by John Locke
Two hours pass and we’re still talking about Cameron.
We order Chinese and eat it.
She says, “Is that possible? Can someone go into the hospital for one thing and die from something else within hours?”
“Hospitals are the eighth leading cause of death.”
“Hospitals? How?”
“They’re a breeding ground for bacteria-resistant germs and viruses we call superbugs. It’s a catch-22.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’re so smart I sometimes forget how young you are. Catch-22 is an old expression that means you’re screwed either way. Hospitals are one of the most sterile places on earth. Housekeepers constantly clean and scrub and wipe down surfaces with chemicals and cleaning agents. But the strongest, most-deadly viruses develop a resistance to the chemicals. They become invincible.”
“The super bugs?”
I nod.
“They told Cameron she was healthy enough to leave the next day. How could she die a few hours later?”
“Lots of ways.”
“Name one.”
“Maybe there’s a colony of super bugs on the door knob of the bathroom across the hall from Cameron’s room, and a colony of different super bugs on her bedrail. If a lazy housekeeper wipes the restroom doorknob with an antibacterial wipe and fails to throw the towel away, then uses the same towel to wipe down Cameron’s bedrails, he’s combined the two. Within minutes they mutate into something so deadly, when Cameron touches the bedrail, then her nose or eyes, the bug gets into her bloodstream.”
“What are the chances of that?”
“Higher than you might think. Or maybe a nurse or orderly forgot to wash their hands as they went from one room to the next, and transferred MRSA to Cameron through direct contact.”
“What’s MRSA?”
“Methicillin Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus.”
She frowns. “That sounds like something you just made up.”
“That’s why we use initials.”
“Is it common?”
“It’s in the noses or on the skin of one percent of all Americans.”
“Are you saying one percent of all people can kill the rest of us?”
“No. MRSA isn’t deadly unless you’re very young, old, ill, or in a hospital, recovering from a surgery. In that case, anything you touch-a toilet seat, a door handle, a tray-can kill you.”
“You think that’s what killed Cameron?”
“It’s one possibility. VRE’s another.”
“What’s that?” she asks, eyeing me carefully to see if I might make up another series of incomprehensible words.
“Vancomycin-Resistant Enterococcus.”
She frowns.
“Vancomycin is our antibiotic of last resort. It’s used to fight bacteria that are already resistant to penicillin and other antibiotics. VRE is a mutant strain, one that can transmit the resistance genes to other, more dangerous bacteria, like staph and strep. It’s been found on hospital equipment, doorknobs, bedrails, and even on the hands of hospital personnel who wash their hands for less than five full seconds.”
“That’s why you told Cameron not to eat anything at the hospital.”
“That’s right. Did she?”
“The nurse said if she didn’t eat they wouldn’t release her.”
“Typical!” I say, trying to control my anger. “Did you happen to get this nurse’s name?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
“But I’d recognize her if I saw her again.”
“Good.”
“Why’s that good?”
“Maybe someday we’ll see her again.”
“I doubt that. She’s in Dayton.”
“You never know,” I say.
36
“You trust me to be alone in your house?” Willow asks, incredulously.
Reacting to my comment about having to attend a meeting this morning.
“Yes. I trust you.”
“I pulled a gun on you yesterday,” she says.
I shrug. “You didn’t shoot me in my sleep.”
“I couldn’t. You took my bullets.”
“You probably have extras in your bag.”
“I did happen to notice you left the gun on the coffee table.”
“Speaking of guns,” I say, “where did you get one so quickly?”
“I’m from the south.”
“So?”
“Everyone’s got a gun for sale.”
“Seriously?”
She nods.
“Does it work?” I say.
“How should I know? I’ve never shot a gun in my life.”
“I’m surprised you got that thing through the airport.”
“They don’t always x-ray the bags you check.”
“They do here,” I say.
“Lots of things are different here,” she says. “Like your car.”
“I don’t own a car.”
“That’s what I mean. You’ve got all this money, a multi-million dollar house, and your hospital’s a long drive, right?”
“So?”
“You don’t have a car. In Cincy, everyone has a car. Even I have one!”
“I don’t need a car. And parking’s a bitch in the city.”
“Anyway, it’s nice of you to trust me to stay here by myself. Who are you meeting?”
“One of my nurses.”
“For a little…” she smiles.
“I wish.”
“What is she, married?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Want some advice?”
“Seriously?”
She nods.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s hear it.”
“Be persistent.”
“Persistent? That’s it?”
“Relentless,” she says. “Maybe you’ll wear her down.”
I frown. “Wear her down? Can you wear someone down into loving you?”
She shows me a half smile and shakes her head.
“What?” I say.
“How old are you?”
“Forty-two. Why?”
“And you still believe in love?”
37
In the cab on the way to the hospital, I call my secretary, Lola.
“I’ve got a meeting with one of my new nurses at ten,” I say.
“Mr. Luce would like to visit with you at nine-thirty.”
“Great. Anything else?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Devereaux would like you to stop by the ICU and check on Lilly.”
“That’s a no. Anything else?”
“The rest can wait till later.”
“Good. I need you to do something for me.”
“Is it legal?”
“Funny. I need you to find a private investigator in Nashville, Tennessee.”
“No problem. What’s his name?”
“I don’t have one yet. I need you to call around. Get me someone really good.”
“Are you delusional?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a medical secretary. What do I know about finding a private detective?”
“Lola?”
“What?”
“Don’t start with me.”
I hang up. Ten minutes later she calls back.
“I’ve got a name,” she says, “but it’s a woman. Is that okay?”
“Is she any good?”
“How would I know?”
“Who recommended her?”
“The Nashville police department.”
“I thought the police hated private eyes.”
“I thought so too, but Detective Polomo said I’ve been watching too much TV. Then he asked me out on a date.”
“And did you happen to mention you’re married?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did you say, exactly?”
“I asked him to send me a photo.”
My secretary’s a bimbo.
“Who’s the detective?�
�
“You’re not going to believe this, but…are you sitting down? Dani Ripper!”
“You say that like I’m supposed to know who that is.”
“Dani Ripper? The little girl who got away?”
“Sorry.”
“You’re one of a kind, Gideon.”
“Thanks. You got a phone number for me?”
“You’re planning to call her from your cab?”
“Might as well, I’m stuck in traffic.”
38
Ms. Ripper takes down my name, phone numbers, home and work addresses. She gets my address and three phone numbers. When that’s done she says, “Please. Call me Dani. How can I help you, Dr. Box?”
“I need a quick background check.”
“How quick?”
“Immediately.”
“You’re in luck.”
“Why’s that?”
“All my associates are swamped with cases. But miraculously, I myself happen to be available, having just wrapped up a major case last night. What’s her name?
“Excuse me?
“The woman I’m doing the background check on,” Dani says.
“How do you know it’s a woman?” I say.
“A New York City doctor wants a background check in Nashville, Tennessee? You’ve either slept with one of our local women or you’re thinking about it, and want to know how many miles she’s got under the hood, Am I right?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but as it happens, it’s a woman.”
“Name?”
“Willow Breeland.”
“Age?”
“Eighteen.”
Dani sighs. “Of course she is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you happen to know her date of birth?”
“April sixteenth, eighteen years ago.”
“You can’t do the math?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Does Willow have a middle name?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You’re certain about the date of birth?”
“Yes.”
I am certain. Not only did I read it on her driver’s license last Thursday, she also happens to have the same birthday as my mother.
“Has she broken any laws?”
“Almost certainly.”
“If this is a criminal investigation I need to coordinate with law enforcement.”
“It’s not that.”
“Normally I only accept cases from people I’ve met face to face. Since you want this rushed, you need to tell me why you’re interested in this young lady.”
“She’s my house guest.”
“Your house guest,” she repeats.
“That’s right.”
“Why don’t you just ask about her past?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Feel free. I’m just sitting here, drinking coffee, surfing the internet.”
“I get that. But I’d rather you were making some calls, getting me some answers.”
She doesn’t respond, so I say, “I met her in Nashville last week. I told her I might be able to help her get cancer treatment. She said no, then showed up on my doorstep yesterday.”
“In New York City?”
“Yes. And since she’s in my home as we speak, and I’m riding to work in a cab, I’d like to make sure there are no outstanding warrants on her, or anything like that.”
“You’re sure she’s eighteen?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“You slept with her.”
“ What?”
“What if she’s underage?”
“What if she is?”
“You’re forty-two.”
“I never told you that.”
“You didn’t have to. I’ve been reading about you since the moment you told me your name.”
“What difference does it make how old I am?”
“I don’t approve of forty-two year old men sleeping with eighteen-year-old strippers.”
“That’s not your concern. Wait. How did you know she’s a stripper?”
“She’s in an ad on a website for the Firefly Lounge, Cincinnati, Ohio. As in, “Meet the Firefly Girls!”
“That’s her,” I say.
“She’s cute.”
“You think?”
“Sure. Put her in pigtails she could be selling Girl Scout cookies.”
I decide not to respond.
She says, “Does it bother you the ad says girls instead of ladies?”
“No. Why should I care what it says?”
“Seriously, Dr. Box?”
“I don’t see what difference it makes if I slept with an eighteen-year-old stripper,” I say, noticing the cab driver staring at me in the mirror.
Dani says, “I don’t think I like you very much, Dr. Box.”
“If you want to join that parade you’ll have to take a number.”
“That I believe,” she says. “So what am I looking for, specifically?”
“Her birth certificate, parents’ death certificates, proof her father served time in prison, and any information you have on her uncle, her father’s brother.”
“You have his name? Or the parents?”
“Just their last name. Breeland. And the uncle’s wife is May.”
“Also from Nashville?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“She moved to Cincinnati three years ago. Lived with a lowlife named Bobby Mitchell, recently deceased.”
“Lowlife? Recently deceased? Be yourself, Doc. No need to talk like a TV cop.”
“Willow’s been diagnosed with recurring Hodgkin’s lymphoma. There should be hospital records.”
“I won’t be able to get those for you.”
“I don’t need the actual records. Just names of doctors who might have consulted with or treated her. Also, her best friend died from complications of a gunshot wound. She was a recent patient of Saint Stephen’s hospital in Dayton.”
“Friend’s name?”
“Cameron Mason.”
I notice Dani’s gone quiet.
“Hello? Are you there?”
She says, “Stop me if I get any part of this wrong. You breeze into Nashville, visit a club, meet an eighteen-year-old stripper who happens to be a cancer patient, and pay her for sex. What was she doing, trying to earn money for cancer treatment?”
I sigh. “Maybe you’re not the right person for the job.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve already uncovered information that’ll knock your socks off.”
“What, already? How’s that possible?”
“I’m very good at what I do.”
I grab my notebook and pen from my jacket pocket and prepare to write. “Okay,” I say.
“Okay what?”
“I’m ready. What have you got?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Don’t tell me you expect me to apologize for sleeping with her.”
“That apology belongs to Willow, not me.”
“Then I don’t understand. You’ve uncovered some information. I’ve got my pen and notebook ready. What’s the holdup?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“ What?”
“You want me to take the case, you have to pay.”
“Five thousand dollars? For five minutes work?”
“How much do you get for five minutes of work, Dr. Box?”
“Four thousand, max. And you can’t tell me you get this much from other clients. You pulled that number out of your ass, because you think I’m wealthy, and you don’t approve of my lifestyle.”
“The five thousand isn’t for the bombshell. It’s for the work you’re going to want after I tell you what I’ve learned. And that could take days to uncover.”
“How much for just the bombshell?”
“Well, if we’re going ala carte, let’s say five hundred.”
“That’s more like i
t. You want my billing address?”
“Your credit card will suffice.”
“I’m in a cab.”
“You don’t want the cab driver to hear. Makes sense. Have him pull over, then climb out and give it to me.”
“I’m in Manhattan, Dani.”
“So?”
“You can’t just pull over in Manhattan. It’ll take forever to get back in traffic.”
“Why do you want to live like that?”
“Again, why do you care how I want to live?”
“We have some wonderful hospitals here in Nashville that could use a skilled surgeon, Dr. Box. Provided you can keep your hands off the candy stripers.”
“They’re called volunteers these days.”
“Whatever. Give me your billing address. But don’t even think about stiffing me.”
I give her my billing address and assure her I won’t stiff her.
“What’s the bombshell?” I say.
“I’ll tell you in an hour.”
“Why not now?”
“I need to be certain. You’re paying me to be accurate.”
“Give me the short version.”
“I want to check her hospital records first.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t access her medical records.”
“I said I wouldn’t get them for you.”
39
Bruce Luce is all smiles when I walk in his office.
“What?” I say.
“You received rave reviews from the new nurses.”
“I did?”
“No one was more surprised to hear it than me.”
“I think Rose has a calming effect on me,” I say.
“She’d have just the opposite effect on me,” he says.
“Can I keep her?”
“Under lock and key if necessary.”
“Why so enthusiastic?”
“She strong-armed Mr. Devereaux to write a check for twenty million, even though Lilly’s still in a coma.”
“Medically induced,” I say.
“Right.”
“Were you aware Rose plans to leave in nine months?”