Chapter 4 - The Trash in the East Wing
Frank returned within ninety seconds, shoving Margaret Collins through the heavy oak doors of the study.
The fifty-eight-year-old nanny stumbled, her designer nursing scrubs wrinkled and her silver hair coming undone from its hairpins.
“Michael, please!” Margaret wailed, clutching a damp handkerchief to her chest. “I don’t know what happened to that sweet baby! I gave him his bottle just like I do every single night!”
“Sit,” I ordered, pointing at the chair Emily had refused.
Margaret collapsed into the leather cushion, her hands shaking violently. “You know how much I love Noah! I raised your sister’s children before they moved to London! I would never hurt him!”
“Nobody said you hurt him, Margaret,” Frank said smoothly, leaning his heavy frame against the doorframe behind her. “Why are you defending yourself against something we haven't accused you of?”
Margaret froze, her sobs cutting off abruptly as she realized her mistake. “I... the paramedics... they were shouting about poison.”
Emily stepped out of the shadows near the bookshelf, holding a clear plastic evidence bag she had retrieved from the nursery compactor.
Inside the bag was a torn silver foil packet, its printed black lettering clearly visible under the chandelier: Fentanyl Transdermal System — 100 mcg/hr.
“I pulled this from the small bin next to the changing table at four this afternoon,” Emily said, placing the bag flat on the desk between us. “You emptied the nursery trash at three, Margaret. Who put this in the bin between three and four?”
Margaret’s eyes darted frantically between the shiny foil and my face. “I don't know! Anyone could have walked into that room!”
“The nursery is in the private family wing,” Frank interjected, pulling out his digital access tablet. “The only keycards that opened that door between three and four PM were yours and Michael’s.”
“Michael was in Boston at a shipping summit until six,” Frank continued, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Which means you were the only person in that room.”
“It wasn’t poison!” Margaret shrieked, suddenly grabbing the edge of the desk. “He told me it was an herbal calming patch! He said it would help Noah sleep through his colic!”
The room went dead silent.
I leaned over the desk until my nose was inches from Margaret’s terrified face. “Who is ‘he,’ Margaret?”
Margaret shrank back, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. “The doctor... the courier who brought the package from the clinic.”
“What courier?” I demanded, slamming my fist onto the mahogany with a crash that rattled the crystal decanters. “Noah’s pediatrician doesn’t use couriers! He calls me directly on my private line!”
“A courier arrived at five o'clock,” Margaret sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “He wore a medical delivery vest and had a sealed envelope with Dr. Harrison’s clinic logo on the front.”
“What did the letter say?” Frank asked, stepping closer to her chair.
“It said Noah had tested positive for severe infantile acid reflux during his four-month screening,” Margaret whispered. “It said the drops I was giving him were causing esophageal burns, and that this new dermal patch would neutralize the stomach acid without upsetting his digestion.”
“And you didn’t call me?” I asked, my voice shaking with murderous rage. “You put an unverified medication on my infant son without checking with his father?”
Margaret looked up, tears streaking her makeup, her expression twisted in guilt. “There was an envelope inside the box, Michael.”
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“What envelope?” Frank barked.
Margaret swallowed hard, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “Ten thousand dollars in cash. With a note that said it was a bonus from you for implementing the new treatment quietly without disrupting your summit.”
