The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1)

by Glenn Shepard

  An hour later, I was lifting one of my specialties, a veggie frittata, out of the oven when Keyes walked in. Laughing, she said, “You clean and cook? What more could a girl want?”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  I looked into her sparkling eyes. They were inviting. I wanted to touch her, but controlled myself and forced my thoughts back to business mode. Keyes seemed sincere, and God knows I could use an ally.

  After breakfast, Keyes gave me a lift to Jackson City Hospital. I still had a license to practice medicine and hospital privileges. I just needed a space to operate and to have access to special equipment for wound care for my post-op patients. I dreaded having to go there because to do so I had to get Herb Waters’ approval. It would have been tough enough even before I was accused of murder, but now it would be next to impossible. With everything at stake, I had to give it a try.

  Herb Waters ruled the hospital with an iron fist. I went directly to his sixth floor Penthouse office.

  In what little spare time I had, over the previous few months, I’d done research on Waters and the Jackson City Hospital. My research concluded with a half-page op-ed piece that was published in the Daily Chronicle, the city paper. In my article, I accused Waters of negotiating to sell our community not-for-profit hospital to the large for-profit conglomerate, American Hospital Systems (AHS). AHS bought and managed hundreds of hospitals all over the United States.

  I’d written the piece because the concept of charitable medical care was near and dear to my heart. The purpose of a nonprofit hospital was to provide medical care to all who needed it, not only to those with good insurance or loads of cash in the bank, as was the standard practice at for-profit hospitals. Most physicians had, as I did, a few indigent patients they treated for free, and they relied on the community hospital to accept those patients who needed in-hospital services.

  Waters had written a three-column rebuttal to my article. In his piece, which appeared on the front page of the newspaper a few days after my letter was published, Waters repeatedly stated that, “this hospital is not for sale to anyone.” Further, he claimed, “Dr. James’ letter was written with no knowledge of fact.”

  I knew that to be a lie because I had personally talked with an AHS executive in Houston four times during the previous month. Waters had never accepted criticism well, and he was beyond livid about my op-ed piece in the newspaper.

  Until our recent falling out, Waters and I had been close friends, going back to our freshman year in high school. These days, our relationship was rocky, at best. But I had no choice but to ask for his help.

  Herb Waters’ office, occupying one-fourth of the roof space of the sixth floor, looked as if it had been dropped from the sky on top of an otherwise functionally well-designed hospital. It was planned by his advisers, who felt he should be physically present at the hospital and not several miles away in the Hanover building, where his office was formerly situated. Hospital employees gave the office the name, “Penthouse,” which by common usage became the official title of the structure.

  The Penthouse’s appearance was questioned by professional builders and designers, even though it was drawn by the best architects in the southeast. Passersby thought that the odd structure was the top of the elevator shafts or the ventilation system. With the Penthouse addition, Waters moved, permanently, from the Hanover building to the hospital, and his title was changed to President of Jackson City Healthcare Systems Inc.

  The hospital elevator only went as high as the fifth floor. This was because Waters didn’t want to see any of the doctors, and made it difficult for us to reach his office by distancing himself from the hospital complex with a flight of stairs. I took the elevator to the fifth floor and ran up the stairs, bounding into the Penthouse.

  I walked into Waters’ office reception area. No one other than his private secretary was allowed in Waters’ Penthouse.

  I surprised the secretary, Shirley Moss. “I need to see your boss.”

  “Dr. James, please … I’m not sure if ... ” was her tentative response. She looked at me and continued, her voice, now firm, “He’s busy. You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  I just smiled, lifted the phone, and put it in her hands. “Shirley, can you please make an appointment for me—now?”

  Waters heard the demand through the closed door and lifted the phone before it rang.

  “Dr. James ... is here ... to see you,” the receptionist said.

  “What? Does he want to kill me now, too?” He yelled so loud that I could easily hear him. “Tell him I’m busy!”

  I shouted through the wall, “You have her block for you now? Be a man, Herb—open the door.”

  Waters threw open his office door and marched to within two feet of me.

  I leaned toward Waters, our faces nearly touching.

  Waters towered over me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I looked into the black searing eyes of the man. “My OR will be closed for a few days and I need space to see follow-ups and perform scheduled surgery.”

  “Goddamn it, Scott. You almost kill your own employee, so then you take out your anesthesiologist and now you want me to let you into my hospital. It’ll be a cold day in hell before you work here again.”

  “I’ll pay your exorbitant hospital costs.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re not seeing any of your patients in my hospital. Tell your patients you’re going to Hawaii for a week.”

  “My patients need hospital services. You don’t own the hospital and you have no authority to refuse them.”

  “Oh yeah? Watch me.” He lifted a phone to call security.

  My cell phone rang. It was Pete Harris. “I’d like you to come over to my office as soon as possible,” he said. “I want to talk to you about hospital finance.”

  I hung up, then said, “No need to call your henchmen, Herb. I’m leaving.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Jackson City Police Station

  11:00 am

  WHEN I GOT THERE, Harris was standing just inside the door to his office. He turned his head toward me and stared into my eyes.

  “Look,” I said, feeling defensive, “if this is about Carey or Keyes, I want a lawyer—”

  “Relax, Dr. James. I just wanna talk about the hospital,” he said. “Come in and have a seat. You take anything in your coffee?”

  “Cream.”

  Harris pressed the intercom button on his phone, “Jody, could you bring in two cups of coffee, one with cream.”

  Harris leaned his chin on his hand and just sat there studying me for a long minute. Finally, he said, “Have ya ever considered being a detective?”

  “You offering me a job? I could use one, being as I’m shut out of my practice—”

  “Doesn’t pay as well as plastic surgery, but ya seem to have a knack for it.”

  “Should I go out and buy myself a Sherlock Holmes hat and pipe?”

  “Ahem … I read through your research notes for your op-ed piece in the Chronicle.”

  “Probably should’ve never sent that in.”

  “Well, you make a convincing argument. And your research is very thorough.”

  “I’m nothing if not thorough. I used to drive my nurses and wife crazy.”

  “What made ya start lookin’ up all that stuff on the hospital in the first place?”

  I rubbed my eyes. I wasn’t sure where this was leading, but I’d rather have Harris as a friend than an enemy, so I told him the short version of my story. “I came back to town in 2002 after my surgical residency. I wanted to be close to my dad in his twilight years. As you know, we had a little farm that I pretty much ran until I had to go away for my surgical training. Even then, I still came back. Dad sold the tobacco farm and moved to a nursing home, and gave me the money from the sale to set up my practice. Back then, Her
b Waters and I were the best of friends. I used to go visit him in his office. Within a year, hospital prices started sky-rocketing, and he got irritated every time I asked him to lower them. He said no one else complained.”

  “How’s that?” Harris asked.

  “Herb didn’t get it or care. It just pissed him off.”

  Harris asked in his raspy voice, “Why’d Waters raise the prices so high?”

  “To make the hospital more profitable. The board kept raising prices to improve the margins, and then they started adding charges to patients’ bills. Things like a toothbrush, a bar of soap, a dietary consultation, and bedside oxygen used to be free, but after Waters took over, everything in the hospital was given a significant charge. He even stopped free coffee for the on-duty doctors and nurses.”

  “And that made you mad,” Harris said rather than asked.

  “It didn’t make me happy. Listen, Waters is trying to sell the Jackson City Hospital, and I assure you, it’s not because he gives a shit about providing better hospital services to the public. It’s about lining the pockets of Waters and his partners in crime.”

  “Maybe. But how does that affect you? You’ve got a private practice, or rather had a practice and your own surgery center. Why stick your neck out?”

  “It’s just my nature. People are getting screwed. I had to say something. That’s the way my dad raised me.”

  The detective sucked the molten brew between his teeth. Then he said, “Well, I’m sure that letter ya wrote to the paper pissed off a lot of people at the hospital. Knowin’ the temperament of your old buddy Herbie, ya should’ve expected repercussions. He’s not someone ta fuck with.”

  “Sure, a little negative press makes for bad blood between old friends, but that’s no reason to kill someone.”

  “Kill someone? You’re saying that Herb Waters murdered those two— “

  “Yes. I am. I think it’s certainly possible. Herb Waters wants to shut me up—”

  “What? Enough to commit two murders?”

  “Hell, yes! I can’t put my finger on it but Waters is up to something illegal. He’s using the hospital for something. There’s probably a smoking gun somewhere.”

  “But why would Waters kill Boyd Carey?”

  “I don’t believe anybody wanted to kill Dr. Carey. I think they were after me, but encountered Carey instead. He got the needle instead of me. Which is just as good as murdering me, apparently, because now I might be going to jail for life, or worse.”

  “Hmmm,” Harris responded. “I don’t know, Doc. That’s pretty thin.”

  “Yeah, well, do your job and investigate Herb Waters!”

  “Ha! I can’t. It’s way too thin. Frankly, it sounds a little crazy. To open an investigation, I’d need to show just cause. Right now, I’ve got squat.”

  After a long pause, as if throwing me a bone, he said, “But let me know if you find out anything.”

  “What I find? Isn’t that your job? Can’t you just subpoena documents and statements from Waters and whoever else could be involved in a scam?”

  “We have absolutely nothing at all to connect Herb Waters to any murder. Frankly, I’d be embarrassed to go in front of the judge to ask for a warrant.” He paused. “Of course, I’m not the one who needs information. You are.”

  That statement pissed me off. I laughed bitterly at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. “Look, Detective, I’m a plastic surgeon. I’m not a private investigator. You want me to fix your nose? No problem. I can give you a classic Roman—like frickin’ Tom Cruise. But investigating a murder? No way. Not my bag.”

  “Suit yerself, Doc,” Harris said. “But if I were facing murder one and attempted murder charges, I’d be makin’ like Jason Bourne tryin’ ta save my ass.”

  His words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. Grunting, I stood to leave. As I turned to walk away, Harris said, “By the way, I told the guards you’re allowed access to your office now.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a wave of my hand, not turning back or breaking stride. At least I’ll have somewhere to crash tonight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Penthouse, Jackson City Hospital

  Jackson City, North Carolina

  3:11 pm

  HERB WATERS WAS PLAYING a video game and racking up points when the security buzzer went off. “Hold your fucking horses,” he yelled. “I’ll be there in a minute!”

  He was at 48,000 points, trying to break his personal record of 50,000. One last obstacle to beat, and the game was his. Ignoring the door buzzer, he clutched the joysticks even tighter and madly worked the controls, his face and body contorting from the effort. Bam! He hit the target! 52 K! “Yes!” He cackled. “I’m the king of the fucking world!”

  Waters went to the door and greeted Friedman and Phillips with a diabolical grin on his face and with slaps on their backs. Despite being annoyed with Waters for being slow in letting them in, the two hospital administrators were pleased to see their boss in a good mood. Waters could be impossible to work with when he was upset.

  It had been four weeks since Friedman and Phillips had last seen Waters. Usually they met with him weekly, except when Waters was out of town on business, but for the past six months, the meetings had been reduced to once a month. This wasn’t a problem, as Friedman and Phillips were adept at running the hospital and its subsidiaries on their own. But Waters liked to keep a dictatorial control on everything.

  Harley Friedman and Craig Phillips were the same age, forty-three, but that’s where their similarity ended. Friedman looked like a college professor: balding head with tufts of reddish brown hair around his oversized ears, oversized black glasses with thick lenses, wrinkled shirt, bow tie, sports jacket, and baggy trousers. Of average height, he had rounded shoulders, skinny legs, and a bulging belly. In sharp contrast, Phillips could have graced the cover of GQ Magazine: six-feet tall, thick wavy hair he kept fashionably styled and neatly trimmed, the “pretty” face of a leading man, and the buffed physique of a professional athlete. Obsessed with exercise, Phillips had a well-equipped gym in his Hanover Building office that he used three or four times a day. He wore sweats most of the time, changing to Brooks Brothers suits and crisply starched shirts when he left his office.

  Phillips laid papers over the twenty-foot long, mahogany table, while Friedman rattled off the main talking points. As always, he kept it brief and made it quick.

  Waters had no patience for timidity and little time to discuss hospital business. Despite his reputation as being a goof-off in college, he was extremely smart and a fast study. He grasped and retained information well, and he had a keen ability to quickly connect the dots and see the big picture. Waters was always quick to assess the financial status of Jackson City Hospital, and although his remarks were few, they were always spot-on.

  “Why are revenues down for hospital bed usage?” Waters barked.

  Friedman was quick to answer. “We had a number of patients cancel due to Dr. James stalking his office manager in the ICU and the two murders at his—”

  “That’s ancient history,” Waters interrupted. “The new contract with Blue Sky has been operational for five weeks. The twenty percent increase in hospital services payments is on-line now. That additional revenue should more than compensate for the eighteen percent drop in bed vacancy for the same period.”

  “But the increase in charges takes time to reach our ledgers.”

  “Bullshit!” Waters bellowed as he slammed his fist on the table. “Craig, get Harley straight on this.”

  Phillips, always the cool head, spoke calmly and confidently. “The twenty percent increase does override the eighteen-point-aught-three percent loss, which works out to a net gain of 143,000 dollars and fifteen cents.”

  Waters maintained a stern look but inwardly he was pleased, not only with the $143,000 but also the fifteen c
ents. Accounting for every last penny was important to Waters.

  “Yes, but the money isn’t in the hospital account yet,” Friedman explained. “It takes a couple days for funds to transfer from the insurance carrier to the hospital.”

  “We own the goddamned insurance company! It’s fuckin’ ours! Claims should be expedited! And funds should transfer instantaneously!” Waters fumed. Although no one could tell from his demeanor, he loved these parlays. “The public doesn’t judge us on how well our insurance company does; we’re judged on the performance of the hospital.”

  Friedman took the jabs Waters meted out. He was resilient, knowing that his ten percent of Jackson Healthcare Systems, Inc.’s profits, like Phillips’, would be over $16 million for the quarter.

  At the conclusion of the meeting, Waters announced he would be out of touch for the next three weeks. “Don’t need me,” he barked. Then he dismissed them curtly with, “I have to make an important phone call.”

  Waters waited for Phillips and Friedman to leave by the stairs and exit the Penthouse, then went to his luxurious bathroom to shower and shave.

  Freshly bathed, Waters stretched out naked on the Penthouse’s king-sized bed and adjusted the pillows so he could sit up and watch television. He turned on the secured video-conferencing program he often used. The seventy-inch screen filled with a live feed of a naked woman lying on a large round bed with two cheetahs. Wind blew sheer drapes, showing glimpses of azure water outside the window. The animals sat rigidly upright, like the sphinxes standing guard at an ancient Egyptian pyramid, poised and attentive to the woman’s fondling.

  The woman, like the animals, was exquisitely beautiful. She said not a word as she seductively gestured for him to come to her. She slithered on the satin sheets and licked her full lips to form wet kisses directed toward the camera. Silently observing her graceful movements, Waters became sexually aroused. When she licked her fingers and began caressing herself, he took his penis in his hand. Soon they were on their respective beds, panting, spent, while the big cats, still motionless, purred.