Stress Test

by Richard Mabry

  Jennifer Ball sensed, rather than saw, someone approach her desk. She followed the rule formulated long ago by workers in any office: keep your head down, look busy, and maybe they’ll leave you alone. She typed faster, her fingers flying, the words hardly registering in her brain. So much of what she did was boilerplate. Use this form. Put this name in at that point. Add the date. Print five copies . . . or six . . . or twelve. Move on to the next one.

  “Got a minute?”

  She started to swivel her chair, expecting to see Frank Everett standing behind her, her mind already flipping the pages of her mental calendar and finding nothing that couldn’t be moved if he wanted some of her time. Frank seemed to be getting serious, and she’d decided that was a good thing. If her past relationship with Matt came out, maybe Frank could protect her from any fallout. At least, she hoped so.

  “Sure,” she said, barely stopping her tongue from adding, “Frank.” It wasn’t Frank’s voice. Instead, the man standing behind her was Jack Tanner, the DA himself. Jennifer wasn’t worried because the boss was at her desk. She’d done lots of work for him, work that was considered so confidential he’d only trust it to either her or one other secretary. It was simply that now the appearance of any authority figure at her desk was enough to make her nervous, afraid her relationship with Matt might come out.

  Jennifer summoned up her most innocent smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about the Matt Newman case,” Tanner said. He was an imposing figure, tall and thin, his full head of silver hair combed straight back. Although most of the men in the office left their coats hanging on the backs of their chairs, Tanner always donned his when he ventured out of his office. Today the suit was a charcoal pinstripe. His blue dress shirt had a white collar, and the knot in his lavender tie was perfect, as always.

  “Uh, yes, sir. I know a little.” Should she mention hearing about it from Frank? She decided to let it go for now.

  “As you may know, Dr. Newman was in private practice, working out of Metropolitan Hospital here in Dallas. His story, which seems sort of thin, is that he was kidnapped from the parking garage there.” Tanner shook his head. “Anyway, the police are looking into it, but I have some ideas of my own. I suggested we question some of the doctors who work at that hospital. How well liked was Newman? Did they ever see him with Cara Mendiola, the woman who was killed? And I recall that you used to go out with a doctor who worked at Metropolitan. I’d like to start with him. Thought he might open up a bit, talking about a colleague, if you called him first.”

  Jennifer could almost feel her synapses clicking as she struggled to find the right answer. “Did someone tell you it was Metropolitan? Oh no. It was Medical City Hospital. That’s a whole different part of the city.”

  “Oh? My family doctor uses Medical City. What’s your doctor friend’s name?”

  Think. Think. She’d seen a name on the board in the professional building when she’d visited her own doctor, a gynecologist. Merchant? Murch? Murchison. That was it. “It was Dr. Murchison, but we broke up, and he was pretty angry about it. I’d rather you didn’t bring it up. Your investigator might say something to him and get the phone calls started again.”

  Tanner frowned. “You know, if he’s making harassing calls to you, we can do something about that.”

  “No, sir. They’ve stopped. But I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t do anything that might stir it up again.” Please, please, please. Let it go.

  “Sure. But if there’s any trouble in the future—”

  “I’ll let you know. And thank you.”

  Tanner drifted away, and Jennifer felt the pounding in her chest slow. She lifted a half-filled bottle of water from her desktop and drained it in two thirsty swallows, but her throat still felt like a desert. She couldn’t have her name connected with Matt. She wondered how long this would go on. Jennifer turned back to her computer and began taking out her frustration on the keyboard.

  “Thanks for the ride. I appreciate it.” Matt closed the car door, waved, and headed up the sidewalk to his front door.

  It had taken over a dozen phone calls for him to find someone able and willing to take him to the Department of Public Safety office, but now he had a temporary Texas driver’s license in his wallet.

  Next he had to get a car. Apparently reclaiming his car from the impound lot was impossible, at least until the matter of his innocence of Cara Mendiola’s death was established, and maybe not even then. Sandra had made a couple of phone calls, then told him his car was going to remain in custody for a while. He hated to think of the impound bill that was growing day by day. But that was a problem to be dealt with later—maybe even passed on to the company from which Matt was leasing the car. He’d have to ask Sandra.

  During his marathon spate of phone calls, he’d broached the subject of borrowing a car several times, but without success. Apparently none of his friends had one to spare, or at least not one they could turn over to a murder suspect. Matt sat at his desk and looked at his list. There were three names below the one who’d finally offered the ride, a doctor with whom he’d gone to medical school. Either Jeff hadn’t heard about Matt’s trouble, or felt comfortable being alone in a car with a man whose next address might be death row. But it had stopped there. Jeff’s wife needed their second car, and Matt got the impression that she didn’t even know about Jeff giving Matt this ride.

  Three more phone calls, and Matt had officially reached the bottom of the barrel. His replacement credit cards had arrived, and now was the time to put one of them to use. He’d have to try to find a rental car he could afford. At one time, he would have let his fingers do the walking through the yellow pages for the information. Now they could crawl across the keyboard to get the same results. Almost an hour later, he’d discovered that the ads hawking “rental cars for as little as $7.00 a day” were classic bait and switch. The cheapest rental car he could find would run him about a hundred and fifty per week. In the days when he had a steady income, that would have been a bargain. Now, when his income stream was down to a trickle, he wasn’t sure.

  He’d said he’d take the job in Metropolitan Hospital’s ER, but Rick was called away before they could discuss salary. Of course, anything was better than what he had coming in now, which was essentially nothing. In any case, Matt decided he really needed more details.

  His call was answered on the second ring. “Emergency Room, this is Pam.”

  “Pam, this is Dr. Newman.” Matt held his breath, but there was no comment forthcoming. So far he’d talked to two ER nurses and detected no censure in their voices. Either they hadn’t heard the news, or they elected not to say anything about Matt’s situation. Good in either case. “Is Dr. Pearson available?”

  “Hold on a sec.” The clunk when the phone hit the desk almost deafened Matt. “Sorry, I dropped it.” This time there was no sound. Pam must have been extra careful.

  In a few seconds, Matt heard, “Dr. Pearson.”

  “Rick, this is Matt.”

  “Oh, yeah. I meant to get back to you, but it’s been a madhouse here. Guess you’ll experience that for yourself soon enough, though.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Matt figured anything would be better than sitting at home waiting for the police to knock on his door. “Listen, the police impounded my car as evidence, so I’m trying to find something to drive. You don’t happen to know anyone with an extra car sitting around, do you?”

  “You know, this is really weird. Hector Rivera left me the keys to his car and told me to sell it for him. Said he’d write to tell me where I could wire the money. It’s a Chevy. Low mileage. Pretty decent condition. And he was willing to finance it himself. Maybe we can work something out.”

  Matt and Rick talked a bit more until the conversation ended much as the previous one had, with Rick saying, “Sorry. Gotta go. I’ll call you when this shift ends.”

  Matt’s acquaintance with Hector Rivera had been superficial at best: nods in the ha
ll, an occasional “hello” when they saw each other in the ER. Matt wished he knew more about this man whose job he was taking, whose car he was driving . . . and whose fiancé he was accused of murdering. Right now, it was sort of like wearing a suit belonging to a dead man.

  It just didn’t feel right.

  TEN

  After an internal debate that lasted much longer than it should, Matt moved to his desk and picked up the phone. He knew it was probably hopeless, but he had to try one more time. If Jennifer would just listen to his story, maybe he could convince her that this was all a big mistake. Surely his lawyer would get it straightened out quickly.

  He’d already tried Jennifer’s home number and cell phone. When the calls rolled over to voicemail, he’d left the same message: “Jennifer, we need to talk. It’s important. Please call me.” She hadn’t responded, though.

  All that remained was calling her at work. She’d told him never to do it, but he felt as though he had no choice. He had half the number dialed when he had a thought. If he dialed her direct line, caller ID would betray him. He hung up and found the main number for the district attorney’s office. A woman answered on the second ring, and he asked for Jennifer Ball.

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  Matt hadn’t thought this far ahead. He wasn’t very good at improvising, and lying had never been a part of him until now. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “This is her brother. She gave me her direct number, but I’ve lost it. I’m only in town for a—” He stopped when he realized there was ringing on the line. Either his story had worked or the receptionist hadn’t really cared.

  Jennifer answered on the second ring. “Felony Trial Division, Jennifer Ball.”

  “Don’t hang up!” Matt hoped the desperation in his voice would keep Jennifer on the line.

  “I told you not to call me, especially not at work.”

  “Jennifer, you’ve got to listen. I’m innocent. This is all a mistake.”

  In the silence that followed, Matt could almost see Jennifer thinking, her finger rubbing her chin, her brow furrowed. He’d seen that gesture so many times. It was one of the things he loved about her—or, at least, thought he loved. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  When Jennifer spoke again, the soft voice had hardened. “Matt, I’m sorry this happened to you. I wish I could help. But if you keep calling, you could get me in trouble . . . big trouble.” Was there a catch in her voice? “Good-bye.” The last words were almost too faint to understand.

  Matt sat for a moment, holding the dead phone, until the strident stutter tone startled him from his reverie. He hung up in the middle of the recorded voice telling him, “If you want to make a call . . .”

  He’d never felt so alone in his life. There was one person who might help him think this through—one person who he knew would support him. Although Matt had put it off until now, he really needed to get in touch with Joe, even though his brother was in a remote area of South America. In the past, Joe had always initiated contact when he was within reach of a fellow missionary’s satellite phone or if his travels took him to a city large enough to provide a phone or an Internet connection. Matt had an email address for Joe, but there was no telling when the message would get to his brother.

  Matt dug through his desk drawer until he came to a set of papers clipped together. They gave Joe’s location, which meant nothing to Matt, whose knowledge of geography outside the US was rudimentary at best. Toward the very bottom of the second sheet was a notation that, in case of emergency, Matt could call this number. They’d get in touch with Joe and have him contact Matt.

  Matt put the paper aside. He’d make the call in a minute, but right now, he needed some sense of contact, some way for Joe to affirm him. Then he recalled his last email exchange with his brother, a message he’d sent while things still looked good: Matt’s relationship with Jennifer, the job at the medical school. Matt opened his email folder labeled “family,” found Joe’s reply to his message, and read it again.

  Little Brother, so glad things are going well. Just remember that bad times will follow good, just as good times will follow bad. The only constant in the world is God. He’s in control. Set your sights on Him, and you’ll make it fine. Matthew 6:34.

  Matt clicked on the utility he sometimes used to call up Bible verses, and read the Scripture Joe had cited. “So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” Matt had to agree. Each of his days recently had presented plenty of trouble. He could only hope there’d be less tomorrow.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Mission Board.

  The ring of his phone brought Matt instantly awake, a reaction honed by long experience with being roused by a pager, a phone, or an alarm set for an early case. Surely Joe wasn’t calling back this quickly. He eased forward in his recliner, muted the TV, lifted the receiver, and said, “Dr. Newman.”

  “Matt, did I wake you?”

  Matt searched his memory to identify the voice. Then it clicked. Ken Gordon, his neurosurgeon. “I guess I went to sleep in front of the TV.” He glanced at his watch—almost eight. “What’s up? And why are you still at work?”

  “The second question’s pretty silly for a doctor to ask. I’ve just finished my last case of the day,” Gordon said. “As for the first, your chart was on my desk when I got back to my office, and that reminded me to check on you. It seems you got away from the hospital without a follow-up appointment.”

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t functioning too well right then. I still had visions of a squad of armed policemen meeting me at the hospital entrance and carting me off to jail.”

  Gordon laughed. “Well, since you’re obviously a free man, let’s get you back here. I’ll bet you’re ready to get those staples out.”

  Matt stopped with his hand halfway to his head. Don’t rub the incision, don’t mess with the staples. “That would be great. Just say when.”

  “They’ve been in for . . . Let’s see.” Matt could picture Gordon checking his calendar. “Looks like a week, yesterday.”

  Matt had been counting as well. Surgeons often left staples in place for two weeks to allow for full healing, but the scalp had a rich blood supply and generally healed rapidly, so in that area stitches and staples could come out in ten days, sometimes as little as seven. Maybe Gordon would go for it. “How about tomorrow? Nine days should be long enough. The wound is healed. And I’ll be careful—”

  “Easy, there. I know you’re anxious to get back to your activities, but even after the staples are out, I don’t want you doing too much for a few more days. And you shouldn’t drive for at least another week.”

  The argument—well, more like negotiations—went on for another five minutes before Gordon gave in. He would see Matt tomorrow and remove the staples, but his patient had to promise he’d take things easy for another week. Matt carefully avoided further discussion of any restriction on his driving. He’d had no suggestion of a seizure after his injury, and he didn’t intend to sit at home for another week. He’d go crazy. It was time to get his life back together. Sandra’s words rang in his head. “What I want to hear you say is, ‘I’m ready to rebuild my life.’”

  He was more than ready.

  Edgar was playing solitaire, cheating most of the time, when Lou called.

  “Be outside your apartment in ten minutes. The big man wants to see us.”

  “Why?”

  Lou’s voice got rougher, if that was possible. “I didn’t ask him. And if you’re smart, you won’t either. He says, ‘Jump.’ We say, ‘How high?’ Be there in ten.”

  Edgar raked the cards into a rough stack and shoved them aside. He rose from the card table that did double duty as his lunch counter and the surface where he watched porn on his battered laptop, using a Wi-Fi connection pirated from his neighbor. He stubbed out his cigarette in an empty tuna can that served as an ashtray.

  The boss wanted Lou and him. He knew what t
hat meant. Edgar opened the drawer of his bedside table and studied the two pistols there. Both were .38 caliber, which made it convenient when buying ammunition. Both were relatively anonymous, their serial numbers erased with acid. They were belly guns with short barrels, but both packed enough punch to put someone down from close range. And if he had to ditch one, it would be easy enough to replace.

  For shooting the woman, he’d used the Smith & Wesson Airweight. Today he’d carry the Chief’s Special. Edgar clipped the holster to his belt behind his right hip and covered it with a denim shirt worn unbuttoned over an almost-clean tee.

  What else? He patted his pockets. Cigarettes and matches, keys, wallet. He opened the chest of drawers and rummaged beneath his underwear until he found a leather-covered blackjack. He hefted it and slapped it against his palm, feeling the satisfying weight of the lead shot sewn into the end. Edgar shoved the sap into his hip pocket, made sure it was hidden by his shirttail, and headed for the door.

  Twenty minutes later, he and Lou walked into the boss’s inner office. The big man didn’t acknowledge their presence for a moment, busying himself with a stack of important-looking papers on his desk. Finally he looked up.

  “When were you planning to take out the doctor?”

  Edgar kept his mouth shut. He’d let Lou do the talking. Edgar was content to stay in the background, ready to maim or kill when called upon. He smiled when he thought of what lay ahead. He didn’t know the details yet, but he was sure it would be satisfying.

  “Tonight,” Lou said. “We’ll go in about two in the morning. Take him out, make it look like a suicide, the way you said.”

  The boss was shaking his head before Lou could finish. “Put that aside for a day or two. I need you to convince one of our people to be more cooperative.”