The man who had accompanied them from the clinic led the way, across the alley and in through the hotel’s service door, to the freight elevator, which a uniformed police officer held open and waiting for them. He gave the guard the folder of records and spoke softly to him before joining Richard and Lexi in the elevator and pushing the button for their floor. When they reached the floor, he led them down the long, carpeted hallway and opened the door of the suite at the end of it, stepping inside after them, but remaining by the door.
Richard settled Lexi on the brocade-covered sofa and stood back, watching her, but she didn’t look at him. She stared blankly ahead, toward the window.
He stifled still another oath and turned from the sight of her. A tray of drinks waited on a nearby table, and he crossed to it and splashed a hefty dose of scotch into a crystal tumbler.
The noise was so slight he barely heard it. He turned toward its source. Lexi had shrugged off the blanket and risen to her feet. Now she walked slowly across the room, toward the window. There was a table in front of the window, and on that table, an arrangement of spring flowers—harder than the devil to find at this time of year, Richard had been told, but he had insisted. She bent to the flowers, inhaling their scent. He watched her, unable to take his eyes from her, and unsteadily lifted the glass to his mouth as she touched one slender finger to the bright blue petal of a forget-me-not barely visible for the profusion of Dutch iris and sprays of forsythia.
“Richard.”
His name on her lips was the last thing he had expected to hear. It stunned him into immobility. She turned, her eyes enormous, her hands outstretched—pleading with him?—holding him at bay?—her voice a thin, reedy moan. “Why?”
As he watched in stunned disbelief, she began crumpling, folding in on herself. By the time he realized what was happening, by the time he tossed the glass away from him, she was falling. By the time he reached her, she lay unconscious on the carpeted floor. He scooped her up, glaring a warning at the deputy, who had also run to her side, and carried her into the adjoining bedroom.
With one hand, he tore back the covers of the bed and laid Lexi on the sheet. Mindful of the man who’d moved to the other side of the open door, he seated himself on the edge of the bed, shielding her from view as he eased the abominable dress from her.
She wore nothing under the dress except a pair of cheap cotton underpants that were much too large for her. She was unmarked, if he could call emaciation unmarked, except for her arms. He touched the arm nearest him. It, like the other, bore the marks of careless injections. But this one still carried the bruise of a healing hematoma, which discolored the skin for several inches above and below the crook of her elbow.
Richard began swearing, silently, viciously. He damned Hampton and his entire staff. He damned his mother, no matter what the truth was. He damned the doctor who had first mentioned Hampton’s hospital. And finally he damned himself for his own carelessness, his own stupidity.
He bent over her, sliding his arms around her cautiously, knowing he could crush her with no effort, and held her while his silent tirade continued.
“Mr. Jordan?”
The voice from the doorway was an intrusion he didn’t want to deal with. He ignored it, until it came again.
“Mr. Jordan,” the man said again, now sounding as though he had stepped into the bedroom. “I don’t want to bother you, but it’s time. We don’t want to jeopardize the case by delaying gathering evidence.”
Richard silenced him with a curt nod. “I know.” Slowly he drew away from Lexi and covered her with the sheet. He reached for the telephone on the nightstand and punched out the numbers. The phone at the other end was picked up on the first ring.
“We’re here,” he said, hearing the hoarseness in his voice. “Mel...I need you.”
Dr. Melissa Knapp arrived in only moments—her room was just two doors down the hallway—looking beautifully cool and competent in her tailored suit, with each perfect blond hair caught in the sophisticated coil she wore, and accompanied by a uniformed nurse. His sister-in-law drew her brows together, the only sign of her concern, as she looked at Lexi.
“Leave the room, Richard,” she said.
“No.”
Melissa managed to get between him and the bed. “Then at least step back,” she told him. She put her hands on his shoulders. “Please,” she said. “It will be easier. Leave the room.”
He compromised. He couldn’t leave the room, and he couldn’t bear to watch as the nurse produced a syringe. He walked to the window and looked down over the street as the blood samples were drawn, as impersonal hands and eyes examined Lexi. A few minutes later the nurse left and, almost simultaneously, the guard arrived with a photocopy of the hospital records. Then Richard and Melissa were alone with Lexi—the guards gone, the evidence gathered, their part of this day finished.
It seemed like hours later, and they were still alone.
The hotel bedroom was softly lit by the lamp Melissa used as she studied the photocopy of the hospital records. Her eyes had widened when she first began reading, but she made no comment, reading silently, with her entire concentration focused on the file in her hands. The sky outside the window was dark now, the building across the street a darker shadow against it.
And Lexi slept on, unaware of them, unmoving.
“Can’t you do anything?” Richard asked in frustration, breaking the silence.
Melissa looked up from the papers. “Not until we know what has already been done,” she said. Her voice softened. “It doesn’t look good, Richard. Drug treatment like she has apparently received was never proper psychiatric therapy, not in the past, certainly not today, and I want the lab report before I make any decision. I’m afraid, though, that we may be looking at addiction, that it’s not going to be a matter of just letting her sleep off the medication.”
Richard closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, swallowing once before he spoke. “What do the records say?”
“Too much,” Melissa said. “And not enough.”
He shrugged impatiently and lunged to his feet. “Damn it, Mel. Don’t play games with me.” He looked at the silent figure on the bed. “She’s my wife!” With visible control he lowered his voice, speaking insistently. “And it was my money that put her there.”
“Do you believe that?” Melissa asked. “Do you really believe that?”
Richard turned from her. “Hell, I don’t know.”
Sighing, he stuffed his bands into the pockets of his suit pants. “Yes, damn it. And because of an overdraft in an unknown account, I have the bank drafts to prove it.” He straightened his shoulders and turned to face the woman. “So tell me, Mel, just exactly what do those papers say.”
“Richard—”
“Tell me.”
“They say I was the referring psychiatrist.”
“But you were with Greg.”
“They say that Alexandra admitted herself to the clinic.”
“But why?” Richard asked. “She’d left me. She was free.”
“Richard. Please don’t do this to yourself.”
“Why, Mel? Why?”
Melissa stood, but after one hesitant step toward him, stopped. “Her medical records state a history of depression—”
“That’s nonsense—”
“Following a...following a self-induced abortion.”
He saw her. He heard her voice. But nothing made sense. Lexi. Pregnant? Letting him leave without telling him? That he could believe. Being desperate