It was nearing dawn by the time Sam and Beth arrived in Bedford, the heart of horse country north of New York City.
They passed mansions, rolling lawns, and huge horse paddocks almost as soon as they turned off the highway. Morgan’s place was at the end of a winding road, opposite the entrance of a large horse farm. A Mercedes-Benz convertible stood guard in Morgan’s immense circular driveway. Sid was correct, Sam thought; Morgan must have invested well.
Sam pulled into the driveway and was out of the car and pounding on the front door before Beth had unbuckled her seat belt. Morgan opened the door just as Beth joined her.
Despite the early hour, Morgan was already dressed—definitely not from Kmart, Sam noticed—with her hair pulled tight into a perfectly severe bun.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Morgan challenged.
“I came for some answers,” Sam said.
“I don’t know what your questions are and I really don’t care. Now please go away before I call the police.” Morgan attempted to close the door. Sam put her foot in the entrance to stop her, but Morgan still pushed.
“Hey, cut the crap!” Beth bellowed and slammed the door with her shoulder. Morgan stumbled backward and almost fell. The door swung open and Beth stepped in. “I told you I was good in a fight,” she whispered to Sam.
Morgan recovered quickly and walked to the phone on the hall table. “I’m calling the police.”
“That’s fine,” Sam said, hands on her hips. “We’ll wait. My father sends his regards, by the way. He says to tell you that he has a complete set of the Ramses data.” Morgan snapped to attention at the name. Sam saw the opening and pushed. “I told him I didn’t know what that meant, but he said that you would. Do you?”
“He’s bluffing.” Morgan picked up the phone and began to dial, keeping one eye on Sam.
Sam pretended to take in the expensive artwork in the hallway as she spoke. “Maybe. I don’t know him well enough anymore to tell. But if you think he wouldn’t disclose something because it will also implicate him, I can tell you one thing: he is a man who feels he has absolutely nothing left to lose. You ever have that feeling? Really unpleasant. And if he thinks he can bring you down with him in the process, my money’s on him.”
Morgan’s face clouded over and Sam knew she’d gotten to her. Morgan slowly lowered the phone into its cradle. “Fine,” she said. “I can always call the police later.”
Beth leaned close to Sam’s ear. “That was pretty good,” she whispered.
“What do you want?” Morgan demanded.
During the ride up from the city, Sam had worked through how she’d play this. If she revealed what she knew about the records, she would disclose the office break-in. Morgan could get the cops back on the phone and in a few minutes her father would be in cuffs no matter what Kendall tried to do to protect him. She was much less worried about the prospect of a criminal record than about the police stopping her father before he had any answers. End of game.
But Sam had also realized she needed to see Morgan’s face when she asked her the question. That could tell her so much. And if Morgan really was hiding something, would she risk calling the cops to her office? Maybe, Sam realized. This was the problem when you dealt with people who had always gotten their own way—they never saw failure as a real possibility. For Sam, however, failure was a frequent visitor and she had learned to expect it.
Sam thought about her mom and her oft-repeated admonition to trust her own judgment. She stepped in close to Morgan so she could get a straight-on look at the older woman’s face. “Why do you have a medical record for my dog?”
It was present only for maybe a breath. Morgan was very very good at this. But it was there—a moment when her entire demeanor shouted one word unequivocally.
Caught.
Then it was gone and all Morgan’s facial muscles relaxed into the arrogant expression Sam knew so well. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really? My dog, Nick, you remember him? He’s quite ill at the moment. You have a recent record of treatment for him. I want to know why.”
“You tell me. You’re the one making up records. So what does it say?”
“You know damn well all your records were deleted. I have proof of a record, but not the narrative.”
“Deleted? Clearly whatever criminal you hired to hack into my records system is lying to you to earn his fee. There is no record and was no record because there was no treatment. Perhaps you should get your money back from the hacker. Unless he is implementing your wish to frame me for something.”
“Did I mention the Ramses data set?”
“You did. That worked to keep this matter private. It does not require that I make up facts to support a record of treatment that I never had. Your father can wipe his ass with the Ramses documents if he thinks otherwise.”
So that was it, Sam realized. Whatever was going on, Morgan would risk an awful lot to keep it secret. She could do nothing more here.
Sam took Beth by the elbow and headed to the front door. “See ya around, Morgan.” At the door Sam turned back to her. “So I guess there’s no point in asking you what CVTP means either? It’s on the same record.”
There it was again—that flicker of panicked guilt. But Morgan caught herself even more quickly this time.
“No idea,” she said. “Have you tried Google?”
“I’ll do that. Good luck with that whole Ramses data set thing. I hope whatever my father does with it is not too embarrassing for you.”
“Get out!” Morgan yelled. “Get the hell out of my house!”
It was the only time Sam could recall Morgan’s losing it. She smiled at that thought and banged open the front door.