WHO WANTS MADELINE WESTFIELD DEAD? AND WHY?
Forensic Instincts first order of business is to find out whos targeting their client. Under the leadership of Casey Woods, the investigative team has the resources to do just that, working inside the lawand outside it. FIs strength is its members, among them Caseys associate Marc Devereaux, former navy SEAL and a man whos equal to any situation.
Except maybe this one
Madelines case hits too close to home for Marc. Shes the only woman he ever loved, and shes his only weakness. Now a nurse at Manhattan Memorial, shes terrified because someone is trying to kill her. So she turns, reluctantly, to Marc and FI for help and protection.
Meanwhile, Manhattan Memorial is in turmoil. With a merger in the works, the staff is still haunted by their hospital administrators sudden deathduring heart surgery performed by Madelines ex-husband, Conrad. A surgery at which Madeline was present. The killer seems to blame both Madeline and Conrad
With a growing list of suspectsincluding the grieving widow and a string of scorned loversForensic Instincts will have to figure out who has the greatest incentive to get rid of Madeline. And FI has to work fast to save herbefore shes permanently silenced.
The Silence That Speaks
New York Times Bestselling Author
Andrea Kane
www.mirabooks.co.uk
To our newlyweds, Wendi and Will, whose union adds a whole new and precious dimension to our lives. Wendi, youve always been the joy in our hearts, an amazing friend, daughter and human being. And now we have Will, your wonderful husbanda fine man were proud to call our son.
We love you both so much and wish you a lifetime of joy and the happily-ever-after you deserve.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Title Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
Acknowledgments
Extract
Copyright
1
MADELINE WESTFIELD NEVER saw the car coming.
It was late at night, and chilly for the beginning of November. Shed turned up her coat collar, and was waiting to cross Park Avenue at East Eighty-Eighth Street. Lost in thought, yes, and with more than enough reason these days. She was an emotional wreck. But navigating between pedestrians, taxicabs and speeding motorists was second nature to her. Shed been a Manhattan resident for most of her life.
Shed watched for the walk sign to flash from red to green. Even then, shed paused briefly to glance around.
The crosswalk was still.
She took her initial steps into the street.
The screech of tires was her first warning. Then came the flash of motion from her peripheral vision.
Her head snapped around, and she came to a dead stop, staring like a deer in the headlights. A black SUV was roaring in her direction. It veered sharply at her, leaving no doubt that its goal was to hit her head-on.
Self-preservation kicked in. She lunged away, hurling herself backward and crashing to the sidewalk, a pile of wet leaves doing nothing to cushion her fall.
The impact of her body slamming against the concrete rocketed through her. Her head struck the groundhard. She cried out in pain, saw stars.
Somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind, she heard the screech of brakes and the sharp swerving of tires, and the terrifying thought occurred to her that the driver was going to try again.
Miss, are you all right? a gravelly male voice inquired as the man it belonged to rounded the corner.
Madeline had never felt such great relief at the sound of another human voice. She looked up to see an elderly gentleman, with a full head of white hair and a lined face, holding a leash. The Brussels griffon at the other end of the leash was eye level with her. He trotted over to take a sniff.
No, Max! the man said. He was staring down at Madeline, his forehead creased in concern. Did you trip? Can you move?
He hadnt seen what happened. He wasnt a witness.
As Madeline opened her mouth to speak, she heard the SUVs engine roar in the distance as it sped down Park Avenue.
I... She shifted her weight and winced. Her right side was killing her. Her head was throbbing violently. And Max looked like two dogs, not one. Double vision. A concussion. Not to mention some major bruisespossibly even some broken bones. As an RN, she recognized the signs.
Seeing the agony in her eyes, the man reacted.
Im going to call 9-1-1 and get you an ambulance. He took out his cell phone.
Madeline nodded her thanks. She tried again to move, and was rewarded with jolts of pain. She inhaled sharply, causing shooting pain in her chest. So she lay there quietly and waited.
The ambulance seemed to take forever to arrive. Maybe it was the pain talking. Or maybe it was her nerves. But she finally saw the red whirring light and heard the siren. Lenox Hill Hospital was nearby. Thats where the EMTs would transport her. It wasnt the hospital she worked in, but she did know some people there.
Not that it mattered. She passed out as they arrived at the E.R.
* * *
When she came to, she was in a hospital bed with a bandaged arm, a taped midsection and an ice pack resting on her hip. Her head felt like a jackhammer was splitting it in two.
She lay there for a moment, willing her mind to work. Then she remembered what had happened and everything inside her tensed up.
It hadnt been an accident. It was attempted murder. That SUV was gunning for her. The cops wouldnt believe her story. Why would they? They hadnt believed her the first time. And that had only been a robbery. Now someone wanted her dead.
She flinched, knowing she had a concussion, a few broken ribs and a badly bruised hip. She wished she had some painkillersanything to take away the throbbing and to knock her out. She wanted to sleep. She knew she couldnt. Not yet. Not until the doctor saw her and checked out her neurological responses.
Shed be here overnight. Theyd keep her for observation. Then, if she remained stable, theyd let her go home.
A wave of panic set in, followed by utter resignation. She couldnt do this alone, not anymore. Shed put off the inevitable for as long as possible. It was time to get helpand from a specific source.
Seeking out that source was going to be even more painful than her injuries.
2
IT WAS 8:45 a.m.
The Forensic Instincts investigative team was hard at workbut not on a case.
Instead, they were scrambling around their Tribeca brownstone, trying to get the place into some semblance of order before their next job applicant arrived.
Having just wrapped up a high-profile corporate espionage case, theyd normally be debriefing. Instead, all their notes, reports, follow-ups and computer files were in uncharacteristic disarray. The phone was ringing off the hook. Their voice mailboxes were exploding. And this was not the way Casey Woods intended to run her company.
Shed made her position clear several weeks ago. The minute their current case was closed, they were hiring a receptionist-slash-assistant. From a small start-up investigative firm, theyd catapulted into a highly sought-after company, thanks to the combined efforts and stellar results achieved by their brilliant team.
Until now, thered been the six of them, each of whom was a critical and integral part of FI. Starting with Casey herselfwho was the company president and behavioral expert, and who had the extensive academic credentials and professional experience to be the firms anchorevery member of the FI team had a stand-alone résumé.
They were no longer New Yorks best kept secret, and their client list was growing daily. Thus, the need for someone to man the front desk and to assist the team as needed.
So far, they hadnt had much luck.
At the moment, Casey was upstairs on the fourth floorthe floor that served as her apartment during the few hours that she actually lived thererunning a brush through her shoulder-length red hair and adjusting the collar on her green cowl-neck sweater. Hero, Caseys bloodhound and the teams human scent evidence dog, was already poised in the bedroom doorway, waiting expectantly for his mistress to leave her apartment and go downstairs to her real home: Forensic Instincts.
Im coming, boy, she told him, looking in the mirror and giving herself a quick once-over, before heading for their morning interview. God knows what we have in store this time.
* * *
Ryan McKay was still downstairs in his man cave, affectionately known as his lair, which filled the entire basement level of the brownstone. It was the technology center of Forensic Instincts, complete with their serversLumen, Equitas and Intueri, from the Latin words for light, justice and intuition. Part data center, part electronics lab, Ryan had more high-tech equipment than a small university.
Despite its serious purpose, Ryan left enough room to maintain two areas of personal spacehis free weights and fitness section, and a small competition ring for his self-built robots.
Right now, he was enjoying neither. He was printing out pages from FIs just-closed case.
While the pages were printing, he was on his iPad, reading the latest issue of Sound on Sound magazine. The software review of Audio Detracktor was compelling. The reviewer described how it was developed by three of genius college studentsa math whiz, a computer geek and a musical prodigy. Audio Detracktor would analyze an audio file, separating the component tracks and instruments into layers. Each isolated layer could be played independently, giving the listener the ability to hear insignificant sounds in a rich recording. Sound on Sound had written about experimenting with Eric Claptons Layla, Gene Vincents Be-Bop-A-Lula and Paul McCartneys Yesterday. They were even able to isolate the sound of a flying guitar pick bouncing off the floor. Guitarists would often lose their picks in midperformance, which is why they always carried extras with them. But to actually hear the sound of a tiny plastic piece hitting the ground? Awesome.
Just as Ryan was about to swipe to the next page, his iPhone began vibrating in his pocket, reminding him of a scheduled meeting. Glancing at his calendar entry, he scowled at its purpose. Interview. Emma Stirling. Another teenybopper receptionist he had to talk to.
He understood Caseys decision to establish a more professional office environment, as well as to get some help answering the phones and doing odds and ends. But hed lobbied strongly for a virtual assistant, aka software, installed on one of their servers. A virtual assistant was smart, predictable, not female and never took a coffee or bathroom break.
The perfect receptionist.
Casey and Claire had overruled him. They felt a personal touch was needed. A flesh-and-blood human being, not a machine. Marc was indifferent, although he saw the value of both. And Patrick had been married long enough to know when to avoid a losing situation.
Ryans pocket buzzed again. Time to stop procrastinating and get this over with. Full of attitude, he marched upstairs ready to meet and nix Emma Stirling.