Blood Relations by Michelle McGriff Page A

assistance, but no, Lawrence simply hung up the phone. “No matter, I don’t hold it against you, big fella. I know what I do and why, and right now all I care about is getting into Craven’s flat,” Ovan reasoned, putting away his tools that had allowed him to break and enter without making a sound or a scratch. He’d been the agency’s second-story man for years, so getting in here had been a piece of cake.
    Heading straight for her home office, Ovan noticed that Craven had many books on surgical procedures pulled out on her desk. They were all open to renal issues. “Kidney failure,” Ovan said aloud. “Right on. Nothing else can relieve your pain, so it’s time to deal with it, eh, ol’ boy? So, are we in the market for a new kidney?” Ovan asked while snooping around through her notes. He found the name “Roman” doodled on a notepad. “Seems to me that transplanting a kidney to a dead man would be a waste of a perfectly good kidney ... unless, of course, he’s not dead.” Ovan quickly folded the page from her notes into his jacket. He’d show Lawrence; surely then he would be ready to believe the truth about Allen Roman.
    Banking the information away, he continued to snoop—articles on transplants, transfusions. All the information boggled his mind, yet he filed away as much as he could for Maravel. She was better at deciphering riddles. After a little more snooping, he considered himself done for now. He tiptoed past Craven’s bedroom, and for a second he reminisced about the time he’d spent with her there. The memory drew him inside and over to the bed. It was in a tussled state. “Hmm, looks like my girl might have entertained a little before her heart stopped,” he said, noticing under the edge of the bed, nowhere near clear view, the minute edge of a torn condom package. With the edge of a pen that sat on the night stand, he scooped it into the plastic bag he pulled from the pocket of his jacket. “If nothing else, I’ll see who your last partner was and who knows, maybe I’ll trip up on a ‘colleague’—or even better,” he reasoned, thinking about Craven’s sexual habit much the way he looked at his own. Of course she’d sleep with a partner or colleague, I would. Hell, I’d shag in a heartbeat providing I have the time . He wondered why he hadn’t shagged Juanita Duncan yet— oh yeah, I haven’t met her. He chuckled. The thought tickled him for only for a second, because he heard keys jingling in the lock of the front door. He quickly ducked out of sight.
    â€œI mean, she already died for it,” the intruder whispered, seemingly mindless as he stomped into her bedroom, immediately rummaging through her dresser drawer. “Where is the damn money,” he mumbled, leaving her room and heading toward Craven’s office, where her body had been discovered by her maid. Ovan moved quietly from his spot in order to get a better view of the man who, while in the office, slammed around a bit longer before stopping and looking around as if he felt himself being watched.
    â€œWho’s there?” he called out. Ovan ducked into the darkness. The man looked around again and then hurriedly rummaged through the desk, pulling out a small key. “Yeah! That’s what I’m saying. Hello, Benjamins,” he exclaimed, tucking the key into the pocket of his lab coat and starting for the front of the house. Ovan jumped out of his hiding place.
    â€œWhat’cha got there?” he asked, taking a fighting stance. He didn’t know who he was about to fight or what he was fighting for, but he knew he wanted what that man had in his pocket. It was a clue, a piece of evidence that would take him one step closer to Allen Roman.
    â€œWho are you?” the man asked.
    â€œThe question is, my man, who the blazes are you? Perhaps a colleague of the late Dr.