by Kira Peikoff
The nurse returned, escorting an elderly man in a white coat with thin hunched shoulders. She kept her hand on his elbow and whispered to him in the hallway as they approached. When they reached the edge of the waiting room, she hung back. Trent watched the doctor shuffle forward.
He stopped in front of them and looked up tiredly through wire-rimmed spectacles. “Didn’t take long for you to come,” he muttered.
“Do you know who I am?” Dopp said evenly.
“You’re DEP.”
“I am the director of the New York City bureau, Dr. Hanson.”
The doctor looked stricken.
Dopp continued: “Are you aware that you can be fined a thousand dollars for not cooperating with one of my inspectors?”
Dr. Hanson’s gaze swept around the waiting room: his patients were not bothering to hide their interest.
“Can we take this into my office?” he asked, a pleading note in his voice.
Dopp frowned. “I believe your patients here have a right to know about this, before they continue to pay for your flawed services.”
“The numbers were mistaken,” the doctor said. “We must have mixed up the reports we sent in. I swear that we have not misplaced any embryos, I swear it on my practice!”
“I have only the evidence in my hand,” Dopp said gravely, extending an inspector’s form with a handwritten note at the bottom. “After receiving your monthly report, my inspector came this morning to count your embryo stock and found that there were nine missing. And you know what else is missing? Your signature on this form, right here underneath the inspector’s.”
“That’s because we didn’t do anything wrong!” the doctor cried. “I refuse to acknowledge ‘missing’ embryos that didn’t exist in the first place. I told your inspector, there must have been a simple error in data entry when my secretary sent you the report. That’s all this is!”
“So the story changes,” Dopp said. “Was it a report mix-up or an error in data entry? At least stick with one excuse, Dr. Hanson.”
The doctor shook his head in exasperation. “What would I want with nine embryos? And even if I did want them—which I assure you is not the case—don’t you think I would have just underreported?”
Dopp stared into his eyes. “Perhaps you know all too well the consequences of false reporting and you rightly fear the random audit—much more often these days, isn’t it? Especially for you now, I would think.”
The doctor’s white hairline glistened. He reached up to rub the back of his neck, looking away. Trent could not help feeling a twinge of pity for him.
Trent thought that Dopp must have felt it, too, for his tone softened. “I’m just doing my job, Dr. Hanson. How are we to know whether those embryos existed or not? I’ll waive the fine this time for not cooperating”—the doctor looked up hopefully—“but I really have no choice but to do this.”
Dopp reached into his briefcase and pulled out a square pad the size of a coaster. After scribbling on it, he ripped off the top page and handed it to the doctor, who took it from him, closing his eyes. Dopp glanced around the room. “That,” he announced, “is a forty-five-thousand-dollar ticket—a five-thousand-dollar fine per missing embryo. This clinic is officially on probation for the next year. That means a surprise inspection can take place at any time. I would expect your records to be audited very shortly, Dr. Hanson. I trust you are aware that in the event of another so-called error, the department will have to revoke your medical license.”
The doctor grimaced at the last few words, and one woman gasped.
Dopp walked over to the doctor, who was pinching the ticket, and placed one hand on his shoulder. “I understand this is an awful setback for you, but God will still have mercy on you if you—”
The old man squirmed away. “Scare off my patients, fine me, but if you actually value human dignity, don’t you dare preach to me.”
Dopp matched his defiant stare before retreating to the door, motioning to Trent to follow. As they walked out, Dopp turned back around. Trent stepped aside, relieved not to be the target of his boss’s furious gaze.
“Bottom line, Dr. Hanson: Treat all your patients with compassion and respect, and we’ll never have to see each other again.”
He turned and walked out. Without looking at anyone in the room, Trent followed on his heels, letting the door slam behind them. On the sidewalk, the car was waiting as promised. After they entered the backseat and greeted the driver, Dopp turned to Trent.
“So, what did you learn from that?”
There was a feeling of awe in Trent’s response: “That we have a lot of power.”
“A lot of power for good. That’s the beauty of it.”
A gnawing question forced its way out. “But, well, what if the doctor didn’t do anything wrong with the embryos, and it was just a simple numerical error like he said?”
“That’s his fault, not ours. He must take the responsibility for it. Imagine if you fell asleep while you were driving, and then you crashed into a pole. You wouldn’t say to the police, ‘Oh well, don’t punish me for it, because I didn’t kill anyone.’ This was a wake-up call: I guarantee those embryos will never be disturbed now. We’re the only advocates for those souls, Trent. We owe it to them not to let any mistakes slide.”
Trent nodded in earnest. The words imbued him with a new intensity of purpose, like a faded painting regaining its color.
“Now,” Dopp said, “this slap on the wrist is nothing compared to what we could do if we happened to get a confession out of Arianna Drake about stealing EUEs.”
Trent knew he was referring to a clinic shutdown, which could happen only if the department found proof of a doctor destroying embryos for scientific research; biotech cannibalism was a felony and would entail a murder trial and an almost-certain jail sentence.
“But,” Dopp continued, “I wanted you to witness, on a smaller scale, the importance and the effect of our work. Whenever you get frustrated, remember the exhilaration of knowing that you did right, that you are defined by your conscience and not your own desires. I want you to be able to feel that, too.”
“I want to, boss,” he said, and a deep-seated admission escaped him. “I want to know my life has a meaning.” Speaking the words stung. He was aware his painful uncertainty existed, but it had been repressed, buried like a splinter.
Dopp did not respond right away, and Trent smiled uncomfortably, trying to mitigate the weight of his own words. But when he looked into Dopp’s eyes, he saw empathy.
“Your life does have meaning, Trent,” Dopp said. “The meaning is in your pledge to do whatever it takes to help others. And I know you have made that pledge, because you are here right now. If it isn’t clear to you yet, it’s because you haven’t seen the direct effect of your work. You see the data and you analyze the reports, but you’re not out there taking action. That’s why I want you to have a go at this assignment. And if you’re successful, we can talk about moving you to fieldwork permanently.”
Trent’s head snapped up. “Really?”
“You miss being a reporter, don’t you?”
He was taken aback; how did Dopp detect something he had barely admitted to himself? But it was true—he craved interacting with people and hitting the streets for a scoop, blissfully far from an office.
“Sometimes,” he allowed. “But I know my work here is more important.”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be one or the other. Maybe you’re not as well suited for an office gig.”
Trent couldn’t have asked for more incentive. “I think you read me right.”
Dopp chuckled. “We may just be more alike than I thought. I understand where you’re at, son.”
The fond slip made Dopp smile; it was clear he relished his position as a mentor, something he had given up when he left the Church. They were almost back at the office, and as the car made the last turn around a corner, Trent was convinced he did not have to seek guidance from Father Paul, as his parents h
ad suggested at brunch the day before. Everything he needed to see and hear and emulate was an arm’s length away.
“You won’t be disappointed,” he said, grabbing the door handle. “I will crack this case.” His own confidence surprised him; he wasn’t used to feeling so sure about anything. And then he realized that he did have faith in the outcome, based on the strength of his own motivation. Though he wondered briefly if that was really faith, if it was based on reason.
The car pulled up in front of their building’s towering black façade, and Trent jumped out, remembering what he had to do.
“In a hurry?” Dopp called.
“Yeah,” he said, jogging backwards on the balls of his feet. “I’ve got a book to read.”
FIVE
Trent thumbed through the last hundred pages of Dakota’s novel, barely concentrating on the words. Tonight was the night. Would he flub his approach? Would Arianna brush him off? Would she even be there?
It was late afternoon when he finished the book, a mystery with a seemingly ambiguous ending—the kind he would have enjoyed pondering if he were not so distracted.
“You’ll be in God’s hands tonight,” Dopp reassured him before he left the office.
Trent wanted to draw comfort from the words, but somehow they sounded like a preemptive excuse for whatever might happen: If you fail, it was never meant to be. The words also seemed to carry the subtext that if you succeed, it was due to God’s help, not to your own skill. Either way, he walked home feeling like a pawn of a higher force. If he did conquer the case, he wanted to believe that he was responsible for the triumph. But that was selfish, he thought, and silly. Who was he to steal credit from the Lord? And to even resent His help? Trent laughed out loud, feeling better. And then a brilliant thought clicked in his mind. To destroy his inner monster of egoism was simple: All he had to do was laugh at it.
When he reached his apartment, at Seventy-third and Columbus, his anxiety about the night was gone. He whistled as he showered, shaved and dressed, taking care to gel his unruly hair and iron a red button-down shirt. Wearing comfortable washed-out jeans and black sneakers, he felt more like himself than he ever did at work. He left for the bookstore an hour early, even though it was only seven blocks away.
But as he neared it, an unexpected sight made his heart thump: A line stretched from inside the store down Broadway, looping around Sixty-sixth Street and out of sight. Would Arianna take one look at it and decide it wasn’t worth the wait? He scanned the crowd, restlessly searching for her face as the line inched forward for a half hour.
Just as he started to convince himself that waiting in the rest of the line was a waste of time, a ringlet of black hair edged into his peripheral vision. He glanced to the right and saw the woman’s profile: It was Arianna. At first, he just stared. She was clutching the book and chatting with another woman off to the side of the line, where liter bottles of soda were arranged next to cups on a white plastic table. She was taller than he had expected, which somehow made her seem like a more formidable foe. She was dressed in slim-fitting jeans, low-heeled sandals, and a white blouse that made her olive skin seem darker. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was gesturing and pointing to a page in the book.
A light tap from the person behind him sent him scooting forward, as the line had cleared five feet ahead of him. How had he planned to approach her? He tried to remember, but the line was moving so fast, and all he could focus on was keeping her in sight. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her talk, begging God to keep her going. If he left the line now to go up to her, it would look bizarre—he was almost at the front. A slow minute ticked away before he reached Aaron Dakota, a gruff-looking man with a gray beard and a permanent slouch who was sitting behind a plastic table.
“What’s your name?” Dakota mumbled as he took Trent’s book.
Trent told him, and added, “Great mystery.” The book’s cunning was indeed a feat, the most enjoyable research for the DEP that he had ever conducted. Arianna, felon or not, had stellar taste in literature.
Dakota smiled after he scribbled his signature, but to Trent’s relief, he had no interest in conversing; he was already eyeing the next person in line. Clutching his copy, Trent walked—slowly, he told himself—to the drink table and poured himself a cup of Coke. Pinned to the wall above the table was a banner with words the color of spilled blood: WHO KILLED MARY FLETCHER?
Trent opened his book, pretending to study a passage while waiting for Arianna’s conversation to wrap up. Her back was to him, but he could overhear what she was saying: “There’s no way the murderer was the sister! How could she have done it if it was mentioned in the fourth chapter that she was taking a shower at exactly that time—it was just one sentence, but look, just wait, let me find it.”
“Hmm,” mused the woman standing across from her. “But if it wasn’t the sister, then it had to have been the boyfriend, who was so likable.…”
Arianna shook her head as she opened her book and started flipping through the pages.
“It wasn’t the boyfriend either,” Trent cut in, sidling up to them. “Hey, I couldn’t help but overhearing.”
They both stared at him expectantly, as if it were natural that a fellow reader should jump into their discussion. He swallowed, realizing that he had hardly contemplated his own theory about the book’s puzzle.
“What I think is,” he said, “that whether the boyfriend seemed likable or not, it would have been arbitrary for him to commit murder with no motive. Dakota’s a better writer than that.”
“I know!” said the other woman, whose blond hair was pulled into a tight bun that made her powdered face seem pinched. “So who do you think it was, then?”
Arianna looked at him; did he detect amusement on her face? Was he saying something idiotic? Yet it was too late to backtrack. He cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, “Think about Max. Even though he was a minor side character, he was a shady guy who had subtle feelings for Mary. He had a motive, then—he couldn’t have her, and if she was dead, no one else could either. And where was he at the time of her murder? Dakota distracts us with the family’s revelation. So we completely switch focus from Max, just like Dakota wanted.”
“What did I tell you?” Arianna said, snapping her own book shut and turning to the woman. “If it was Max, that’s the only way all the unconnected clues in the later chapters make sense. I can’t find them all now, but go back and you’ll see.” She smiled at Trent, seeming to take him in with a fresh perspective. “Impressive.”
“What,” he teased, “you thought you were the only one who got that?”
She smiled, but the woman frowned.
“Just because you two happen to agree doesn’t mean you’re right. The whole stupid book is just about getting people to argue so it will sell.”
“Maybe,” Arianna said. “We’re just saying we think the answer is there, that’s all.”
We.
“Well, I don’t think it’s that simple.” The woman turned on her heel and walked out, with a pointed glance at Trent.
He looked at Arianna with an apologetic shrug, but underneath her raised eyebrows, she was struggling to hide a smile.
“I think we scared her off,” she said.
Trent nodded, feeling his shoulders relax. “Hey, sometimes the truth is hard to handle.” He smiled.
“The funny thing is,” she said, shaking her head, “that woman started the whole discussion with me, and then she ends up complaining about how the book makes everyone want to argue.”
He chuckled and sipped his Coke. Up close, with her black hair pulled into a long ponytail, all the slopes in her face seemed more dramatic: her straight nose, her pointed chin, her cheekbones protruding like tiny rounded cliffs. Nothing about her was soft—as a woman should be, he thought. The intensity of her steel blue eyes reminded him of a man’s.
He pulled the cup from his mouth and extended his hand. “I’m Trent.”
/> She shook his hand firmly, as he expected. “Arianna. Can you believe the turnout here?”
“No, the line was ridiculous. But it was worth it, to meet Dakota.”
“Yeah.” She looked in the author’s direction. The line was still snaking through the store. “I love his stuff. I wonder if all these people got the same message.”
Trent’s heart pounded. “What message?”
“Oh, I got this note from his publicist on NYfaces. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known to come.”
“Oh, really? I walk past here to go to work every day, so I’ve been seeing his name in the window for a while.”
“Where do you work?”
“I rent some office space in Midtown,” he said, not missing a beat. “I’m a writer.” This he had prepared; he could not think of a career easier to stretch in terms of when, where, what.
Her lips spread into a genuine grin. “Is that the hardest profession like everyone says?”
He shrugged. “Depends what day you ask me.”
“What kind of writing do you do?”
“Fiction,” he said. The kind that lets you make up anything.
“God, you must have a great imagination. I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’m a doctor.”
“Oh?”
“An OB-GYN. I specialize in reproductive endocrinology.”
“Ah,” he said, “well, I doubt my work is harder than that.”
“So do you write short stories? Novels?”
“I’m on my first novel,” he said. “I used to be a reporter on Long Island, but I left to do something more creative.”
“What’s it about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It’s about—well, it’s a thriller, complicated to explain on the spot.” He drew back with a shy smile and sipped his Coke.
She nodded. “So you must really be able to appreciate all the techniques Dakota uses. I think he’s a fantastic writer.”
“Absolutely.”
A brief lull ensued, and he scrambled for words to keep the conversation flowing. All around them, people were talking loudly.