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Sleep was an excellent idea, but he didn’t dare relax his vigilance; Deputy Sandoval had told him that Emily’s accident wasn’t an accident. Somebody had tried to kill her, and Connor needed to keep watch.
There was a lot to be done today. First order of business this morning would be to hire a private detective. He’d checked with the investigator who worked for his law firm in Manhattan and had got the name of a local guy. Though Connor didn’t doubt Sandoval’s competence, the young deputy might appreciate outside assistance from a PI—a guy who could do computer research and help him figure out why Emily had been targeted.
And Connor also needed to hire a bodyguard. The county sheriff and Aspen police didn’t have the manpower to provide a cop who could stand outside her hospital room and keep watch 24/7. Also, Connor wasn’t sure he trusted the locals. There was a high probability that the cops knew the Riggs family and wouldn’t consider them to be a threat, even if they strolled into her hospital room carrying two crossbows and a loaded gun.
He squeezed Emily’s hand and smoothed the dark blond curls that weren’t covered by bandages. Even with a shiner and stitches across her forehead, she was uniquely beautiful. Her nose tilted up at the tip. Her bow-shaped lips were full. He brushed his thumb across her mouth. He’d never kissed those lips, except in a friendly way, and he was tempted to remedy that situation. Not appropriate. Kissing her while she was in a coma ranked high on the creepiness scale.
Besides, he wanted her to be awake when he finally expressed his pent-up longing. He whispered, “Emily, can you hear me?”
She said nothing, didn’t open her eyes and didn’t squeeze his hand.
He continued in a quiet voice, “There was a deputy who came in here last night. His name is Sandoval. He looks young but said he was thirty-two, and he’s smart.”
Her silence disturbed him. It was too passive. Being with Emily meant activity, laughter and a running commentary of trivial facts, usually about art.
“Sandoval investigated,” he said. “He found skid marks on the road that might indicate two vehicles. One was your Hyundai, and the other had a wider wheelbase, like a truck. He couldn’t re-create the scene perfectly, but he thought the truck bumped your car toward the edge. You slammed on the brake, but it wasn’t enough. You crashed through the guardrail.”
She must have been scared out of her mind. If Sandoval’s theory was correct, a lot more investigation would be required. The sheriff’s department would need to haul the wreckage of her Hyundai up the hill so the forensic people could go over it. And Sandoval could start looking for the truck that had forced her off the road.
“Do you remember? Why would someone come after you?”
His only answer came from the blips and beeps from the machines monitoring her life signs while she was in the coma.
He asked, “Did you see who was driving?”
Even if it was possible for her to comprehend what he was saying, she might not be able to identify her attacker. He continued, “I don’t have evidence, but the attack on you has something to do with the Riggs family. If not, the timing is too coincidental.”
He could easily imagine a member of the family or one of their minions chasing her in a truck and forcing her car off the road. It would help if he knew why. There had to be a reason.
“On the phone, you told me not to come,” he said. “You expected things to get ugly between you and the Riggs family, and you didn’t want to force me to take sides. Don’t you know, Emily? I’m on your side, always.”
Jamison’s dumb-ass infidelities had pretty much ended their decade-long friendship. Connor was outraged by the betrayal of Emily. He hated the humiliation she’d endured. When she left Jamison, he’d worked with her Denver lawyer to make sure that she was financially cared for. By juggling the assets she shared with her wealthy husband, he’d finagled a way for her to have enough cash to cover her move back to her hometown of Denver, rent a bungalow and set up her own little art gallery. When that money had run dry, Connor dipped into his own pocket.
He wanted her to have a good life, a beautiful life. As a friend, he’d always be close to her. It wasn’t hard to imagine being more than a friend. If only Jamison hadn’t met her first in Manhattan, he and Emily would have been a couple.
After he brushed a light kiss across her knuckles, he placed her hand on the blanket, went to the window and raised the shade. The mountain view was incredible as night faded into pale dawn. If the window had been open, he would have heard birds chirping while the sunlight spread across rock faces, dark green conifers and a bright golden stand of aspens.
For a long moment, he stood and drank in the spectacular landscape. Between his Brooklyn apartment and his Manhattan office, he hadn’t come into contact with this much nature in weeks. This scenery knocked him out.
He checked his wristwatch. Five minutes past six o’clock meant it was after eight in New York. He pulled out his phone to check in with his assistant. Cases were pending, but there was nothing that required his immediate attention.
It was more important to deal with Emily’s medical issues. Last night, he’d culled the list of reputable neurologists and neurosurgeons down to a few. He needed to talk to them, to select a doctor for her. Then, he’d arrange for transportation to the hospital in Denver.
When Sandoval opened the door, Connor pivoted away from the window. Instantly alert to the possibility of danger, he added a mental note to his list: buy a weapon. A handsome black man with a shaved head followed the deputy into the room. He extended his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Jaiden Wellborn, FBI.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you,” Connor said as he shook SAC Wellborn’s hand. “You were at a memorial service for Jamison Riggs. Two weeks ago in Manhattan.”
“The service was well attended, two hundred and forty-seven people. Was there a reason you noticed me?”
“I liked your suit.” Connor didn’t usually pay any attention to men’s clothing, but Wellborn had stood out. His attire had been appropriate for a memorial service but not lacking in style. The man knew how to dress. Even now, at a few minutes after six in the morning in a hospital in Aspen, the agent looked classy in crocodile boots, jeans, a leather jacket and a neck scarf. “Your suit was dark blue, perfectly tailored.”
“Anything else?”
“You weren’t milling around in the crowd and seemed more interested in taking photos with your phone. That made me think you might be a reporter. Then I spotted your ankle holster. I had you pegged as a cop, Agent Wellborn.”
He didn’t bother denying Connor’s conclusion. “Did it surprise you to see a cop at your friend’s memorial?”
“I knew there was an investigation underway.” Whenever a healthy, young man succumbs to a mysterious illness, suspicions are raised, especially when the victim is filthy rich and deeply involved with complex investments and offshore banking. Supposedly, the cause of death was a rare form of cancer, but Connor didn’t believe it. “The medical examiner ran a lot of tests, and the police were reluctant to release his body for cremation.”
“Our only significant evidence came from the autopsy,” Wellborn said. “You might have heard that the real COD was a sophisticated, untraceable poison that was administered over an extended period of time.”
“Is that true?” Connor asked.
“I can’t say.”
“Is it classified?”
“I don’t have a definite answer about the poison. He didn’t suffer much until the last week to ten days, and the doctors focused on treating symptoms and saving his life rather than identifying obscure poisons.”
Connor glanced toward the bed where Emily lay quietly. It didn’t seem right to talk about this in front of her. Though she and Jamison were divorced, they’d been married for almost seven years. “Can we take this conversation into the hallway?”
“Go ahead,” Sandoval said. “I’ll stay with Emily.”
After being cooped up in the hospital room with all the beeping and blipping monitors, he was glad to step outside for a moment. The pale yellow corridors and shiny-clean nurses’ station were a welcome relief. He led the way around a corner and down a flight of stairs to a lounge with vending machines. Though the coffee was fresh brewed and free, the vending-machine snacks were a typical array of semistale cookies and candy. The selection looked good to Connor, which meant he must have really been starving.
He fed dollars into the machine and pulled out two chocolate bars with almonds. As he tore off the wrapping, he said, “I heard the investigation centered on Jamison’s Wall Street investment firm.”
“And involved several agencies, including the SEC and NASDAQ,” Wellborn said as he poured himself a coffee and added creamer. “I’m with the FBI’s White-Collar Crime Unit. We found a couple of shady glitches in his dealings, but nothing that rose to the level of fraud or insider trading. A few people in his office hated his arrogance. There were clients who felt cheated.”
“There always are.”
“Bottom line, our investigation covered all the bases. We didn’t find a significant motive for murder.”
“Nobody contacted me,” Connor said as he peeled the wrapper off the second candy bar. “Technically, I haven’t been Jamison’s attorney for years, but I stay in touch with Emily. Did you investigate her?”
“Not as much as we should have. The attack last night was proof of that.”
“Are you implying that Emily had something to do with her ex-husband’s death?” It seemed preposterous since Emily and Jamison hadn’t seen each other in months, much less had enough time together for a long-term poisoning.
Wellborn shrugged and sipped his coffee. Apparently, the feds hadn’t ruled out Emily—in the role of hostile ex-wife—as a suspect.
“Why are you here?” Connor asked.
“I’m looking into the attack on Emily as it might relate to her ex-husband’s death.”
“As far as I know, there was very little contact between them.”
“You didn’t know the terms of the will. She inherited a seven-bedroom mansion in Aspen plus all the furnishings. The artwork alone is valued at nearly fourteen million.”
A pretty decent motive for murder.
Connor’s phone rang. The caller was Sandoval.
The young deputy’s voice was nervous. “Connor, you need to get back to Emily’s room. Right away.”
Candy bar in hand, Connor dashed through the hospital corridors and up the stairs. Darlene the nurse beamed at him as he ran past her.
The door to Emily’s room stood open.
Her bed was empty.
Chapter Three (#ub13656c4-9eb2-5d9a-b62b-6bb99818610a)
She was gone.
The hospital machines that monitored her condition were dead silent. Connor stared at her vacant bed. Rumpled sheets were the only sign that Emily had been there. Panic grabbed him by the throat. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The thud of his heartbeat echoed in his ears. His fingers, white-knuckle, gripped the edge of the door.
He’d promised to never leave her. She needed his protection, had asked for his help and he had failed her. She was gone, lost.
“Son of a bitch,” Wellborn muttered.
“Hush, now.” Relentlessly cheerful, Darlene bounced up beside the two men and said, “This is a good thing—a blessing. Emily’s family has come for her.”
“The Riggs family,” Connor said darkly.
“Such lovely people! Did you know our Dr. Thorson is dating Patricia Riggs? He signed Emily out.”
“Where did they take her?” Connor was aware of at least three different residences, not including the one she had inherited from Jamison. “Which house?”
“I can look up the address for you.” She bustled down the hall toward the main desk, talking as she went. “They hired a private nurse to take care of her at home. So thoughtful! I know Emily’s in a coma, but I think she’s aware of all these people who are concerned.”
“The deputy that was watching her, where is he?”
“It was the craziest thing,” Darlene said. “Deputy Sandoval tried to stop them.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“He called his boss, and the sheriff had already talked to Patricia. She told him it was okay, and the sheriff ordered Sandoval to stand down.”
Connor had only been out of the room for a few moments. “How did they get this done so fast?”
“When Patricia speaks, we shake a leg.”
“Ambulance,” Connor said. “Are they taking Emily in an ambulance?”
“Well, of course.”
He’d been with Emily when the paramedics had brought her in; he knew where the ambulances parked and loaded. If the Riggs family got her moved and settled in their home, it would be harder to pry her from their clutches. He had to act now.
He turned to Wellborn. “I’ve got to stop them.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“Come with me and see.”
“You bet I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss this circus for the world.”
Racing against an invisible clock, Connor flew down the corridor. Ignoring the slow-moving elevators, he dived into the stairwell, rushed down four floors and exited on the first. Wellborn followed close behind. Having him along would be useful. An ambulance driver might ignore Connor but wouldn’t refuse a direct order from a fed.
At six thirty in the morning, the hallways were relatively calm. Though this was a small hospital, the floor plan was a tangled maze of clinics, waiting areas, pharmacies, shops and offices. During the four hours Emily was in surgery, Connor had explored, pacing from one end of the hospital to the other. He now knew where he was going as he dodged through an obstacle course of doctors and nurses and carts and gurneys. In the emergency area, he burst through the double doors. Outside, he spotted two ambulances.
Dr. Thorson stood at the rear of one ambulance. As soon as he saw Connor, he slammed the door and signaled the driver.
No way would Connor allow that vehicle to pull away. He vaulted across the parking lot, crashed into the driver’s-side door and yanked it open.
The guy behind the steering wheel gaped. “What’s going on?”
“Turn off the engine and get out.”
“Those aren’t my orders.”
Connor had a lot of respect for paramedics and the mountain-rescue team that had climbed down the steep cliff and carried Emily to safety. Their procedures had been impressive, efficient and heroic. Not to mention that these guys were in great physical condition.
“Sorry,” Connor said, “but you’ve got to turn off the engine.”
“Listen here, buddy, I advise you to step back.”
Respect be damned, Connor needed cooperation. He turned to Wellborn. “I need your gun.”
“Not a chance.” The fed displayed his badge and credentials. “Agent Wellborn, FBI. Please step out of the vehicle.”
Further conversation became moot when Deputy Sandoval drove into the lot, his siren blaring and flashers whirling. He parked his SUV with the Pitkin County Sheriff logo in front of the ambulance. Nobody was going anywhere.
Connor stormed toward the rear of the ambulance with only one thought in mind. Rescue Emily. He didn’t know how he’d move her from the ambulance or where he’d take her, but he sure as hell wouldn’t allow her to be carried away by the Riggs family.
Dr. Thorson stepped in front of him. “Slow down, Connor.”
Some people just don’t know when they’re beat. “Get out of my way.”
“Everything has been taken care of. I’ve got this.”
“Beg to differ.”
“I assure you that—”
“Stop!” Since the doctor didn’t seem to understand direct language, Connor decided to use his well-practiced techniques as an attorney whose job required him to deal with contentious personalities. He straightened his shoulders and leveled his voice to a calm monotone. “We can handle this situation in one of two ways. First, there’s the legal way, where I point to the documents that state—very clearly—that I’m in charge of all decisions regarding Emily’s medical care. If you don’t honor the signed and notarized advance directive, rest assured that I will sue the hospital and you personally.”
Thorson’s tanned forehead twisted in a scowl.
