“Absolutely,” Lake said. “She’s handled situations far worse.”
He crossed the room, buttoning his jacket. She saw him glance at the file in her hands.
“Where did you get that?” he asked sharply.
“From the file drawer in the storage room—I’ve been reading all the clippings.”
“Well, that’s not one you need,” he said, grabbing the file from her hand.
IT WAS JUST
before six when Lake finally arrived home. Following the awkward encounter with Levin, she’d returned to the small conference room and left a message for Hayden Culbreth, the crisis guru she’d recommended. Then, totally spent, she’d packed up and hailed a cab for the West Side.
After tossing down her bags, she sank into one of the arm-chairs in her living room. She began to sob. Sensing something was wrong, Smokey leapt into her lap. As he nuzzled her chin, Lake stroked him and blinked back tears. Her eyes swept the living room, with its comforting shelves of books and pretty landscape paintings. What she’d told Molly and Keaton was true. Though the past week or so of her life could hardly be described as blissful, she had started to feel at peace again and hopeful about her future. But that all changed in an instant. Everything in her life was in jeopardy now—her kids, her work, her future. She’d given in to a desperate hunger for approval and connection—and to her own raw
desire—and because of that she might end up losing custody of her kids. There was even a chance she’d be arrested for murder.
After forcing herself up off the chair, she left a second message for Hayden. Thirty minutes later, as Lake stared at a frozen slab of vegetable lasagna, knowing she had to eat but wondering how she could summon any appetite, Hayden returned the call. Lake outlined the situation to her, and made an urgent pitch for her to come on board as a consultant.
“I’m totally swamped right now,” Hayden confessed in her Alabama drawl, “but I can’t turn this down. I’ve done damage control on everything from drug companies that sold tainted drugs to a CEO who used company funds to rent a water park for his kid’s birthday—but never a
murder
. That’s very, very sexy.”
“So that’s a yes?” Lake said.
“Yes, but we need to hit the ground running. This is going to be big and move fast—it’ll probably be the plot on
Law and Order
next week. Can you arrange for me to meet everyone at eight tomorrow morning?”
Lake assured her it wouldn’t be a problem. Next she phoned Levin.
“That’s terrific, Lake,” he said. “I’ll let Dr. Sherman know. I think this first meeting should just be the senior team.”
His tone was almost obsequious; she wondered if he was trying to make up for rudely grabbing the file out of her hand earlier.
Next she needed to summon the energy to write the kids. She skipped the stories and riddles and scribbled a simple message:
“I can’t wait to see you both on Saturday and meet your new friends,” she wrote. “I’ll be there right at ten.”
She wanted to add more but she was already feeling weirdly fraudulent, reminiscent of when Jack was beginning to withdraw and she’d had to act normal in front of the kids. What would she say if she were being totally honest? “Mommy may be implicated
in a grisly murder, so there’s a chance I won’t be able to come after all”?
As she slipped the paper into the fax machine, she wondered how she was going to handle bumping into Jack at the camp. Prior to her recent conversation with Hotchkiss, she’d hardly relished seeing him there, but now the idea seemed unbearable.
She nuked the lasagna and pushed it around on a plate as she drained a glass of wine. She tried to calm herself but she kept picturing Hull and McCarty at their precinct desks, searching their notes for clues and combing through evidence reports. The crime-scene people would have lifted her fingerprints but because hers weren’t in the system, there would be no match. Her DNA would be meaningless, too. But if she gave the cops any reason to truly suspect her, they could take her fingerprints and her DNA and then they would know she’d been in Keaton’s bed.
Closing her eyes, she let her head drop into her hands. In her mind she could see the horrible, oozing gash from one side of Keaton’s neck to the other. Whoever had slashed him must have been overwhelmed with rage. So who had Keaton managed to infuriate? Was it a woman he’d bedded and then dumped? He’d told Lake that he’d bought his place six months ago; he was likely visiting the city even before consulting with the clinic. So this fury could have been building for weeks. It was a fury that would have been directed at her, too, if she hadn’t been safely asleep on the terrace. She let out a moan as she contemplated what her fate would have been.
Another question gnawed at her. How had the killer gained entry to the apartment? Had he—or she—possessed a key? Or had the person jimmied the lock somehow? Maybe Keaton actually let the person in while Lake was sleeping, perhaps even assuming that Lake had left. But if Keaton had answered the door, he wouldn’t have been stabbed in his bed.
She considered Hayden’s comment about how big the story would become. Lake had been so preoccupied about her own connection to the murder that she hadn’t even considered the ramifications of just being employed by the clinic. Reporters might start to hound her. She wondered, in fact, whether the nameless person who’d called her at the clinic yesterday had been a reporter who’d gotten wind of her name.
Something unformed began to nudge her, but it was only later, when she was crawling into bed, that she recognized what it was: Keaton’s comment to her about a snag in his plan to be a partner. During today’s meeting in Levin’s office, there’d been no mention of any hitch. Either Levin had chosen not to bring it up in front of the associate doctors or the snag had only occurred in Keaton’s mind—and he hadn’t yet shared it with Levin.
Lake anticipated hours of fitful tossing that night, but she fell into a stupor almost instantly. Twice she was jounced awake by nightmares. She couldn’t remember the first one—it evaporated as soon as her eyes shot open. In the other, someone called on the phone about her children—saying their names, laughing, and then hanging up.
She woke with a start at six. For a brief moment she remembered nothing—but her stomach was knotted, as if she’d forgotten an urgent task. Then, like a tidal wave, the memory crashed against her. She hurried to retrieve the
Times
from on top of the mat outside her apartment door. The story was in the Metro section, a half-column long. It described Keaton as an L.A. ob-gyn and fertility specialist living part-time in New York. No mention of the clinic. So maybe the story wasn’t going to be huge after all.
But later, at a newsstand on her way to the bus, she picked up the
Post
and cringed as she saw Keaton’s photo splashed across the front page with the headline:
BACHELOR DOC SLAIN DOWNTOWN
. The photo was like a Hollywood red-carpet shot. He was in a tux,
emerging from some event, looking handsome and cocky, like George Clooney at the Golden Globes. She forced herself to read the story. This time it included the name of the fertility clinic.
The
Daily News
had a more formal photo, the kind you’d see in a program for a medical conference. And this article had one new piece of info: Keaton’s super had found the body. When Keaton hadn’t shown up at the clinic yesterday, Levin had probably told Brie to try to locate him. In the course of looking for Keaton, his super had somehow been tracked down.
When Lake arrived at work, she found that the mood was an awful mix of somberness and agitation; people were both despondent and all churned up.
“Can you believe all the stories about this?” Maggie whispered to her as she set her things down in the small conference room. “I mean, it’s like the Laci Peterson case or something.”
“Have any reporters called you?” Lake asked.
“Not me in particular, but they’ve been calling here all morning.”
Lake could see the strain on Maggie’s face.
“How are you doing, anyway?” she asked. “Did your sister end up staying with you?”
“Yes—but it didn’t do much good. I had the worst nightmares. I might ask Dr. Kline for some advice when he gets a minute today.”
“Oh, he’s here?” Lake asked, realizing she hadn’t seen him since before all this happened.
“Yes, he was away for a few days but he’s back now. He was totally shocked to hear the news.”
Lake and Maggie agreed to try to get their minds off everything and get some work done. At five minutes to eight, Hayden Culbreth arrived, wearing a dazzling purple silk shift that contrasted boldly with her blond bob. As promised, she hit the ground running.
“Let’s start,” she said to Levin as soon as Lake had introduced them.
Sherman had joined them in Levin’s office, along with Hoss and Brie, notebook and pen in hand. Brie ran her eyes up and down Hayden, her disapproval loud and clear.
“So far you’ve done a decent job of handling things,” Hayden announced. “By that I mean no one on your staff has blabbed to the press. But they still might be tempted to. We need to implement a lock-and-load strategy.”
“Good God,” Sherman said. “It sounds like you’re suggesting firearms.”
Hayden pursed her lips and gave her head a little shake. “Of course not. But to protect the reputation of the clinic, you have to lock down communication—make sure that no one, and I mean
no one
, discusses this with the media. Let them know that their asses will be in the ringer if they do.
“But at the same time,” she continued, “keep people here in the loop and give them updates on what you learn from the cops. When there’s secrecy and people don’t know what the hell is going on, they start buzzing—sometimes to reporters.”
“I assume you’ll handle all the press calls,” Levin said to her.
“No, we’ll let the NYPD do that.”
“The
NYPD
?” Levin exclaimed. “But—”
“It’s best to have the police take those calls. When the press contacts you here, the person fielding those calls—and let’s designate someone smart to do it—should say that all calls are being referred to the New York City Police.”
“But isn’t that why we’ve hired
you
—to handle those calls?” said Hoss. Despite her haughtiness, she looked tired and drained, her black hair lanky, as if she hadn’t bothered to wash it today. She was probably concerned, like everyone else, Lake thought, about what all this might do to her reputation.
“You’ve hired me to devise a
strategy
,” Hayden said. “If I talk to the press and they quote me, they’ll say I’m a rep for your clinic—and
name the clinic
. And you want to distance yourself from this as much as possible. We’re following the same approach abortion clinics use when they’ve been bombed—keep the name of the clinic out of the paper by letting the cops do all the talking. Now let’s talk about ‘load.’ That means you load me up on information. I need to know about Dr. Keaton.”
Levin, who was still wincing from the abortion clinic comment, briefly went over Keaton’s bio—Cornell med, a fellowship in reproductive endocrinology, the L.A. practice. Again, no hint that Keaton might have had second thoughts about coming on board. Had Keaton not had a chance to share his misgivings with Levin, Lake wondered—or was Levin keeping something to himself?
“Well, that’s all nice and good,” Hayden said, “but what I’m really interested in is why someone wanted to murder him. According to the papers, it doesn’t sound like he was killed during a burglary.”
“We really don’t know much about his personal life or the people he associated with outside of the clinic,” Levin said. “Up until now, he’d only worked with us on a consulting basis.”
“Have the police shared any details?” Lake interjected. Desperate to know, she couldn’t resist asking, and she knew the question had come out abruptly. Hoss eyed her quizzically.
“Nothing,” Levin said. “All we know is what’s in the papers.”
“He was an attractive guy,” Hayden said. “Was he gay?”
“Hardly,” Sherman said.
“A womanizer, then?” Hayden asked. “Could he have been killed by a jealous lover?”
“As Dr. Levin explained already, we really only knew the man professionally,” Sherman said, sounding exasperated. Lake noticed
that Brie was watching smugly, as if she found the whole process positively stupid.
“There is one thing you should know,” Levin said soberly, “something I had to share with the police.” Everyone jerked their heads toward him in surprise. Lake held her breath in anticipation.
“Yes,” Hayden coaxed.
“The afternoon before we all went to dinner, an old colleague of mine from L.A. called,” Levin said “He told me he’d heard Mark was joining us and wanted me to know there were rumors circulating about him on the West Coast—that he apparently had a gambling problem.”
“And we’re just hearing this
now
?” Sherman said, clearly vexed.
“I hadn’t had a chance to say anything yet,” Levin said. “Obviously I didn’t like what I heard and was going to suggest that we investigate as soon as possible. That’s not the kind of person we want associated with us.”
“Did you ask Keaton about it?” Sherman asked.
“Of course not,” Levin snapped. “He certainly wouldn’t have admitted it. The only way we would have found out was through outside inquiries.”
Lake wondered if Levin
had
said something to Keaton—and that was the snag Keaton had coyly referred to.
Hayden pressed for more information about the gambling, but Levin assured her he had no details to share. She then reviewed procedures she wanted people to follow. Lake tried to concentrate on the conversation but her mind was racing over what she’d just heard. Could Keaton’s killer have been a mobster or hoodlum hired by a bookie—someone who knew how to jimmy a lock?
At eight forty-five Hayden finished the briefing and Lake walked her out. Because most appointments had been rescheduled, there were only a few patients in the waiting room.
“Let’s catch up later,” Hayden said quietly to her.
There was really nothing more for Lake to do at the clinic—she’d finished up her research—but she hung around, thinking there might be more talk of Keaton. She craved information, anything that might help her feel less frantic. If the gambling rumor proved to be true, for instance, the police would start pursuing that particular angle. But no one was talking and the halls were deadly quiet. She suddenly just wanted to get out of there as quickly as she could.