Animal Instinct by Rosenfelt, David (top 5 books to read .TXT) 📗

Kline and was foolishly vocal about it. That known bias, coupled with my being present at the scene and calling the police, should have made me a suspect. Maybe I should even have been a prime suspect, although I would have thought my long record on the force would have given them pause.

One thing they did not do is pause.

Andy pointed out, and there is no doubt he is correct, that they have other evidence they consider compelling. I am worried about what it could be because the people we are up against seem to be smart and well financed. They could well have done something to set me up.

My mind is obviously wandering, so I force myself back to the internet. Kline is said to have run seminars that often led to people being hired into the medical services industry, which was his specialty. He was also a headhunter in the industry, which was obviously why his seminars would be well attended. For Kline, one of his jobs fed off the other.

Kline’s company is called Healthcare Recruitment and Marketing Services. It’s not exactly a catchy name, but the website makes up for it with glitz and cool graphics.

There are three people in the company, or at least there were three before Kline departed the scene. The cofounder is Stephanie Downes, and if her smiling photograph is current and not photoshopped, then she is probably in her late thirties and quite attractive.

The third person in the firm, listed as an executive assistant, is Carol Ayers. Ayers looks a good ten years older than Stephanie and considerably less attractive, but they do have the wide smile in common.

I click on seminars and see that one is scheduled for today at noon at the Woodcliff Lake Hilton. It is to be conducted by Stephanie Downes, and tickets, priced at seventy-five dollars, can be purchased online or at the door.

I would have thought that Kline’s death would have put the company’s operations on a temporary hold, and maybe the cancellation just happens not to be on the website. On the other hand, they might be going ahead with it, and I have nothing else to do, so my GPS bracelet and I are off to Woodcliff Lake.

I get to the hotel at eleven forty-five and spend ten minutes navigating the parking lot, looking for a spot. I can’t tell how many of the cars are owned by guests of the hotel or attendees of the seminar; if it’s the latter, then the sponsors are doing well.

I follow the signs to the ballroom, which is where the seminar is being held. A table is set up outside the room, and two women sit behind it with small metal boxes, I assume to hold cash. They also have credit card machines.

“I’m not too late, am I?” I ask.

One of the women smiles at me; I recognize her as Carol Ayers, the executive assistant listed on the website. “No, sir, they’re just starting now.”

“I’ll pay cash,” I say, and hand her the seventy-five bucks.

“Thank you. Please fill out this questionnaire before going in.”

“Why?”

“So we’ll have your information on file.”

“You know, it’s the strangest thing, but I don’t want my information on file.”

Not waiting to debate the point, I open the door and enter the ballroom. It takes about thirty seconds for my weird mind-counter to determine that seventy-nine people are in attendance, not including the woman onstage, Stephanie Downes.

Speaking into a handheld microphone, she says, “So I looked at him and said, ‘You’re the doctor?’” This gets a large laugh from the attentive audience, so I assume that whatever she said before rendered the line funny.

Then she turns serious. “But the larger point, which I suspect many of you understand or you wouldn’t be here, is that the medical services industry is only going to get bigger. As we live longer, we develop more and more medical issues.” Then she smiles. “I’m starting to feel it when I try and get out of bed in the morning.”

Another laugh from the audience; Downes has them eating out of her aging hand.

I stay for a half hour. Downes lectures the audience on how they can prepare to enter the medical services industry, and how they can make themselves palatable to prospective employers. It seems like boilerplate stuff, but she gets away with it because she is charming, and probably because the audience thinks she can help them get in the door.

I’m on the way home when my cell phone rings. Caller ID says it is Laurie’s home number, and when I answer, Andy is on the phone. “Where are you?”

“Heading home from Woodcliff Lake.”

He doesn’t bother to ask why I was there. “Stop over here. We got some of the discovery.”

“Is there a problem?”

“There is definitely a problem. We’ll talk when you get here.” Click.

ANDY, Laurie, and I go into the den as soon as I arrive.

I am not looking forward to what I am about to hear; clearly whatever the prosecution has is a serious negative for our case.

Andy gets right to the point. “The police searched the entire block around Kline’s house. Four houses down, the people had a Dumpster back near their garage. In it the police found a plastic bag with bloody clothing in it, a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and sneakers. It was a Rutgers sweatshirt. There was also a bloody kitchen knife.”

I know where this is going. “The break-in at my house.”

“They had no trouble getting a DNA match; apparently you sweat when you wear a sweatshirt and sweatpants. So their obvious theory is that the reason you did not have blood on you is because you were smart enough to bring a change of clothing with you. It’s the kind of thing a cop would think of. I assume you didn’t report the break-in?”

“No; I had no way to prove that it really happened; it was just an instinct I had by the way the carpet was slightly out of place. But