He took a few more steps, then paused again in front of the largest framed portrait yet. It depicted a handsome, smiling man, probably in his late forties. Hanging alone, it stood out, singular and dignified, at the very end of the corridor where two others branched off in a T. At least three feet tall and two feet wide, it was illuminated by a spotlight from below. Beside it, an engraved plaque read, In loving memory of Dr. Roger Underwood. Beloved son, brother, and husband.

They apparently grew physicians on the Underwood family tree.

"Handsome, wasn't he?"

Wyatt slowly turned as another voice intruded. A few feet away, watching from the open door of an examination room, was a stunningly beautiful woman. Eyes a warm shade of blue, with champagne-colored hair falling in a long, loose curtain over her shoulders, she was the kind of female who turned men stupid.

Men like Tom Anspaugh, he thought, remembering the other agent's stammering when he'd interviewed the women of this family. Because he immediately recognized the blonde as Dr. Judith Underwood, the plastic surgeon who'd provided her sister-in-law with an alibi the night the car was stolen.

If she was an advertisement for the skills of this practice, she was a damned good one. There wasn't an imperfect spot on her, yet she managed to look entirely natural and untouched.

"My late husband," she said, stepping over to stand beside him and eye the portrait. "Father… I mean, my father-in-law set up this pseudo-shrine. I think it's a little morbid, but I'm only an in-law, so I didn't have much say." Sadness visible in her eyes, she stared at the enormous portrait for a moment longer. "It's like he's still here."

Curiosity got the better of him. "He appeared young."

"Doctors make the worst patients, I suppose. Especially vibrant, otherwise healthy ones. He apparently didn't even recognize the chest pains for what they were. Heart attack at forty-nine, can you imagine?" She shook her head, adding in her soft voice, "One evening we're having a lovely dinner with his sister and her husband, who live right down the street. The next morning I find him dead on the living room floor, still holding the broken neck of the wine bottle he'd been opening when he collapsed. It's still hard to believe, even after all this time."

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." She looked up at him, flashing those blue eyes ringed with ultrablack lashes. "I'm Judith Underwood, by the way."

He nodded once. "I know."

"You're the FBI agent coming to visit Angela."

"Yes, I am." Ignoring the curiosity glittering in the young widow's eyes, he added, "And I'm afraid I'm keeping her waiting. Nice to meet you."

The receptionist, who'd been tapping her foot on the marble-tiled floor, flashed him an appreciative smile and led him up the hall. "Here we are." She knocked twice, then began to push the door in. "Your visitor is here, Dr.-"

The door was suddenly yanked open from within. A tall, distinguished-looking man with dark hair graying at the temples appeared, his expression glacial. Without a word to the receptionist, much less to Wyatt, he stalked down the hallway and stormed into one of the empty offices. The slam of the door punctuated his displeasure about whatever had just happened with Dr. Kean.

"The other Dr. Kean," the receptionist whispered, looking a little terrified. Something told him the angry scene was nothing new.

"Does this happen often?" he asked, sensing the woman was a talker.

"I'm just a temp and have only worked here a few days, but I hear they fight like cats and dogs."

"Come in, please," said a voice from within.

Doing as she'd asked, Wyatt assessed the woman rising to greet him from behind the desk. She was probably in her mid-forties, quietly confident. The same gray-green eyes he'd seen in her late brother's portrait watched him enter. Her attractive face was not pulled taut and immaculate like those women he'd seen in her waiting room. In fact, the doctor had a few wrinkles beside the eyes, a less-than-perfect chin, and a perfectly average nose and mouth.

He remembered the speaker on the tape, the one who had asked about women defying age through plastic surgery. And he began to worry. Perhaps the questioner hadn't been jabbing at the doctor after all. Because, though she was very attractive, he would lay money that this woman was not a physician who healed herself.

"Agent Blackstone," the woman said as she extended her hand to him. "Please forgive my husband's little display of temper. We disagree on treatment for a patient and," she said with a tiny smile, "the boss likes me better, so I'm sure to get my way."

The boss. Her father. Though the comment could have been snide, instead Angela Kean appeared quietly amused, as if she was only joking about going over her husband's head.

Wyatt had to wonder if her husband was in on the joke.

"Please sit down."

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"It sounded very important," she said. She watched Wyatt take the chair opposite the desk, then returned to her own. "I received several messages from last Friday. I'm terribly sorry you were unable to reach me. As you can imagine, with a family business, we rarely get to take time off all together. It's become a sort of tradition that we close for the Labor Day holiday and go to our beach house. Extended family comes, too, from all over the place."

"I understand. Quite a few of you work here, don't you?"

Dr. Kean laughed, which emphasized those tiny lines beside her eyes. She was prettier when she smiled. "You've no idea. Father drilled family loyalty into our ears from a very young age. My husband's office is right up the hall, my father's down from his." Her smile faded a little. "My late brother was right across from Father, his wife one down from that."

"I just met her."

Dr. Kean's smile didn't fade, but the warmth in her eyes certainly did. "How nice."

He filed away that tidbit, knowing at once that the sisters-in-law were not close.

"There's also Philip Wright." Displaying more of that coolness, and an even tighter smile, she explained, "Father's stepson. He joined us last year, right out of medical school."

"Father's stepson." Not "my stepbrother." He made another mental note, remembering the young doctor who'd blasted out of the parking lot in his Ferrari.

"Everyone in the same field. I imagine you have pretty limited dinner-table conversations during family gatherings," Wyatt murmured.

"Oh, there are a few nonmedical types in the extended family, at least. Politicians, lawyers, even a novelist."

He noticed she didn't say sanitation workers, schoolteachers, or deliverymen.

"But as for the rest of us?" She shrugged helplessly. "What can I say? The family who does face-lifts together…"

Gets rich together. Very rich, he suspected.

"That's not to say shop talk doesn't get exceedingly tiring. That's why I insist on living close to Richmond rather than in one of the local neighborhoods like the rest of the family. My husband and I commute here every day." Laughing a little, she added, "It's a hike, but still a small price to pay to get away from everyone else at night."

"I understand."

He didn't, not really. Not ever having siblings, or much family, he honestly couldn't relate. But agreeing with witnesses, building a rapport with them, was an important part of the job.

"Now, your message said you wanted to ask me about my stolen car?" She shuddered visibly. "I still have nightmares thinking it was used by a murderer who wanted to harm little children. Imagine if he hadn't abandoned it, and had used it to kidnap a child?"

Wyatt schooled his features to remain utterly impassive. This woman-this witness-should not know so much. But since she'd been interviewed by Anspaugh, he wasn't entirely surprised. Dr. Kean was attractive enough to incite the other agent to puff up his own importance. And shoot off his mouth.