Primitive Secrets

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “Right. I was wondering if there might be sedative in the coffee.” She touched the handle of the mug with obvious sadness. Andrews peered at her over the top of his reading glasses and waited patiently.

  “A friend of mine died recently,” she said. “He was seventy-seven, so maybe it was a heart attack or stroke.” She frowned at the mug, then looked at the tall chemist. “But he was holding this, and he never drank coffee.”

  “It’s his mug?” Andrews asked.

  “Yes, it’s his tea mug.”

  “Who took it out of his hand?”

  “The police, but they don’t consider it to be a suspicious death.”

  “Oh?” Andrews’s eyebrows rose in neat arcs. He sniffed at the cup. “Black coffee. That’s good, no lipids.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll look for tea, too.” He got up and took the cup to a counter lined with labeled bottles. He poured a liquid into the cup. “I’ll probably need to run a couple of chromatographic separations.” He looked over at her. “It’ll probably take a few days. That okay?”

  “Sure, okay. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  Storm walked out the front door and wondered about the truthfulness of her last statement. If Andrews found a sedative, she would be faced with the fact that someone had definitely killed Hamasaki. The fact that she’d know for sure made a hard knot in her stomach.

  It was hard for her to think about anything other than Uncle Miles’s mug during her drive to the large Unimed complex. Even after she wandered through the front door, she was distracted by the thought of his grip on that cup. It took an extra ten minutes for her to find her way to the plush, corporate office wing of the multi-storied hospital. She knocked on a door marked by a brass plaque with Overton’s name, his M.D., Ph.D., and position. Impressive—she’d not known he was a physician, too. When she knocked, a woman’s voice called out, “Come in.”

  Storm entered a small reception area with a thick rug and nice artwork on the wall. Very nice artwork. She recognized a local Chinese artist’s trademark pen and ink horses. Small ones went for a few thousand and the painting of three horses cavorting across the wall in front of the woman at the rosewood desk was probably four feet wide before it was framed.

  “I’m Storm Kayama to see Dr. Overton, please.”

  The woman, an attractive blonde somewhere between thirty-five and fifty, smiled. Her face was smooth and tight, just like her body. “Storm? I have a packet for you.”

  “He’s not here?”

  “No, he had a meeting downtown with one of the bank boards he serves on. Did you have a question?”

  Storm kicked herself mentally. How had she been so deluded to think he’d see her personally? She looked down at the nameplate on the woman’s desk. “Oh, Ms. Robertson, I thought of a few more questions after Meredith Wo called you. But then, you know how nit-picky these state offices are. Every t has to be crossed.”

  “Call me Marilyn, honey. I know, we have to deal with those types constantly. Hospital accreditation boards are even worse. I went through all of that just last week. What do you need to know?”

  “Last week? Was that why he had the six-thirty appointment last Tuesday with Miles Hamasaki?”

  The woman frowned. “Six-thirty? He usually oversees rounds with the residents first thing in the morning.”

  “No, six-thirty p.m.” Storm chuckled. “I guess Dr. Overton is really busy.”

  “You couldn’t begin to fathom.” Marilyn sighed. “I moved here with him from California.” She tried to maintain her perky attitude. “But he has to work harder than ever, now.” She ducked her head, licked her thumb and leafed back a week in a large appointment book. “No, I thought so. He was with the Hospital Accreditation Board that evening.”

  “Tuesday last week?”

  “Yup, no doubt. That was one of those tough weeks.” Marilyn closed the appointment book. “Is that what you needed to know?”

  “Um, did you include data on the other Certificates of Need you’ve applied for in the last couple years?” Storm peered down at the large envelope she held. “I got the impression Dr. Overton wanted this rushed.”

  “I’m sure all the information is in there.” Marilyn gestured to Storm’s packet and showed off some expensive dental work in a practiced smile.

  “How about info on how many patients are using your new renal dialysis unit on a weekly basis?”

  Marilyn’s hand fluttered across her desk. A flash of something, anxiety or irritation, Storm wasn’t sure, passed through her bright blue eyes. “Of course, honey. Why don’t you read through the packet, then phone me with any questions?”

  Storm strolled slowly down the carpeted hall that led to the main hospital. When she got to the tiled floors, her heels tapped a pensive beat. She looked around. She stood in a wide, busy corridor right outside a big swinging door marked Radiology. Gurneys rigged with IV lines, like ships powered by nurses and orderlies, sailed by her. Renal Dialysis was right across the hall. Wo said the hospital had applied for some new dialysis units. Maybe she should pop in and see them.

  In truth, many of these departments intrigued her. She found the combination of the latest scientific technologies applied to the complicated human mechanism fascinating. Even the unfaithful Rick had delighted her with a look at his new Physical Therapy Department when it opened.

  Speak of the devil, there he was, walking down the hall toward her. Aunt Maile would say that our thoughts call back unfinished business to be dealt with. Storm’s first impulse was to bolt, but before she could get her feet moving, Rick saw her. Storm’s heart skipped a beat or two, but she managed to wiggle her fingers at him.

  To her surprise, he gave her a shaky smile and walked toward her. When they were within ten feet of each other, they both blurted, “I’m sorry,” then stuttered again on top of each other’s words.

  “I really am,” Rick said. “I fu…blew it big time.”

  “You were a real shit,” Storm said. “But I wasn’t exactly great company. And about that mess. I feel bad, now.”

  “Yeah, it was a pretty strong way of getting your point across.” Rick shuffled his feet. “I was pissed as hell at first, but the next day, I told one of the P.T.’s I work with and she told me that she would have opened the bathroom door and dumped the chili right on us. Then she would have…” Rick winced and his hand fluttered below the waist of his scrub pants.

  “Let’s forget it,” Storm said.

  “Yeah, okay. Uh, what’re you doing here? Work?”

  “Just some legwork. Looks like Unimed is getting an MRI. Will you get to use it for your patients?”

  Rick looked disgusted. “I’ll believe it when I see it. The Unimed honchos say they’re more efficient than public hospitals, but that’s a crock.” He snorted. “You’d think the CT scanner would be top-of-the line, right? It’s being repaired half the time. Piece of shit. They’re going to get another one, though. So they say.”

  “What about the new dialysis units?”

  “I have this friend who works in dialysis.” A flush began at the v-neck of his green scrubs.

  Storm cocked an eyebrow. The owner of the lacy g-string.

  Rick forged on. “There are twelve functioning dialysis machines and only a couple of them are modern. Those just got here last week, but there are supposed to be, I don’t know, four or five more on the way.” He shrugged. “Maybe the manufacturers can’t keep up.”

  “Must be frustrating,” Storm said.

  “You bet.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Hey, it’s good to see you. Maybe we should have a drink and talk.”

  Storm stared at him, then grinned. She was surprised at the sense of relief that flowed through her. “Nah, let’s just let things go for a while.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Storm gave him a wave and sauntered down the hall. She felt unchained. Rick’s departing grin
had been friendly and free of rancor. Maybe Aunt Maile was right about unfinished business.

  She followed the signs to the lobby, remembered her parking floor without any glitches, and picked up a box lunch, or bento, of tossed salad, shoyu chicken on rice, and guava juice on the way back to the office. Back at her desk, Storm refrained from licking the Styrofoam plate. No one was around to see her, but it was a matter of dignity. She slurped the last of her juice, popped the top off her paper cup and knocked an ice cube into her mouth.

  With a satisfying crunch, she doodled on her legal pad. MRI, the initials S.O., dialysis anit, Tom Sakai.

  What were Tom’s chances of surviving his cancer? How had Hamasaki planned to help him? Sherwood Overton was going to be hard to talk to, but she could get hold of Sidney O’Toole. Perhaps he knew whom Hamasaki had spoken to, and what agreements, if any, had been made. Storm chewed thoughtfully on the tip of her pen.

  Her eyes widened. For the first time, she noticed that Sidney O’Toole’s initials were S.O., also. Aside from her own father, O’Toole was Hamasaki’s oldest friend. A frisson of emotion she hadn’t felt for years passed through her. She wished she could call her father and tell him about this whole mess.

  Her father had never been close to O’Toole and now she wondered why. Storm remembered a trip she and her father had taken to O’ahu when her dad was supposed to meet Hamasaki. After arriving, he’d discovered O’Toole was going along with them, sat quietly for a moment, then asked her if she’d like to go to a movie. She remembered asking him why he’d changed his plans and he’d said that he and Hamasaki were going to a VFW meeting the next night. As if they hadn’t rushed to make the three o’clock plane so that he could be on time for that evening. She was so excited about doing something with him alone that she’d accepted his explanation.

  She had savored his attention like a seedling starved for water. Her strongest recollection of that night was how they had laughed together. She had peeked away from the comedy to watch his face, crinkled with mirth in the dark theater. It was a precious memory, and a rare occurrence since Eme’s death.

  A pang of regret pierced Storm. She missed her father, and for once, the emotion was not stained with resentment and sorrow at his withdrawal. A glimmer of awareness danced on the edges of her mind. What Storm had interpreted as estrangement had been his own struggle with helplessness, grief, and failing energy. When her mother died, he had allowed Aunt Maile to “handle the woman-to-woman stuff.” Older now, she realized that many men were uncomfortable with women’s issues. Hamasaki used to talk to her about his philosophies: his hopes, fears, education, his ideas of what made a good human being. Not exactly chitchat about menstrual cramps and what to do if your date groped you, though. Given her father’s burdens and illness, perhaps he hadn’t been as aloof as she remembered. And he’d made sure that she was surrounded with love.

  Storm stared across her office, unseeing, and wondered if his grief could have been eased if she’d overcome her own distress and anger at her mother’s death. She could have at least approached him more often. Her eyes burned. She always figured this stuff out when it was too late.

  She dumped another ice cube into her mouth; this time a block of cubes hit her nose and water streamed down the sides of her face onto her blouse front. Damn. She brushed away droplets and gazed at the spreading spots on her desk blotter. It was a cold wake-up call. Okay, this was today; yesterday was gone. What did she need to do about her current problems?

  For one thing, she could call O’Toole and ask about Tom Sakai’s prognosis and Hamasaki’s actions. She might also ask him if he’d seen Hamasaki the night he died.

  O’Toole’s office number had the same three-digit prefix as Unimed. He’d given up his private practice entirely, it appeared. She dialed and gave her name, then carefully ate another ice cube while the receptionist put her on hold.

  A moment later, a gravelly voice said, “Storm, Sid O’Toole here. How are you holding up, my dear?”

  “It’s hard to accept that he’s gone, Dr. O’Toole. These questions keep whirling around in my head.”

  “Normal mourning process, honey. Do you need anything to help you sleep?”

  “No, thanks.” Good old O’Toole. She wondered if he ever recommended exercise or another holistic alternative to Prozac for his depressed patients. His concern seemed genuine, though. She’d try to show a little gratitude.

  “Dr. O’Toole, I was going through some of Uncle Miles’s papers and found a file on Tom Sakai.”

  O’Toole did not respond for a few seconds. When he did, the warm doctor voice had disappeared. “They’re extremely confidential. I need to have those returned right away.”

  “Certainly. But, what are Tom’s chances of beating this? Criminy, the guy’s so young. And he has little kids.”

  “I shouldn’t have bothered Miles with all that. Nothing he could do, apparently. Hope it didn’t contribute to his, uh…”

  “No, Uncle Miles had a lot of experience with people’s troubles.” Storm thought about Hamlin’s belief that Hamasaki had been preoccupied with a crisis closer to home. “Is Tom’s case hopeless?”

  “His chances are pretty slim, but I’d never tell him or Lani. Hope is sometimes the best medicine we have.”

  “She seems strong,” Storm said.

  There was a long pause on the phone. “You’ve met her?”

  “Uh, yes. My aunt is a Hawaiian healer, working with Bebe Fernandez. I brought some herbs from Honoka’a last weekend.” Storm wanted to shift the subject back to Sakai’s treatment. “Are the Hawaiian methods helping him?”

  “More than I thought.”

  “But he’s still undergoing traditional Western treatments, isn’t he?” Storm asked.

  “Yes, he goes over to Queen’s Hospital for a CT scan once a month, then back to Unimed for his blood work. He had a bad time around March or April, but he’s fairly stable right now.”

  “Queen’s?” Storm asked.

  “Temporarily, of course. Unimed has a very good radiology department. We just had a temporary breakdown in our new machine and the older one doesn’t have the resolution I wanted for Tom. I want to see the tiniest shadow, a hairline fracture, any hint of a new tumor. You know. We’re following him like a hawk.”

  “I know you’re trying to do everything you can for him.”

  “Yes.” His voice was tinged with weariness.

  “Dr. O’Toole, did you by any chance drop into Hamasaki’s office on Sunday, the night he died?”

  Two or three seconds of thick silence met her question. “The police asked me about this already. Storm, you need help. Obsessional bereavement is not unusual, believe me. Unimed has a psychiatrist who specializes in grief management. His name is Dr. Edelstein. I’ll refer you.”

  “Just a minute, Dr. O’Toole. You did see him, right?”

  “Certainly, we met for a few minutes, as we often did,” O’Toole barked. “Miles was trying to get Overton to pay for a last-ditch effort to save Sakai’s life. That afternoon, he gave me a short progress report. When I left, he was chatting cheerfully on the telephone.”

  “What time did you leave?” Storm asked.

  “I told the police that and I’m not going to discuss it any further,” O’Toole snapped. She heard him take a deep breath. “Storm, you need to talk to someone about this obsession.”

  Storm could imagine the hue of his face. His nose was probably the color of an Okinawa sweet potato, a mottled and veined purple.

  “I’ll have Edelstein’s receptionist call you for an appointment.” He slammed down the phone.

  Chapter 26

  Storm sat back in her chair, rubbed her hands over her face, and tried to sort through what O’Toole had just said. He’d revealed a lot. First, he’d been very defensive when he mentioned the police. Still, O’Toole had been Hamasaki’s doctor. Second, he said that Unimed owned two CT scanners and
one was old. A couple of hours ago, Rick told her that Unimed had only one, which needed a lot of repairs. Of course, Rick might have been distracted.

  Rick’s comments about the dialysis unit were illuminating, too. The information that Marilyn, Overton’s secretary, had given her was a recap of what she already had; there was nothing on any other high-cost equipment requested by Certificate of Need, which should include both dialysis machines and CT scanners. When she’d mentioned them, Marilyn had waved her question away. Storm gritted her teeth. With Wo and Wang putting on the pressure, she didn’t want to have to chase down this data.

  Storm picked up the phone, dialed Unimed’s central operator and started to request Overton’s office, then changed mid-sentence and asked for the renal dialysis unit.

  “Hi, my mother’s diabetic and needs dialysis. I’m looking for a facility…”

  “Hold on a minute, please.”

  Muzak crooned into her ear and Storm held the phone a foot away from her head while she paged through the Unimed data again to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

  “Hello, this is Stephanie Oishi, head nurse in the Unimed dialysis unit. May I help you?”

  Storm repeated her ailing mother story and asked how many dialysis machines Unimed had available. Oishi spewed some interesting information in her sales pitch. “…Twenty modern dialysis stations, nationally accredited technicians, evaluation for transplant potential, blood typing and access to a national organ donor data bank, ten more new dialysis units to be set up in the next six months…”

  “Thank you, Ms. Oishi. I’ll get back to you.” Storm hung up the phone and stared at an industrious spider in the corner of her ceiling. Rick had said twelve machines, and some of them were old.

  Storm punched in the number for Overton’s office, and as she hoped, Marilyn’s cheerful voice responded. “Hello, Marilyn. It’s Storm Kayama. I’m going through your paperwork and I still need some information. Can you tell me how many CT scanners and dialysis machines Unimed has presently and how many were acquired in the last year? It would expedite this application…Sure, you can call me back.”