"The other Dr. Kean," the receptionist whispered, looking a little terrified. Something told him the angry scene was nothing new.
"Does this happen often?" he asked, sensing the woman was a talker.
"I'm just a temp and have only worked here a few days, but I hear they fight like cats and dogs."
"Come in, please," said a voice from within.
Doing as she'd asked, Wyatt assessed the woman rising to greet him from behind the desk. She was probably in her mid-forties, quietly confident. The same gray-green eyes he'd seen in her late brother's portrait watched him enter. Her attractive face was not pulled taut and immaculate like those women he'd seen in her waiting room. In fact, the doctor had a few wrinkles beside the eyes, a less-than-perfect chin, and a perfectly average nose and mouth.
He remembered the speaker on the tape, the one who had asked about women defying age through plastic surgery. And he began to worry. Perhaps the questioner hadn't been jabbing at the doctor after all. Because, though she was very attractive, he would lay money that this woman was not a physician who healed herself.
"Agent Blackstone," the woman said as she extended her hand to him. "Please forgive my husband's little display of temper. We disagree on treatment for a patient and," she said with a tiny smile, "the boss likes me better, so I'm sure to get my way."
The boss. Her father. Though the comment could have been snide, instead Angela Kean appeared quietly amused, as if she was only joking about going over her husband's head.
Wyatt had to wonder if her husband was in on the joke.
"Please sit down."
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
"It sounded very important," she said. She watched Wyatt take the chair opposite the desk, then returned to her own. "I received several messages from last Friday. I'm terribly sorry you were unable to reach me. As you can imagine, with a family business, we rarely get to take time off all together. It's become a sort of tradition that we close for the Labor Day holiday and go to our beach house. Extended family comes, too, from all over the place."
"I understand. Quite a few of you work here, don't you?"
Dr. Kean laughed, which emphasized those tiny lines beside her eyes. She was prettier when she smiled. "You've no idea. Father drilled family loyalty into our ears from a very young age. My husband's office is right up the hall, my father's down from his." Her smile faded a little. "My late brother was right across from Father, his wife one down from that."
"I just met her."
Dr. Kean's smile didn't fade, but the warmth in her eyes certainly did. "How nice."
He filed away that tidbit, knowing at once that the sisters-in-law were not close.
"There's also Philip Wright." Displaying more of that coolness, and an even tighter smile, she explained, "Father's stepson. He joined us last year, right out of medical school."
"Father's stepson." Not "my stepbrother." He made another mental note, remembering the young doctor who'd blasted out of the parking lot in his Ferrari.
"Everyone in the same field. I imagine you have pretty limited dinner-table conversations during family gatherings," Wyatt murmured.
"Oh, there are a few nonmedical types in the extended family, at least. Politicians, lawyers, even a novelist."
He noticed she didn't say sanitation workers, schoolteachers, or deliverymen.
"But as for the rest of us?" She shrugged helplessly. "What can I say? The family who does face-lifts together…"
Gets rich together. Very rich, he suspected.
"That's not to say shop talk doesn't get exceedingly tiring. That's why I insist on living close to Richmond rather than in one of the local neighborhoods like the rest of the family. My husband and I commute here every day." Laughing a little, she added, "It's a hike, but still a small price to pay to get away from everyone else at night."
"I understand."
He didn't, not really. Not ever having siblings, or much family, he honestly couldn't relate. But agreeing with witnesses, building a rapport with them, was an important part of the job.
"Now, your message said you wanted to ask me about my stolen car?" She shuddered visibly. "I still have nightmares thinking it was used by a murderer who wanted to harm little children. Imagine if he hadn't abandoned it, and had used it to kidnap a child?"
Wyatt schooled his features to remain utterly impassive. This woman-this witness-should not know so much. But since she'd been interviewed by Anspaugh, he wasn't entirely surprised. Dr. Kean was attractive enough to incite the other agent to puff up his own importance. And shoot off his mouth.
That was the one good thing that had come of this entire mess. Anspaugh, at least, had been put on a leash even tighter than Wyatt's. He only hoped that, like a chained dog, the brute didn't get meaner and hungry to bite anyone who came within range.
"I was hoping you might listen to a recording for me." He lifted the small digital recorder and placed it on the desk. Brandon had loaded the pertinent clip onto it. "I'm interested in identifying a man who asked you a question at the panel workshop you gave that weekend at the medical convention."
One of her brows shot up in surprise. "A voice identification? From over seven months ago?"
"I know it's a long shot, Dr. Kean. But it sounded to me as though this person knew you, and perhaps you, him. It could be someone who moves in your circle, someone whose voice you already know."
The doctor did not nod in agreement. Instead, she eyed him steadily. Warily. "Are you implying that someone I know, a physician at that workshop, was the one who"-she thought about her words carefully, then concluded-"stole my car?"
He knew what she was really asking. Did he think someone she knew was a cold-blooded murderer and potential child molester? "I'm not implying anything. Just following up on a lead. Now, would you please just listen?" he replied evenly.
A long pause, then she nodded once. "All right. But I'm not making any promises."
"I don't expect any."
He pulled his chair closer to the desk, sliding the digital device toward Dr. Kean. When she murmured her readiness, he pushed play, hearing the now-familiar voice asking his snide question.
Wyatt never took his eyes off the woman. She kept her head tilted down, staring at her hands, which were tented on her desk, as if she was in deep concentration. The pose also, however, gave her a chance to evade his stare, to keep him from seeing her immediate reaction. He was denied the opportunity to witness any flare of the eyes, a loss of color in her cheeks, a startled inhalation, or a frown that said she did recognize the voice.
When the clip ended, she remained very still. Then, her voice low, she said, "Would you play it again please, just so I can be sure?"
Wyatt's pulse picked up its tempo. The doctor was a calm, intelligent woman who would be deliberate and certain in her responses. Of course she would want to hear it again before confirming she knew the speaker.
He played the file, still watching her. Again, she remained still, so very still. Until finally, a full thirty seconds after the recording ended, she lifted her head and met his stare with an impassive one of her own.
Dread filled him. He knew what she was going to say before the words left her mouth.
"I'm sorry, Agent Blackstone. Truly. But I cannot identify that voice for you."
"You're certain."
"Yes. I'm certain."
Damn it. She didn't shift her gaze, made no obvious signs that she was lying. Her voice didn't quiver.
Of course, she had no reason to lie, so he shouldn't have been looking for such signs. But something about her hesitation before listening had made him wonder whether the doctor would be entirely honest. He didn't imagine anyone would relish the possibility of hearing a familiar voice, knowing the person might have done some horrible things.
By her demeanor now, however, the coolness of her tone and completely unflinching gaze, it appeared she was telling the truth. She couldn't help him.