Kirsten started to step from the elevator, then decided to remain exactly where she was. No notes taken, no indication made that what Evelyn was saying was anything more than two women sharing the news of a stricken husband.
“He’s lived this long on blood transfusions and fury and his passion for the Met. Finding the blood initially was virtually impossible. So Kedrick set up his own private blood bank and began acquiring on the open market, which needless to say was horrendously expensive. He’s had a ridiculous amount of horrid things done to him. They attached him to what is known as a Hickman line, a sort of semipermanent intravenous system, and pumped in gallons of chemo. Twice he’s had bone marrow from banks, but both times he rejected them. The second time he almost died.” Evelyn Lloyd spoke with the detachment of one who had learned to live with diamond-hard composure. “What if I were to hire your Mr. Glenwood to represent my husband?”
“Does he require representation?”
“Determining that,” she replied, “would be the attorney’s first task, would it not?”
“I’m sorry.” Kirsten spoke very carefully. “But there could be a risk of conflict with the interests of another client.”
Her hands stilled. “Ah. Yes. I was afraid of that.”
Kirsten lifted her finger from the button. Their eyes remained locked in silent communion until the door slid shut.
“Marcus, it’s me.”
“Are you at your hotel?”
“No. I went back to see Evelyn Lloyd.”
“Why?”
“Just wait and listen. I need you to do something for me.”
“Kirsten, if the attacker was there before, there’s every chance-”
“Marcus, this is important.”
He caught the tone. “All right. What …”
“Kedrick Lloyd owns some North Carolina hotels.”
“Owned.”
“What?”
“He’s sold them.”
“How do you know?”
“His wife told me. Why?”
Kirsten tried to force her mind through the tangle. “Could you take a look at the sale documents?”
He showed her a rare impatience. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m handling some other pressing matters right now.”
“This could be important. Vital.”
“What am I looking for?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“I know. But I have this feeling that Evelyn Lloyd just handed me something important, if only I can figure out what it is.”
“The sale will be a matter of public record. Let me make a couple of calls. Where will you be in the meantime?”
There was no reason the answer should worry her as it did. “The Met.”
The call from Marcus came while she was still in the Met’s basement-level reception area, waiting for someone to escort her to Kedrick Lloyd’s office. “I’d like to congratulate you, but I’m too freaked right now.”
“What did you find?”
“We struck gold. Or you did.” Tension crackled like a storm of interference. “I spoke with a contact in the office of public records. Know who handled the legal proceedings?”
She knew the answer from his tone of voice. “The same man you’ve been fighting every step of the way.”
“His name is Hamper Caisse. Know what this means?”
“We’ve found the connection.”
“But not the motive.”
The Met’s reception area was a windowless cave down a narrow concrete hallway from the parking garage. The walls were adorned with wall-size posters of divas starring in this season’s performances. She felt the sudden flood of temptation to fling the investigation and the case and the worries to the wind. “I miss you, Marcus.”
He had to pause and swallow. “I feel like a yo-yo, swinging back and forth between what I want and what my mind is telling me I’ve got to do.”
“I know,” she whispered, “just exactly what you mean.”
A pair of shared breaths, then he asked, “Tell me you want me to come up.”
So much. “We can’t walk away from this.”
“I would, though.”
“Marcus, do you think we can work things out?”
“I’m not looking for perfection, Kirsten. I passed the point of thinking I deserved that a long time ago.”
“What are you saying?”
“Whatever you can give, whenever you’re ready. How does that sound to you?”
She bit her lip against the hunger. Then, “Do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“Run through the way all this started. What you haven’t told me before. I have the feeling what we’re looking for is right in front of us.”
“I’ve covered pretty much everything important.”
“The small things. The details.”
He expelled a long breath, pushing away what they both wanted to talk about. Then, “You were there for the first meeting with Dale. After that …”
“What?”
“I just thought of something.” Sharper now. Focused. “Sephus Jones.”
“The man who attacked me?”
“Yes. This might be the key.”
A young woman appeared from the back hallway, and was pointed over by the guard. “Ms. Stansted?”
She said into the phone, “I have to go, Marcus.”
“Come home.”
“Soon.”
“Now.”
She gave the young woman a one-moment signal. “You know I can’t.”
“This is turning very dangerous, Kirsten. What could be more important than staying safe?”
“Finding the child. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” She shut off the phone and rose to her feet. “Sorry.”
“Mr. Lloyd will see you now.”
CHAPTER 43
Deacon and Fay Wilbur’s home was located two miles east of the church, out in an area that was one step away from pure country. Marcus climbed from his car and passed under an oak canopy so tall there was no real shadow, just a gentle veil of verdant green.
The Wilbur home was a single-floor brick ranch whose side porch was almost as large as the house itself. Fay had lined the painted concrete slab with tubs of hydrangeas and hibiscus, the flowers so tall now they formed a solid wall encircling their outdoor parlor. The roof had been extended over the patio, then broadened to where the edges almost met the highest blooms. Overhead four ceiling fans spun gentle circles. Fay had linked woven reed mats to form a tatami-style flooring. Even in late July, the room held to cool and serene shadows.
Marcus found Yolanda seated by the cast-iron table, a schoolbook opened in front of her. Her older baby played at her feet. The young mother’s eyes widened when she realized who he was. But before fear could push her away, Fay opened the screen door and said, “Marcus Glenwood, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
“Afternoon, Fay. How are you doing, Yolanda?”
“She’s getting along just fine. Ain’t you, honey. Got herself into summer school, teacher says she’s never seen a smarter lady.” Fay emerged carrying Yolanda’s younger child on her hip. “Listen up, Marcus. It’s been years since I’ve gotten you over here for Sunday dinner. You don’t like my cooking anymore?”
“It was three weeks ago and you know it.”
“That can’t be right.”
“I don’t want to be a bother, Fay.”
“Listen to you. Like another mouth at my dinner table’s ever been a bother.” She turned to Yolanda and said, “Honey, this child needs feeding. I’m gonna go heat him up a bottle.”
Marcus pulled another chair to the table. “Fay, do you ever sit down?”
“Got all the time I’ll ever need for sitting, once I find my place at heaven’s table. You want I should bring you a lemonade?”
“No thank you.”
“How ’bout you, Yolanda, you thirsty?”
“No thank you, Miz Fay.”
Fay waved a hand at the child by the table. “Honey, why don’t you come inside with me, let these grown-ups have a word. I think maybe I could scare you up an oatmeal cookie.”