art gallery. When that money had run dry, Connor dipped into his own pocket.
He wanted her to have a good life, a beautiful life. As a friend, he’d always be close to her. It wasn’t hard to imagine being more than a friend. If only Jamison hadn’t met her first in Manhattan, he and Emily would have been a couple.
After he brushed a light kiss across her knuckles, he placed her hand on the blanket, went to the window and raised the shade. The mountain view was incredible as night faded into pale dawn. If the window had been open, he would have heard birds chirping while the sunlight spread across rock faces, dark green conifers and a bright golden stand of aspens.
For a long moment, he stood and drank in the spectacular landscape. Between his Brooklyn apartment and his Manhattan office, he hadn’t come into contact with this much nature in weeks. This scenery knocked him out.
He checked his wristwatch. Five minutes past six o’clock meant it was after eight in New York. He pulled out his phone to check in with his assistant. Cases were pending, but there was nothing that required his immediate attention.
It was more important to deal with Emily’s medical issues. Last night, he’d culled the list of reputable neurologists and neurosurgeons down to a few. He needed to talk to them, to select a doctor for her. Then, he’d arrange for transportation to the hospital in Denver.
When Sandoval opened the door, Connor pivoted away from the window. Instantly alert to the possibility of danger, he added a mental note to his list: buy a weapon. A handsome black man with a shaved head followed the deputy into the room. He extended his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Jaiden Wellborn, FBI.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you,” Connor said as he shook SAC Wellborn’s hand. “You were at a memorial service for Jamison Riggs. Two weeks ago in Manhattan.”
“The service was well attended, two hundred and forty-seven people. Was there a reason you noticed me?”
“I liked your suit.” Connor didn’t usually pay any attention to men’s clothing, but Wellborn had stood out. His attire had been appropriate for a memorial service but not lacking in style. The man knew how to dress. Even now, at a few minutes after six in the morning in a hospital in Aspen, the agent looked classy in crocodile boots, jeans, a leather jacket and a neck scarf. “Your suit was dark blue, perfectly tailored.”
“Anything else?”
“You weren’t milling around in the crowd and seemed more interested in taking photos with your phone. That made me think you might be a reporter. Then I spotted your ankle holster. I had you pegged as a cop, Agent Wellborn.”
He didn’t bother denying Connor’s conclusion. “Did it surprise you to see a cop at your friend’s memorial?”
“I knew there was an investigation underway.” Whenever a healthy, young man succumbs to a mysterious illness, suspicions are raised, especially when the victim is filthy rich and deeply involved with complex investments and offshore banking. Supposedly, the cause of death was a rare form of cancer, but Connor didn’t believe it. “The medical examiner ran a lot of tests, and the police were reluctant to release his body for cremation.”
“Our only significant evidence came from the autopsy,” Wellborn said. “You might have heard that the real COD was a sophisticated, untraceable poison that was administered over an extended period of time.”
“Is that true?” Connor asked.
“I can’t say.”
“Is it classified?”
“I don’t have a definite answer about the poison. He didn’t suffer much until the last week to ten days, and the doctors focused on treating symptoms and saving his life rather than identifying obscure poisons.”
Connor glanced toward the bed where Emily lay quietly. It didn’t seem right to talk about this in front of her. Though she and Jamison were divorced, they’d been married for almost seven years. “Can we take this conversation into the hallway?”
“Go ahead,” Sandoval said. “I’ll stay with Emily.”
After being cooped up in the hospital room with all the beeping and blipping monitors, he was glad to step outside for a moment. The pale yellow corridors and shiny-clean nurses’ station were a welcome relief. He led the way around a corner and down a flight of stairs to a lounge with vending machines. Though the coffee was fresh brewed and free, the vending-machine snacks were a typical array of semistale cookies and candy. The selection looked good to Connor, which meant he must have really been starving.
He fed dollars into the machine and pulled out two chocolate bars with almonds. As he tore off the wrapping, he said, “I heard the investigation centered on Jamison’s Wall Street investment firm.”
“And involved several agencies, including the SEC and NASDAQ,” Wellborn said as he poured himself a coffee and added creamer. “I’m with the FBI’s White-Collar Crime Unit. We found a couple of shady glitches in his dealings, but nothing that rose to the level of fraud or insider trading. A few people in his office hated his arrogance. There were clients who felt cheated.”
“There always are.”
“Bottom line, our investigation covered all the bases. We didn’t find a significant motive for murder.”
“Nobody contacted me,” Connor said as he peeled the wrapper off the second candy bar. “Technically, I haven’t been Jamison’s attorney for years, but I stay in touch with Emily. Did you investigate her?”
“Not as much as we should have. The attack last night was proof of that.”
“Are you implying that Emily had something to do with her ex-husband’s death?” It seemed preposterous since Emily and Jamison hadn’t seen each other in months, much less had enough time together for a long-term poisoning.
Wellborn shrugged and sipped his coffee. Apparently, the feds hadn’t ruled out Emily—in the role of hostile ex-wife—as a suspect.
“Why are you here?” Connor asked.
“I’m looking into the attack on Emily as it might relate to her ex-husband’s death.”
“As far as I know, there was very little contact between them.”
“You didn’t know the terms of the will. She inherited a seven-bedroom mansion in Aspen plus all the furnishings. The artwork alone is valued at nearly fourteen million.”
A pretty decent motive for murder.
Connor’s phone rang. The caller was Sandoval.
The young deputy’s voice was nervous. “Connor, you need to get back to Emily’s room. Right away.”
Candy bar in hand, Connor dashed through the hospital corridors and up the stairs. Darlene the nurse beamed at him as he ran past her.
The door to Emily’s room stood open.
Her bed was empty.
She was gone.
The hospital machines that monitored her condition were dead silent. Connor stared at her vacant bed. Rumpled sheets were the only sign that Emily had been there. Panic grabbed him by the throat. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The thud of his heartbeat echoed in his ears. His fingers, white-knuckle, gripped the edge of the door.
He’d promised to never leave her. She needed his protection, had asked for his help and he had failed her. She was gone, lost.
“Son of a bitch,” Wellborn muttered.
“Hush, now.” Relentlessly cheerful, Darlene bounced up beside the two men and said, “This is a good thing—a blessing. Emily’s