by Melissa Yi
Her penciled-in eyebrows jerked up in surprise and then settled in grim satisfaction. "We do not know anything. If you have any further questions, you need to speak to the police."
The librarian nodded in agreement.
"Merci," I said as I swung away. I should have realized that they wouldn't go to bat for me. They were probably gossiping about me right now. Did you know, this crazy resident, la petite Chinoise...
I couldn't worry about that right now.
I had 24 minutes until Grand Rounds and a police officer to call.
Chapter 18
"Rivera."
My hand tightened on the receiver. This was the guy who had interviewed me on the day Kurt died. I'd kept the card in my wallet, but he might not remember me. I glanced around the residents' room, waiting for someone to come in and bust me, but they were probably at Grand Rounds already, snarfing up the free food. I cleared my throat. "Hi, my name is Dr. Hope Sze. We met, um, when you came to investigate Dr. Kurt Radshaw's suspicious death at St. Joseph's Hospital—"
"I remember you. You are the Chinese one."
Yes. That was exactly what I wanted inscribed on my gravestone. I forged on. "You may remember me talking about Dr. Radshaw's pager. I understand that your tests—" Oops, maybe I shouldn't mention the GHB yet. Back to the pager. "—ah, I mean, it seemed innocuous at the time, but I realized that the reason someone may have taken the pager was because it would show the last person who had called him. I bet that someone called him to meet them at St. Joseph's, and if you found the pager, you could see what the number was and who might have called him."
He stayed silent for a long moment. I bounced out of the chair and on to my toes, trying to get rid of my excess energy.
"Why are you calling me about this," he said finally.
"Well, you said to call if I remembered anything else. You gave me your card." I couldn't believe I had to explain it to him. "I thought it would be easier for you to obtain any phone records, since you're the police. If you just got Kurt's pager number, Bell Canada, or whoever, would have to release them to you, right?" I hated the way my voice rose at the end, like I was a little girl asking my daddy for permission.
I wasn't a little girl anymore.
And, by the way, my daddy wouldn't need me to spell it out for him. He would have jumped on it from the get go.
Rivera sighed. "I also told you, no conjecture. No...interpretation." He stumbled a little on the English word.
"But aren't you looking for leads? Especially since he tested positive for GHB, insulin, and succinylcholine?"
His voice sharpened. "Who told you this?"
"Is it true?" I countered.
"This is a matter for the police, Dr. Sze."
So it was true. Score one for the gossip boy, Stan Biedelman.
"If you recall any further facts or circumstances about the day, then I welcome your call. Otherwise, I would advise you to practice medicine and allow myself and my colleagues to continue our investigation unimpeded. Good day."
***
I sighed and clattered my way through the shadowed front hall of the Annex, past the closed orientation conference room doors. It felt like I was behind enemy lines. I had to follow a little hallway down the left to get to the classroom we used for rounds.
Tile floor, a dusty blackboard, a screen with a tattered white cord attached on its bottom hook, and rows of mismatched blue, orange, and lime green chairs. More importantly, two women I didn't recognize were sitting in the front left hand corner, intent on their plastic plates of food.
Where was my free lunch?
I backtracked into a side room with the same felted grey carpet as upstairs. A wooden coffee table supported giant plastic serving dishes of sandwiches on iceberg lettuce. My choices ranged from triangles of egg to tuna to mystery meat.
I shuddered. For the "gourmet capital of North America," as a real estate agent had described it, the rounds food was frighteningly similar to London. I chose tuna with a side dollop of pasta salad.
At least the desserts were fancier. As I reached for a strawberry cream, I heard footsteps behind me, and a baritone voice said, "Have a chocolate éclair. They're the best."
I whirled around. Tucker's brown eyes met mine. He stepped around the table and pointed out a mini éclair. He was wearing a mustard-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. "Here. I swear by them. You'll be able to get through Bob's speech, snooze-free, if you have one."
It was the first time we'd spoken since our sausage lunch. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't an éclair. His decency made me feel so guilty, I could hardly look at him. I blinked hard.
Tucker seized a pair of tongs and dropped the éclair on my plate, opposite the pasta salad, where it wouldn't get greasy.
"Thanks," I whispered. The plate trembled in my hands.
"Forget it." He grabbed a plate of his own and bent over the sandwiches. "You'll be okay."
My mouth opened. I croaked, "I'm sorry—"
He grabbed my wrist. "I said you'll be okay." His touch was firm but not unkind.
I studied the scratches on the table until I'd gotten my self-control back. My gaze moved to his walnut dress pants and leather sneakers. They were like old Adidas, with the stripes and little lace-ups, except instead of red and white canvas, they were made of medium-brown leather. "Thanks." I cleared my throat. "I like your shoes."
"Good," he said, slowly releasing my wrist. We stared at each other for a long moment.
I wanted to say so many things to him. Like, sorry I misjudged you. Or, what language would you speak to the server if you went to a restaurant and got mystery meat? Or even, hey, did you hear that Kurt's test came back positive for GHB and I just made a fool of myself telling the police to look into his phone records?
Instead, I just stared into his brown eyes and wished I could rewind the clock to June 30th, orientation day.
Footsteps at the doorway clattered to a halt.
I started. My éclair rattled on my plate. I grabbed it to keep it safe before I turned and glanced at the door.
My automatic smile withered as soon as I saw Alex.
His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. He'd shaved, but there was still a dark shadow on his cheeks and a fleck of blood along his chin where he'd probably cut himself shaving. His hair was flat on the left side, as if he'd slept on it.
At least his clothes looked clean: a grey shirt with solid red sleeves, '80s style, dark olive cargo pants, and sandals.
I'd wanted him to suffer, but not look like a total mess. I didn't know if I should yell at him or pity him.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to break up the party." Alex bared his teeth, but his eyes stayed slitted, as if it was too much effort to open them.
Tucker stiffened.
I was already walking toward the door with my food held protectively at my side. When I was three feet away, close enough to get his attention but luckily not too close to smell him, I said, low but clear, "Get lost, Alex." I would have sworn at him, except I didn't want any stray staff to overhear it.
Alex's eyes flickered behind his puffy eyelids. "Hope."
I held my back ballerina-taut. I looked him straight in the eye. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but you're a mess. Go take a shower."
I brushed past him, half-wanting to knock him with my shoulder, but he stepped aside.
Even in the midst of my contempt, I thought, he doesn't want to touch me.
"Hope," he repeated, but I lifted my chin and marched back to the classroom, chanting in my head, He's not worthy. You snooze, you lose. So long, sucker.
My whole life, I'd wondered about the bad boy thing.
Now I was pretty sure that bad boy was just a synonym for loser.
I could hear Tucker's voice rumble.
Alex answered, "Yeah, well—"
I walked until I found a seat at the far left rear corner, near the windows and as far from the food room as I could get. I could still hear
them somewhat. I'd have to plug my ears and hum any minute. I'd forgotten to get a drink, but I wasn't going back in there. No way, no how.
Solution: do what Chinese people do in a crisis, or at times of celebration or, well, any time. Eat.
I sniffed my tuna fish sandwich cautiously. The last thing I needed was food poisoning.
The room started to fill up. Most people sat near the doors, which, as Little Miss Late, is a pet peeve of mine. Leave those seats, so the latecomers can sneak in with a minimum of fuss!
Stan waved at me from across the room. Omar stood next to him. Darn. I'd rather sit with those guys and laugh, even if it put me closer to Alex. I started to gather up my plate.
"Hope." Tori grinned down at me. She'd snuck up the back of the classroom and cut up the aisle next to the windows, surprising me. She'd make a good cat burglar. "Want company?"
"Sure," I said. "If you're going in the lunch room, could you grab me a juice or water?"
"Okay, but—"
"That's enough!" a man's voice resonated from up the hallway. "What's gotten into you?"
Tori sighed and shook her head. "That's what."
Oh. She didn't want to walk into the perfect storm. I was afraid to ask what was going on.
Bob Clarkson popped his head in the classroom. His face was unusually red. "Stan. Rounds will be a few minutes late. Could you tell everyone?"
Behind Dr. Clarkson, I caught a glimpses of Tucker's blond hair and Alex's red, '80s sleeve. Trouble.
"Of course, Dr. Clarkson," Stan said. He sounded like he was enjoying himself. He walked to the front of the room and clapped his hands. "For the one or two people who didn't hear, rounds will be a bit late. If anyone has any wine, now's the time to break it out."
Laughter rippled around the room. I whispered to Tori, "I guess Alex and Tucker hate each other, huh?" I propped my feet up on an empty chair in front of me.
She raised her eyebrows. "They didn't used to. At least, it wasn't so obvious."
Anu plopped beside Tori. "I'm glad I'm not late. What's rounds on today? Is it still on abuse?" She picked the crusts off her egg sandwich. She sighed. "I miss Kurt."
Her smooth brown face was perfectly serene. It tried to imagine her murdering Kurt and failed. Oh, well, she had an alibi, pretty much. Tori said they'd been at the Jazz Festival until midnight. I realized that just taking people's word for it was not a great policy, but I couldn't run a serious investigation during residency. Or anytime, really.
"I'm not sure who's going to do the main rounds, under the circumstances," said Tori, too polite to add "since the doctor who was supposed to present is now deceased." She continued, "We'll still have the regular teaching afterward."
Anu said, "I suppose they could skip the main presentation, if no one else wanted to fill in on that topic."
"Maybe," I murmured while I straining my ears at the hallway. More people were pouring into the classroom, talking, scraping their chairs on the tile floor, popping their juice bottles. I'd estimate under thirty people, but they made enough noise. No way I could eavesdrop on Alex and Tucker now, even if I wanted to.
"How is everyone today?" Mireille slid into the row in front of us and bestowed a smile upon us. Was I imagining the smugness in the corners of her mouth?
I removed my feet from the seat in front of me. She lowered herself on it. Her plate held only a single mystery meat sandwich. Either she was on a diet, or they'd severely run out of food.
Mireille turned mocking eyes on me. She lifted her sandwich, holding it so delicately that her fingertips hardly indented the soft white bread. "How about you, Hope? Is there anything new in your life?"
Was it possible she knew about the disaster formerly known as me and Alex? The only person I'd told was Tori. I glanced at her, but her return gaze was even. No, Tori was too discreet.
Would Alex tell Mireille? Maybe to try and hurt her. Hey, guess who I fucked today?
Well. I already knew that it had been a mistake to sleep with Alex. And I had no interest in letting Mireille put the screws on me. "Nothing," I said, spearing some pasta salad on the tines of my plastic fork. "My life is very boring."
She paused mid-chew. I smiled at her. Maybe I was getting better at this superficial veneer thing.
Mireille recovered quickly, checking her watch. "I thought we were trying to start the rounds on time."
As if it were a summons, Bob Clarkson strode to the front of the room. "All right, people! Let's get this show on the road!"
Tucker appeared next, disappearing around the back of the room. I was glad he had a plateful of food, but I couldn't tell if he'd gotten an éclair. He leaned against the rear wall and fixed his eyes on Bob Clarkson like an A1 student. No black eye, no abrasions, no obviously swollen knuckles.
Bob said, "As you know, Dr. Kurt Radshaw was supposed to do these rounds today on partner abuse. I know a lot of people were looking forward to it. Unfortunately, due to his tragic death, we've had to cancel the presentation."
Alex sidled in. Nearly all the chairs were taken, so he stood between the door and the garbage can. His arms were empty of food or drink. He had no visible injuries. If anything, he looked better, less dragged out, as if fighting with Tucker had woken him up. Our eyes locked, but with an effort of will, I broke it and faced front.
Mireille lifted her eyebrows at me before turning forward herself.
Bob continued, "Many people have come to my office to express their shock and sadness over his passing. St. Joseph's has lost a friend, a colleague, and a community leader. Could we all please have a moment of silence to respect his memory."
Immediately, we bowed our heads. I closed my eyes and recalled all the things I'd heard about him. Mentor, educator, a revitalizing force. Nothing but good stuff, except for his lust for women. I peeked at Mireille's curls. Her head was bent low. I couldn't see her face.
At last, Bob said, "We all knew and loved Kurt. Instead of doing Grand Rounds, let's take this hour to talk about him, his life and his efforts."
From the somber nods from the nurses and the tight lips of the residents, it was a good idea.
Bob went on, "Tensions are high. We're all feeling it. In fact, I just had to break up an argument." He paused to give the evil eye to Tucker and Alex. Tucker looked impassive, but Alex stared right back at him. Bob Clarkson shook his head sorrowfully. "This is not the St. Joseph's we all know and love. This is not the St. Joseph's Kurt would have wanted, and which we are all striving to achieve. Since my first days as chief, I have worked very hard for a consensus, so St. Joseph's can light up the twenty-first century as a leader among community hospitals." He brought his hands together in a circle.
Heaven help us. This was turning into a vote for Bob Clarkson speech. I glanced at Tori. She appeared to be listening. I took a bite of the chocolate éclair. It was good. I started nibbling around the edges. It was more interesting that Bob Clarkson.
He finally wound down. "Now, if anyone else would like to say a few words, the floor is yours. If it's too painful to speak in public, I understand."
Mireille's hand stretched in the air. "I would like to talk."
A startled sigh rippled through the crowd. Mireille tucked her plate under her chair and rose up. She had excellent posture.
Bob said, "Ah, Mireille, you can just speak from where you're sitting."
"It's all right, Dr. Clarkson. I would like everyone to hear." Instead of turning to her left so she could cut along the wall, she chose to walk down the row, forcing everyone to turn their legs aside and clutch their plates. Maximum disruption. I watched Alex watch her. His expression seemed neutral. His eyes flicked toward me. I looked away, but the skin on my arms tingled. Damn it.
Mireille planted her feet at the head of the classroom. She clasped her hands behind her back. She was wearing a demure, short-sleeved black dress with tiny blue flowers which fell to just above her knees. She looked perfectly at ease, more so than Bob Clarkson, who seemed to be muttering at her under h
is breath. She ignored him, raising her voice to the crowd. "Kurt Radshaw was a wonderful man, doctor, and human being. I hope they catch whoever killed him."
Another group murmur. She smiled. "I know that was not what you expected me to say. But it's true. I loved him. I want his murderer brought to justice."
The room went silent. Bob Clarkson's face froze in a rictus, but he managed to force out, "Ah, Mireille—"
She stepped forward, away from him. "There have been a lot of rumors about him and me." She looked right at me. "Some of them are true." She smiled again, a flash of teeth. "I loved him. I would never have hurt him."
Bob Clarkson cleared his throat. "Well, Mireille. That is certainly—interesting. I thought we'd talk about Kurt's life, and how St. Joseph's can move forward from this."
Mireille talked right over him. "I even have an alibi. I spent most of Friday night with people from St. Joseph's before I ended up with one in particular." She didn't look at Alex, but the rest of us did. His lips had gone white.
I felt sick. So she was Alex's "family emergency" before he hopped in bed with me. What kind of guy did that make him? What kind of person did that make me?
I hadn't eaten much, but I felt nauseous. Tori pressed a quick hand on my wrist. I took a little comfort from her cool skin. Thank goodness no one else really knew about me and Alex. If nothing else, I prefer to be humiliated in private rather than public.
Bob's hand pressed into Mireille's shoulder. "Thank you, Dr. Laroque. Does anyone else want to speak?"
A black nurse in a lab coat stood up at the end of the front row. "I was the nurse on Dr. Radshaw's team, and he was wonderful to work with. He was always teaching, always willing to stay late or to lend a hand. We'll miss him."
An appreciative ripple through the audience.
"Thank you," Bob said, obviously relieved. "That was very appropriate, Anne. Please sit down, Dr. Laroque."
A rebellious expression crossed Mireille's face, but after a long moment, she glided back to her seat, making sure to cut back through the row of people.
Tucker said, from the back, "He was a leader. That's what I liked about him. It's easy to complain about all the problems, but he worked to find the solutions. He didn't just talk about it, either. He did it."