“Name it.”
“If I’m going to be your obstetrician, and you want to give that kid of yours the best chance to be healthy, those cigarettes have got to go.”
The younger woman’s almond eyes narrowed.
“Couldn’t I find something else to give up instead?” she asked.
Sarah shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s a big deal.”
“All right, okay. The smokes are history.”
“Excellent.” Sarah checked the time. “Listen,” she said, “I’m due back at the hospital. But if you’ll walk me back, I’d like to tell you at least a little bit of my version of what happened—why I left.”
“You don’t need to.”
Sarah slipped her arm inside Annalee’s. “I know,” she said.
By the time they arrived at the gate to the MCB campus, Annalee, shaking her head sadly, had her arm draped around Sarah’s shoulders.
“Nothing you’ve told me comes as much of a surprise,” she said. “He’s really not a bad guy, just difficult sometimes. And speaking of surprises, it probably won’t surprise you much to know that Henry McAllister is as devoted to Peter as ever. He’s been to Xanadu for dinner, and he’s designing a big fountain for the front lawn.”
“You’re right,” Sarah said. “I’m not surprised.…”
Her voice trailed away. Although she had visited McAllister once in the hospital after his operation, he never indicated that he knew the role she had played in saving his life. And she had chosen not to be the one to tell him. She knew, and that was all that mattered—or at least so she had thought at the time.
“Well, now,” Annalee said, quite obviously changing the subject, “I for one and this baby in here for two are gonna have the time of our lives over these next few months. I’m gonna stop smoking, and stop drinking, and stop staying up to all hours, and stop eating Twinkies, and—say, do I have to stop …?”
“No,” Sarah said. “No, you can keep doing that right up to almost the end.”
“In that case, what you see before you is the start of the perfect pregnancy.”
“A textbook case. Listen, as long as you’re here, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come by the clinic right now. You can register as an outpatient afterward, and have the routine blood and urine tests done before you go home. I have enough time to do a quick exam just to make sure everything’s okay. After that, we’ll stop by my locker. I have a supply of the natural prenatal supplement that many of my patients take. You ought to get started on it now. That is, assuming you prefer the organic to the stuff from the drug houses.”
“I’m still my father’s daughter,” Annalee said. “Besides, if you recommend something, I’m doing it. After all, you’re the doctor.”
• • •
Rosa Suarez placed the last of her clothes into the maple highboy, and then set framed photographs of her husband, Alberto, three daughters, and four grandchildren on the doily-covered bedside table. The bed and breakfast she had chosen from the list supplied by her department was hardly elegant, but it was comfortable enough and within easy walking distance of the Medical Center of Boston.
After nearly twenty-five years on the job and dozens of extended field investigations, the routine of unpacking was as familiar as her robe. But there was something special about this assignment. Long term or short, significant findings or not, this investigation would be her last. She had left her letter of resignation on the section chief’s desk and had promised Alberto that this time she meant it.
Now everybody would be happy. Her husband, at seventy nearly a decade older than she, would have some reasonably healthy years to enjoy retirement with her. Her department would be able to bring in some new blood. And more important, they would be able to wash their hands of a colleague who had become something of an embarrassment to them—the old lady who many of them believed had botched a major investigation.
“Mrs. Suarez, there’s two packages here for you. Heavy ones,” her landlady called out from just outside her door.
“Just sign for them, Mrs. Frumanian. But don’t try to lift them. They’re books. I’ll be down for them in a minute.”
Following her assignment to the Boston case, Rosa had spent hours in the library. She set her portfolio on the bed and took out the notes she had made. Diligent preparation and obsessive attention to details. Those had always been her trademark—the keys to what had once been an unbroken string of successes. They had never failed her, not even in San Francisco. And, she vowed, they would not fail her now.
She knew there was nothing her section chief wanted less than to turn this investigation over to her. The BART fiasco had probably cost him a promotion. And since then, he had gone out of his way to keep her shuffling papers, making out bibliographies, and sorting through miles of computer printouts. But at the moment of the call from Boston, she was the only field epidemiologist available. And people were dying.
She changed into the gray Champion sweatsuit her daughters had given her for Christmas and padded down the narrow stairway. Mrs. Frumanian was standing guard over the two boxes, waiting, it was clear, to check on their contents. She was a pleasant, ample woman with a deeply etched face that Rosa found interesting.
“I can manage all right, Mrs. Frumanian, thank you,” she said.
“Nonsense, I am twice your size, and you are my guest. If you have books to carry, I have books to carry.”
Her dense accent was Eastern European, but Rosa could pinpoint it no closer than that. Frumanian sliced open the boxes with a paring knife she conveniently produced from her apron pocket.
“Hematology … Advanced Computer Programming … Differential Calculus … Coagulation” The older woman read the titles off as she stacked each volume on her arm. Her pronunciation was surprisingly good. “Two of my boys finished college,” she said. “They brought home books like this on their vacations all the time, but they never read them.”
“Well, I expect to spend a good deal of time reading these, Mrs. Frumanian.”
Rosa ushered the woman out the door as gently as she could. Limits had to be set if she was to get work done. She had been given this one chance—this one last chance—to go out a winner. This time she would trust nobody. Nobody at all.
CHAPTER 12
WILLIS GRAYSON, CRADLING A $150 BUNDLE OF exotic flowers, trotted up the stairs to the fifth floor of the Surgical Building. A slight cold had kept him out of his pool since his return from the coast, and even this bit of exercise was welcome.
He had left the hospital that morning ecstatic over Lisa’s decision to talk with him. Later he and Ben Harris had spent an hour with Dr. Randall Snyder. The obstetrician seemed a decent enough sort, though certainly no intellectual giant. Still, Ben was impressed with him, and that was sufficient to soften much of Willis’s knee-jerk anger toward the physicians who had cared for his daughter. It also alleviated some of his misgivings about the Medical Center of Boston. The care Lisa had received seemed to have been adequate, especially considering that Snyder and the hospital had believed all along that she was without any means to pay for it.
It was disappointing to learn that Snyder and the others on the medical team had no clue as to what might have caused Lisa’s blood problem. Still, it did appear that an effort was being made to get to the bottom of things. Grayson charged Ben Harris with obtaining the names of the leading experts in the field so that they could be put on the case.
Next on Grayson’s agenda would be a visit later that afternoon to the head of physical therapy and rehabilitation. He would tactfully inform her that, while he appreciated the efforts of her department, the people at the Rusk Rehabilitation Institute in New York would be overseeing the selection and implementation of Lisa’s prosthesis. And then finally, perhaps in the morning, he would try to meet with the obstetrics resident who was said to have done more than anyone else to save Lisa’s life. If, in fact, Sarah Baldwin had played such a role, his people would be instructed to learn about the wom
an and her needs, and to come up with an appropriate reward.
Energized at regaining the control that had eluded him for nearly five years, Grayson strode down the corridor to room 515. Both of the slide-ins on the door were empty. He knocked once and then eased the door open. Both beds were newly made, and the room unoccupied.
“What in the hell?”
Battling anxiety, confusion, and anger, Grayson checked the two metal armoires and then the bathroom. All were clean and empty. After leaving Lisa that morning, he had tried to get her transferred to a single room. When informed that every room on the floor was a double, he had left strict instructions with the head nurse on the floor to notify admissions that he would pay whatever was necessary to keep the other bed in room 515 empty. What in the hell could have happened?
He threw the flowers onto one of the beds and raced to the nurses’ station. Janine Curtis, the nurse to whom he had spoken earlier, appeared prepared for a confrontation.
“Miss Curtis,” he demanded, “what’s become of my daughter?”
She held his gaze evenly.
“Nothing’s become of her, sir,” she said with exaggerated patience. “She’s doing fine. She’s been moved to another room.”
“But we agreed this morning she would stay where she was, and that no one would be moved in.”
“I know what you requested, sir. But Lisa asked to be moved to another room, and we obliged her.”
“Well then, where is she now?” he snapped.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir,” the nurse said.
“Miss Curtis, I’m not in the mood for games.”
“It’s Mrs. Curtis, and this is no game. Your daughter told us quite emphatically that she does not wish to see you.”
“What?”
“She said that if you want to speak with her, you might try coming back tomorrow morning. She’ll see how she feels then.”
“Dammit, she told me just a few hours ago to come back at three this afternoon. Now where is she?”
“Mr. Grayson, please keep your voice down. Our patient has given us a clear and specific order, and we fully intend to honor it. I would suggest you do as she asks and return tomorrow.”
“And I would suggest you be very careful whom you talk to like that.”
“Mr. Grayson, you made it perfectly clear who you were this morning. In all honesty, it makes no difference to me. Lisa is an adult with control over the decisions involving her life. She is also my patient. She’s been through a great deal, and I intend to do whatever I can to honor any wishes she might have.”
She smiled at him coolly and then returned to her work.
Glowering at her, Grayson gave brief thought to searching every room on the floor. Then he stormed off.
• • •
The initial meeting between Andrew Truscott and attorney Jeremy Mallon, some two and a half years before, had actually taken place at a Red Sox-Yankees game. Before Glenn Paris canceled the Everwell HMO’s contract with MCB, the organization had used the hospital for a modest percentage of its inpatient cases. Each year, as a “thank you” to the residents, the HMO would rent a bus, load it with beer, and take the entire house staff to a clambake and then to Fenway Park.
Having heard rumors of Andrew Truscott’s profound disenchantment with MCB, Mallon had carefully arranged the seating so that he was next to Truscott. By the end of the third inning, they had evolved makeshift code words for the hospital and key personnel, and had established their mutual distaste for Glenn Paris and his offbeat antics. By the bottom of the fifth, Truscott had made it clear that he was not unwilling to provide inside information on hospital goings-on in exchange for certain considerations. And by the seventh-inning stretch, they had exchanged numbers and agreed to meet again in the near future.
Now, some $30,000 later, Andrew scribbled a fictitious name in the log book of the office building at One Hundred Federal Plaza and rode the elevator to the twenty-ninth-floor law offices of Wasserman and Mallon. His relationship with the attorney was a shaky one. Andrew neither trusted nor liked the man, and although Mallon was too slick to get a decent handle on, Andrew suspected those feelings were reciprocated. However, there was no denying that each had profited from the other. And with the information he had tucked in his briefcase tonight, their collaboration seemed destined to continue.
The brass plaques on the mahogany doors to the firm’s suite listed four partners and about twenty associates. Jeremy Mallon was the only one with an M.D. in addition to his law degree. The spacious interior, with its glass-enclosed library and multiple secretary’s desks, had an array of original oils on the walls that included a Sargent, an O’Keeffe, and a small Wyeth. Truscott wondered in passing how many physicians’ malpractice victories and settlements it had taken to develop such a collection.
As soon as he entered the reception area, Andrew caught the aroma of Chinese food. And after brief stops before the Sargent and a striking piece by the contemporary realist Scott Pryor, he followed the scent down the hall to Mallon’s office. Although the number of white cartons spread across the teak table suggested a small banquet, only Mallon was there.
“Come in, Andy. Come in.” Mallon motioned Andrew to a seat with his chopsticks. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything.”
Andrew winced at the use of his nickname, which he had never liked. Andy. Despite the hefty payments, he felt wary around Mallon, a gladhander who always seemed to have a hidden agenda. If it served his purposes, Andrew suspected, the attorney would devour him with the same dispassionate enthusiasm he exhibited toward the Peking duck.
“There’s beer, wine, or whatever else you want in the fridge beneath the wet bar,” Mallon said. “Forgive me if I seem to be rushing, but Axel’s holding up writing his column until he hears from me, and there’s a reception at my club that my wife has made mandatory.”
“No problem.”
My club. Although Andrew was uncomfortable with the man personally, he did admire his power and style. More than once in their dealings, thoughts of what a law career would be like crossed his mind. Somewhere down the road, a brass plaque might read Wasserman, Truscott, and Mallon.
“Did you watch the news tonight?” Mallon asked.
“No, I just got out of work.”
“Goddamn Paris made it onto all three stations. I’m really sick of seeing that Bozo’s face on TV.”
“What goes around comes around,” Andrew said, tapping his briefcase.
“Well, I hope whatever it is you have is good, because we are running out of time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. Competition in the managed health care business is getting more intense every day. It’s already big fish eats little fish. No one is safe, and everyone is justifiably paranoid. Right now, Everwell’s in a pretty decent position. But they’re so strapped for beds and office space that they’ve decided they can’t wait much longer for MCB to go up on the block. They’re looking at other options, the best of which will cost millions more than it would to make a fire-sale buy of MCB. Millions. And ultimately, anything else they acquire will deliver much less in terms of space and equipment. We need that hospital.”
“I’ve heard rumors of massive layoffs pending at MCB. Doesn’t that suggest the financial problems are getting worse?”
“There’s a big difference between rumors and done deeds, Andy. People may be talking about layoffs, but my sources say that MCB has actually begun some hiring. And there’s more. For several years now I’ve had a pipeline into some of the really big creditors of the hospital, including the bank that holds one of its mortgages. They tell me that recently Paris and his financial advisor, Colin Smith, have stopped scrambling for money. They’ve even started paying off some bills. I think it’s got to be that foundation Paris talked about in the speech you recorded.”
“That was the first time I ever heard him mention it,” Truscott said.
“And you’r
e sure he never gave the name?”
“You heard the tape.”
“I want that name, Andy, and quickly. If we know what we’re up against, chances are we can come up with some sort of countermeasure. If Paris and Smith manage to get that place out of the hole, we’ll probably never get another shot at it. Remember how much I said is at stake for us.”
“Assuming I get you the name,” Andrew heard himself say, “I expect a small portion of those millions will find its way in my direction.”
Mallon’s eyes flashed.
“Do yourself a favor, Andy,” he said with chilling calm, “and don’t try and put the screws to me. Okay? Just come up with that name. Let me choose the reward. We both know you have no future at Crunchy Granola General. Zip. And need I remind you that except for a few hospitals way out in the boonies, the market is already glutted with general surgeons? It’s a safe bet that those few who are getting hired for decent jobs were chief residents in their training programs. That’s something you’re never going to be putting on your résumé. Your future is with us, Andy. You know it, and we know it. So just help us out where you can, and get me that name.”
Truscott reddened. Clearly he was out of his league. Mallon was a pro at manipulation and control. All Andrew could do was hang in there and learn from the man. His own day would come.
“Point made,” he said.
“Excellent. Now, what have you got for me in that briefcase?”
Andrew handed over the sheet Sarah had given him, along with Xeroxes of the three hospital records and also some notes he had made.
“This involves Sarah Baldwin,” he said.
“Ah, yes. Another major thorn in our side. The woman has certainly become a media darling.”
Andrew remembered Sarah, the next chief resident in obstetrics, seated across from him in the cafeteria, smugly lecturing him on the power of alternative healing.
“Well, your friend Devlin may be in a position to change that,” he said.
Mallon scanned Sarah’s prenatal information sheet. “Bloodroot … moondragon leaves … elephant sleeper. These are all herbs of some sort?”
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