The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

  #

  At one o’clock, the telephone in White’s office rang. White glanced at the caller identification and answered, “Yes, Horse. Where are you?”

  “I’m still at the scene. The boys from the crime scene unit are about to pack up.”

  “Did they find anything useful?”

  “These guys couldn’t find their ass with two hands and a flashlight.”

  “That bad?”

  “Oh, hell. I shouldn’t be too hard on him. The dumb deputies had walked all over everything before the crime scene unit arrived. I’d be surprised if they got anything useful.”

  “What about the body?”

  “It’s Jackson. And get this, he was beaten pretty badly before he was killed.”

  “So it didn’t all happen at the dump site.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Any thoughts?”

  “Someone wanted to know what he knew.”

  “Or what he had told someone else.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Paul Parker said he’d been talking to Jackson about a deal. Whoever killed him may have wanted to know how much he’d disclosed.”

  #

  White’s next call was to Graham Brochette.

  “Where’s David?”

  “He’s in his room. Why?”

  “Jackson’s body was found this morning in a shallow grave out in Alva. He’d been beaten and shot in the back of the head.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Amen. Whoever they were working for doesn’t want anyone talking.”

  “Do you think they’ll come after David?”

  “I’d bet on it.”

  #

  As White hung up the phone, Harry Harris rolled into the office. “Horse just called to tell me about Jackson.”

  “If you have any ideas….”

  Harris leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think this is only about drugs.”

  White put down his pen and leaned forward with his arms crossed on his desk. “What makes you say that?”

  “We’ve always been suspicious about the drugs. Two kilos are too much for a dealer to use for a simple frame-up. He’d know that the police would confiscate whatever was used. No dealer in his right mind is going to give away that much coke.”

  “What are you suggesting, Harry.”

  “The frame-up has to have been organized by the authorities. They’re the only ones who can get that much coke for a sting. And they know that they’re going to confiscate it and get it back.”

  “Assuming that you’re right, what’s the connection to Jackson.”

  “According to Horse, Jackson was ready to make a deal.”

  “What was he going to tell Paul?”

  “The discussions hadn’t gotten into particulars. But we know that Jackson has a history in the world of drugs. He must have been ready to expose someone.”

  “That sounds reasonable. Now we know that whoever Jackson was working for isn’t above murder to solve his problems.”

  “You’re assuming he was killed by whoever he was working for. Maybe the Cambodian.”

  “Do you have a better suspect?”

  “Unfortunately, I do.”

  “Who?”

  “What if Jackson was going to give Paul evidence that would convict David Shepard.”

  “Damn! That would make David the number one suspect.”

  “But only if David knew Jackson was negotiating a plea that involved him.”

  “I assume you’re hoping he didn’t know anything.”

  “That would be my preference. But I have to keep an open mind.”

  “A suspicious mind is more like it,” Harris said as he rolled toward the door. “Are we still on for dinner?”

  “Seven o’clock at Clyde’s.”

  15.

  “Let’s get a move on it, Stud,” Leslie shouted over the sound of the shower. “We’re running late.”

  “I’ll be right out. Would you get me a clean pair of jeans?”

  “Get real.” Leslie laughed. “Tonight, you’re going to look like a gentleman.”

  “And I suppose you expect me to behave accordingly,” White snorted as he walked from the bathroom, a navy-blue terrycloth towel wrapped around his waist.

  “I’ve learned not to set my sights too high,” Leslie said as she kissed him on the cheek.

  Leslie wore a form-fitting emerald green silk sheath slit high on her thighs and cut low enough to show her ample cleavage. The smooth lines of the dress clung to her body. White could see she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

  “Surely we have time for a little…”

  “You got your appetizer in the shower,” Leslie said, ducking away as White reached playfully for her. “But if you’re a good boy, I might come up with something interesting for dessert.”

  #

  Clyde’s is the watering hole for the Fort Myers power brokers. It is locally said, not without some truth, that every deal of any significance had originated in, or been finalized at, Clyde’s. Equally true is the proposition that you had not made it in Fort Myers until Jack, the bartender to the after-work crowd for longer than anyone could remember, knew your favorite beverage and had it on the bar by the time you reached your customary seat.

  Clyde’s is reminiscent of the era of White’s warehouse. It was originally a private home, a mansion by the standards of the day, built in the Victorian style. It had authentic brick walls and hardwood floors. A mahogany bar, imported from an exclusive London men’s club shortly after World War II, extended along one wall from the door to the corner of the room and wrapped halfway down the left wall of the room. A large mirror, held in place by a carved mahogany frame, covered the wall behind the bar. A table at the end of the bar held two steamer trays filled with grilled chicken wings and chicken livers wrapped with bacon. A shiny black piano stood in the center of the room.

  The evening hostess at Clyde’s met them at the door. “Happy Holidays,” she greeted them cheerily as she hugged White and exchanged faux kisses with Leslie. “Horse and Sandra are in the back room.”

  “Thanks, Sarah.”

  The hostess station was decorated with a wreath and a sign wishing all a Happy Holiday. In front of the hostess station, a parson’s table held a large brandy snifter, listed in many restaurant equipment catalogs as “Tip Jar-Extra Large.” Bills, none of them smaller than ten dollars, half-filled the snifter.

  Leslie whispered, “I’ll bet Sarah grabs all the ones and fives before they hit the bottom.”

  “She can’t let anyone get the wrong idea about what’s expected at Christmas.”

  White and Leslie crossed the room, past the piano where Edgar, whose last name no one could remember ever hearing, was playing a medley of Christmas carols. A mixture of the regular after-work drinkers and post-office party revelers crowded around the piano singing along. Edgar smiled at them through yellowed teeth and said, “Mr. White. Ms. Leslie. Good to see y’all.” Edgar had his own brandy snifter on the corner of the piano. White dropped in a large bill and Edgar’s smile grew.

  “Christmas carols just don’t sound right without snow,” Leslie whispered to White.

  Waitresses, and even busboys, greeted them by name as they walked through the main dining room. The holidays, known in the food service trade as “Big-Tip” season, brought out everyone’s biggest smiles.

  Horse and Sandra Ward were waiting at a corner table in the back room. They had been dating for more than six months, longer by far than White and Leslie had known him to remain with one woman. Sandra had rapidly advanced past the status of Horse’s bimbo de jour to something that was becoming serious. Leslie liked her from the moment they met and told Horse he was a fool if he let her get away.

  Half-empty glasses and two trays of appetizers, raw oysters and stuffed mushrooms, testified to their early start, or White’s and Leslie’s tardiness.

  Sandra was beaming, and Horse had the look of a new father, as White and Leslie cr
ossed the dining room.

  “All right,” Leslie demanded happily. “What are you two up to?”

  Sandra looked at Horse.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “You’re dying to tell them.” His attempt to sound nonchalant was contradicted by his grin.

  “We decided to move in together,” Sandra said.

  “Oh, my God,” Leslie sputtered.

  “I know,” Sandra said. “Isn’t it great?”

  White rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Horse grinned and shrugged. White shook his head and reached out and shook Horse’s hand. “Congratulations. This is great.”

  “Yeah. Well,” Horse mumbled.

  “Who knows,” Sandra continued. “One of these days he might even make an honest woman out of me.”

  “Huh?” Horse said. “Who said anything about that?”

  “Oh, come on, Horse,” Leslie prodded. “One of you guys has to show a little class.”

  “Yeah,” Sandra said. “When are you two getting married, Lucius?”

  Leslie looked at White impishly. “Yeah. When are we getting married?”

  White glanced helplessly at Horse. “See what you started?”

  Horse held his hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me. It was her idea.”

  Sandra hit Horse on the arm with her rolled up napkin.

  White helped himself to an oyster, which he sucked from the shell. Leslie gave him a show-some-class smile. Sandra snuggled close to Horse. He leaned over and kissed her. The season was off to a good start.

  Their joy was interrupted by the chirping of White’s cellular phone. “Who the hell can this be?” The number on the screen wasn’t familiar. He tilted the phone to read the name of the caller. His expression hardened as he read Coastal Regional Hospital. “Hello,” he answered cautiously.

  “Is this Lucius White?”

  “Who’s this?” White asked without confirming his identity.

  “This is Dr. Sebastian calling from the emergency room at Coastal Regional Hospital. Am I speaking to Lucius White?”

  “Yes,” White said impatiently as he mentally sped through the possible reasons for the call. “What’s happened?”

  “You’re identified as the emergency contact for Elgin Harris. Are you a relative?”

  It took White a second to recognize Harry Harris’s given name. “I’m his law partner. What’s happened?”

  “Mr. Harris appears to have had a stroke.”

  White stiffened. “What’s his condition?” he demanded.

  “He’s critical but stable,” the doctor said. “He’s disoriented and partially paralyzed.”

  “What’s the prognosis?”

  “We just sent him up to radiology for an MRI. We’ll know more when we get the results.”

  “Who’s the neurologist on call?”

  As White spoke, Leslie tugged on his arm. White put his hand over the telephone and said, “Harry’s at the hospital. He may have had a stroke.”

  “My God. How is he?”

  “Too early to tell.”

  Dr. Sebastian returned to the phone. “Dr. Levenson is on call.”

  “How long will it take him to get there?”

  “He’s been paged. He should be here within an hour.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” White said as he hung up. Leslie started to follow when White stood.

  “No,” White said. “You guys might as well stay here and try to enjoy your dinner. Too many of us will only be in the way.”

  “But, Lucius,” Leslie begged, a tear forming in the corner of her eye.

  White kissed her, assuring her that everything would work out. “I know the chief-of-staff and the head of neurology. They’ll talk to me, and I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

  Leslie turned in her chair and watched White walk away. Tears began to form as Horse put his hand softly on her arm. “Lucius is right. There’s nothing we can do now. We’ll go to the hospital after they’ve got Harry settled in.”

  As he walked across the room, White dialed the number of Dr. John Wiley. Wiley was more an acquaintance than a friend, but he had been instrumental in a prior case in which a mutual friend had been accused of embezzlement from Coastal Regional Hospital. If nothing else, they had developed a mutual respect, and Wiley was the best neurosurgeon in Southwest Florida.

  #

  John Wiley preceded White through the door to the emergency room. The faces of half a dozen patients sitting in the waiting room turned toward Wiley and White as they marched past. One look at Wiley’s clenched jaw and the orderlies and nurses stepped aside as he headed for the emergency room nurses’ station.

  “Where is Harry Harris?” he demanded in a soft but unmistakably firm voice.

  The nurse’s hands sped over the keyboard. A troubled look came to her eyes. “We don’t show a Harry Harris, Doctor.”

  “Check Elgin Harris,” White said before Wiley could say anything.

  Again, the nurse typed rapidly, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. Relief softened her face as she found what she was looking for.

  “He’s on his way back from radiology.”

  “Where is Dr. Sebastian?”

  “He’s in room three, Doctor.”

  Without responding, Dr. Wiley headed down the hallway, followed by Lucius White. “Mike,” he called when he spotted another doctor at the end of the short hallway. The other doctor, who White assumed was Dr. Sebastian, turned and walked toward them. “Give me the bullet on…” Wiley glanced at White.

  “Elgin Harris.”

  Dr. Sebastian flipped open the chard he was carrying. “White male; fifty-eight; five-ten; 160 pounds; paraplegic; presented with severe aphasia and disorientation; normal temperature; mild tachycardia; BP 170 over 120; unknown medical history.”

  “His father died of a heart attack when he was 54,” White offered.

  “Did he drink?” Wiley asked.

  “He was a heavy drinker until a couple of years ago. He also took a lot of pain medication and anti-depressants after his accident.”

  “When was that?”

  “A couple of years ago.”

  “Does he smoke?”

  “A couple of packs a day until about a year ago.”

  “Any recent surgeries?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what medication he’s taking?”

  “He’s taking something for high blood pressure, but I don’t know what.”

  “Have you noticed any recent changes in his behavior?”

  “Like what?”

  “Any slurring or garbled speech? Maybe dropping things.”

  “Yeah. I started noticing some of that a little while ago.”

  As White spoke, the elevator doors opened, and Harry Harris was wheeled onto the floor and into the examination room. Dr. Sebastian took over the computer at the nurses’ station and, with a couple of clicks of the keyboard, was viewing the results of the MRI and studying the radiologist’s preliminary report. Wiley and Sebastian huddled in front of the computer screen, speaking softly to each other.

  “What’s your plan, Mike?” Wiley finally asked loud enough for White to hear.

  Before Dr. Sebastian could answer, White gripped Wiley lightly by the arm and asked, “Aren’t you going to take over?”

  Wiley shook his head. “Mike’s in charge of the emergency room. For now, your friend is going to be transferred to the medical service.”

  White started to say something when Wiley cut him off. “I’ll see to it that he’s assigned to Dr. Levenson. He’s the head of neurology.”

  White’s expression remained uncertain.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll check in on him, but he’s a medical patient and I’m on the surgical staff.”

  White ran his fingers through his hair. “What are they going to do for Harry?”

  “That’s where things get a little complicated,” Wiley began, his voice taking on a tone of detached competence. He was now speaking as a
doctor rather than as a friend. “It looks like Harry has some ruptured capillaries that have allowed blood to seep into his brain. That’s probably what caused the co-ordination problems you’ve noticed.”

  “So they’ve been there for a while?”

  “Probably. But that’s not the whole problem. Harry has a clot in a major artery. That’s what caused the stroke tonight.”

  “Why would he suddenly have a clot?”

  “It’s not unusual for someone like Harry. People in wheelchairs frequently develop clots due to poor circulation. If they suddenly get involved in a lot more activity than usual, the clot can break loose and travel to the brain. Has Harry been involved in anything unusual; anything that would make him more active than normal?”

  “He’s been spending more time than usual out of the office investigating a recent case.”

  “That could be all it took.”

  White hung his head, considering the possibility he was responsible for Harry’s stroke. After a moment, he forced the thought aside and asked, “Is there anything you can do about it?”

  “That’s the problem. For a clot, we’d normally prescribe a tissue plasminogen activator, TPA. It’s a kind of a clot-dissolving agent.”

  “Can’t you use it on Harry?”

  “We don’t know if Harry is still having active hemorrhaging from the ruptured capillaries. If he is, the TPA will kill him.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We could run some more tests, but we’re running out of time. If TPA is going to work, it has to be administered within a few hours of the stroke.”

  “What are the options?”

  “We can remove the clot with surgery, but the surgery has its own risks. And even if it’s successful, there’s no guarantee that the hemorrhaging won’t kill him anyway.”

  “Will you be doing the surgery?”

  “Yes, if that’s the way we decide to go.”

  “What gives Harry the best chance?”

  “There’s no right answer to that question. No matter what we do, there are serious risks.”

  “What would you do?”

  Wiley thought for a moment before responding, “I’d cut.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”