“It’ll take days to sort out that mess,” Penny said, her brow wrinkled in worry. “There’s still so much to do before the gala on Saturday.”
“It’ll get done,” Mona said.
“What do you think they were looking for, money?” Richard asked.
“We do receive a lot of checks, but we don’t have any cash on hand.”
“They didn’t jimmy the door. Someone had a master key,” Penny said. “It was an inside job.”
Her words sounded like bad dialogue from a TV cop show.
“Then what do you think they were after?” Richard asked.
“I have no idea,” Mona said.
“It looked like some of my back-up disks were gone,” Penny said, “but that was just backed-up material. Mostly old reports and articles for the newsletter. Everything current is kept on the main frame and is password protected.”
“Were any other offices vandalized?” Richard asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Mona said, and sipped her coffee.
“Have you got anything else going on—something that someone could use to their advantage?”
“Only the names of the new chairs, to be announced on Saturday. That’s not worth breaking and entering for,” Mona said.
“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t put anything past Dr. Timberly.”
“Penny,” Mona admonished. “Don’t you dare say that in front of anyone else.”
Penny glanced at Richard. “I wouldn’t, but I trust Dr. Alpert, and Dr. Timberly is nothing more than a bully! He treats people—especially women—badly. And he’ll be pissed when he finds out he’s lost his precious chairmanship.”
Mona’s cheeks colored. “So much for the element of surprise.”
Richard kept his face immobile. “I won’t say anything. Not even to my wife.”
“I’d appreciate that, Richard.” Mona drained her Styrofoam cup. “We’d better get back to work.”
Richard accompanied the women back to their office. Hospital security was still there, paying special attention to the computers, he noticed.
Mona paused in her doorway. “I’m sorry, Richard. I never asked why you came to see me.”
“I almost forgot myself.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I have some checks for you. You were right, Dr. Zimmer’s retirement party was a good place to talk up the Foundation.”
She took the checks with a grin. “You have already been enormously successful at the job. I can’t wait to see what you do with it in the future.”
“Thanks, Mona. I appreciate hearing that. I believe in what the Foundation does and I want to make a difference. I hope we’ll have a long association.”
“If we only had some champagne, we could toast to it,” Penny said.
“We’ll do that on Saturday,” Mona agreed.
Richard smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Wally Moses
did not fit his name. Instead of the jovial, robust man Richard had imagined, the records clerk was short, thin, and in his late twenties. Silver wire-framed glasses with thick lenses almost hid his gray eyes.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Richard said, sitting next to Wally at his desk, close enough to read his computer screen.
“You wanted to know if someone has accessed your brother’s medical files, right?”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t have the same name as you,” Wally said.
“We’re half brothers,” Richard admitted. “We had the same mother. I’m sure her name is referenced. Elizabeth O’Connor Alpert Resnick.”
Wally’s fingers danced across the computer’s keyboard.
“It’s all right here,” Wally said. “Now what were you looking for exactly?”
“I want to know who, besides his doctors, has accessed my brother’s files.”
“Does he know you’re asking these questions?”
“No,” Richard admitted.
“Then I shouldn’t be speaking to you about this. I mean, they’re
his
records. If
he
has a question about it, that’s different.”
The truth was, Richard could have hacked into those files himself. And he knew enough about computer protocols to hide his tracks, too. But he’d wanted to do it the legit way before he had to resort to those tactics.
“I really don’t want my brother to know about this. Not until absolutely necessary. And there’s a chance no one has tampered with his files. I guess that’s what I’m asking you to ascertain.”
Wally thought it over. “I suppose I could at least give you that information. But I would need your brother’s permission before I told you who had accessed his files without his permission—or that of his doctor.”
“Fair enough,” Richard said.
Wally nodded, and his fingers played magic with the computer once again. He stared at the screen, his lips pursed as he studied the data.
It didn’t take a computer genius to see that Jeff’s file had last been accessed only six weeks before. But by whom? Krista Marsh or Wes Timberly?
Or somebody else?
Krista’s car
pulled up the driveway at eight fifty-nine. Okay, so I was watching from my window above the drive. A minute later she stood in my open doorway, breathtaking in a black cocktail dress, with a short spangled jacket.
“Do you always make house calls dressed like that?” I asked.
“Only when I have a command performance beforehand. And I was delighted to make an early escape. Can I come in?”
I stood back and ushered her in.
“Nice place,” she said, taking in the ten-foot ceiling, the natural finish and the comfortable furnishings. Her gaze stopped on Herschel. “You have a cat.”
Glowing eyes glared at her from the cat’s perch on the windowsill.
“You allergic?” I asked.
“I’ll be okay, if I don’t touch him,” she said. “Do you have any wine? I could sure go for a glass.”
Yeah. A bottle of nice Bordeaux I’d bought for Maggie. No sense wasting it. I got out the corkscrew, opened the wine and poured two generous glasses. This wasn’t how I’d planned the visit, acting sociable when I was pissed-off. Damn my good manners.
She settled on the couch and removed her jacket, laying it on the arm. Thin spaghetti straps on her low-cut dress were all that kept it defying gravity. She slipped out of her heels and curled up on the couch, taking the glass of wine from me. She patted the cushion. “Sit,”
I sat, feeling uncomfortable and totally out of control.
“Let’s talk about what’s bothering you,” she said, her expression concerned.
I took a mouthful of wine and swallowed. “My first session with Grace was uncomfortable enough. But I don’t remember a thing after she left last Thursday. Why?”
“You told me you didn’t feel well. We discussed various biofeedback techniques.”
Krista went over the therapy plan. I vaguely remembered that part of the conversation. But what about the trip home? Parking in Richard’s spot, hiking to my apartment and falling into bed. That was still a total blank.
“Did you have a headache when you woke?” she asked.
“No.” I’d felt great—relaxed, and rested.
“Then it worked. And it will, every time.”
“Every time?”
“Guaranteed.”
I searched her brown eyes. I wasn’t sure I believed her. In the midst of one of my skullpounders, I’d been known to get confused about the sequence of events, even double medicating myself on a couple of occasions. But if I didn’t have a headache, why had I blacked out? It scared me. She was the last person I’d been with. Shouldn’t that have scared her, too?
But I didn’t voice that. I didn’t want to look paranoid, I suppose. I caught the scent of her flowery perfume—jasmine? A familiar fragrance—seductive and frightening at the same time.
God help me, it excited me.
Think of something else, I told myself.
“Why are Grace’s sessions two hours? And why do you meet with her so often?”
“I’ve spoken with her guardian—”
“Guardian? I thought she was twenty-three?”
“It has something to do with the terms of her trust. She’ll gain control of it in a few weeks, on her twenty-fourth birthday. Grace had emotional problems even before the accident that crippled her. Her father wanted her to be taken care of—protected—in case anything ever happened to him. It was a wise precaution, as it turns out. Unfortunately, her attorney is considering petitioning the court to remain her guardian, as she probably won’t be emotionally ready to make major decisions in the near future.”
“She came from money?” I asked, remembering Grace’s shabby clothing.
“Her father was the late William Vanderstein,” Krista said with awe, like I was supposed to be impressed. The name meant nothing to me.
Krista sipped her wine.
I caught the scent of her perfume again and, impulsively, I leaned forward, my face hovering only inches from Krista’s. Our eyes locked. I kissed her warm lips. She let me, melted into me. Her hand snaked up my back, fingers curling in the hair at my collar.
She pulled back and smiled. “I’ve been waiting for this.”
“You should’ve said something sooner.”
“I wanted to. But the timing wasn’t right.”
I met her penetrating gaze, my every muscle tensing with . . . excitement? Trepidation?
I pulled her to her feet. She didn’t protest as my fingers sought the zipper on the back of her dress. With her thumb, she slid a strap over one shoulder, then the other, and the dress slid to the floor. She stood before me in a garter belt, black stockings, and nothing else. She leaned over, unfastened the garters on her left leg, licked her bottom lip, and gathered the stocking in a neat bundle. Laughing, she stepped closer, playfully whipped the featherweight hose across my face.
“Do you want to do the other?”
Our eyes held. A bright flare of desire coursed through me. I looked deeply into her dark eyes. “You are beautiful,” I whispered, letting my fingers brush against her silken skin.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
I touched her waist, let my hand travel down her hip. Crouching, I pressed a kiss against her thigh as I unfastened the garters. Carefully, I followed her example and gently gathered the stocking. She stepped out of it. I rose, reached for her hand, and welcomed her to my bed.
She lay back, watched me as I shed my clothes. I got in next to her and traced my finger and thumb over her left nipple and, in the dim light, watched it harden under my touch. Cupping her breast, I felt an unnatural firmness—a wrongness. A saline-filled plastic bag sewn under her smooth skin.
Disappointment flooded through me. Of course they weren’t real. The woman didn’t have an ounce of fat on her. No sensual curves to explore and memorize. Just skin and sinewy muscle stretched over a framework of bones. She wasn’t a natural blonde, either, although I guess I’d intuitively known that.
Worse, we shared no mental—spiritual—connection.
I pulled my hand away.
“Something wrong?” she murmured.
Yeah. She wasn’t turning me on any more. And it was obvious to her as her hand had also stopped its gentle massage.
“Mind games,” I whispered. Did she think I might be impotent? I hadn’t been . . . until that moment.
Krista shifted position, straddling me. I stared up at her in the thin light. Her hair hung seductively around her face, her smile provocative. The silhouette of her perfectly contoured breasts was outlined against the glow from the lights in my living room. Then she bent low, trailing kisses down my throat, across my chest, her hands caressing my ribs. Her warm soft lips traveled down my belly. I lay back, closed my eyes and went with the flow, proving that impotence was not my problem.
She was better than the twenty-dollar hooker who did me in the parking lot of a bar in San Francisco when I was nineteen. But the experience was just as hollow.
She didn’t ask me to pleasure her, and I didn’t offer. After, she lay beside me in the darkness, didn’t snuggle close. I didn’t wrap my arm around her like I would have with Maggie.
“Are you okay?” she asked finally, her voice sounding small.
“Yeah.”
“Are you thinking of someone else?”
“No.”
But I was.
She wasn’t Maggie. There was no route I could take to find her soul. I’d had sex with women I didn’t love before. Why was this so achingly empty?
We lay there for a long time.
“I have to go,” Krista said at last. “I’ve got an eight o’clock appointment with my manic depressive.” She leaned over, kissed me, her lips lingering, her breath warm on my face. I tried to respond in kind and we wasted another minute or two pretending a passion that neither of us could muster.
Then she was on her feet, heading for the living room. I scooped up my robe, knotted it at my waist, feeling awkward. She’d shimmied into her dress, struggling to yank up the zipper. I pulled it up the last four inches.
Krista gathered her stockings, jacket and purse. “You’ll be there for Grace tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Sure.”