Pamela Toth - In The Enemy's Arms

She knew he had stopped loving her a long time ago, but was it possible that he still resented her enough to send her to prison—even if it was for something she hadn’t done?

Detective Collins had been studying Mari through the glass divider. He watched the receptionist with the eye-popping blue hair give Mari the no doubt unwelcome news of his presence. As he got to his feet, Mari’s gaze collided with his. Even with her spine stiffened, she looked tired.

Was her obvious fatigue merely a by-product of her chosen profession? Becoming a doctor, an obstetrician, had been a goal he hadn’t been willing to support. In fact, when they were younger, Bryce had done everything in his power to dissuade her from pursuing a career in medicine. Judging from her current wilted appearance, it appeared that her job was taking its toll.

Grudgingly Bryce supposed the investigation—his investigation—might also be partly to blame. Was a guilty conscience keeping her awake at night? Did she feel sorry for the victims of the switched pain medication or was it merely the fear of getting caught supplying drugs to the black market that dimmed her normal sparkle?

His determination to find answers was the reason he’d spent the last hour waiting to see her. He’d been surrounded by chattering mommies, fussing babies and whiny toddlers. One of the latter had just wiped a mashed-up cookie on the knee of Bryce’s slacks.

Given a choice, he would rather be chasing a suspect through a dark alley full of pit bulls.

Instead of waiting for him, Mari walked away. He nearly ran down two little kids when he chased after her, swearing under his breath.

With her clipboard clutched to her chest, the blue-haired receptionist headed him off while Mari disappeared around a corner. Biting back his impatience, Bryce glanced at the girl’s name tag.

“Heather, I told you that I need to speak to Dr. Bingham,” he said, doing his best to soften his request with a smile.

“She asked that you wait in her office. I’ll take you there right now and the doctor will be with you in just a little while.”

So far, he had nothing to show for the morning that was rapidly slipping away except for the dried cookie on his knee. “Great,” he replied, his annoyance oozing out. “It’s not as if I’ve got anything better to do with my time.”

Below the silver hoop that pierced Heather’s brow, her black-rimmed eyes widened. With a huff of annoyance, she spun on her heel, leaving him no choice but to follow.

The case was getting a fair amount of publicity and he had grown up in Merlyn County, so people recognized him. Today he ignored the curious glances of the patients and the disapproving stares from some of the clinic staff as he focused on getting his interview with his number-one person of interest.

The receptionist opened the door marked Marigold Bingham, M.D., Director and stepped aside. Heather’s frosty expression didn’t thaw, but it actually went rather well with her icy-blue hair.

“You can wait in here,” she said. “Do you want coffee?”

Whatever they served here at the clinic had to be an improvement on the bilge at the station. For an instant he was tempted, but he didn’t want to be distracted.

“No, thanks,” he said reluctantly. “I’m fine.”

She must have been worried that he might snoop through Mari’s paperwork, because she hesitated with her hand on the doorjamb. It was only when he sat down facing the cluttered desk and withdrew his notebook from his jacket pocket that she left.

Unfortunately for Dr. Bingham, the obvious loyalty of her staff was no indication whatsoever of her guilt or innocence. The grim fact was that someone who worked here was stealing Orcadol, a popular and powerful new prescription painkiller, and selling it on the street. From a personal point of view, and because Bryce had known her for so long, he was reluctant to believe that Mari could be involved in something as despicable as drug trafficking. As a detective with the Merlyn County Sheriff’s Department, it was his sworn duty to follow the trail of evidence that pointed relentlessly in her direction.

He scrubbed one hand over his jaw, feeling its roughness. He needed a shave. A stakeout on an unrelated case had gotten him up at dawn, but the perps never showed. Sometimes his job sucked.

Sheriff Remington, a crusader against illegal drugs, was growing impatient with Bryce’s lack of progress in the Orcadol case. Just this morning the sheriff had asked Bryce for a status report, but there had been damn little to say.

Over the course of his career, Bryce had witnessed time and again the damage caused by drugs; the broken, wasted lives, the crimes committed in order to feed habits gone out of control, the families ripped apart and the children hurt by addiction. Was it really possible that someone like Mari, who had taken an oath to save lives, could be responsible for the recent increase of the illegal supply of Orcadol, or Orchid, as it was called on the street?

Nothing surprised Bryce anymore. Greed was a powerful motivator and the word was out that Mari was desperate for money to support the construction of her pet project, a biomedical research facility. The question that ate at him was just how far would she go in order to get it?

Unless Bryce was willing to shoot holes in his own career, he had no choice but to set aside his personal reservations and treat her the same as he would any other suspect. Better in Bryce’s opinion to have him be the one investigating her than Merlyn County’s other detective, Hank Butler. At least with Bryce on the case, she was less likely to become the victim of sloppy police work, questionable shortcuts or even—it had been whispered but never proven—doctored evidence.

“Dr. Bingham to Neonatal. Dr. Mari Bingham to Neonatal, stat!”

Mari was in her office doorway when she heard the summons to the hospital, which was adjacent to the clinic. Bryce had glanced up and was already halfway to his feet when she stopped.

“Sorry, but I have to see about this,” she said, torn between relief at the interruption and concern for whoever needed her. Just this morning Milla Johnson, a midwife at the clinic, had mentioned one of her patients to Mari.

The patient, barely twenty-four weeks pregnant, had been experiencing what she described as twinges. Milla had sounded concerned when she told Mari that the woman’s husband was bringing her in for an exam.

“Don’t leave!” Bryce snapped before Mari could turn away. “I’ve been waiting long enough already.”

“Apparently not, Detective,” she contradicted. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Ignoring his muttered curse, she hurried down the hall toward the sky bridge to the hospital.

Waiting for her was something he had once refused to do, so it only seemed fair for him to cool his heels now.

Bryce dropped back into the chair, flipping once again through his notes and wishing he hadn’t refused that cup of coffee. He made a couple of calls on his cell phone, pacing the confines of the small office like a caged bear. Mari still hadn’t returned when he was through, so he wandered back out to the main lobby to see if he could get an idea of how long she was going to be held up this time.

Failing to spot Heather, he approached the nurses’ station. An older woman wearing a headset was seated at a computer terminal. As she slid back the glass panel, she met his gaze with a smile.

“Is Dr. Bingham back from the hospital yet?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied, glancing at the badge Bryce held out. “One of our patients was brought to the clinic in preterm labor,” she continued in a low voice. “The poor thing had to be moved to the neonatal ICU at the hospital when her membranes ruptured. Dr. Bingham is likely to be over there for a while.”