Joanna Wayne - Big Shot

“Good. Hopefully you can help us. It’s urgent that we get in touch with a family member.”

Panic swept through him. “How serious is this?”

“Her condition is still being assessed, but she’s unable to give us any medical history. We need to talk to someone who’ll know if she has any allergies or other medical conditions we should be aware of. And we need a next of kin to make medical decisions until she is able to do that for herself. Do you know how to reach Ms. Sinclair’s parents?”

“Her parents are dead.”

“What about siblings?”

“She has a sister who lived in Connecticut,” he said. “I assume she still lives there.”

“Can you give us the sister’s name and phone number?”

“Meghan called her Lucy. She’s married, and I don’t know her last name or her phone number. I’m sure Meghan’s assistant, Ben Conroe, can give you everything you need.”

“Do you have his phone number?”

“Not off hand, but I can get it. In fact, he needs to be notified. I know he’d want to be here.”

“Would he also have her medical insurance information?”

“He’ll at least know who holds the policy.”

“Then have him contact us at this number ASAP.” She handed him a business card for the trauma unit. “Tell him to ask for Jane. I’ll be here until midnight.”

“I’ll get in touch with Ben,” Durk said, “as soon as you give me the honest truth about Meghan’s medical condition.”

“I’m sorry, but since you’re not a family member, the only information I can give you is that she’s being treated.”

Durk understood rules, but he’d never been too keen on following them. “I’m the only one here to make sure she’s taken care of. You want me to cooperate, then do the same,” he said.

It was a bluff. He’d cooperate and do what was best for Meghan no matter what they did or didn’t tell him.

“Wait here,” the nurse said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

A couple of minutes later, she returned with a man in a white physician’s lab coat. The apprehension on the man’s face as he stuck out his hand was anything but reassuring.

His handshake was firm as he introduced himself as Dr. Levy.

“I’m Durk Lambert, and I appreciate you talking to me.”

“I understand you’re a close friend of Ms. Sinclair,” the doctor said, his voice matter-of-fact.

“Yes,” Durk agreed even though it was an exaggeration. “How serious are her injuries? I mean, are we talking critical?”

“All I can tell you now is that her condition is being assessed.”

“Exactly what does that entail?”

“Examination, routine neurological tests and a CAT scan.”

“Is she conscious?”

“She’s alert, but exhibiting altered mental status.”

“What does that mean?”

“She’s confused. That frequently goes along with a concussion. But we do need to contact a family member. That’s the one thing you can do at this point to help your friend.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Durk said. “In the meantime, I want to make certain that Meghan receives the best care possible, even if that means airlifting her to a different facility.”

The doctor’s brows arched. “At your expense?”

“Yes. I can sign whatever is needed.”

“That’s a very generous offer, Mr. Lambert, but there’s no reason to move her at this time.”

“In that case, when can I see her?”

“That depends on her progress and the test results, but likely within the next several hours. It will be good for her to hear a familiar voice—unless there’s some reason why seeing you would upset her. There isn’t, is there?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll let you know when you can see her.”

Durk reconsidered his answer to that last question as he walked away. He and Meghan hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Not that she’d made a scene. Meghan Sinclair was not one to lose control. But she’d clearly dumped him.

That had been two years ago. When he’d recommended her professional services to his brother Tague just months ago she’d accepted and done a bang-up job.

She’d moved on. For all he knew, she was in a serious romantic relationship. The thought bothered him, though it shouldn’t. He’d bow out quickly enough if he found out that was true.

It wouldn’t change the fact that he planned to make damn sure that whoever did this to Meghan would not get off scot-free.

But the first order of business was contacting Ben Conroe. He searched for a quiet space. When he found none, he walked outside and into the gathering twilight. The siren of an incoming ambulance punctuated the brisk air as he called Meghan’s office.

He got a busy signal instead of the answering machine, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully, that meant Ben was still at work. The office was on the second floor of a three-story office building across the street from a strip mall only a few blocks away.

Durk jogged to his truck and a few seconds later was heading out of the parking lot. He dialed the number again as he sped toward her office. The line remained busy.

He glanced at his watch as he parked in the mostly empty lot. It was ten before six. He entered and raced up the stairs to the second floor. He tapped on the closed door to her office. When no one answered, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

Ben was there, but he was not on the phone. He wouldn’t be talking—not now and not ever again. A bullet had apparently ripped through his brain.

Durk went into defensive mode instantly, reaching for the pistol that lay near Ben’s body, listening and looking for any sign the killer was still on the premises.

The office remained as quiet as death.

Feeling a bit more confident that he was alone, Durk stepped closer to the body. Ben’s eyes were open, staring and lifeless. Durk stooped and checked Ben’s pulse, knowing there wouldn’t be one. The body was still warm. He’d missed the killer by mere minutes.

Reality burned in the pit of his stomach as he tried to assess the situation with some degree of clarity. Ben was dead. And whoever had killed him had probably planned the same fate for Meghan. Something had apparently stopped him before he could finish the job on her—possibly the neighbor who’d called the ambulance.

Fury and determination strained every muscle as Durk took out his phone and dialed 911. He gave the operator the information. She asked a few questions, assured him the cops were on their way and warned him not to touch anything before they arrived.

A little late for that since he was likely already holding the murder weapon. Survival topped crime scene protocol any day. Too bad he hadn’t thought to grab his own pistol from the car, but then he hadn’t expected to crash a murder scene.

He let his gaze roam the small outer office. File cabinet drawers were open, loose papers strewn about the floor and across what had been Ben’s desk.

Gun still in hand, he crossed the room and, using the tips of his fingers to hopefully keep from destroying possible fingerprints, he cautiously turned the knob and opened the door to Meghan’s office. The usually neat space was a total wreck.

Whatever the murderous bastard had wanted, Durk assumed he’d found it. Otherwise, he’d have still been here when Durk showed up.

When the cops arrived, they’d take over. From that point on, everything in the office would be in their possession and Durk would be the outsider—or possibly even a suspect since his prints would be all over the Smith & Wesson still clutched in his right hand.

He’d deal with the suspicions, but the idea of losing control disturbed him to the max. The least he could do was locate the insurance information for the doctor so that they could check for a history of allergies.