BRAINSTORM

Chapter One - Sunshine Orphanage has a dark side

A thin growl escaped Nick Sperry's throat. What the hell was the director of the National Institutes of Health doing at an orphanage? He tracked the man's movement until the guy turned the street corner, vanishing out of sight.

Pulling his ubiquitous pad and pen out of his chest pocket, he wrote, Connection between Warner and Sunshine Children's Home, D.C.? He closed the pad and secured it in his pocket.

His girlfriend exited the building fifteen minutes after Warner. Her mouth was tight, the sparkle in her pale blue eyes flat-lined. As she approached the car, Nick went around to the passenger side to open her door. She dropped into the seat without making eye contact. She buckled up and looked down, a cascade of dark hair shielding her face from view.

Nick got back into the car and placed a hand on her leg, asking, "Baby, what happened?"

"They had no record of him," she said, so quiet Nick had to lean in to hear her.

"What?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Melissa, please."

"Nick . . ." She turned to face him, her features disconcertingly blank. "I can't. I'm sorry."

Knowing her well, Nick responded with a nod and started the engine to head for home.

No record of a friggin' child? What the hell had they done with Sidney? It was a difficult thing to ignore, especially when Warner might be involved. But Nick didn't push. Getting Melissa to talk when she didn't want to was like trying to get your fingers out of Chinese handcuffs. The more you tugged, the worse things went.

                                                                                            ~~~

"Damn it!" Nick swore. "Jesus, that was hot!" He slammed the mug down on the black granite counter then watched as the droplets of coffee flung outward, narrowly missing the cuff of his white button-down. The shower of liquid and its near miss were a warning. The sprays of errant coffee hadn't caught him, but Melissa might. He let out a loud sigh. He was only doing what he thought was best for her, what he knew she wouldn't be able to do for herself.

Nick sponged away the reminder of his dishonesty. Then, with the precision of a slap shot, he flung the sponge into the sink. It hit the side and fell dead. He leaned one hand against the dark granite, snatched his phone out of his pocket, and tapped a contact number.

"Hi, is this Ms. Malcolm?"

"This is she. Mr. Sperry? That's you, right?" She didn't wait for his response. She sounded excited, like a puppy with a new toy. "I'm so glad you called. Can you come over today? I need to show you something. It might be a clue. And I have some more thoughts about the potential culprit. And—"

"Ms. Malcolm, I won't be able to take your case."

She continued, undeterred. "I was also thinking that—"

Nick stifled a sigh. "Ms. Malcolm, I won't be able to help you."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Something's come up."

Ms. Malcolm's voice went from alto to soprano. "But . . . the retainer I gave you?"

"Will be returned to you today."

"But . . ." The word sounded brittle.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Malcolm."

He heard an exaggerated "humph" and the sound of Ms. Malcolm slamming down her phone.