Chapter 3 - The Tattoo Beneath His Cuff
I didn’t go home.
Damian argued for exactly forty-three seconds.
Then he realized I had no intention of cooperating and changed strategy.
“You stay where I can see you.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t wander.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t touch anything.”
“I’m a nurse, not a toddler.”
“Mara.”
“Fine.”
Luca hid a smile.
Damian noticed.
“Do you want a new job?”
“No.”
“Then stop enjoying this.”
We returned to the penthouse shortly after midnight.
Boston looked peaceful from forty-seven floors up.
That was deceptive.
Three security teams were searching Crosswell.
Another team was questioning the fake waiter.
A private laboratory was analyzing the champagne vial.
And I sat at Damian’s dining table in my crimson gown eating cold pasta because I had somehow missed dinner.
Damian stood by the windows speaking quietly with Luca.
I tried not to listen.
I failed.
“Only sixteen people knew she was attending,” Luca said.
“Reduce it.”
“Twelve were staff.”
“Reduce it.”
“Six had access to Crosswell.”
“Again.”
Luca hesitated.
“Three.”
Damian turned.
“Names.”
Luca looked at me.
Damian followed his gaze.
I put down my fork.
“If you want me not to hear, stop discussing conspiracies twelve feet away.”
Luca almost laughed.
Damian did not.
“Three people knew you would attend and had access to Crosswell,” he said. “Me. Luca. And Julian Vance.”
I recognized the third name.
Everyone in Boston business circles did.
Julian Vance had been Damian’s attorney and chief corporate adviser for more than a decade.
He was charming, polished, silver-haired, and apparently capable of turning legal disasters into tax deductions.
“You think Julian did this?”
“No.”
“You sounded very convincing.”
“I think until I have evidence.”
The penthouse elevator opened.
A physician from Crosswell stepped out carrying a small insulated medical case.
Dr. Nora Keene.
My supervisor.
She looked at my dress.
Then Damian.
Then me again.
“Mara, what exactly happened tonight?”
“That’s a long story.”
“Give me the short version.”
“Someone tried to hand Mr. Cross suspicious champagne, and apparently my medical access records are popular entertainment.”
Nora closed her eyes.
“I knew I should have taken the job in Vermont.”
Damian motioned toward the case.
“Results?”
“The lab ran preliminary screens.”
“And?”
“The substance isn’t a conventional poison.”
I leaned forward.
“What is it?”
“A combination of a fast-acting sedative and a cardiac depressant.”
Damian’s expression didn’t change.
Mine probably did.
Nora continued.
“At the estimated concentration, one glass likely wouldn’t kill a healthy man.”
“So I was right,” I said.
Damian looked at me.
“It was meant to incapacitate him.”
“For perhaps twenty to thirty minutes,” Nora said.
Luca frowned.
“At a ballroom?”
“Maybe the ballroom wasn’t the destination.”
That thought hung there.
Damian walked to the table.
“Suppose I drink it.”
“You become dizzy quickly,” Nora said. “Disoriented. Possibly unconscious.”
“Security moves me.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Luca answered immediately.
“Private hotel medical suite.”
Damian looked at him.
“Who controls access?”
“The Harbor Crown contracts Crosswell.”
Nobody spoke.
I felt the pieces shift.
The gala.
The glass.
The clinic access.
The waiter’s employee badge.
“They wanted you inside a medical environment,” I whispered.
Damian turned toward me.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Nora frowned.
“Unless they needed access to him physically.”
I stared at Damian.
Blood sample.
Fingerprint.
Phone.
Biometric authorization.
He seemed to reach the same conclusion.
“My corporate vaults use biometric confirmation.”
Luca swore quietly.
“Could someone force access while you were unconscious?”
“Not to the main accounts.”
“What about shipping control?”
Damian didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
A chime sounded from the security system.
Luca checked his phone.
“They found something at Crosswell.”
Twenty-five minutes later, I was changing out of the gown.
Damian had insisted.
For once, I didn’t argue.
A black SUV carried us to Crosswell through nearly empty Boston streets.
The clinic looked normal when we arrived.
Too normal.
White stone exterior.
Muted lobby lights.
A receptionist who knew better than to ask questions.
We went downstairs.
My station sat at the end of a private corridor.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
My locker was closed.
The medication cabinets were sealed.
The computer screen was dark.
A security technician pointed toward my workstation.
“Someone logged in using Nurse Ellison’s credentials at 9:14 p.m.”
“I was at the Harbor Crown.”
“We know.”
“Then how?”
He held up a copied access card.
My photograph.
My employee number.
Perfectly replicated.
I stared at it.
“What did they open?”
“Seven patient records.”
“Names?”
The technician looked at Damian.
Damian nodded.
He read them.
I recognized all seven.
Every one had arrived at Crosswell during the past year with injuries treated off ordinary hospital records.
Every one worked for Damian.
“They weren’t looking at me,” I said slowly.
“They were using me.”
Damian’s face hardened.
“To map my people.”
I looked at the access timestamps.
Something was wrong.
“They opened six files within two minutes.”
“So?”
“The seventh took twelve minutes.”
“Whose?”
The technician turned the screen.
Patient ID C-1709.
No name.
No address.
No insurance information.
Nothing.
I leaned closer.
“I’ve never seen that file.”
Nora appeared behind me.
Neither had she.
Damian read the admission date.
His entire body went still.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Damian.”
His eyes remained on the screen.
Finally, he spoke.
“That patient was admitted eight years ago.”
I waited.
His voice changed.
“My brother died eight years ago.”
I looked back at the anonymous record.
One line had been added to the file tonight.
Not medical terminology.
Not a diagnosis.
A message.
ASK DAMIAN WHO REALLY LEFT MICHAEL CROSS TO DIE.
I turned toward him.
For the first time since I had known Damian Cross, all color had left his face.
May you like
And somewhere inside the silent clinic, a door slammed.
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