Nope, it was a tracker.
Someone was keeping tabs on her.
BEFORE LYDIA HAD the opportunity to invite C.P. Phalen into Peter Wynne’s office, the tall woman took the initiative, stepping forward and shutting the door. The implied authority was somehow not a surprise: It was clear she was used to taking control and being in charge, and for a split second, Lydia considered offering the woman Peter’s chair. His desk. Her own house.
Oh, wait, that was a rental.
“I’m going to sit here, Lydia, if you don’t mind.”
The woman was wearing a black double-breasted jacket, pencil-leg slacks, and high heels—looking like someone who was walking on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan and heading for a designer’s runway. As opposed to grabbing a chair on the far side of a tinky desk and firing somebody who no doubt made less than her butler.
Lydia cleared her throat. “So this is a surprise, Ms. Phalen.”
In so many ways. Although why should it matter that the assumed “he” had turned out to be a very definite “she?”
“Is it really?” The smile was cool—and condescending because of what the woman was wearing, and the way she crossed her legs at the knee. “You didn’t expect that a high-level employee of this nonprofit going to the media with accusations against a national hotel chain wouldn’t be cause for a visit from me?”
Lydia glanced down at her own hands. She linked them. Unlinked them. “I don’t regret what I did.”
“I think that’s clear given what you told that TV station. But you’ve created a problem for me.”
“If you’re chair of the board”—Lydia pegged the woman with a hard eye—“then you should want to protect the animals on our preserve, especially the ones in the name of the very organization you’re heading.”
“Are you always this blunt?”
“If the subject really matters to me, yes.” Lydia got to her feet. “And before you fire me, I want to show you something. Come with me. Please.”
C.P. Phalen’s expression stayed exactly as it was, nothing shifting or showing on all that Tilda Swinton. And her body didn’t move, either. Lydia had the feeling it was because the woman was not used to being surprised—or commanded around—and an inferior had just done both to her. But Lydia wasn’t apologizing for any of that crap, either.
Just as the tension was becoming unbearable, at least for her, Ms. Phalen got to her feet. Her stilettoes, rather.
Damn, she was so tall. Well over six feet.
“Lead on. But don’t waste my time.”
Lydia nodded. “I won’t.”
Taking the woman down to the steel door of the clinical area, Lydia pushed the way open. Rick was on a stool at the counter, working on a disassembled tracker—and when he looked up, he did a double take.
“This is our board chair, C.P. Phalen. Ms. Phalen, this is Rick Marsh, our vet. I’m sure you’ve heard his name before.”
“Of course I have.” The statuesque woman walked forward and extended her ring-less, watch-less, braceletless arm to him. “Mr. Marsh, it’s good to finally meet you in person. You do fantastic work here.”
Rick shook what was offered to him, but still appeared to be confused.
Welcome to the club, Lydia thought.
“Ma’am,” he said.
“Please, call me C.P.” The woman glanced around at the medical equipment and the supplies in the tiled area, her thick, silver hair shining under the bright ceiling lights. “It’s hard to believe I haven’t visited here in person yet.”
Is it really, Lydia thought, suddenly sick of everything about the Project: The board that didn’t allow staff to attend their meetings, Peter flaking off all the time, the lack of resources, that fucking hotel chain.
“You should come more often.” Rick’s smile was tight, but then he tended to be reserved with people he didn’t know. “And I’m glad you’re here now.”
“How’s he doing?” Lydia asked him.
“Hanging in.”
“We’re going to see him now.”
Without giving Rick a chance to answer, she pushed through the closed door to the exam room—and momentarily forgot everything but the wolf. He was still sedated, lying on his side with a mask around his muzzle, and she glanced to the monitors. She didn’t know much, but she could see he had a regular heartbeat and fairly decent blood pressure.
“You want to know why I’m rude and pushy?” she said roughly. “Why I called the media? This is why. Corrington Hotels did this to him, and he isn’t the only one. I’ve tried to get local law enforcement to take it seriously, I’ve tried to talk to our so-called executive director about it, I’ve tried to scour the preserve myself, looking for those poisoned traps—”
As her voice cracked, she kicked her own ass and pulled it back together. “And still this happened. I was the one who found him, and if I’d been any later, he would have died. Hell, he still might die. So if you want to get on me? Fine. But no, I don’t have any regrets and I will do anything I can to stop this senseless killing of wildlife.”