Lisa Gardner - Live to Tell

I opened the bedroom door, hearing Greg’s deep baritone in the living room.

“Yeah, I can come in. What time does the kid arrive? What are the protocols?”

There was silence as he listened to the answers. He was talking to Karen. A new child was arriving at the unit and, for some reason, Karen wanted Greg there for the show.

I walked into the living room, waited for him to see me. His dark hair was damp from a recent shower; he was wearing a navy blue towel around his waist and nothing else. I stared at his deeply tanned torso, ridged with muscle, and my mouth went dry.

I retreated to the single bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face and tried to regain my bearings. Greg was Greg. Greg had always been Greg.

But I’d never realized before what Greg looked like naked.

I took another minute, then opened the bathroom door to find Greg in the hallway. He’d changed into gym shorts and a white polo shirt. It made it easier for both of us.

“That was Karen,” he announced. “Listen, I gotta go to work. You can stay if you’d like. My roommates probably won’t return until late.”

“What time is it?”

“Four p.m.”

I frowned, surprised by the time. Perhaps I’d dozed off after all.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“New arrival,” he said, already walking down the hall to retrieve his gym bag. I trailed after him.

“Why you?”

“Kid has a history of violence. Karen would feel better with me there.”

“What’d he do?”

“Stabbed his mother.”

“When?”

“Sounds like this morning.”

“Mother okay?”

“Don’t know.”

“How old’s the kid?”

“Eight. Currently catatonic, according to the ER docs. Most likely shock.”

“And once that wears off…” I agreed. The panic would set in, and the explosive child would explode.

“Looks like it’ll be a night.” Greg slipped on a pair of nylon workout pants over his shorts. He slung his bag over his shoulder and, that quickly, he was good to go.

I stared at him. He stared at me. A faint bruise marred the line of his jaw. I took a step forward without thinking. I traced the bruise lightly with my fingertips, then, standing on my tiptoes, I gently kissed the mark I’d left on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” I said honestly.

“Danielle…” he said thickly.

“What?”

“It’s not always about you. Just remember that, okay? It’s not always about you.”

“Okay.”

I kissed his jaw again. I inhaled the fragrance of his freshly showered skin, then I stepped back. He went to work.

I had other business to tend to.

D.D. got her taskforce. The linking of the Harringtons to the Laraquette-Solis family via the pediatric psych ward, plus the subsequent death of another child in the same unit, all served to catch the superintendent’s attention. D.D. made a step up from being viewed as an extremely paranoid investigator to being one smart cookie. The fact that the media had latched on to the salacious news potential of two heinous mass murders in two days didn’t hurt either. The press hadn’t linked the family murders yet, but were granting enough coverage of the two tragedies that the superintendent saw the wisdom of quickly closing out both the Harrington and Laraquette-Solis cases. D.D. got ten detectives to throw at the hospital scene.

She also got to wake up in the arms of a handsome man.

Her damn pager was going off at the time, meaning they shared half a dozen glazed donuts instead of half a dozen bouts of steamy sex, but still, best morning she’d had in years.

She was smiling when Alex drove her back to the psych ward, perhaps even whistling as they walked through the lobby and rode the elevators to the eighth floor. They exited the elevators outside the secured glass doors of the pediatric unit, and discovered Andrew Lightfoot chatting up the security guard.

“What the hell are you doing here?” D.D. demanded.

“Working,” he said. “Can’t you feel it?” He held out his forearm, which was covered in goose bumps. “Bad juju,” he murmured as they entered the unit. “Better find your inner angel, Sergeant. Because, take it from me, your inner bitch’s got nothing on whatever’s going on in here.”

D.D. and her team set up in their favorite classroom. They were armed with search warrants and they knew how to use them. In the next twenty-four hours, D.D. planned on obtaining preliminary statements from every staff member working the unit. Back in HQ, Phil was running background reports on each employee, while Neil was formulating a list of other hospital workers-doctors, therapists, janitors, food service employees, local shamans, etc.-who routinely visited the floor. Two more detectives would be sent out to work the list, tracking down each person, securing an initial interview, and doing the background checks.

It was the classic machine-gun approach: fast and furious. D.D. didn’t mind. She was on the hunt for big game, and jazzed about it.

The hospital, of course, had sent its lawyer to supervise the activities. Being that it was a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and most of the high-powered partners were out on their yachts, some young chick in a navy blue Ann Taylor pantsuit had drawn the short straw. The lawyer made a big show of inspecting each search warrant, slowly scrutinizing every word, before returning the documents with a crisp “Fine.”

D.D. liked her already. The kind of looks-good-but-has-no-experience legal eagle a BPD sergeant could eat for lunch.

D.D.’s team got to it, setting up for interviews and preparing to copy more files. Satisfied with their progress, D.D. went in search of her first target of choice: Andrew Lightfoot.

She found him in the dead girl’s room. The lone mattress remained in the middle of the floor. Andrew sat in front of it, cross-legged, feet bare, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees, palms up. His lips were moving, but no sound came out.

D.D. walked around until she stood in front of him. The minute her shadow touched his face, Lightfoot opened his eyes and stared at her. He didn’t seem surprised by her sudden presence, and that pissed her off enough to attack first.

“Why didn’t you tell us you worked here?” she demanded.

“I don’t.”

D.D. arched a brow, waving her hand around the room. “And yet, here you are.”

Lightfoot rose fluidly to standing. “Karen asked me to come. The unit is acute, the energies imbalanced. She asked me to perform a cleansing exercise, and assist with her staff. So here I am.”

“Karen, the nurse manager? She hired you?”

“Not everyone is a skeptic.” He smiled patiently.

D.D. felt pissed off all over again. “How long have you and Karen known each other?”

“Two years.”

“Personal or professional?”

“Professional.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Through a family. They asked that I assist with their child, who was admitted here. Karen became impressed by the child’s progress. She asked me to work with her staff on basic meditation and energy-boosting exercises. From time to time, she also recommends my services to other families.”

“She likes you?”

“She believes in my work.”

“You’re rich and good-looking. Bet that doesn’t hurt.”

“You think I’m rich and good-looking?” Lightfoot smiled again.

“I think you’re cocky and arrogant,” D.D. countered.

Lightfoot’s smile grew broader. “Leopard can’t change all of his spots,” he agreed.

“You and Karen ever go out?”

“It is strictly a professional relationship, Sergeant. I assist her and her staff. She recommends my services.”