here.”
There was the sound of a chair being rolled back, and then the click of heels on the floor. A tall, slim, middle-aged woman with chin-length dark hair and an understated pantsuit opened the door the rest of the way and gave them a professional smile. “Come in,” she said, gesturing. She shot a quick glance at the nurse, who was making his exit. “Thanks, Bill,” she added.
She shut the door, turned and shook Casey’s and Marc’s hands. “I’m Marie Oberlin, Dr. Westfield’s primary attending physician.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Oberlin,” Casey replied. She quickly scanned the office—lovely and elegant, but as understated as Dr. Oberlin herself, with rich walnut rather than stark, in-your-face marble furnishings. “We thank you for your time,” Casey added. “We realize it’s valuable.”
“Not as valuable as my patients.” Dr. Oberlin spoke with candor rather than arrogance. “I’m a little uncomfortable having private investigators as visitors. This isn’t exactly a social call, and I don’t want Dr. Westfield to suffer any setbacks. He’s here to recover, not to be agitated.”
“We understand that.” Casey nodded. “I’m sure Madeline Westfield explained the nature of our visit. We only want to ask her ex-husband a few questions as this involves her life and her safety.”
“She did explain that, which is why I’m permitting this visit. The stipulations are that I be present during the interview, and that when I say it’s over, it’s over.”
Casey wasn’t happy, but she wasn’t surprised, either. Conrad Westfield was a psychiatric patient. His physician wasn’t about to let him feel vulnerable and alone while being grilled by two P.I.s.
“Fair enough,” Casey responded. “And just so Marc and I know what to expect, could you summarize Dr. Westfield’s current mental state without compromising doctor-patient confidentiality? We know he had a psychotic break after the loss of his friend and that he came here in a severely depressive state. Is he clearheaded?”
Dr. Oberlin looked a little put off by the question. “If you’re asking if Dr. Westfield is in his right mind, the answer is yes. He’s depressed, not unaware. If his condition were more severe, or if he were unable to understand or answer your questions, I wouldn’t permit this visit, regardless of how dire the circumstances. In addition, he’s expecting you. I don’t surprise my patients. The final decision of who they do or don’t see is theirs. Dr. Westifield chose to have you here.”
“I understand—and we’re very appreciative.” Casey cautioned herself to tread lightly. The last thing she wanted to do was to offend the woman they needed as their ally. “I certainly wasn’t questioning your judgment. I only wanted to know what to expect so that Marc and I can accomplish what we need to as quickly and easily as possible. We’re not here to upset your patient, Dr. Oberlin. You have my word.”
That seemed to relax the psychiatrist a bit. “All right, then.” She scooped up a file and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Just one more question.” Casey held up her palm for an instant. “How much did you tell Conrad Westfield about his ex-wife? Does he know she was burglarized? Almost hit by a car?”
“He knows both,” Dr. Oberlin replied. “And he’s very concerned.”
“Good.” Casey nodded. “Then we’re ready for our interview.”
* * *
From a rear view, Conrad Westfield looked like any successful middle-aged man standing in his living room on a day off from work.
He was at the room’s bay window, back turned toward them, gazing outside. Dressed in designer sweats, he was tall, broad-shouldered and tan, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He looked strong and healthy, and not at all bent and broken.
Casey and Marc exchanged glances.
Dr. Oberlin intercepted the look. “Appearances are often deceiving,” she murmured. “At the same time, any manifestation of normal behavior is a positive sign.” Aloud, she said, “Conrad, your visitors are here.”
Conrad Westfield turned around. He was a handsome man, but instantly, Casey could see that Dr. Oberlin was right. Put together or not, Conrad’s face was drawn and his eyes were hollow and faraway.
“Dr. Westfield, thank you for seeing us.” Casey stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Casey Woods, and this is my associate, Marc Devereaux.”
“Ms. Woods. Mr. Devereaux.” Conrad shook both their hands. There was no reaction at all when he said Marc’s name or met his gaze—again, not a surprise since Madeline had told them she’d never mentioned Marc’s name to her ex. But Marc indiscernibly tensed up, and his stare intensified, however subtly, as he scrutinized the man who’d been married to his former lover.
Casey knew Conrad wouldn’t notice, but she certainly did. And it concerned her. She intended to watch Marc like a hawk. If he couldn’t keep his personal feelings in check for this interview, then he was being relegated to the background on this case. No second chances. No questions asked.
Marc must have sensed his boss’s thought process, because he settled into his usual professional self ASAP.
