She saw the flicker of understanding—and of reservation—in Robert's eyes.-"I see. Does your father know about this?"
"As I said, we talked on Saturday. We touched on the subject, yes. But we never resolved it. The missing pieces have been worrying me all weekend."
Robert's expression gentled. "I can see that. You look exhausted."
"Please, Robert." Victoria touched his arm. "It's a family matter. An important family matter. I'm not asking you to help. Only to look away. Please."
The word "family" found its mark.
Clearing his throat, Robert plucked an imaginary speck off his sleeve. "Your mother has been getting up earlier since we turned the clocks. Around nine-ish. Will you be joining her for coffee?"
Relief swept through Victoria as she realized Robert was defining her time restraints. "Unfortunately, I won't be able to. I'll be gone long before then."
"Fine. I'll pour some in a travel mug. That way, you'll have a decent cup on your train ride back."
"Thank you," Victoria said, speaking of far more than the coffee. "I appreciate it more than you know."
"Is there anything else I can do?"
Victoria hesitated, then went with her instincts. "You still pay the household bills, don't you?"
"Other than those your father takes care of, yes. I prepare the checks, your father signs them."
"Including the phone bills?"
"Yes. Those, too."
Hope flared in Victoria's gut. "Think, Robert. When did the last phone bill get paid?"
"I don't need to think. The telephone bills are paid on the twenty-first of every month."
The twenty-first. Today was the seventeenth.
'The current bill, the one you'll be paying on Friday, is it in Father's office?"
A nod. "On the far right-hand corner of his desk, under the small model Porsche, along with the other bills I'll be paying this week."
"Perfect." Victoria was already backing away. "This will take even less time than I thought."
"Good." Robert shot her a meaningful look. "The less time needed the better. After all, you have to get back to the city. I'm sure you'll have a full office of clients waiting for you by then."
"I'm sure you're right." With that, Victoria turned, hastily making her way down the hall to her father's office.
The door was shut but unlocked, probably so the maid could get in to dust.
She went inside and shut the door behind her.
The phone bill was exactly where Robert had said it would be, under one of her father's precious model cars.
She skipped over the local numbers, going immediately to the long-distance section.
Thirty-nine. That was the country code for Italy.
Victoria's eye scanned the listing of calls that began with that number. There were six collect calls in all, each made from a different place. Two from outside Florence. One from Genoa. Two from towns between the two.
The last call was made from Florence twelve days ago.
Of course, the billing period ended on the tenth—a full week ago. So nothing here either proved or disproved her belief that Audrey wasn't in Italy yesterday.
Quickly, Victoria skimmed the last recorded calls—all the calls that had been made on the ninth and the tenth. Nothing unusual. At least nothing that jumped out at her. Then again, the bill was too long to analyze here. She hadn't the time.
There was a ready solution to that.
She walked behind the desk and flipped on the copying machine, waiting the few seconds it took to warm up. Then she photocopied the entire invoice. She scuffed the duplicate in her purse and turned off the copying machine. Stepping back over to the desk, she refolded the original bill and replaced it exactly where it had been beneath the model Porsche.
Done.
She drew a huge sigh of relief. Now she'd grab her coffee and get out of here before her mother woke up and started asking questions.
* * *
She spent the cab ride on her cell phone, calling all the collect numbers from Italy to see if anyone had information on Audrey's whereabouts. No luck. She then spent the train ride back to the city examining the phone bill more closely and circling every unfamiliar number.
The marked-up bill was hot in her hand when she burst into the white building on the corner of Madison Avenue and 67th Street that housed her law firm. She ran up the two flights of steps and through the door to the third-floor office suite that read London, Kensington & Stone.
It was 9:40. She had twenty minutes before Faye Larimore arrived, and she intended to use that time to start checking into the handful of circled phone numbers.
She nearly groaned when she saw Paige manning her post at the front desk. Their part-time secretary—who spent twenty hours a week at the office and the rest of her time either at NYU pursuing her undergraduate degree in theater, at her agent's office pursuing an audition, or at the city's hottest nightspots pursuing her latest boyfriend—was never in before 11 a.m. Not unless she'd had an especially juicy date and wanted to tell them all about it.
Obviously, this weekend had been worthy of mention. Meg and Paul had probably gotten a full recounting. Which meant that now it was her turn—unfortunately.
Oh, she adored Paige. They all did.
Life with her was never boring.
It was also never without incident or intrusion.
And today was one day Victoria needed her privacy. She also needed to make the most of the next few minutes.
She steeled herself to disappoint Paige.
The nineteen-year-old cute-as-a-button blonde looked up from her desk, her cornflower-blue eyes lighting up with surprise at the sight of her third employer. "Hi, Victoria. Megan said you'd be late."
"Well, as it turns out, I'm not." Victoria shot her a grin, glancing around the waiting area. "Mrs. Larirnore's not here yet?"
"Nope." Paige tucked a strand of strawberry-blond hair behind her ear, leaning over a stack of files on her desk to pat a just-opened box of tissues. "But I've got these all ready. Just in case that horrible husband of hers dropped by again this weekend." She frowned, her customary enthusiasm eclipsed by her equally customary compassion. "That man is a monster. I wish they'd lock him up so he can't hurt her anymore."
"Mrs. Larimore hasn't pressed charges," Victoria reminded Paige. "Nor does she want to. All she wants is her freedom."
"Well, I hope she takes him for everything in the divorce." With that, Paige dismissed the subject, her exuberance restored. "Anyway, wait till I tell you about Maurice."
Victoria's brows rose a fraction. "Maurice? What happened to Steve?"
"Steve?" Paige gave a dramatic sigh, accompanied by a wave of her hand. "He's fini. I bid him adieu after Saturday night. That's when I met Maurice. He's très romantique. That means romantic," she supplied.
"Yes, I know."
"He's French," Paige continued, disregarding the dry note in Victoria's tone. "You know, like Maurice Chevalier. No, you probably don't know. Maurice Chevalier was an actor about a million years ago. I'm sure you've never heard of him."
"I've heard of him." Victoria was biting her lip to keep from laughing. "I saw Gigi four times."
"Then you know how sexy his voice was. That awesome accent. That's how Maurice sounds when he talks. Oh, and he's a poet. He's writing a poem about me. In French. He's going to translate it into English, then read it to me himself. With that incredible voice." She emitted an exaggerated sigh.
"Paige, I want to hear all about Maurice," Victoria interrupted, inching around the front of Paige's desk and backing toward her own office. "But I've got a couple of calls I've got to make before I see Mrs. Larimore. The minute she leaves, I'll be all ears. I promise. Okay?"
"Okay." An understanding, if slightly disappointed, nod. "I'll give you every detail."
"I'm sure you will." Victoria turned around and hurried off to make her calls.
"You'll regret that promise," Paul hissed as she shot by his office. "The
Maurice stories are even harder to take than the Steve stories. And you remember how sickening the Steve stories were."
"Yup. Very well." Victoria chuckled, pausing to give Paul a brief wave. "But I'll survive." She pointed toward her office. "Gotta take care of something. We'll talk later."
Without waiting for an answer, she dashed on, poking her head into Meg's office. "I'm back," she announced to her friend. "Mission accomplished. Some of the numbers need checking out. If I'm on the phone when Mrs. Larimore gets here, will you start for me as planned?"
"Sure." Meg looked up from the legal pleading she'd been drafting, lively curiosity dancing in her eyes—curiosity she visibly squelched. "Do what you have to. You'll fill me in later." Her lips twitched. "After you hear about Maurice." A measured look. "You okay?"
"I'm not sure. I'll let you know." Victoria continued down to her office and shut the door. She didn't even waste time sitting down behind her desk. She just grabbed the phone and began.
She'd recognized most of the Manhattan and Greenwich numbers as those of old family friends or legal colleagues. Uncle Jim's office number in Midtown appeared a couple of times, as did Aunt Clarissa's at Mount Sinai. Nothing unusual about any of that.
There were about a dozen New York City calls to numbers she couldn't place. Most of them, it turned out, belonged to other high-powered attorneys or corporate clients of her father's firm. A few belonged to well-known, affluent individuals whose names Victoria recognized as soon as she heard them—individuals, she learned, who were clients of her father's.
Two of the numbers didn't fall into any of those categories.
In addition, there was one overseas call she hadn't noticed before. A call made to Italy rather than from it. Now that was odd. Supposedly, her father didn't have Audrey's number at any of the places she stayed. No one in the family did.
She tried that number first.
A background buzz—the hum of an overseas connection. Then the call went through.
The phone rang twice, clicked, and was answered.
A brisk, efficient female voice at the other end said, "Ospedale de Firenze. Pronto!"
Florence Hospital?
Victoria sagged against her desk. She didn't speak much Italian, but she certainly understood that. Why in God's name had her father called there?
"Ciao?" the operator repeated firmly. "È chiunque là?"
"Si. Buongiorno." Victoria thought frantically. "Parlate inglese?"
"Un minuto, per favore."
She was put on hold for what seemed like the longest minute of her life.
At last, another operator picked up. "Hello," she said, her English punctuated with an unmistakable Italian accent. "I speak English. May I help you?"
"Yes. Please." Victoria's knuckles tightened on the receiver until they turned white. "I need information on a patient."
"Do you know what unit he or she is in?"
"She. I'm not sure. Probably intensive care or some other emergency unit."
The clicking of computer keys. "And when was she admitted?"
"Sometime last week."
More clicking. "Her name?"
"Audrey Kensington."
A few additional clicks—then silence.
"I'm sorry, I have no information on an Audrey Kensington."
"Are you sure?" Victoria pressed, feeling as if she would scream if she hit one more dead end. "I might have the dates wrong. Also, it's possible she was released during the past few days."
"In that case, she would no longer be in our admissions database."
"Couldn't you check—?"
"I'm sorry, signora. Anything more specific is considered confidential and is against hospital policy to release."
"But—"
"I'm sorry I can't help you. Good day, signora."
A dial tone hummed in Victoria's ear.
Slowly, she eased the receiver away from her ear, staring at it as if it were a foreign object. She must be getting paranoid. Because she could have sworn that woman was being helpful until she found out who the patient was that Victoria was searching for.
She sucked in her breath, glancing at the clock on her desk. It was almost ten. She had to try the two remaining New York numbers before she saw Faye Larimore. Which meant all speculation would have to wait.
She began to dial.
* * *
At Florence Hospital, the English-speaking administrator paged Dr. Antonio Riazzi. In quiet tones, she informed him of what had just taken place and what the caller had requested. Riazzi's mouth thinned into a grim line as he listened to what she had to say.
He hung up and promptly dialed a number in the States.
Scanned by Coral
* * *
6
The first local number rang through.
Victoria wasn't paying full attention. Her mind was still preoccupied with her call to Florence. Besides, she didn't really expect these two Manhattan numbers to yield any results. The people at these numbers were most likely her father's colleagues.
She was caught completely off guard when an authoritative male voice at the other end of the line responded, "Aviation Group, Hope Institute."
Hastily, Victoria hung up, if for no reason other than to mask her surprise and gather her thoughts. This was the last thing she'd expected—reaching the aviation division of a private company. What did it mean? What could she say without arousing their suspicions? A better question was, What had her father said to them? Why on earth had he contacted them in the first place?
She checked the length of his call. Six minutes. It hadn't been a wrong number, not for that length of time. And even if this Hope Institute was one of his.corporate clients, why would he be in touch with their aviation group?
To arrange for a flight. A flight to or from a company whose aviation group was located in New York. Which had to mean, so was the company itself.
The Hope Institute.
It certainly sounded like a medical facility of some kind.
A medical facility that might have Audrey as a patient.
The call had been made on April 8, the day after the call that had been placed to Florence Hospital. Was that when Audrey was flown to New York?
She'd have to check into it—after Faye Larimore left. For now, all she had time for was verifying the final New York City telephone number. A number that had been dialed on April 10.
Victoria pressed the appropriate buttons.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when a cool female voice inquired, "Hope Institute. How may I help you?"
Two Hope Institute calls? That clinched it.
This time Victoria didn't hang up. Instead, she acted on impulse.
"Is this the Hope Institute medical facility?" she asked in as collected a voice as she could muster.
Evidently, it did the trick.
"It is," the receptionist assured her. "How may I direct your call?"
Finally.
"I'm trying to reach Audrey Kensington. This is her sister, Victoria."
"Just a moment, please."
The onset of elevator music told Victoria she was on hold. Fine. That gave her time to think and to compose herself.
She sank down on the edge of her desk, her relief at having found Audrey marred by the ramifications of that discovery. Her sister was obviously as sick as she'd feared. Worse, their father had arranged to have her hidden away at some private clinic. Hidden not only from outsiders, but from her family.
Why?
"Hello?" The receptionist was back.
"Yes?" Victoria held her breath.
"I'm sorry, but your name is not on our approved list."
"Your approved list?" Victoria's temper was unraveling. "This is Victoria Kensington, I told you, I'm Audrey's sister. Put me through to her immediately."
"As I said, Miss Kensington, I'm not able to help you."
"Let me speak with her doctor, then."
"I repeat, you're not on our approved list."
&n
bsp; Victoria's insides gave a frantic twist as the finality of the woman's tone registered. "Don't hang up. Please. At least give me verbal confirmation that my sister is a patient there."
"I can't do that." A phone in the background rang. "I don't mean to be curt, but I have to answer that other line. There's nothing more I can tell you. Good day."
A firm click.
Numbly, Victoria replaced the receiver. Paranoia was no longer a consideration. Not after the way that receptionist had rushed her off the phone. She was getting the runaround—first from her father, then from Florence Hospital, and now from this Hope Institute. Not to mention the call she'd discovered from her father's line to the Hope Institute's aviation group.
Massaging her temples, Victoria wracked her brain for any possibility other than the obvious. She could find none. Her father had clearly made arrangements with the Hope Institute to transfer Audrey from the Italian hospital to theirs.
The next question was, what specific type of medical facility was the Hope Institute?
She intended, to find out.
She was thumbing through the white pages when a knock at her door interrupted.
"Yes?" Absently, she inclined her head in that direction.
"Victoria?" Paige poked her head in. "Sorry to bother you. But I saw your phone light go off, so I knew you'd hung up. Before you get involved again, I think you should see Mrs. Larimore. Megan's with her, but she made it pretty clear she wants you. I think her creep of a husband came over yesterday. He upset her pretty badly."
"He didn't hit her, did he?"
"No, I don't think so. It sounded to me like he just threw a fit. But it was enough. She's pretty fragile these days."
"Yes, I know." Victoria rose, folding the phone bill and tucking it in her purse. "Send her in."
Paige's pale brows knit. "Are you okay? You look kind of shaky."
A sigh. "I'm fine. I've just got a lot on my mind. But thanks for asking."
Victoria spent the next half hour with Faye Larimore. The poor woman was more jittery and lonely than she was frightened for her safety. There were too many changes happening in her life at once. Her teenage son was reacting to his father's drunken tantrums with his own rebellion, a rebellion that was hurting his grades and his social life, and tearing at Faye's heart. Her elderly parents weren't well, her brother and sister refused to give her a shred of emotional support, and her estranged husband had indeed come by this weekend to vent some more steam.