and sweaty, yet he felt like a young man today.
For every diploma on the walls of his office, Dr. Nathan had two framed Monet prints. It certainly created a serene environment for frustrated couples consulting Dr. Nathan about their unsuccessful attempts to conceive.
The Coopers’ fertility specialist had his practice on the top floor of a new, six-story medical center. He’d carved out some time for his famous client. Dr. Nathan was a thin man with a mop of curly gray hair, glasses, and a droll manner. Sean guessed he was about fifty. She immediately liked him. He seemed very sincere in his condolences to Avery about the miscarriage, and he was optimistic about Joanne’s chances of becoming pregnant again. Avery didn’t mention his wife was on the verge of being institutionalized.
Sean didn’t say anything either. They were waiting for a call back from the lab where Avery’s sperm samples were stored. If any of those samples had disappeared, Sean would have her explanation for Avery’s semen having been found inside the murder-rape victim.
When Dr. Nathan’s phone finally rang, Sean and Avery anxiously leaned forward in their chairs. He grabbed the receiver: “Yes? Yes…uh-huh…we have nine samples on record here….”
“What’s the count over there?” Sean interrupted.
Dr. Nathan covered the mouthpiece. “Nine, none are missing,” he said, then spoke into the phone again. “That’s all I needed, thanks for—”
“Don’t hang up yet,” Sean cut in again.
“Just a second,” he said into the phone. He gazed at her over the rims of his glasses, eyebrows raised.
“Sorry to keep interrupting,” she said. “Did they verify that all nine samples are from Avery?”
The doctor spoke into the receiver again. “Thanks for waiting. I need you to run a test on the nine samples, see if they all match. How long will that take?” He listened for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece. “Is tomorrow afternoon okay?”
“That would be great,” Sean said. She waited until Dr. Nathan hung up the phone. “Would it be possible to furnish us with a list of employees both here and at the lab who might have had access to those sperm samples?”
Dr. Nathan nodded. “I’ll talk to someone in administration about it.”
“Could we pick up that list tomorrow?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“Thanks,” Sean said. “And security here is pretty tight?”
“We don’t leave specimens sitting around, if that’s what you mean.” He shrugged. “And besides, who would want to steal or switch a sperm sample?”
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out,” Sean replied.
Avery studied Sean at the steering wheel, a steely, determined look on that beautiful face. Her soft brown hair fluttered in the breeze from the open window as she watched the road ahead. She had an aristocratic face, yet there was something very down-to-earth about her.
He’d asked this woman to be his lawyer based on gut instinct and a brief conversation with a gay man she’d once defended. So far, she hadn’t disappointed him. He imagined a team of slick, expensive lawyers padding their billing hours and weaving strategies, never for one minute believing his innocence. But Sean Olson had integrity and guts.
She glanced at him. “Is your place much further?”
“Only a few more minutes. I’ll tell you when it’s coming up.”
“FYI,” Sean said, her eyes on the road again, “our boys in blue are probably obtaining a search warrant for your house this very minute. I wouldn’t put it past this group to plant incriminating evidence in your home.”
“I doubt anyone could have gotten past the cameras and the alarms. We upgraded security after the break- in.”
“Tell me about these cameras,” Sean said.
“We have six video cameras recording twenty-four hours a day at different points outside the house.”
“What happens to the tapes?”
“If I remember right, the security guy said they hold on to them for a month before they recycle them.”
“I want to review those tapes as soon as possible.”
“Okay, I can arrange that,” Avery said. “I’ll reserve us an editing room at the studio for tomorrow.”
“Good. Maybe we can catch something on videotape that might have slipped past your security people.” She stole another look at him. “Maybe you should find yourself a bodyguard, Avery. These people have killed before. If they did away with you now, you’d die a murder suspect, which would suit them fine.”
“That’s a cheery thought,” he replied, glancing out his car window. “Anyway, I’ll be okay. My biggest concern right now is my wife. Until she’s up and feeling better, nothing else really matters.”
“Huh. You remind me of my husband,” she said.
Avery turned to look at her. “Really? What does he do?”
“Dan used to be a chef. But he’s been sick. He has ALS. You know, Lou Gehrig’s Disease? We have him on a respirator and a feeding machine.”
“God, I’m sorry,” was all Avery could say.
“Yeah, it’s a lousy deal.” She sighed. “Take my advice, people recover from nervous breakdowns. Your wife’s chances of getting better are very good. Don’t you worry. She has doctors and nurses looking after her.”
A sad smile flickered across her face as she stole one more glance at him. “You need to look after yourself, Avery. Promise me you will.”
She thought she saw something on the monitor, a figure skulking outside the house by the pool. Then again, after viewing the security videos at fast speed for three hours, Sean’s eyes were probably playing tricks on her. She and Avery sipped coffee to sustain themselves while watching the flickering black-and-white images on four small monitors. They sat at the control desk in a tiny room stocked with film and video equipment.
“Take a look at this,” Sean said, setting the tape in reverse, then slowing it down.
Their chairs had wheels on the feet, and Avery scooted over to her side. He’d dressed casually for their video marathon today: a white shirt and jeans. Sean looked very much the legal eagle in a gray linen suit.
“Someone’s sneaking around your pool area at four fifty-two in the morning,” Sean read the time and date along the top of the screen. A woman in a robe emerged from the shadows on the Coopers’ patio.
“That’s Joanne,” Avery murmured.
Sean watched Joanne Lane stagger toward the edge of the pool. Obviously drunk, she lost her balance and fell down. She had a hard time standing up again.
“I haven’t seen this before,” Avery said, his voice strained. “I think it’s when she tried to kill herself.”
“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Sean found the switch and shut it off. “Stupid of me—”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” He rubbed his eyes. “Listen, I could use an intermission. Do you want to go for a walk or something?”
“No, thanks. You go. I need to make some calls.” Sean waited for Avery to leave, then she rolled her head from side to side. Staring at the blank screen, she finally pressed the play button. The tape came on: Avery’s wife lowering herself into the pool, dog-paddling toward the deep end. Her robe billowed out around her as she tried to make herself sink to the bottom. It was almost a struggle for her to kill herself. As much as Sean pitied this woman, she couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed by her too—this showy attempt at suicide. There was something very theatrical about it. After a while, Joanne seemed to relax and sank beneath the pool’s surface. For nearly two minutes, she drifted facedown in the water, her hair and robe spread out and swaying around her still body.
At last, Avery ran out of the house in his undershorts. Plunging into the pool, he swam to his wife and dragged her limp body onto the deck. According to the numbers across the top of the screen, it took him fifty-six seconds to revive her. But the time seemed to drag on and on as he struggled over that lifeless form. It was gut- wrenching to watch. This was punishment for her morbid curiosity—and for starting to think about him the way she did. She watched Avery hover over his wife until the paramedics finally arrived and loaded her on a stretcher.
Sean sighed, then switched off the tape.
