Springfield, Illinois

Mastiff Security Headquarters

Calder sat on the edge of a stool and watched the tech type quickly against his keyboard. The image on the monitor shifted and changed continuously. But then it began to focus in on a spot in the car beside Quinn.

“There,” Calder said, pointing to the screen.

The tech continued typing, and the image sharpened. After a moment, they could clearly see the shape of an arm and a gun extending out from the hand.

“There’s someone in the floorboards there,” the tech said, gesturing to the passenger side of the car.

“Can you blow this up and print it for me?”

“Definitely.”

Calder jumped up and headed out the door, already pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Tell me you have something on that number.”

The guy on the other end sighed. “It’s a throwaway. All I can do is tell you what cell tower it last bounced off.”

“Can you put a trace on it? Let me know when he uses it again?”

“I can try, but no guarantees.”

“What cell tower?”

“Downtown. Five blocks from the medical center.”

Calder cursed under his breath. The guy was right there under their noses.

He disconnected the call and walked into human resources. Gracie was at her desk, looking absolutely disgusted as she stared at her computer screen.

“Bad day?”

“Bad life.”

He settled down on the chair beside her. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“You told me once that you worked as a receptionist at a hospital, right?”

“I did.”

“Could you tell me how someone would go about accessing personnel files?”

She shrugged. “You go to the human resources office and ask.”

“What if I don’t want anyone to know I’ve accessed them?”

She looked sideways at him, catching onto what he wanted. “Calder, that’s not exactly legal.”

“That’s why I came to you instead of the guys in tech.”

She studied him for a long second. “This for a case?”

“It is.”

She sat up a little, looking around the quiet office. No one else was there this late in the day, just her supervisor, but she was locked behind her office door.

“All right,” she said softly. “But you can’t tell anyone that I did this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Gracie was a jane-of-all-trades; the one person in the company that all the operatives knew they could come to if they needed help with anything. Nine times out of ten, she knew exactly what to do and how to go about it. Like right now, she accessed the Lincoln Medical Center’s records with just a few keystrokes.

“Who are we looking for?”

“Dr. Petrov and Dr. Morgan.”

Gracie typed quickly and a series of files suddenly appeared on the screen. She clicked on one, and it opened to a picture of a young man of European descent. She pressed several more keys and information flooded the screen. Dr. Dimitri Petrov was from Moscow. His family immigrated to the United States when he was fifteen. He attended Yale and Stanford, coming to Springfield for reasons Calder couldn’t fathom based on his Ivy League education. He was a fellow under Quinn in the pediatric surgery department, a star in his field according to the reports she’d filled out about him.

“Looks like they respect one another,” Calder commented.

“This is exceptional,” Gracie agreed. “When I was a receptionist at that hospital, I rarely saw peer reports like this one.”

She closed the file and opened the one on Dr. Morgan. A woman about the same age as Quinn appeared on the screen, a scowl on her unattractive face. The reports that appeared in her file were less impressive than Petrov’s. And there were several complaints made against her by patients and their families.

“Here’s something,” Gracie said. She gestured to a new document she’d pulled up. It took Calder a second to see what she meant, but then it was glaringly obvious.

Quinn was a witness in a complaint against Dr. Morgan, claiming that she’d seen Dr. Morgan yell at and hit a child recovering from surgery on her floor.

“Dr. Morgan was angry with the child for not cooperating when it came time to take her medication. She called the child a spoiled brat and slapped her hand even though the child was not reaching for her or otherwise threatening her in any way.”

“That’s a fireable offense,” Gracie said. “Especially since it’s not the first complaint against this particular doctor.”

“They can fire a doctor.”

“Sure. They just don’t do it often because the benefit of the doubt always falls with the doctor. But this . . .” She shook her head. “I’m surprised she still works there.”

“That’s a hell of a motive,” Calder said, a little disappointed. “But this scheme is a little involved for a doctor.”

“Desperation can cause people to do very odd things.”

Calder sat back. “I was hoping the evidence would point to someone connected to her father.”

“Her father?”

“Quinn is the daughter of Senator Roan Naylor.”

“Oh.” Gracie glanced at the computer screen before looking back at Calder. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “The man’s an ass and not above this sort of behavior. But if it’s not him, it’s not him.” He stood slowly. “Thanks, Gracie.”

“I’m glad to help.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder. “How was Durango?”

She sighed. “He’s Durango. His own worst enemy.”

“And he always will be.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

All Calder could do was pat her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gracie. I wish there was something I could do.”

“Me, too.”