“Understood,” he told her. “I appreciate your help.”
“No promises,” she said, and put some warmth back in her smile. He wandered over to the nearest picture window while she buzzed the intercom, picked up her telephone receiver and conversed in muted tones with someone Remo couldn’t see. Outside, the grounds resembled snapshots of a well-kept park, except they were deserted. Where a park would have had children running, shouting, lovers strolling hand in hand, the clinic grounds had been monopolized by two fat squirrels who chased each other up and down the trunks of old, established trees. The whole place had a sterile feel about it, as if Radcliff had constructed his ideal oasis underneath a dome that let the sunlight in but kept the world at bay.
Long moments passed before he heard the click of heels on vinyl, turned to see a sleek brunette approaching. She was tall—five eight or nine—with thick, dark hair that framed an oval face: full lips, a perfect nose, green eyes that could be warm, he guessed, when they were not on full alert. A stylish three-piece suit could not disguise the luscious body underneath. Even without a smile, she bumped the blond receptionist back to the second string.
“Good morning, Mr. Washington, is it?”
“Remo Washington.” He palmed a business card to verify the lie. “I write for—”
“Newstime. So I understand. You asked to see my father?”
Remo blinked at that one, honestly surprised. “I’m hoping for a word with Dr. Radcliff,” he replied.
“I’m Chelsea Radcliff,” the brunette informed him, still without a smile. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“And I apologize for that. The truth is,” Remo told her, offering the phrase that was so often preface to a lie, “I spent the last two days in Indianapolis, with Dr. Kirk and Dr. Russell. They suggested that a visit to your father’s clinic might add something to my story.”
“Really? Kirk and Russell?”
“As I live and breathe.”
“You could have called ahead.”
“They didn’t bring it up until last night,” said Remo. “Anyway, you know the freelance writer’s rule of thumb—it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission. What if I had called ahead and Dr. Radcliff still refused to see me?”
“Mr. Washington—”
“Please, call me Remo.”
“Mr. Washington, my father is a very busy man.”
“I understand, of course.”
“You do? And yet you never heard of him before last night”
“By reputation, certainly,” he told her, scrambling desperately to salvage credibility, “but I had no idea where he was working.”
“We do not invite publicity.”
“What could it hurt?” asked Remo.
“Mr. Washington, my father’s work is not confined to pure research. His patients have included many wealthy, influential families. They aren’t celebrities, of course, and we intend to keep it that way. Infertility is still considered an embarrassment. in certain quarters. Confidentiality is critical, not only from a legal aspect, but in terms of simple trust.”
“I understand,” said Remo. “If your father would agree to speak with me in general terms, about his research, some of the advances he has made, I’m sure it would be good for business.”
Chelsea Radcliff stiffened, as if Remo’s breath offended her.
“We’re less concerned with profit here than service to our clients, Mr. Washington. I don’t believe—”
“No insult was intended. Miss Radcliff.”
“That’s ‘Dr. Radcliff,’ Mr. Washington.” She noted his expression, adding, “Ph.D.”
“What field, if I may ask?”
“Psychology.”
“I’ll bet that comes in handy, with the cases you get here.”
“I really don’t have time—”
“How’s this for an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you ask your father if he wants to talk to me. If he says no, I’m out of here, and no hard feelings. On the other hand…”
“I screen the visitors who show up unannounced,” she told him.
“And I’m sure you do a bang-up job,” said Remo, “but I have a hunch your father can decide this kind of question for himself.”
A hint of color tinged her cheeks. Her full lips tightened with annoyance.
She looked at him frostily, then seemed to relent a little.
“Wait here, please.”
Remo tracked her with his eyes, appreciating the unconscious sway of Chelsea Radcliff’s walk. Was it unconscious, though, or simply one more way to put him in his place? Take that, you snotty bastard. What you see is what you can’t get.
Remo smiled. He felt a bit of a challenge there, but at the moment, his mind was focused on the job at hand. And it looked likely that she was in agreement with the enemy.
She was back within five minutes, same determined stride, but with a new expression on her face. It fell short of concern, but there was something else that had not been present in. their first encounter, moments earlier. Confusion, maybe?
“My father has agreed to see you,” she told Remo. “I’ll show you the way.”
“With pleasure.” Smiling just enough that Chelsea couldn’t miss it as she turned away and led him past the blonde, along a spacious, antiseptic corridor.
“It’s quite a layout you have here,” said Remo.
“All the latest methods, with a touch of down-home comfort,” she informed him. Was she warming up a little, albeit reluctantly, or was the tone a standard part of guided tours?
She led him past a dozen doors—due north, in the direction of the river, Remo thought—before they reached the last door on the left. Its simple label— PRIVATE—could have served a broom closet as well as Dr. Radcliff’s inner sanctum. Chelsea knocked, three short, decisive taps, and waited.
“Come!”
The single syllable told Remo much about the man before he crossed the threshold and beheld his quarry in the flesh. Whatever else he was, whatever he aspired to, Quentin Radcliff had an ego on him that demanded deference, a visible distinction from his various subordinates. And those subordinates, apparently, included daughter Chelsea—in the public eye, if nowhere else.
She led the way into a stylish office, furnished with a desk, settee and heavy chairs that may have been antiques or just expensive knockoffs. Remo couldn’t tell, nor did he care.
The man who came around the desk to meet him was a stocky five foot seven, shorter than his daughter, but his attitude made up the difference. Quentin Radcliff had a shock of snow-white hair, receding slightly in the front, which he combed back stiffly from his squarish face. His nose was thick and broad, above a narrow mouth, but Remo focused on his eyes. They looked like amethysts, just short of violet, shaded by his spiky, bristling brows. The tan was probably a sun-lamp special, since it did not seem to reach his large, blunt-fingered hands.
“Good morning, Mr…?”
“Washington,” said Remo, knowing the display of ignorance was part of Radcliff’s act. He would have heard the name from Chelsea moments earlier, but he appeared far too busy and important to remember it for any length of time.
“From Newsweek, I believe you said?”
“Newstime,” Remo corrected him.
“Is that the tabloid?”
“Well…”
“No matter. Please, sit down.” He gestured toward one of the vacant chairs, and Remo sat, a bit surprised when Chelsea settled in another, to his left. “What brings you all the way to Brandenburg?”
“As I told your daughter, sir, I’m working on a piece for next week’s issue that will deal with human infertility from several angles—common causes of the problem and the latest medical solutions, psychological effects of infertility on married couples in today’s society…the whole nine yards.”