Flawless. Heather Graham

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       CHAPTER FOUR

      THE FIELD OFFICE was toward downtown on Broadway, not very far from Finnegan’s Pub, but, with traffic, Kieran knew it would be a thirty-minute trek from the Midtown offices of Doctors Fuller and Miro. She had barely gotten to work before a black sedan with a black-suited agent—wearing black-framed sunglasses—arrived to pick her up.

      She had only just slipped into her own office—a small room not much bigger than a walk-in closet, but at least it had a window—when Dr. Allison Miro came to her door. She was generally a stern-looking woman with her slim, perfectly compact body and short, crisp, iron-gray hair, but that morning she gazed at Kieran with concern and compassion.

      “Kieran, dear girl, thank the good Lord that you’re all right. When we saw the news...well, we were quite concerned. Anyway, you’re a heroine, my dear. We’re so proud of you.”

      Kieran was startled when Dr. Miro walked over to where she stood by her desk and hugged her. It was a slightly awkward hug. Kieran wasn’t expecting it, and Dr. Miro was a good half foot shorter than she was. The older woman didn’t seem to notice that Kieran rocked back slightly, startled, before hugging her back.

      “I’m fine, really, and I’m not a hero, just a survivor,” Kieran said.

      “Kieran!”

      She recognized the deep, rich, masculine tone, and she looked up to see that Dr. Fuller had joined the party. Her employers were a living representation of “the long and short of it.” Dr. Bentley Fuller was six foot three, lean and fit, and he could have starred in a “male enhancement” advertisement. He was about fifty—a ruggedly handsome fifty. She knew he maintained his health and physique by religiously adhering to the strict tennis-playing schedule he’d set for himself.

      He walked over to her, leaving Dr. Miro sandwiched between them in the cramped space.

      The two doctors were not a romantic duo, but they shared the same interests and respected one another’s work ethics. Dr. Miro was a grandmother. Dr. Fuller had a lovely—equally tennis honed and perfect—blonde wife. She was a kindergarten teacher, and, in Kieran’s opinion, very sweet. She and Bentley were as perfectly matched as a set of Barbie and Ken dolls.

      “Thank God you’re all right,” he said.

      She extricated herself from Dr. Miro’s hug and stepped back, smiling. “You two deal with some of the most hardened criminals in the NYC system. I managed—with the help of an FBI agent—to escape squirt-gun-toting thieves. Thank you so much for caring. I truly appreciate your concern.”

      “Of course, of course,” Dr. Fuller said. “And you need to go. I came to tell you that your car and escort are here.”

      “Oh, yes, sorry. I didn’t have a chance yet to ask you if I could take the time—”

      “You know how much we value our relationship with law enforcement. Take all the time you need,” Dr. Miro said.

      “Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as—” She broke off. She’d been about to say as soon as possible. She restructured her reply. “As soon as I’ve done everything I can possibly do to help.”

      But what that was, she really didn’t know.

      Dr. Fuller shooed her out of the office to where her “man in black” was waiting in reception. Jake, the receptionist, wasn’t so much as looking at the agent. He was making every effort to look busy. The agent just stood there with his expression impassive and his hands folded behind his back.

      He escorted her out, and she saw that his car was double-parked; apparently, for him, that was legal.

      He opened the door for her and she stepped in. He was polite without showing the least emotion; she felt as if she had stepped into a movie about alien pod people.

      The drive was silent, which made it feel even longer than she’d known it would be.

      When they finally arrived, she discovered that no matter who you were, you went through the security screening. As she stood in line she realized that a lot of very normal people worked in the building. Three women in line in front of her were holding their Starbucks cups and chatting as they waited to go through the metal detector; behind her, two men were arguing over the virtues of an iPhone versus an Android phone.

      Once through security, she was whisked up an elevator. The doors slid open, and she exited directly into a clean and sparse reception area where a young woman, who had apparently been waiting for her, greeted her then led her down a hall to a small office with a table that held a computer and several sheets of photos.

      “I’m Millie,” the young woman told her, shuddering slightly. “Sounds ancient, doesn’t it? Short for Millicent. I don’t know what my parents were thinking. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? A soda or a bottle of water?”

      “I’m СКАЧАТЬ