by Lori L. Lake
The thought swept all semblance of energy from her, and her legs felt heavy, as though she were wading through mud.
Chapter Eleven
BLEARY-EYED AND bone-weary, Leo rose Thursday morning feeling the pounding beat of a headache. No amount of coffee made her feel fully awake, and after a button popped off her blouse, she pulled a more casual swoop-necked shirt over her head.
Daria had tossed and turned all night, and when she joined Leo at the breakfast table, she said, "We're a real pair, aren't we? Welcome to the International House of Zombies."
By the time Leo entered the DHS building, the headache had abated, but she still felt fatigued. Perhaps working most of the day before from eight in the morning to eleven p.m. with only meal breaks hadn't been such a good idea.
She sat down to use the phone. The secretary at Dr. Spence's office was far more chipper than Leo could stand. She gritted her teeth and listened to the woman's chirpy voice, then scheduled an appointment for the following Friday. The woman took her cell phone number and told her she'd call if there were any cancellations.
That done, Leo rose and made her way to Thom Thoreson's cubicle.
When he caught sight of Leo, Thom bid her good morning, but he didn't seem any more awake than Leo felt. He asked, "How's the investigation going over at the old folks' home? You wrap it up?"
"Sorry to say, but no."
"Bummer."
"Do you know if Fred's going to be in today?"
Thom lowered his voice. "He usually doesn't call in sick two days in a row. I thought I saw his car in the lot, so yes, I think he's here."
"That'd be nice. As far as this situation at Rivers' Edge goes, can you tell me if this kind of crime is a common occurrence?"
"A murder? No. You'll find a number of deaths in places like that, but not a lot of old people get killed unless it's some sort of accident. Or overdose."
Leo debated for a moment about how much uncertainty to admit, but she quickly cut off the struggle. "How am I supposed to know if the place should be closed or not?"
Thom shrugged. "All I can tell you is that we rarely shut anybody down unless there's gross misconduct or ongoing danger."
"The problem is I can't tell if there's ongoing danger. The place isn't necessarily secure, but it's no different from many apartment houses. Once thieves get over the garden wall or through the front door, they'll find many of the residents leave their doors unlocked or even wide open. Management can't control that. But then again, management gives these people the impression that the place is more secure than it really is. So is it their fault? Do I cite them? What usually happens in cases like this?"
"This sort of situation isn't common, I guess. We've got well over two hundred licensed, assisted-living or independent-living places in Hennepin County alone, and I don't recall this kind of thing happening since I've been here."
"I had no clue there were so many."
"Tip of the iceberg. Across the state there are thousands of licensed, registered, or certified health care providers like Rivers' Edge. We've also got housing with services, in-home care, hospice, nursing homes, and so much other service-related stuff going on that you wouldn't believe it. Old people or disabled people—hell, anyone not in the peak of health—can be vulnerable to mismanagement or unscrupulous providers."
"I don't understand why this department is hardly staffed then. With so many licensed providers and such a high volume of problems and complaints, why don't you have dozens of investigators in the division?"
Thom shook his head. "Don't you cops ask the same question about your personnel? Bottom line is it's not a priority with the legislature or the budget bigwigs. Never enough staff to go around. It's not usually quite this big a gigantic nightmare, but with so many staff out on medical leave, the place is going to hell in a hurry."
"No kidding," Leo said.
Someone was huffing toward them, and Leo stepped back from the cubicle doorway to see Fred Baldur proceeding down the aisle like a snoring sleepwalker. She turned back to Thom and mouthed, "Fred." Thom rolled his eyes and spun the wheelchair around to face the computer.
"Leona! Are you done with the Rivers' Edge investigation? I don't see the final report on my desk."
"Well, Fred, nobody has acquainted me with any kind of final report form, so even if I wanted to, I couldn't be finished. And I still have at least one interview left."
"Oh." His face was slightly greasy as though he'd overdone it with some kind of lotion. Once again, he wore a wrinkled light-gray suit. Was it the same one? Or another just like it? Leo couldn't tell. Today he wore a wide, unfashionable black tie with a huge knot. Leo would like to have grabbed it and swung the man around a few times.
"I'll try to get this thing wrapped up today," she said.
"Was it a random break-in? Or an internal job?"
She wanted to say that the murder of an elderly woman was not a "job," but to hasten matters, she simply told him she didn't know and went on to explain that an aide had been arrested.
Baldur beamed at her, his yellow teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights. "Well, now, that's such good news. Wrap it up, why don't you. Can you finish that last interview by noon?"
"I'll try."
"Excellent." He rubbed his hands together like a pasty, oversized praying mantis. "Tell you what. Let's meet at Mickey's Diner after the lunch rush, and we can plan your next investigation. How about one o'clock?"
"Okay." She wondered how much planning the next case would take—and why—but she was too weary to ask. Before she could say anything more, he whirled and marched off with more energy than Leo had seen him display to date. She peeked back into Thom's cubicle to find him beckoning. Leo stepped closer.
Thom whispered, "Wow, he smiled. He must've scored last night."
"What?" She squelched a giggle.
"Let me correct my terminology, because I can see you don't believe he got laid. Look at the guy." He snickered, then recovered, but his face still wore a merry expression. "He's always all cheery whenever he has good luck at the casino. Bet he scored a jackpot."
"I see." So the efficiency of her colleague's workdays would be wrapped up in his gambling losses and wins? She didn't find that a pleasant prospect and turned to go.
"Wait a sec, Leona." Thom wheeled the chair over to the desk surface, scooped something up, and spun around. "I ordered you DHS business cards. Here are some temporary ones. Write your name and your temp number. Monique will let you know when the regular ones come in. Usually takes a week or so."
"Thank you. Guess I'd better get going. Maybe this'll be my last visit to Rivers' Edge."
"Good luck with that. You'll probably need it."
ON THE WAY to Rivers' Edge, Leo's cell phone rang. One-handed, she dug it out and fumbled to turn it on.
"Hello, this is Fran at Dr. Spence's office. I know it's short notice, but we just got a cancellation for a nine o'clock. Are you interested?"
Leo debated for a moment and checked her watch. "I might not be there right at nine. I'm on the road toward Minneapolis and have to turn around. I can be there shortly after nine, though."
"That'll be fine. See you soon."
Traffic back into Saint Paul wasn't as bad as Leo expected. She rolled into the parking lot before nine and crossed the threshold to check in at precisely nine a.m. She sat alone in the waiting room for several minutes. With increasing irritation she watched the clock.
At twenty after nine, the nurse finally called her in and began the process of checking her vision and filling in her chart. By the time the eye doctor arrived, it was half past nine, and Leo had to stifle her crankiness.
"Hello, Leona," Dr. Spence said heartily. "You're having some headaches, ay?" He picked up her chart. "How long since your last eye exam? Ah, it's been a couple of years." He prattled on awhile, then proceeded to have her do some of the very same vision tests the nurse had completed. She wondered why. Had the nurse forgotten to write down the results?
"No, not really."
"Hold this card here. Okay, what's the lowest line you can read?"
She could see all of them clearly, including the bottom one.
"Excellent. Let's get you dilated, and I'll take a peek."
"Can't you examine my eyes without doing that?"
"Sorry. I have to dilate the pupils or I can't see in."
"I won't be able to drive."
"Sure you will. I'll give you some of those handy-dandy plastic dark glasses. I've got some terrific high quality ones that let in very little light. Lean back."
She let out a sigh of exasperation but allowed him to apply the drops.
"Relax and I'll have you out of here lickety-split." He tucked a tissue in her hand. "I'll give you ten minutes to dilate."
Leo dabbed at her stinging eyes. The dim room blurred in and out. She closed her eyes, remembering why she hated eye exams. It could be hours before her vision returned to normal. Daria was right about zombies. For the rest of the day, that's exactly how she'd look—like she was on drugs.
But if Dr. Spence could figure out what was wrong with her vision and quickly correct it, perhaps she could get Daniels to run her through relays at the firing range again, pass her quals, and resume her regular job before the end of the year. Maybe by Halloween. She couldn't imagine staying with DHS one minute more than she had to. She belonged on the street, directing her unit. While some people might think that police work was dangerous and unpredictable, Leo didn't feel that way. She usually felt gloriously in control. Every situation—whether it was a domestic dispute, a robbery in progress, or a drive-by shooting—was an opportunity to come on the scene and impose order. She got a sizable shot of adrenaline every time she and her officers mastered a difficult or dangerous situation. She knew they were often lucky, but they were also well trained and effective.
Every day on the street was a mini-battle, and every night that she came home safe was a triumph. All through her teen years, she remembered Dad Wallace arriving after his shift and announcing, "Another successful day of upholding the law."
She and Kate would run to him and ask what exciting things had happened. Most days he said, "Routine. Nothing of note."
But sometimes he'd sit down to the dinner Mom Wallace made and regale them with tales of capturing crooks. She and Kate were fascinated by it all and asked pointed questions about shootings and assaults that usually had Mom Wallace interrupting to say, "Not at dinner, girls. We're trying to eat."
Kate wanted nothing more than to follow in her father's footsteps, and Leo hadn't lived with the Wallaces for long before she felt exactly the same. She and Kate both served honorably in patrol, took the sergeant's exam at the first possible opportunity, and passed with flying colors. Since she'd joined the police force a year earlier than Kate, Leo had more seniority and made sergeant on her first application. Twenty-two months later, Kate achieved that goal as well.
The door to the exam room flapped open, and Dr. Spence came in. "Let's take a gander, shall we."
He swung the slit-lamp toward her, and she settled herself into the chin rest. The light he shone into her right eye was bright, and her eyes watered slightly. Abruptly, he shifted his lamp over to the left eye. After a moment, he flipped it back and shifted again.
"Hmmm…" he said.
"You seeing anything unusual?" she asked.
"Give me a few seconds here."
Much more than seconds passed. He put a pad of paper on his knee and scribbled notes. Though he thoroughly examined her left eye, he spent the most time on the right one.
After what seemed like ten minutes, he said, "You can relax now." He pulled the slit-lamp away and slumped down on the rolling chair.
When he didn't turn on the light or speak, Leo felt a stab of fear in her chest. "Is there a problem, Doc?"
"You've had severe eye pain?"
"I guess. It's been some regular headaches. Behind my eye."
"More on the right side than the left?"
"Yes, I suppose."
"Are you seeing flashing lights?"
"No."
"Floaters?"
"No, not really. When I get the headache, my vision sometimes gets blurry, especially if I'm trying to concentrate."
"So, you're focusing, concentrating hard—"
"Yeah—like when I'm shooting at the range. Even through ear protection, I always get an immediate headache. In fact, lately the smell of the cordite is enough to set off the throbbing. Is it from something with my eyes? Is there something seriously wrong?"
"Yes, Leona. You have a mass in your right eye."
"A mass?"
"A tumor."
"You must be mistaken."
"I wish I was. The tumor is sizable, so much so that I think it's periodically pressing against your lens and causing irregular astigmatism."
"I don't understand."
He set the pad of paper on the counter. "I've never seen such a large tumor. No wonder you're in pain." He slid his chair around to her side and covered her forearm with a meaty hand. "I have to tell you, in my eighteen years as an ophthalmologist, I've seen at least a half-dozen cases like this, and in every instance, it's been choroidal melanoma."
"Melanoma—isn't that something like skin cancer?"
"Not exactly. Our eyes have a spongy membrane called the choroid that lies between the white of the eye and the retina. The choroid passes nutrients to the retina. Most people never have a problem with the choroid, but something has happened that's caused a tumor to grow in yours."
"Can you take it out?"
"No. Not without destroying the eye."
All the air went out of Leo's diaphragm, and she suddenly had trouble breathing.
"That's not the worst of it. If it isn't treated, choroidal melanoma can spread to other parts of the body. Your mother had cancer, right?"
Leo nodded, unable to speak.
"We don't want to take any chances." He squeezed her arm and let go. "I'm going to send you to the best ocular oncologist in the Cities. My receptionist will get you an appointment right away. They can do echography and fluorescein angiography…"
He went on, talking about dyes, and patterns, and sound waves, but Leo could no longer take it in. Her mother died of ovarian cancer when Leo was one week short of her eleventh birthday. Elizabeth Reese's death was terrible, a slow, anguished, painful process. Was this to be Leo's fate as well?
Dr. Spence continued speaking, but it was like hearing distorted babble in an LSD dream. Not until he helped her to her feet did the distortion cease.
"Come out to the appointment desk, and Fran'll get you set up with Dr. Marvin Winslow. He's the region's most experienced specialist and surgeon. Don't worry, Leona." He patted her arm and led her through the exam room door. "I'm sure he'll be able to devise a treatment."
On her feet, she snapped into high alert. If she had cancer, there wasn't anything that could be done, was there? Someone may as well shoot out her right eye. She took a deep breath and tried to banish the vision of a black-clad gunman taking aim at her.
By the time she lurched out of the office and toward her car, her valise contained an appointment sheet and referral documents for Dr. Winslow, and she wore a pair of heavy-duty plastic wraparound glasses to thwart bright light. Despite the glasses, the light still made her eyes water—or were those tears? She wasn't thinking clearly, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. She felt so edgy she wanted to scream.
In her car she sat in the heat until she was sweating. Like a robot, she started the car and put the AC on high.
The time was ten o'clock, and in one hour, she'd been sucked into a vortex over which she had absolutely no control.
Chapter Twelve
&nb
sp; LEO DIALED, AND the phone rang five times with no answer. Near tears, she pulled the cell phone away from her ear, but before she pressed the END button, she heard a tinny "Hello."
"Kate?"
"Hey, sis. I'm on patrol. Just got back in the car. What's up?"
"I'm sitting here in a state of complete shock."
"About what?"
"I may have—I have cancer."
"What? Where are you?"
"In the eye doctor's parking lot."
"At Central Medical?"
"Yeah."
"I'm coming over. ETA ten minutes."
The phone went dead. Leo sat holding it in a shaking hand and feeling such intense gratitude toward Kate that new tears sprang into her eyes.
The childhood friendship between Leo and Kate had been forged during a summer of grief and anguish. Fourth grade had ended for Leo, third for Kate, and the two of them were in awe of Kate's sixteen-year-old brother, Paul. They hung around the Wallace garage watching Paul work on a dinged-up Honda motorcycle. Leo wanted nothing more than to learn to ride, but Kate was downright obsessive about it. All she talked about was the motorcycle and how she wanted one of her own. She peppered Paul with questions night and day until he instituted rules whenever Leo and Kate stepped foot in the garage. "You can each ask one question, then it's quiet time. You can watch, but no talking."
Paul's fingers were nimble, whether he was cleaning a spark plug or disassembling the gearbox. Fascinated, Leo and Kate handed tools to Paul, held parts, swept the garage, ran errands—anything in order to encourage him to let them be a part of the process.
The day he finally kick-started the bike's engine, Leo stood coughing in the exhaust and feeling a thrum of excitement course through her veins.
"Take us for a ride," Kate shouted over the revving engine.
"Nuh-uh." Over the loud motor, he said, "No can do. Mom would kill me."
"Please," Kate begged.
"Hand me my helmet."
He grinned as he strapped on the helmet with one hand and put the Honda in gear. With a jerk, he shot out of the garage and braked at the end of the driveway. Kate ran behind him shouting his name.