The meetings wrapped up on time, and as always, Sloane slipped from her seat five minutes before the end and headed to the parking lot. She saw nothing helpful about joining hands for the closing prayer. If she stayed, she’d soon find herself with a cup of coffee and involved in some awkward conversation about—
“Hey there.”
Sloane turned, recognizing the group member who’d shared at the last meeting. Jocelyn. A well-dressed woman with teal-framed glasses and a casual ponytail today, who’d talked openly about her struggle with depression after the suicide of her twin brother. According to her story, she’d turned to “substance therapy,” leading to tabloid-worthy behavior that ended her career at a prestigious financial firm. She’d not only slept with the company’s married CFO, destroying his marriage and her own, but had attempted check fraud that put her behind bars for six months. The bad decisions didn’t even end there, but Jocelyn eventually reclaimed her life and went on to become the head of a large charitable organization. The work brought her peace and enormous satisfaction. She’d finished her compelling story by saying something about net worth being “more than a bank balance.”
“Hi,” Sloane said, returning the greeting while wishing she’d left ten minutes early. This was exactly what she’d tried to avoid. Especially with this woman. Something about her, a toughness despite the casual polish, said she’d cut right through any load of—
“You’re Ronda?” she asked, extending her hand.
“Right,” Sloane said, guilt swirling as she briefly took the woman’s hand. On the few times she’d offered her name, Sloane gave her formal one, the one she rarely used.
“I’m Jocelyn.”
“I remember you. You spoke last week.”
“Yes. And you . . .” The woman’s eyes met Sloane’s. “Come in late. Avoid people. Then leave early.”
Oh, great. What now? AA detention hall?
“I . . .” What could Sloane do? Match her 193 days to this pushy woman’s ten-year sobriety? She lifted her chin, returned Jocelyn’s gaze. “I bought that ‘anonymous’ part.”
“I’m only saying what I see,” Jocelyn continued, no judgment in her tone—no syrup, either. “And if you do that—sit apart, leave early, and never share, you’re going to drink.”
And right now you are driving me to it . . .
“Here.” Jocelyn pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket of her jacket. “In case you lost the list we gave you a few months back. Phone numbers—people you can call anytime.”
Rescuers. The last thing she needed.
Sloane battled a memory of an ER coworker taking her car keys in that San Diego bar the night of the accident. How furious it had made her, how horribly it had ended. And it was only a small part of her regrettable history. Did being part of this “club,” staying sober, mean she had to confess it all? She wasn’t going to do that. She’d come here but—
“No thank you,” Sloane managed, certain this woman could sense her thirst. It only added to her growing irritation. “I have the list. I don’t need another one.”
“My number’s there too,” Jocelyn told her. “Or you can shop around for a sponsor.”
“Sure . . . right.” Sloane nodded.
“When you’re finally ready to get serious. About a disease that’s going to kill you.”
“Bingo!”
“No thanks, I’m giving it up,” Micah said in response to Coop’s excited phone salutation. He set his guitar aside and tapped his cell into speaker mode. “Ask your grandmother to go with you.”
“Dude,” Coop continued, unfazed, “I’m saying that I got it!”
Micah hoped it wouldn’t involve something he’d rather not know about some woman he’d never meet. It occurred to him that he’d never introduced Coop to his parents. Had to be something significant there. “What did you get?”
“My source at the prison. She came through for me. Big-time.”
Micah waited, wondering about ethics and confidentiality.
“There’s a connection—has to be—between my Russian up for parole and what happened with the girl in the alley.”
“Jane Doe hasn’t said anything.” Micah nearly groaned at the idiocy of his statement. The girl still couldn’t physically speak because of the damage.
“But her tattoo did. That’s what my resource heard. There’s a tat on her hip that’s distinctive to girls being trafficked. And to a gangster named Viktor.” Coop’s voice had risen to an octave he probably hadn’t achieved since puberty. “Who has ties to my inmate and maybe to other ‘businesses’ up and down the coast! I can’t believe how rich this vein is—prison gold, just like I told you. I’m making myself blind googling news stories. There’s an open investigation for a multiple vehicular manslaughter incident in San Diego that was suspicious for Russian involvement. And there could be a link to a gambling operation in Sacramento that was hot a few years back. It’s a lot of loose ends, but they don’t call me the Ferret for nothing.”
“Right,” Micah agreed, relieved that Sloane’s private life was no longer the focus of this overeager reporter’s interest. Even if Micah still had unanswered questions himself. “Sounds like you’re headed toward that byline.”
“Count on it. I’m not letting this one go.”
19
“I BROUGHT SIR GEORGE to see you ladies.” The rusty-haired medic grinned as he clattered his stretcher past Harper and Sloane. A bearded and rumpled man lay supine on a hazmat sheet, one arm draped over his forehead. A passing whiff—stale urine, filthy socks, and cheap whiskey—explained why both men on the ambulance crew had surgical masks dangling around their necks. Stink, not contagion. “Where do you want him?”
“Room 22A. Your nurse will be Morgan,” Sloane directed, recalling the run report: forty-six-year-old male found unresponsive in a community park by joggers. When roused, he’d complained only of “foot problems.” Sloane turned to Harper, who was tapping an entry into the computer. “‘Sir George’?”
“Frequent flier,” Harper said with a sigh. “Alcoholic, mostly homeless. Sometimes charming—” she wrinkled her nose—“always smelly. Claims he was a professor of poetry at Oxford. And knighted by the queen.”
“Anybody google that?”
Harper smiled. “It’s LA; he probably played a university professor in some B movie. And hustled toothpaste ads to pay off his student loans.”
Sloane glanced down the hallway, watching the stretcher’s progress. She recalled Jocelyn’s story—and then that awkward, one-sided conversation after the meeting. “When you’re finally ready to get serious. About a disease that’s going to kill you.” Sloane had been completely unprepared for the exchange, shaken. By the time she arrived home, it had all morphed to anger. The incident had been a clear ambush, so unfair. And way off base. Jocelyn didn’t know Sloane any more than the paramedics or hospital staff really knew this poor homeless guy. Even if he was a “frequent flier.”
“It could be true. That he was a professor,” she heard herself say. Then caught Harper’s expression. “What?”
“You,” she told Sloane. “I love that you’re giving him the benefit of the doubt. But FYI, Morgan’s not going to thank you for the room assignment. He’s in a custody battle with his ex and he’s been cranky. Once he gets downwind of your good knight, he’ll be whining to go back to the SICU.” She lifted a brow. “Having fun yet, fearless leader?”
Sloane had been asked to take charge today when the clinical coordinator called in sick, something she neither expected nor wanted but that could help her performance review. Even if she had to wrangle this “cranky” nurse they’d borrowed for a few hours from the intensive care unit. “Jane Doe’s there, in the SICU.”
“Still no name, no visitors. And in a drug-induced coma for now.”
Sloane nodded. “While they assess her for brain damage. Too long without decent circulation. She almost bled out.” She thought of Micah and how he’d said the scene was hard to get out of his head.
“They still have police outside the doors,” Harper said. “Everyone thinks they’re working it as a trafficking case. Especially after that other killing last night.”
Sloane’s stomach quivered. A car had been found in a thickly wooded area in the Hollywood Hills. Abandoned, no plates. Doused with accelerant, set afire—with an unidentified man’s body in the trunk. It felt too familiar. The stolen car that ran Sloane’s off the cliff in San Diego, killed and injured others, had also been found abandoned and burned. The MO had immediately raised the suspicions of San Diego law enforcement for organized crime involvement.
Paul had been more than suspicious. “Those Russians. They like fire.”
“Such a nightmare,” Harper added. “After all that poor girl went through, they think this guy got whacked for not doing the job well enough.” She rubbed her arms like she’d felt a chill. “It’s scary to think we’re going about our regular lives when, at the same time, there’s all this bad stuff happening. Who’s to say anyone is really immune? One little something might tip the scales and—”
“Morning, ladies.” Jerry Rhodes rolled a cart laden with pipes and tools toward them. He met Sloane’s gaze only briefly. “I’ll be doing that work on the waiting room water fountain.”
Sloane nodded, then watched him rattle away. She turned to Harper. “What’s wrong with the drinking fountain?”
“Not kid friendly.” Harper smiled. “That man is a prime example of the good stuff. He clocked out, but he’s staying to adjust the smaller fountain. He saw a little boy crying because the water kept going up his nose. Jerry promised him he’d fix it. Now he’s doing it on his own dime.”
“Just pay me what you think it’s worth.”
Sloane felt a prickle of guilt over how she’d felt when she first spotted him in Celeste’s yard.
“Well . . .” Harper stepped away from the computer. “Time to go check on my patient lineup.”
“Same here,” Sloane agreed. “I’ll see how Morgan—”
“See how I’m doing with Sir George?” Randall Morgan appeared beside her. Despite what she’d asked, he was still wearing his SICU jacket. And a decided scowl. Like the medics, he had a surgical mask hanging around his neck. His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I should know by now that the joke’s always on the new guy.”
“Joke?” Sloane told herself to stay cool. This guy wasn’t worth losing her temper.
“Foot problems?” Morgan’s laugh was caustic. “The only foot problem that guy should worry about is my shoe against his butt when I kick him out of here. Except I’d have to throw my shoe out afterward. So much for our tax dollars.”
Sloane’s jaw tensed.
“Soon as the doc gives the green light, I’ll get a tech to roll him to the bus stop,” Morgan continued, oblivious to the stares of the two women. “His pants can dry in the sun. I’m not digging through your holy donation closet for clothes. He actually asked for that and told me his waist size. And then he tried to order a lunch tray like he was sitting in his favorite booth at the Polo Lounge.” Morgan’s lips twisted in a sneer. “I told him sure, why not start with appetizers? And then I ripped open a few alcohol wipes and dumped them in his lap.”
Sloane stared. “You . . . did that?”
“Yeah.” Morgan laughed. “It was great. You should have seen the look on his—”
“Shut. Up.” The words seethed through Sloane’s teeth. “And get out.”
“What the—?” Morgan blinked, his expression morphing from smug to Taser-stunned. He turned to Harper. “She can’t take a joke? What’s going on?”
“It’s you that’s going,” Sloane repeated, not caring that people were watching. Or that one of them was Micah. She’d just caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. “Get your things and leave this department.”
Harper nodded. “She means it, Randall.”
He uttered a low curse and mumbled something about his union rep, then stalked away.
“And now what?” Harper asked.
Sloane sighed. “Now I find my new patient some clean clothes—and a meal tray.”
“They burned him alive.”
“Nah. Probably shot him in the head first.” Stack glanced away from the TV. “You gonna eat that fajita?”
“No. Take it.” Zoey pressed her hand to her stomach; it did nothing to ease the queasy churning. She watched as Stack chewed a seared chunk of beef. “You think it has something to do with that girl in the hospital?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” He reached for his vintage-style reading glasses, then dragged his laptop closer. “Why are you asking?”
“No reason. Thinking out loud.”
She’d made dozens of furtive calls to Oksana’s cell over the past week—a phone shared by several of Viktor’s girls, under a watchful eye—and finally got an answer early this morning. Fortunately this girl remembered Zoey, and her “supervisor” was currently training one of the new girls. The thought of that made her sick. She filled Zoey in as best she could in a low whisper.
It was Oksana in the hospital. None of the girls knew her condition other than what little had been reported in the news, and they mostly got that secondhand. Viktor had heard Oksana was making noises about running away, encouraging the other girls to get on board. The alleged doctor’s appointment had been Viktor’s plan to dump a bad asset. His man screwed up and now he’d gone missing. Something was going down. The number of “dates” had dwindled significantly, and there was talk the girls would be moved out of the city. They were scared and taking turns watching all night for signs of fire—one of Viktor’s men had been seen “checking” the smoke detectors.
“You still driving yourself crazy about that Jane Doe?” Stack asked, making some notes on a sheet of paper.
“No.” Even if her stomach didn’t always cooperate, Zoey could credit Stack with her talent to look someone directly in the eyes and lie. “I’m too busy looking after my own skin.”
“Seriously?” Stack peered over his glasses at her. “I’d say I’m the one who’s been doing that. You could be busy with dates. Remember?”
Zoey refused to let him get to her. Not anymore. She was a short-timer now. “I remember you said you’re going to help me get back home. After one more job. Then I’m done.”
“That’s right.” Stack’s smile spread slowly. “One more job. It’s taking a few days to get the details in place, but we’re close now. Go check my closet, kid. I got you a new outfit.”
“It’s as simple as that,” Micah explained to the handful of ER staff gathered in the employee lounge. The room smelled of burnt coffee, mustard packets, and perfume that defied the employee handbook’s prohibited list. “You come up with a name of someone you believe is worthy of consideration and submit it to the marketing office. Use the printed form or do it online through the LA Hope website. Either way is fine. That’s it—they’re officially nominated.”
A young woman wearing a flowered top and a clerk’s badge spoke up. “Can we nominate ourselves?” She frowned when a teammate poked her. “I’m serious. Can we?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” Micah pointed to a flyer pinned to the bulletin board. “That’s why it says ‘Maybe It’s You.’ We tagged the campaign that way because it could be anyone. Every employee has an equal chance at this honor.” He thought of what he’d seen in the ER waiting room. The maintenance man fixing a water fountain, involving a little boy in the process. “It doesn’t matter what your position is or what duties you perform. That’s the whole point of this campaign.” He met the clerk’s gaze. “For instance, when a patient arrives in the ER, you’re probably the first person he meets, the first step in his treatment. Your competence and compassion—your face, if you will, becomes his first measure of hope.”
The clerk sat a little taller. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Well, that’s exactly what we’re thinking,” Micah said, proud of the campaign despite his misgivings about his job as a whole
. He was giving this project his best shot. “And it’s what we want to get across to the community.”
“That sounds good but . . .” A balding man in scrubs raised his half-eaten banana. “Isn’t the real goal to make folks finally forget what happened with our old chief of staff?”
“Right,” a middle-aged nurse said, speaking before Micah could. “I came on right after that mess. He committed vehicular homicide, then used his power and position to effect a cover-up. I heard like a dozen staff were involved. Huge scandal.”
“It was,” Micah interjected, knowing he needed to refocus the discussion. “A mess, a scandal, and an awful tragedy. I wouldn’t even try to sanitize that. There were inexcusable mistakes made and very real consequences for staff involved. They are no longer here. But you all are. We’re proud of you. And we’re proud to be an organization committed to a mission of compassion, competence, and caring—for everyone. We’ve made that promise to this community and we’re keeping it.” He made himself smile. “In five months we’re going to throw an epic party to celebrate exactly that, and we’ll applaud the one of you who will represent us all. Cash prize, media coverage, parking place—your face on a billboard. Maybe more.”
The man with the banana cocked his head. “Open to everyone?”
“Yes,” Micah assured again, “every employee is eligible for nomination. There will be a selection process, of course, and—”
“Micah?” The door cracked open and Howard Brill peeked in. “Sorry. Am I interrupting?”
“No, I . . .” Micah checked his watch. “I’ve taken enough of these folks’ time. Give me a minute and I’ll be right out.”
He thanked the staff for their attention, made sure there were enough printed nomination forms, then stepped back into the emergency department corridor, where the board member was waiting.
“Micah, good to see you.”
“Mr. Brill. Same here, sir.”
“It’s Howard, please.”
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