Best Forgotten, a fic for Brandy (pt. 12 of ?)
We had a snow day on Friday. Yay! It was called late, after I'd already gotten up, exercised, showered, and dressed for work and of course I did have to spend several hours of my surprise free day shoveling (our driveway had to be cleared four times, taxing even my enthusiasm, and I rather like shoveling.) Still, I got to spend a chunk of the afternoon writing, and this update was the result--completed just in time to meet my self-imposed "Post at least once a month" deadline. So, for those of you still following this story, here is the latest (and nearly the last) installment of my blatantly AU Best Forgotten.
BTW: the Cohens, Ryan, Caleb? Still not mine. Also, forgive any mistakes. I had time enough to write, but not to revise or edit.
Best Forgotten, Part 12
Lucy scanned the computer screen impatiently. She scribbled a quick note and clicked the next link, so absorbed in the text on her monitor that at first she didn’t feel the light tap on her shoulder. It came again, a little firmer, and she peered up, startled.
The nurse next to her smiled an apology. “Sorry to disturb you, Lucy, but you’re being paged. Didn’t you hear?”
“Oh! No, I did not!” Biting her lip in dismay, Lucy listened as the announcement repeated: “Nurse Forde, report to room 206-E. Nurse Forde to room 206-E.”
206-E. Not Ryan’s room. A wave of relief rushed through her, followed instantly by frustration. Mr. Ameido, Lucy thought. He must have had another episode, and it took so long to calm him the last time. But I need to finish here. I am so close, I know it . . .
She cast a longing glance back at the monitor. At the same time the announcement, sharper and more forceful, summoned her again. Her brows creased with disappointment. Sighing deeply, Lucy logged off. “Thank you, Dana,” she said, as she pushed back her chair.
“You’re welcome.” The other nurse gazed at the blank screen, then studied Lucy, her expression both curious and concerned. “You seem frazzled, hon, and you were awfully engrossed just now. Is something wrong? Anything I can help you with?”
Lucy hesitated, the word “Yes,” teetering on her lips. Perhaps, she mused, Dana could continue checking for me? I could ask her . . . But no, I could not begin to explain what I am doing. Regretfully, she shook her head. “No,” she murmured. “I was just doing some research . . . Excuse me. I must go.”
Hastily slipping Ryan’s torn newspaper clipping into an envelope with her notes, Lucy gave Dana an absent nod. She hurried to her locker and thrust the papers inside. Then she wheeled away. Even as she rushed toward room 206-E, though, Lucy still mentally reviewed what she’d found.
With each step, a silent voice warned, Do not become excited. You can prove nothing yet, Lucy. Before you approach Dr. Keller, you must find all the facts and make sure that he cannot refute them.
This is a start, nothing more. You have answered only one question, and you have so little time to solve the rest before . . .
For a moment, the cadence of Lucy’s thoughts faltered. She slowed, her eyes darting toward the surgical wing.
Before it is too late to help Ryan, she concluded grimly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kirsten opened her desk drawer, started to reach inside, and abruptly stopped. Her gaze was dull blue and bleak when she looked at Charlie and her hands shook, empty.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “This feels so wrong. Searching Grady’s office . . . it’s like spying on my father.”
“You said that you didn’t trust Grady, Kirsten,” Charlie reminded her gently. You wanted me to investigate.” She didn’t mention Sandy’s directive: check Caleb’s office too.
“That’s true,” Kirsten admitted. Her voice wavered. It had an odd, echoing quality as if she were alone in a canyon, listening to her own words bounce back to her. “And we need to do this. I realize that. We have to find out what he knows about Ryan, because I’m sure he’s hiding something important. It’s just that Grady is so close to Dad and . . .”
She didn’t finish and Charlie didn’t push her. Instead she just stood there, silent and supportive.
A shuddering breath shook Kirsten’s slim frame. Staring vacantly, she sank back in her chair. Her hands rested on the thick portfolio that Caleb had given her five minutes before. Under the Newport Group logo, bold silver letters proclaimed “Stearns-Shoreway Project.”
For the last hour, Kirsten had sat, nearly mute, while her father reviewed every page of the proposal with her. Most of the time, he had been all business, brisk and methodical. Occasionally, though, Caleb had injected some incongruous remark: how much he was looking forward to spending time with his only grandson, how proud he was of Kirsten for stepping in to represent the Nichol name, how pleased he was that her whole family could relax together in San Francisco.
He said that: her whole family.
With each personal comment, Kirsten’s tension increased. Her nods grew more perfunctory, her replies to his questions more terse. She had to stifle a sigh of relief when, at last, Caleb rose to leave.
Automatically, she had walked him to the door.
Kirsten pictured her father just before he turned to go. She recalled the satisfaction that shaped his smile, the triumph that had colored his voice.
“Kiki, you have no idea how happy I am that you’re doing this,” he had declared. “Seeing you back in this office where you belong . . . and Sanford, agreeing to the trip, Seth, offering to go sailing with me--Our family is finally back to normal.” Caleb had nodded, his eyes glinting approval. Then with a different smile, this one fond and familiar, he had kissed her forehead and left for the yacht club.
Kirsten’s gaze drifted to the space where he had stood. Her heart plummeted. She was about to betray her father. The thought made her feel sick and ashamed, so much that she wished she could stop what they planned to do.
Only . . .
He had sounded so callous.
“This family is finally back to normal.” Her father had actually said that. How could he, when he knew how they all felt about Ryan-how Kirsten herself felt? She had told Caleb, “He is my child now.”
Why did he refuse to accept that simple truth?
Ryan existed. He was part of their family, and he was missing. Her father couldn’t pretend that he didn’t matter. He had to know nothing was normal, nothing was right.
It wouldn’t be until they found Ryan.
Kirsten’s mouth tightened with decision. Sitting up straight, she yanked open her drawer and pulled out her master key. It flashed in a shaft of sunlight as she handed it to Charlie.
“Here,” she said, biting back a leftover quaver in her voice. “I already checked. Grady isn’t scheduled to be here today. Of course, you’ll still have to get past the secretary who guards his office.”
Charlie took the key. At the same time, she smoothed her jacket and pushed her glasses up on her nose, grimacing at the unaccustomed pinch. “No problem,” she promised. “I’ll handle that.”
“Oh-and take this.” Kirsten thrust a file at Charlie adding, at her look of surprise, “You’ll need a reason to be there in case someone asks. You can say I sent you to deliver this to Grady. It’s just a letter telling him that we no longer need his services, but at least it gives you an excuse to be in his office.”
Charlie nodded, smiling her admiration. “Thanks, Kirsten,” she said as she tucked the file under her arm and turned to go.
“Charlie?”
Already halfway to the door, Charlie stopped and glanced back. All the authority had drained from Kirsten’s voice. She sounded lost, and her hands twisted anxiously on her lap.
“What should I do while you’re gone . . . to help?”
Charlie’s face softened, suffused with sympathy. “You’ve already done so much, Kirsten,” she replied softly. “Just try not to worry. I’ll take it from here.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sandy rubbed his palm along the sleek interior wall of Caleb’s private jet. He blew out a deep, appreciative breath, ruffling the shock of hair that fell on his forehead. “Damn, Jake,” he sighed, loud enough to catch the pilot’s attention inside the cockpit. “Don’t tell Cal. It’ll ruin my bleeding-heart liberal image if he knows I said it, but this jet of his? It is one sweet machine.”
Jake grinned, glancing back briefly before he jotted some numbers on his clipboard. “Your first time on board, Mr. Cohen?”
“Call me Sandy. And yeah,” he admitted dryly. “As a rule, I’m strictly a coach man. I haven’t had a lot of occasion to travel Caleb Nichol style. That’s why I figured I’d better check in, make sure everything was a go on this end.”
“Yep. All set for tomorrow at two, Sandy.”
“Good to know . . . But now that I’ve seen the plane . . . tell me, do I need to wear a tux on this trip?”
Jake chuckled. “Formal dress is optional. Even Mr. Nichol loosens his tie now and then. But no question, he does know how to live. Top of the line all the way.” Jake paused to pat the instrument panel fondly, then returned to his checklist.
As unobtrusively as possible, Sandy stepped into the cockpit behind him, trying to peer over the pilot’s shoulder. “Sorry that we’re cutting into your weekend,” he said, squinting at the figures Jake was noting. They meant nothing to Sandy, and his mouth tightened with frustration. With an effort, he kept his tone light. “I imagine free time is hard to come by. From what I hear, Cal keeps you pretty busy.”
Jake shrugged, his flight jacket crackling. “Lately, yeah,” he said absently. “The Newport Group must be doing big business in Mexico these days. We’ve been going back and forth so often, it’s getting so I might as well just Xerox my flight plans. Kind of boring, actually.”
“Mexico?” Sandy’s eyes narrowed, sharp and speculative. Without realizing it, he gripped the back of Jake’s seat. His fingers dug into the butter-soft leather and his face set into shrewd Sanford Cohen, Litigator, lines. A faint, probing edge began to thread through his words, although they still sounded casual. “Oh that’s right,” he said. “I did hear something about Cal expanding the company’s holdings into . . . Culiacán , right?” Sandy threw out the name randomly, then stood rigid, waiting for Jake’s response.
Still intent on his paperwork, the pilot shook his head. “I don’t think so. We’ve been flying into Cozumel. Gorgeous area. I never heard of it until Mr. Nichol started flying there. . .”
“Cozumel. That’s it.” Sandy nodded, mentally filing the name, the way he did with each new piece of evidence. “I need to start listening more when Kirsten talks business. She did say something about a new project Cal’s launching there. . . A resort area, I think” He let his words drift off, an invitation for Jake to say more.
“All I know is, whatever he’s doing, Mr. Nichol must be about to close the deal. He sounded pretty pleased when he called to tell me he needed me to prep for a trip there this afternoon.”
This afternoon. And Cal is pleased.
For a moment, Sandy went rigid. Why a sudden trip? he wondered. And why would it make Cal happy? Desperate for answers, but dreading them at the same time, he scanned the plane’s cabin, searching for clues.
He found nothing. Just like Caleb’s office, the interior of the jet was elegant, immaculate, and utterly impersonal. Somehow it even felt cold.
Sandy took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Surprising how spacious this plane is,” he mused. “What’s its capacity-six passengers?”
“Eight if we change the configuration. Never had to do that, though. Mr. Nichol prefers to travel alone, unless he’s with Mr. Grady.” To Sandy’s surprise, Jake laughed shortly, almost caustically. “Maybe I should worry about my job. One of these days, the guy might replace me.”
“Yeah?” Sandy prompted.
“Turns out, Mr. Grady is a licensed pilot. Seems to know his stuff. He flew Mr. Nichol the first time he went to Cozumel. I offered to do it, but Mr. Nichol told me to relax, take a long weekend . . . He wouldn’t even let me co-pilot the flight.” Sticking his pen behind his ear, Jake straightened his clipboard and stood up. “I’ve got to file these papers, Sandy. You all set to go?”
His brows furrowing thoughtfully, Sandy nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think I am.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Excuse me! This is a private office. What are you doing in here?”
Charlie peered up from Patrick Grady’s desk, flashing a flustered smile. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “There was at the reception desk, so I just came in. I’m here to drop off a file for Mr. Grady.”
“His door was open?”
Charlie nodded, blinking owlishly behind her oversized glasses. She neglected to mention the fact that she hadn’t found the office open. Instead, she’d simply waited in the hallway until the secretary stepped out and then slipped inside, unlocking the door with Kirsten’s master key.
“That’s odd,” the secretary murmured. “I thought sure . . . ” She glanced from the door back to Charlie, frowning dubiously. “Do I know you? I don’t think I’ve seen you around The Newport Group before.”
“Oh, you haven’t! It’s my first day,” Charlie confided. She leaned across the desk and thrust out her hand, simultaneously nudging shut the drawer that she had opened before the secretary came in. “I’m Charlotte Kepler. I’m assisting Mrs. Cohen on the Stearns-Shoreway Project.”
Automatically, the other woman shook Charlie’s hand. “Gail Walburn,” she said, introducing herself. “Mrs. Cohen is back? I understood that she was on leave.”
“She was. Well, technically, I guess she still is. She’s just here today because she’s filling in for her father at the Shoreway presentation in San Francisco this weekend.” Charlie lowered her voice, making it confidential. “I heard what’s going on in her family. It’s such a shame isn’t it, and so odd-their foster son just disappearing like that.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Gail replied stiffly. “We don’t gossip in this office although--”
Arching her eyebrows, Charlie waited expectantly. It took just a second for Grady’s secretary to continue.
“From what I understand it’s all for the best. That boy-Ryan?-never did fit in to the Nichol family.”
“The Nichol family? But I thought the Cohens-oh,” Charlie breathed, widening her eyes with apparent comprehension. “You mean her maiden name.”
“The Nichol name is the one that counts in this community. And it’s very clear that Mr. Nichol believed that boy was trouble from the beginning. I know that he--” Abruptly catching herself, Gail broke off and reached for the papers Charlie held. “Well. I’m sure you need to get back to work. If you’ll just give that file to me, I’ll make sure Mr. Grady gets it.”
Shaking her head, Charlie took a step back. “I’m sorry,” she said, clutching the papers close “I can’t. Mrs. Cohen gave me strict orders. Mr. Grady is working on a personal case for her and this is for his eyes only.” In fact, it was just an innocuous note, a claim that the Cohens had decided to suspend their search for Ryan, thanking Grady for his efforts and returning the police reports he had produced. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“He won’t be in the office at all today, Ms. Kepler. Mr. Grady is preparing to accompany Mr. Nichol on a business trip later this afternoon. But I assure you that I can be trusted with confidential material.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can! Only--” Charlie gave a disingenuous shrug, managing to look abashed and determined at the same time. “I promised Mrs. Cohen,” she insisted. “And she wanted me to explain something in the file. She seemed very insistent that I do it right away. Do you have a number where Mr. Grady can be reached? I mean, besides this one? I’ll just call him and relay her message. Then I’ll leave the file here for him if that’s what he wants.”
Gail huffed slightly, but she jotted down two numbers on a notepad and started to hand it to Charlie. At the last second, she pulled the paper back and scrawled something else. “The first one is his home, and the second is his cell,” she explained. “The last one is a new number. Mr. Grady told me it’s a direct line for Mr. Nichol’s use, but since Mrs. Cohen is his daughter--”
“Thank you so much!” Charlie produced an appreciative smile, this one genuine. “Now if you don’t mind? I’ll just be a couple minutes.”
Taking out her phone, she inclined her head to the open door. Gail hesitated a moment, obviously debating. At last, reluctantly, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her. As soon as she heard it click shut, Charlie’s face changed. Her eager-apprentice expression vanished, replaced by grim intensity. Moving swiftly and silently, she reopened the desk drawer she had nudged shut earlier and copied a cryptic note in what appeared to be Caleb’s tightly controlled writing: Op set late today. Trans funds, Keller imm. Then, using her prepaid, disposable cell, she dialed the third number on the list Gail had provided.
Charlie skipped Grady’s home phone and his cell. She knew she’d learn nothing by calling those numbers, but she hoped the “for Mr. Nichol’s use” only contact might provide some clue. Just in case, she rehearsed a giggling “Oops! Sorry! I must have misdialed!” excuse as the phone rang, but she didn’t need to use it.
The call went to voice mail.
Charlie listened, motionless, except when she jabbed the “end” button just before the tone. Very slowly, she put her phone away and centered Kirsten’s file on the center of Grady’s desk. Then she took one step toward the door and stopped.
Chilled, her mind racing, she recalled the message she had just heard delivered in Grady’s flat, flinty voice:
“You have reached the Cohen residence . . .”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Seth! There you are!” Waving a brisk greeting, Caleb strode down the pier to the railing where his grandson sat, fingers drumming his thighs, his knees bouncing an anxious tattoo. “I trust I’m not late.” He clasped Seth’s shoulder, giving it a hearty squeeze. “Perfect day to go sailing, isn’t it?”
Seth scrambled to his feet, trying to cover his reflexive flinch. “Yeah, I mean no, you’re not late, but yeah, perfect day,” he mumbled. With an effort, he mustered a weak, belated grin. “Thanks for coming, Grandpa. I know you didn’t really have time since you’ve been so busy with, um, business.”
Caleb shook his head. “Never too busy for my family.” He clapped Seth’s back again, almost knocking him off balance. “That is the first key to success, my boy: prioritize. Focus on what matters most. For me that has always been family.”
Right. If by family you mean authority, status, and your ginormous ego, Seth thought. Lost in bitter reflection, it took him a moment to realize that Caleb was still speaking.
“So . . . why don’t you take the tiller this morning? Show me what you can do.”
Without waiting for an answer or bothering to look behind, Caleb breezed past and led the way to his boat. Seth had to scurry to match his grandfather’s purposeful strides. His smile tightened and he gritted his teeth, biting back a retort.
“Really? You’ll let me captain? Aye-aye,” he managed to babble. “Excellent!”
After that his normal stream of words trickled to a near-stop.
Seth had no idea how to talk to his grandfather anymore.
“Don’t bait him,” Sandy had warned. He had taken Seth aside the night before while Kirsten had been on the phone with Charlie. “And be careful what you say, son. You don’t want to give anything away accidentally. In fact, it would be best if you didn’t mention Ryan at all.”
“Right,” Seth had agreed, his tone etched with acid. “We’ll just discuss all the things we have in common-let’s see, the rate of the yen versus the dollar, the stock market, capital gains taxes, four star restaurants, tailor-made shirts with French cuffs, belittling people and controlling their lives-Oh wait, that’s right, those things only matter to Grandpa. You think he might be interested in indie music or graphic novels or video games or, I don’t know, anything besides money, power, and getting what he wants no matter who he hurts?”
“Just talk about sailing,” Sandy had urged wearily. “We need you to keep your grandfather out of the office, Seth. That’s all.”
His father made it sound simple, but by the time they docked again, Seth felt completely drained. It had been exhausting, keeping a smile plastered on his face, keeping his mouth clamped on everything he really wanted to say. As the morning went on, he grew increasingly grateful for the sunglasses that obscured his eyes and, he hoped, flashes of anger and accusation too. He pretended to concentrate on the sails, adjusting them or staring out to sea as much as he could. That way, he could just toss mechanical comments over his shoulder without actually looking at Caleb.
Seth couldn’t stand the sight of his grandfather.
Everything about him seemed smug: his crisp polo shirt that never wilted in the sun, his relaxed body language, all ease and confidence, the way he tipped his head up as if he owned the sky, even the fizz of the champagne that he poured.
“What do you say, Seth?” Caleb had asked, extending a glass. “A toast to oh, a willing foe and sea room?”
“No thanks. Kinda busy here, you know, sailing,” Seth muttered. Then he replayed the words of the toast and his tone sharpened. “What does that even mean anyway?”
Caleb had sipped his drink, shrugging. “Just an old Royal Navy saying, that’s all,” he had claimed, but his lips curved in a slow smile that chilled Seth.
His own mouth tightened. With an effort, he swallowed his automatic response. ?Don’t challenge him, Cohen, he reminded himself. You're just supposed to keep him out of the office, that’s all.
It was so hard, though. Seth found himself carrying on two conversations, a terse, inane one, comprised mostly of one-word answers to his grandfather’s questions, and a silent one that included his real thoughts and feelings.
Just once he had slipped and let them overlap.
“So . . . you’ll be a sophomore in high school this fall,” Caleb had observed. “You know, by the time I was your age, I already had a clear plan for my life. What about you, Seth? Have you given much thought to your future?”
“Yeah, no, not so much,” Seth had muttered. Mentally he had added, I’ve been kinda busy thinking about my past-you know, like a week ago, when I had a friend and a brother, and my family was actually happy, and you were somewhere in Japan, where you couldn’t destroy our lives.
Pursing his lips with disapproval, Caleb shook his head. “You can’t just drift through life,” he admonished. “You need to have a goal so you can utilize your time wisely, Seth. Start networking, make the right contacts. Now, frankly, I would love to have you join your mother and me at the Newport Group. I understand that you’re interested in art, but--”
Before Seth could censor himself, he blurted, “Ryan is the one who should work for the Newport Group. He’s interested in all that stuff-buildings, zoning codes, blueprints, construction. He wants to be an architect.”
Instantly, Caleb’s voice turned glacial. “Really?”
“Yeah. He told Mom. They’re going-they were going-to tour some of the historic buildings in Newport together.”
“Well of course, he would pretend to share your mother's interests. He was trying to ingratiate himself with her."
"Ryan wasn't pretending," Seth protested. "Just because you--" At the last moment, he stopped himself. Choking back an accusation he mumbled instead, "You know what? Never mind. Just forget it."
"No, Seth," Caleb said crisply. "We might as well deal with this. Now I know you believed that boy was your friend so it's painful to face the truth. But you have to realize, he just wanted what he could get from our family. And people with ulterior motives-well, they will say anything that serves their purpose.”
Seth stared past the horizon, his eyes prickling behind his sunglasses. “Yeah,” he said tonelessly. “I guess you’re right, grandpa. They do . . . So, um, anyway . . .” He paused, his mouth dry, searching for something safe to say. “You planning to enter the Newport regatta next month?”
Caleb smiled, mollified. "I am indeed," he declared and to Seth's relief, he launched into a monologue about sailing for the next twenty minutes. Then, draining the last of his wine, he checked his Rolex.
“I hate to cut this short, Seth,” he said, “but we’re going to have to head in. I’ve got a flight in less than two hours. Maybe sometime next week we can make a day of it, though-head over to the island, have lunch, play some golf. What do you think?”
Seth muttered a vague answer, letting the breeze whip his words away, and turned to trim the mailsail.
By the time they reached shore, all of his curls drooped, his t-shirt was wet with sea spray and sweat, the muscles in his neck and arms burned, and his cheeks ached with the strain of smiling.
“Thanks again for coming, Grandpa,” he said, as they finished tying up at the dock. “This was . . . great.”
“Indeed it was. Good-bye, Seth. Enjoy San Francisco.”
Caleb reached out for a one-armed hug, but Seth ducked down, pretending not to see him, that he needed to tie his shoe. He crouched there, playing awkwardly with his shoelace, until his grandfather walked away. Then he collapsed into a forlorn heap. His shoulders slumping, he blew out a morose sigh.
So that’s it, he thought. And I got nothing. Not one clue.
Seth couldn’t help it. He had hoped all along that somehow during his time alone with Caleb, he might learn something that would help them find Ryan. But he hadn’t.
All he had managed to do was keep his grandfather away from the Newport Group for-Seth checked his watch-two hours and forty-six minutes.
He just hoped that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucy heaved an exhausted sigh as she left Mr. Amiedo’s room. She glanced at the clock over the nurse’s station. Almost an hour, she noted with dismay. I hoped it would not take so long to quiet him-not now, when I have so little time to find the answers that Ryan needs . . .
For a second she stood still, debating.
She could go back to the staff lounge and try to continue her search, but she had only eight minutes until she had to dispense mid-day medications, scarcely enough time to find anything.
Perhaps, Lucy thought, it would be better to check in with Ryan. At least I can offer him hope. I can assure him that he is right, that newspaper Dr. Keller gave him must have been fabricated.
She didn’t know what that proved exactly. The page summoning her to Mr. Ameido’s room had interrupted before she could check for other reports of Ryan Atwood’s murder. Perhaps they existed, but Lucy found no such story in The Orange County Register, not in the online archives from either date: the one at the top of Ryan’s torn fragment, or the one that aroused her suspicions-a completely different date that she noticed in an advertisement on the back.
The page Ryan had been given must have been pieced together, with a false story attached to a real newspaper page. That would explain why there were no pictures.
But if that account was a lie, what else about Brandon McConnell might not be true?
Ryan might know. And no matter what, he deserved to know what she had found. She pictured how he would look when she told him, the surge of relief that would light his eyes . . .
With sudden resolve, Lucy spun around and rushed to Ryan's room. Already smiling a greeting, she unlocked his door and stepped inside, but in the next instant all the warm reassurance drained from her face. She paled, gasping, and her hand flew to her lips.
“Oh no,” she murmured. “No.”
The bed in front of her was stripped to its mattress, clean and empty. Lucy scanned the room frantically, but there were no charts, no equipment or medications on the counter, no sign of any patient at all.
Ryan was gone.
TBC
BTW: the Cohens, Ryan, Caleb? Still not mine. Also, forgive any mistakes. I had time enough to write, but not to revise or edit.
Best Forgotten, Part 12
Lucy scanned the computer screen impatiently. She scribbled a quick note and clicked the next link, so absorbed in the text on her monitor that at first she didn’t feel the light tap on her shoulder. It came again, a little firmer, and she peered up, startled.
The nurse next to her smiled an apology. “Sorry to disturb you, Lucy, but you’re being paged. Didn’t you hear?”
“Oh! No, I did not!” Biting her lip in dismay, Lucy listened as the announcement repeated: “Nurse Forde, report to room 206-E. Nurse Forde to room 206-E.”
206-E. Not Ryan’s room. A wave of relief rushed through her, followed instantly by frustration. Mr. Ameido, Lucy thought. He must have had another episode, and it took so long to calm him the last time. But I need to finish here. I am so close, I know it . . .
She cast a longing glance back at the monitor. At the same time the announcement, sharper and more forceful, summoned her again. Her brows creased with disappointment. Sighing deeply, Lucy logged off. “Thank you, Dana,” she said, as she pushed back her chair.
“You’re welcome.” The other nurse gazed at the blank screen, then studied Lucy, her expression both curious and concerned. “You seem frazzled, hon, and you were awfully engrossed just now. Is something wrong? Anything I can help you with?”
Lucy hesitated, the word “Yes,” teetering on her lips. Perhaps, she mused, Dana could continue checking for me? I could ask her . . . But no, I could not begin to explain what I am doing. Regretfully, she shook her head. “No,” she murmured. “I was just doing some research . . . Excuse me. I must go.”
Hastily slipping Ryan’s torn newspaper clipping into an envelope with her notes, Lucy gave Dana an absent nod. She hurried to her locker and thrust the papers inside. Then she wheeled away. Even as she rushed toward room 206-E, though, Lucy still mentally reviewed what she’d found.
With each step, a silent voice warned, Do not become excited. You can prove nothing yet, Lucy. Before you approach Dr. Keller, you must find all the facts and make sure that he cannot refute them.
This is a start, nothing more. You have answered only one question, and you have so little time to solve the rest before . . .
For a moment, the cadence of Lucy’s thoughts faltered. She slowed, her eyes darting toward the surgical wing.
Before it is too late to help Ryan, she concluded grimly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kirsten opened her desk drawer, started to reach inside, and abruptly stopped. Her gaze was dull blue and bleak when she looked at Charlie and her hands shook, empty.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “This feels so wrong. Searching Grady’s office . . . it’s like spying on my father.”
“You said that you didn’t trust Grady, Kirsten,” Charlie reminded her gently. You wanted me to investigate.” She didn’t mention Sandy’s directive: check Caleb’s office too.
“That’s true,” Kirsten admitted. Her voice wavered. It had an odd, echoing quality as if she were alone in a canyon, listening to her own words bounce back to her. “And we need to do this. I realize that. We have to find out what he knows about Ryan, because I’m sure he’s hiding something important. It’s just that Grady is so close to Dad and . . .”
She didn’t finish and Charlie didn’t push her. Instead she just stood there, silent and supportive.
A shuddering breath shook Kirsten’s slim frame. Staring vacantly, she sank back in her chair. Her hands rested on the thick portfolio that Caleb had given her five minutes before. Under the Newport Group logo, bold silver letters proclaimed “Stearns-Shoreway Project.”
For the last hour, Kirsten had sat, nearly mute, while her father reviewed every page of the proposal with her. Most of the time, he had been all business, brisk and methodical. Occasionally, though, Caleb had injected some incongruous remark: how much he was looking forward to spending time with his only grandson, how proud he was of Kirsten for stepping in to represent the Nichol name, how pleased he was that her whole family could relax together in San Francisco.
He said that: her whole family.
With each personal comment, Kirsten’s tension increased. Her nods grew more perfunctory, her replies to his questions more terse. She had to stifle a sigh of relief when, at last, Caleb rose to leave.
Automatically, she had walked him to the door.
Kirsten pictured her father just before he turned to go. She recalled the satisfaction that shaped his smile, the triumph that had colored his voice.
“Kiki, you have no idea how happy I am that you’re doing this,” he had declared. “Seeing you back in this office where you belong . . . and Sanford, agreeing to the trip, Seth, offering to go sailing with me--Our family is finally back to normal.” Caleb had nodded, his eyes glinting approval. Then with a different smile, this one fond and familiar, he had kissed her forehead and left for the yacht club.
Kirsten’s gaze drifted to the space where he had stood. Her heart plummeted. She was about to betray her father. The thought made her feel sick and ashamed, so much that she wished she could stop what they planned to do.
Only . . .
He had sounded so callous.
“This family is finally back to normal.” Her father had actually said that. How could he, when he knew how they all felt about Ryan-how Kirsten herself felt? She had told Caleb, “He is my child now.”
Why did he refuse to accept that simple truth?
Ryan existed. He was part of their family, and he was missing. Her father couldn’t pretend that he didn’t matter. He had to know nothing was normal, nothing was right.
It wouldn’t be until they found Ryan.
Kirsten’s mouth tightened with decision. Sitting up straight, she yanked open her drawer and pulled out her master key. It flashed in a shaft of sunlight as she handed it to Charlie.
“Here,” she said, biting back a leftover quaver in her voice. “I already checked. Grady isn’t scheduled to be here today. Of course, you’ll still have to get past the secretary who guards his office.”
Charlie took the key. At the same time, she smoothed her jacket and pushed her glasses up on her nose, grimacing at the unaccustomed pinch. “No problem,” she promised. “I’ll handle that.”
“Oh-and take this.” Kirsten thrust a file at Charlie adding, at her look of surprise, “You’ll need a reason to be there in case someone asks. You can say I sent you to deliver this to Grady. It’s just a letter telling him that we no longer need his services, but at least it gives you an excuse to be in his office.”
Charlie nodded, smiling her admiration. “Thanks, Kirsten,” she said as she tucked the file under her arm and turned to go.
“Charlie?”
Already halfway to the door, Charlie stopped and glanced back. All the authority had drained from Kirsten’s voice. She sounded lost, and her hands twisted anxiously on her lap.
“What should I do while you’re gone . . . to help?”
Charlie’s face softened, suffused with sympathy. “You’ve already done so much, Kirsten,” she replied softly. “Just try not to worry. I’ll take it from here.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sandy rubbed his palm along the sleek interior wall of Caleb’s private jet. He blew out a deep, appreciative breath, ruffling the shock of hair that fell on his forehead. “Damn, Jake,” he sighed, loud enough to catch the pilot’s attention inside the cockpit. “Don’t tell Cal. It’ll ruin my bleeding-heart liberal image if he knows I said it, but this jet of his? It is one sweet machine.”
Jake grinned, glancing back briefly before he jotted some numbers on his clipboard. “Your first time on board, Mr. Cohen?”
“Call me Sandy. And yeah,” he admitted dryly. “As a rule, I’m strictly a coach man. I haven’t had a lot of occasion to travel Caleb Nichol style. That’s why I figured I’d better check in, make sure everything was a go on this end.”
“Yep. All set for tomorrow at two, Sandy.”
“Good to know . . . But now that I’ve seen the plane . . . tell me, do I need to wear a tux on this trip?”
Jake chuckled. “Formal dress is optional. Even Mr. Nichol loosens his tie now and then. But no question, he does know how to live. Top of the line all the way.” Jake paused to pat the instrument panel fondly, then returned to his checklist.
As unobtrusively as possible, Sandy stepped into the cockpit behind him, trying to peer over the pilot’s shoulder. “Sorry that we’re cutting into your weekend,” he said, squinting at the figures Jake was noting. They meant nothing to Sandy, and his mouth tightened with frustration. With an effort, he kept his tone light. “I imagine free time is hard to come by. From what I hear, Cal keeps you pretty busy.”
Jake shrugged, his flight jacket crackling. “Lately, yeah,” he said absently. “The Newport Group must be doing big business in Mexico these days. We’ve been going back and forth so often, it’s getting so I might as well just Xerox my flight plans. Kind of boring, actually.”
“Mexico?” Sandy’s eyes narrowed, sharp and speculative. Without realizing it, he gripped the back of Jake’s seat. His fingers dug into the butter-soft leather and his face set into shrewd Sanford Cohen, Litigator, lines. A faint, probing edge began to thread through his words, although they still sounded casual. “Oh that’s right,” he said. “I did hear something about Cal expanding the company’s holdings into . . . Culiacán , right?” Sandy threw out the name randomly, then stood rigid, waiting for Jake’s response.
Still intent on his paperwork, the pilot shook his head. “I don’t think so. We’ve been flying into Cozumel. Gorgeous area. I never heard of it until Mr. Nichol started flying there. . .”
“Cozumel. That’s it.” Sandy nodded, mentally filing the name, the way he did with each new piece of evidence. “I need to start listening more when Kirsten talks business. She did say something about a new project Cal’s launching there. . . A resort area, I think” He let his words drift off, an invitation for Jake to say more.
“All I know is, whatever he’s doing, Mr. Nichol must be about to close the deal. He sounded pretty pleased when he called to tell me he needed me to prep for a trip there this afternoon.”
This afternoon. And Cal is pleased.
For a moment, Sandy went rigid. Why a sudden trip? he wondered. And why would it make Cal happy? Desperate for answers, but dreading them at the same time, he scanned the plane’s cabin, searching for clues.
He found nothing. Just like Caleb’s office, the interior of the jet was elegant, immaculate, and utterly impersonal. Somehow it even felt cold.
Sandy took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Surprising how spacious this plane is,” he mused. “What’s its capacity-six passengers?”
“Eight if we change the configuration. Never had to do that, though. Mr. Nichol prefers to travel alone, unless he’s with Mr. Grady.” To Sandy’s surprise, Jake laughed shortly, almost caustically. “Maybe I should worry about my job. One of these days, the guy might replace me.”
“Yeah?” Sandy prompted.
“Turns out, Mr. Grady is a licensed pilot. Seems to know his stuff. He flew Mr. Nichol the first time he went to Cozumel. I offered to do it, but Mr. Nichol told me to relax, take a long weekend . . . He wouldn’t even let me co-pilot the flight.” Sticking his pen behind his ear, Jake straightened his clipboard and stood up. “I’ve got to file these papers, Sandy. You all set to go?”
His brows furrowing thoughtfully, Sandy nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think I am.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Excuse me! This is a private office. What are you doing in here?”
Charlie peered up from Patrick Grady’s desk, flashing a flustered smile. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “There was at the reception desk, so I just came in. I’m here to drop off a file for Mr. Grady.”
“His door was open?”
Charlie nodded, blinking owlishly behind her oversized glasses. She neglected to mention the fact that she hadn’t found the office open. Instead, she’d simply waited in the hallway until the secretary stepped out and then slipped inside, unlocking the door with Kirsten’s master key.
“That’s odd,” the secretary murmured. “I thought sure . . . ” She glanced from the door back to Charlie, frowning dubiously. “Do I know you? I don’t think I’ve seen you around The Newport Group before.”
“Oh, you haven’t! It’s my first day,” Charlie confided. She leaned across the desk and thrust out her hand, simultaneously nudging shut the drawer that she had opened before the secretary came in. “I’m Charlotte Kepler. I’m assisting Mrs. Cohen on the Stearns-Shoreway Project.”
Automatically, the other woman shook Charlie’s hand. “Gail Walburn,” she said, introducing herself. “Mrs. Cohen is back? I understood that she was on leave.”
“She was. Well, technically, I guess she still is. She’s just here today because she’s filling in for her father at the Shoreway presentation in San Francisco this weekend.” Charlie lowered her voice, making it confidential. “I heard what’s going on in her family. It’s such a shame isn’t it, and so odd-their foster son just disappearing like that.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Gail replied stiffly. “We don’t gossip in this office although--”
Arching her eyebrows, Charlie waited expectantly. It took just a second for Grady’s secretary to continue.
“From what I understand it’s all for the best. That boy-Ryan?-never did fit in to the Nichol family.”
“The Nichol family? But I thought the Cohens-oh,” Charlie breathed, widening her eyes with apparent comprehension. “You mean her maiden name.”
“The Nichol name is the one that counts in this community. And it’s very clear that Mr. Nichol believed that boy was trouble from the beginning. I know that he--” Abruptly catching herself, Gail broke off and reached for the papers Charlie held. “Well. I’m sure you need to get back to work. If you’ll just give that file to me, I’ll make sure Mr. Grady gets it.”
Shaking her head, Charlie took a step back. “I’m sorry,” she said, clutching the papers close “I can’t. Mrs. Cohen gave me strict orders. Mr. Grady is working on a personal case for her and this is for his eyes only.” In fact, it was just an innocuous note, a claim that the Cohens had decided to suspend their search for Ryan, thanking Grady for his efforts and returning the police reports he had produced. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“He won’t be in the office at all today, Ms. Kepler. Mr. Grady is preparing to accompany Mr. Nichol on a business trip later this afternoon. But I assure you that I can be trusted with confidential material.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can! Only--” Charlie gave a disingenuous shrug, managing to look abashed and determined at the same time. “I promised Mrs. Cohen,” she insisted. “And she wanted me to explain something in the file. She seemed very insistent that I do it right away. Do you have a number where Mr. Grady can be reached? I mean, besides this one? I’ll just call him and relay her message. Then I’ll leave the file here for him if that’s what he wants.”
Gail huffed slightly, but she jotted down two numbers on a notepad and started to hand it to Charlie. At the last second, she pulled the paper back and scrawled something else. “The first one is his home, and the second is his cell,” she explained. “The last one is a new number. Mr. Grady told me it’s a direct line for Mr. Nichol’s use, but since Mrs. Cohen is his daughter--”
“Thank you so much!” Charlie produced an appreciative smile, this one genuine. “Now if you don’t mind? I’ll just be a couple minutes.”
Taking out her phone, she inclined her head to the open door. Gail hesitated a moment, obviously debating. At last, reluctantly, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her. As soon as she heard it click shut, Charlie’s face changed. Her eager-apprentice expression vanished, replaced by grim intensity. Moving swiftly and silently, she reopened the desk drawer she had nudged shut earlier and copied a cryptic note in what appeared to be Caleb’s tightly controlled writing: Op set late today. Trans funds, Keller imm. Then, using her prepaid, disposable cell, she dialed the third number on the list Gail had provided.
Charlie skipped Grady’s home phone and his cell. She knew she’d learn nothing by calling those numbers, but she hoped the “for Mr. Nichol’s use” only contact might provide some clue. Just in case, she rehearsed a giggling “Oops! Sorry! I must have misdialed!” excuse as the phone rang, but she didn’t need to use it.
The call went to voice mail.
Charlie listened, motionless, except when she jabbed the “end” button just before the tone. Very slowly, she put her phone away and centered Kirsten’s file on the center of Grady’s desk. Then she took one step toward the door and stopped.
Chilled, her mind racing, she recalled the message she had just heard delivered in Grady’s flat, flinty voice:
“You have reached the Cohen residence . . .”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Seth! There you are!” Waving a brisk greeting, Caleb strode down the pier to the railing where his grandson sat, fingers drumming his thighs, his knees bouncing an anxious tattoo. “I trust I’m not late.” He clasped Seth’s shoulder, giving it a hearty squeeze. “Perfect day to go sailing, isn’t it?”
Seth scrambled to his feet, trying to cover his reflexive flinch. “Yeah, I mean no, you’re not late, but yeah, perfect day,” he mumbled. With an effort, he mustered a weak, belated grin. “Thanks for coming, Grandpa. I know you didn’t really have time since you’ve been so busy with, um, business.”
Caleb shook his head. “Never too busy for my family.” He clapped Seth’s back again, almost knocking him off balance. “That is the first key to success, my boy: prioritize. Focus on what matters most. For me that has always been family.”
Right. If by family you mean authority, status, and your ginormous ego, Seth thought. Lost in bitter reflection, it took him a moment to realize that Caleb was still speaking.
“So . . . why don’t you take the tiller this morning? Show me what you can do.”
Without waiting for an answer or bothering to look behind, Caleb breezed past and led the way to his boat. Seth had to scurry to match his grandfather’s purposeful strides. His smile tightened and he gritted his teeth, biting back a retort.
“Really? You’ll let me captain? Aye-aye,” he managed to babble. “Excellent!”
After that his normal stream of words trickled to a near-stop.
Seth had no idea how to talk to his grandfather anymore.
“Don’t bait him,” Sandy had warned. He had taken Seth aside the night before while Kirsten had been on the phone with Charlie. “And be careful what you say, son. You don’t want to give anything away accidentally. In fact, it would be best if you didn’t mention Ryan at all.”
“Right,” Seth had agreed, his tone etched with acid. “We’ll just discuss all the things we have in common-let’s see, the rate of the yen versus the dollar, the stock market, capital gains taxes, four star restaurants, tailor-made shirts with French cuffs, belittling people and controlling their lives-Oh wait, that’s right, those things only matter to Grandpa. You think he might be interested in indie music or graphic novels or video games or, I don’t know, anything besides money, power, and getting what he wants no matter who he hurts?”
“Just talk about sailing,” Sandy had urged wearily. “We need you to keep your grandfather out of the office, Seth. That’s all.”
His father made it sound simple, but by the time they docked again, Seth felt completely drained. It had been exhausting, keeping a smile plastered on his face, keeping his mouth clamped on everything he really wanted to say. As the morning went on, he grew increasingly grateful for the sunglasses that obscured his eyes and, he hoped, flashes of anger and accusation too. He pretended to concentrate on the sails, adjusting them or staring out to sea as much as he could. That way, he could just toss mechanical comments over his shoulder without actually looking at Caleb.
Seth couldn’t stand the sight of his grandfather.
Everything about him seemed smug: his crisp polo shirt that never wilted in the sun, his relaxed body language, all ease and confidence, the way he tipped his head up as if he owned the sky, even the fizz of the champagne that he poured.
“What do you say, Seth?” Caleb had asked, extending a glass. “A toast to oh, a willing foe and sea room?”
“No thanks. Kinda busy here, you know, sailing,” Seth muttered. Then he replayed the words of the toast and his tone sharpened. “What does that even mean anyway?”
Caleb had sipped his drink, shrugging. “Just an old Royal Navy saying, that’s all,” he had claimed, but his lips curved in a slow smile that chilled Seth.
His own mouth tightened. With an effort, he swallowed his automatic response. ?Don’t challenge him, Cohen, he reminded himself. You're just supposed to keep him out of the office, that’s all.
It was so hard, though. Seth found himself carrying on two conversations, a terse, inane one, comprised mostly of one-word answers to his grandfather’s questions, and a silent one that included his real thoughts and feelings.
Just once he had slipped and let them overlap.
“So . . . you’ll be a sophomore in high school this fall,” Caleb had observed. “You know, by the time I was your age, I already had a clear plan for my life. What about you, Seth? Have you given much thought to your future?”
“Yeah, no, not so much,” Seth had muttered. Mentally he had added, I’ve been kinda busy thinking about my past-you know, like a week ago, when I had a friend and a brother, and my family was actually happy, and you were somewhere in Japan, where you couldn’t destroy our lives.
Pursing his lips with disapproval, Caleb shook his head. “You can’t just drift through life,” he admonished. “You need to have a goal so you can utilize your time wisely, Seth. Start networking, make the right contacts. Now, frankly, I would love to have you join your mother and me at the Newport Group. I understand that you’re interested in art, but--”
Before Seth could censor himself, he blurted, “Ryan is the one who should work for the Newport Group. He’s interested in all that stuff-buildings, zoning codes, blueprints, construction. He wants to be an architect.”
Instantly, Caleb’s voice turned glacial. “Really?”
“Yeah. He told Mom. They’re going-they were going-to tour some of the historic buildings in Newport together.”
“Well of course, he would pretend to share your mother's interests. He was trying to ingratiate himself with her."
"Ryan wasn't pretending," Seth protested. "Just because you--" At the last moment, he stopped himself. Choking back an accusation he mumbled instead, "You know what? Never mind. Just forget it."
"No, Seth," Caleb said crisply. "We might as well deal with this. Now I know you believed that boy was your friend so it's painful to face the truth. But you have to realize, he just wanted what he could get from our family. And people with ulterior motives-well, they will say anything that serves their purpose.”
Seth stared past the horizon, his eyes prickling behind his sunglasses. “Yeah,” he said tonelessly. “I guess you’re right, grandpa. They do . . . So, um, anyway . . .” He paused, his mouth dry, searching for something safe to say. “You planning to enter the Newport regatta next month?”
Caleb smiled, mollified. "I am indeed," he declared and to Seth's relief, he launched into a monologue about sailing for the next twenty minutes. Then, draining the last of his wine, he checked his Rolex.
“I hate to cut this short, Seth,” he said, “but we’re going to have to head in. I’ve got a flight in less than two hours. Maybe sometime next week we can make a day of it, though-head over to the island, have lunch, play some golf. What do you think?”
Seth muttered a vague answer, letting the breeze whip his words away, and turned to trim the mailsail.
By the time they reached shore, all of his curls drooped, his t-shirt was wet with sea spray and sweat, the muscles in his neck and arms burned, and his cheeks ached with the strain of smiling.
“Thanks again for coming, Grandpa,” he said, as they finished tying up at the dock. “This was . . . great.”
“Indeed it was. Good-bye, Seth. Enjoy San Francisco.”
Caleb reached out for a one-armed hug, but Seth ducked down, pretending not to see him, that he needed to tie his shoe. He crouched there, playing awkwardly with his shoelace, until his grandfather walked away. Then he collapsed into a forlorn heap. His shoulders slumping, he blew out a morose sigh.
So that’s it, he thought. And I got nothing. Not one clue.
Seth couldn’t help it. He had hoped all along that somehow during his time alone with Caleb, he might learn something that would help them find Ryan. But he hadn’t.
All he had managed to do was keep his grandfather away from the Newport Group for-Seth checked his watch-two hours and forty-six minutes.
He just hoped that was enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucy heaved an exhausted sigh as she left Mr. Amiedo’s room. She glanced at the clock over the nurse’s station. Almost an hour, she noted with dismay. I hoped it would not take so long to quiet him-not now, when I have so little time to find the answers that Ryan needs . . .
For a second she stood still, debating.
She could go back to the staff lounge and try to continue her search, but she had only eight minutes until she had to dispense mid-day medications, scarcely enough time to find anything.
Perhaps, Lucy thought, it would be better to check in with Ryan. At least I can offer him hope. I can assure him that he is right, that newspaper Dr. Keller gave him must have been fabricated.
She didn’t know what that proved exactly. The page summoning her to Mr. Ameido’s room had interrupted before she could check for other reports of Ryan Atwood’s murder. Perhaps they existed, but Lucy found no such story in The Orange County Register, not in the online archives from either date: the one at the top of Ryan’s torn fragment, or the one that aroused her suspicions-a completely different date that she noticed in an advertisement on the back.
The page Ryan had been given must have been pieced together, with a false story attached to a real newspaper page. That would explain why there were no pictures.
But if that account was a lie, what else about Brandon McConnell might not be true?
Ryan might know. And no matter what, he deserved to know what she had found. She pictured how he would look when she told him, the surge of relief that would light his eyes . . .
With sudden resolve, Lucy spun around and rushed to Ryan's room. Already smiling a greeting, she unlocked his door and stepped inside, but in the next instant all the warm reassurance drained from her face. She paled, gasping, and her hand flew to her lips.
“Oh no,” she murmured. “No.”
The bed in front of her was stripped to its mattress, clean and empty. Lucy scanned the room frantically, but there were no charts, no equipment or medications on the counter, no sign of any patient at all.
Ryan was gone.
TBC