by Judi Lind
“Get it from personnel,” she said as she ran out the door. Her eyes scanned the nearly deserted lobby area. One of the janitors ran his buffer with slow patience across the expanse of polished tile. A lone figure, probably the relative of someone in surgery or intensive care, was stretched out on a sofa, a newspaper over his face.
Her heart leaped when she spotted a tall, dark-haired man hurrying toward the entrance. “Wait!” she called, and rushed across the polished floor.
The man obediently paused and glanced over his shoulder.
“Oh. Never mind,” she said. “Sorry.”
The man who had seemed so familiar was one of those in the impromptu lineup. Probably a policeman or relative of an inpatient.
Where could Gil have disappeared to so quickly?
She spent another five minutes looking behind columns and watching the men’s room door, but no sign of Gil.
Finally, except for the sleeping man and a blue-haired woman in the pale pink uniform of a volunteer shuffling some papers behind the information desk, the lobby was empty.
Gil Branton had disappeared.
Chapter Five
Disheartened, Valerie trudged toward the elevator. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into her nice cozy bed and sleep the rest of the month. Except her keys were in the backpack she’d forgotten in Martin Abel’s office. And she should stop by the woman’s clinic, adjacent to the hospital, just to make sure everything was on track since she was going to be off the next four—make that three—days.
She was already well into the first day of her much-needed mini-vacation. Because of the complexity of scheduling, this lovely four-day-off period only happened every six weeks or so.
The elevator arrived and she stepped into the cab, nodding to a pair of white-coated colleagues. At the next stop Dr. Sidney Weingold stepped aboard. Sidney was a fellow OB/GYN specialist who was also Valerie’s personal physician. And a good friend.
“Val! I just heard you were involved in a bit of a commotion earlier.”
“Hi, Sid. Yeah, a lunatic set off the fire alarms on the fifth floor and chased me and a patient into the morgue. A security guard was injured.”
The elevator paused and after giving Valerie a curious glance, the other two doctors disembarked.
“That’s incredible!” Sid said. “You weren’t hurt, were you?”
“No, I’m fine. Just shaken up.”
He nodded. “You look a little pale. Why don’t you stop by my office later and I’ll give you a quick once-over?”
The elevator stopped again and Sid stepped out. She pressed the button to keep the door open. “I can fit you in around ten,” he said.
She smiled and shook her head. “By ten I hope I’m home getting some serious snooze time. I’m fine, Sid, really.”
“Okay,” he said doubtfully, “but if you have any problems, don’t hesitate to phone. Here or at home.”
“I will. Thanks.” She released the hold button and the door slid closed.
Sid Weingold was the prize catch of Parker Memorial Hospital. Tall, thick wavy brown hair and honey-brown eyes. Probably filthy rich, judging from his life-style. And a nice guy. Two-thirds of the single women on staff were madly in love with him.
For a while it had seemed as if his and Valerie’s friendship was going to develop into something deeper. Then Gil Branton had come into her life and old reliable Sid was quickly forgotten.
She should have stuck with Sid, she thought ruefully as the elevator continued its ride to the administrative level. With any luck, no one else she knew would come aboard and expect conversation. She was too tired to form words.
Her mental and physical reserves were totally depleted. All she wanted was sleep. She could kick Gil’s butt for dragging her into this mess. Come to think of it, she could kick his butt for several reasons. Was that why she felt so churlish and out of sorts? Because Gil had deprived her of the opportunity to ream him out?
The hospital was starting to come alive, she noted as the elevator stopped at each floor, disgorging and picking up new passengers. She murmured an occasional greeting, but by the time she reached the sixth-floor administration level, she was blessedly alone.
The office staff kept different hours than the medical personnel, and so the sixth-floor corridor was still dim and deserted as she trod silently down the plush carpet to Martin Abel’s office. With any luck, the pompous hospital administrator would still be downstairs irritating the police. Maybe she could just sneak in, grab her backpack and be on her way without encountering a soul.
Luck, however, turned out to be elusive. As she approached the spacious anteroom where his secretary generally kept the hoi polloi at bay, the sound of voices wafted out of Abel’s office. Although she couldn’t make out more than an occasional word, the tone of the half-heard conversation was heated.
Courtesy demanded that Valerie backtrack and wait discreetly until the encounter was over. But courtesy didn’t have an aching back and swollen feet. Drawing a deep breath, she rapped sharply on the burled mahogany door.
“Come in!”
She turned the ornate brass handle and poked her head into the sumptuous office. Abel was standing behind his desk, scowling down at a man seated in front of him. She could only see the back of the man’s head, but tension sparked between them like a live wire. “Sorry for the interruption, but I left my backpack—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Abel interjected. “We were finished, anyway.”
The other man rose and leaned forward. Speaking so softly Valerie wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly, the man intoned, “We’re finished. For now.”
He turned and took two steps in her direction. Ed Grant! Mild shock waves rippled through her. She couldn’t imagine two more unlikely combatants than the head of the hospital and an orderly.
Ed nodded tersely, his lean jaw locked so tightly she could almost see his teeth grinding. “Dr. Murphy.”
“Ed.”
He brushed past her, bumping noisily against a chair in the reception area.
Lifting her gaze, Valerie stared at the administrator. A man who would remain pale after a two-week Hawaiian vacation, Abel’s skin looked bleached white. His lips were compressed and his left eye blinked furiously.
“What was it you wanted?”
She eased into the office and pointed to the denim bag lying beside the sofa. “My backpack. I forgot it earlier.”
“Ah.”
She’d grabbed it and almost made it back to the door when his voice stopped her. “Did they find the intruder?”
It took her a second to realize he was referring to the gunman. Somehow the tension rippling through the air in Abel’s walnut-paneled office seemed more treacherous than a would-be killer stalking the halls. “No, I don’t think they found him.”
He nodded slowly. “No doubt the man made his escape before the authorities even arrived on the scene.”
“Probably.”
“Did the detective get all his questions answered?” Abel picked up a paper from his desk and crushed it into a ball. “I had to leave. A, um, personnel matter.”
She couldn’t conceive of a personnel matter involving a lowly orderly that would take precedence over an armed gunman loose in the hospital, but she kept her opinion to herself. “I believe Detective Sanchez is still in the building. Would you like me to page him for you?”
He stared at the crushed paper in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “What? Oh. No, that’s all right. I’m going back downstairs. I’ll find him. Was there anything else you needed, Doctor?”
Valerie slung her backpack over her shoulder. “No, thank you.”
“Well, go home and get some sleep. You’re beginning your four-off rotation, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, startled that he would know her schedule.
“Try to put this dreadful situation behind you. Let the police sort it out.”
“Of course.” Although she was clearly being dis
missed, Valerie hesitated in the doorway. A multitude of questions bubbled in her mind, but he was already shuffling through a stack of folders.
With a shrug she stepped into the reception area and turned to pull the door closed behind her. Abel was staring at her with the intensity of a black widow eyeing a nice juicy fly.
VALERIE SAT in the hospital cafeteria and scooped out the last spoonful of cherry-vanilla yogurt from the carton. Her hands were still trembling. The encounter in Abel’s office had unnerved her, although for the life of her, she couldn’t say why.
During the elevator ride down to the cafeteria, she’d thought about his intent stare. Then she’d recalled Emily Pierce once confiding that Abel was very nearsighted but too vain to wear his glasses. If she hadn’t been so exhausted and overwrought, she might have realized sooner that his disconcerting gaze was merely the result of myopia.
It was Gil’s fault for making her feel so paranoid. The calamity that had followed him into the hospital was an isolated occurrence, not an elaborate conspiracy involving respected members of the hospital staff.
Once she had some food in her stomach, Valerie calmed down enough to realize the absurdity of her apprehension. Ed Grant must have been called on the carpet for some minor infraction. No doubt that sort of thing happened every day. During her own brief interchange with him, Martin Abel had certainly been gracious enough. Still, she couldn’t forget that tic in his eyelid, that raw edge in his voice and his predatory stare. Like a chipped and rusty razor blade being dragged across a pane of glass.
Or was her imagination working overtime?
She crushed the yogurt container and dabbed her lips with a stiff paper napkin and picked up the banana she’d purchased. She started to peel it but realized she was no longer hungry. In fact, a mild wave of nausea warned her that her overtaxed system wouldn’t tolerate another morsel.
Damn Gil Branton, anyway.
Everything was his fault. Once again he’d burst into her life, then disappeared, leaving her to deal with the aftermath. She had to face the truth; the man was bad news. She’d been stupid to let her guard down again.
Disgusted with her own naiveté, she stuffed the banana into her backpack and shoved the empty yogurt container into the trash. She just wished she could stuff Gil into an equally confining container. Out of sight and definitely out of mind.
Although she was off duty and desperately needed sleep, Valerie decided to make a quick stop at the WomanCare clinic before going home. The clinic was her baby. She’d hounded, harassed, begged and pleaded for nearly two years before Parker Memorial Hospital had come through with the necessary funding for the crucial facility.
Like every major metropolitan area, Phoenix had its share of working poor and indigent women who couldn’t afford basic health care. Unfortunately these were the same women who most needed the services and counseling of competent medical practitioners.
Monica Giesen, the physician’s assistant who ran the clinic under Valerie’s careful supervision, bustled out of an examining room carrying a stainless-steel basin of instruments to be sterilized. “Oh, good morning, Dr. Murphy. We didn’t expect you in today.”
Valerie raised a fingertip to her lips. “Shh. I’m not here. You didn’t see me.”
“See who?” Monica responded conspiratorially.
“Anything going on?”
“The usual. Except we’ve had a lot of bigwigs through this morning.”
“Bigwigs?”
“Yeah. Abel and a couple of his henchmen were nosing around when I came in. Then, just a few minutes ago, Merriwether Parker-hyphen-Lathrop herself graced us with a visit. Wonder what’s up?”
Valerie shrugged. “I can’t imagine. They’re probably considering raising our funding.”
Monica raised a manicured fingertip in a disbelieving gesture and laughed. “Yeah, right. You really ought to do stand-up comedy. Raise our funding—that’s a good one.”
They chatted for a moment, then Valerie, assured the clinic was in good hands, headed for the exit.
A blast of air, hot enough to bake a soufflé, slammed into her, and she quickly retrieved her sunglasses. Ah, Phoenix in August. A furnace would be cooler.
But look at the benefits of the blazing desert heat, she thought as she slipped behind the wheel of her Celica and opened the windows to allow some of the built-up heat to escape. She always lost weight in the summer. Too hot to eat and, besides, her favorite Cherry Garcia ice cream always melted before she could get it home, so she swore off when the temperature soared.
The Celica finally started to cool down about the time Valerie turned onto Chaparral Road, in Scottsdale, a suburb of Phoenix. For the next three days she was banning all serious thoughts—especially the troubling ones about Gil Branton. Three days of pure relaxation and hedonistic living. She intended to doze away the mornings. Nibble on rolled tacos with guacamole for lunch and spend her evenings lolling by the pool.
She pulled into her drive and smiled despite herself. The low-slung adobe was the first home of her own and she loved every square foot of the unimposing structure. Xeroscape plantings of native cacti and succulents gave the graveled front yard a splash of color. As did the deep-turquoise front door that she’d adorned with a ristra of bright red chile peppers.
Intending to park the Celica in the garage, she flicked the remote. When the door opened, she growled in exasperation. She’d left her mountain bike in the middle of the floor, instead of hanging it back on the rack where it belonged.
Faced with the decision of moving the bike now or dealing with the boiling-hot interior of her car later, she opted for the latter and left the Celica in the drive. Frowning at the bike that didn’t have the decency to put itself away, she closed the automatic door behind her, savoring the sudden drop in temperature.
Not wanting to track the reddish earth onto her new off-white Berber carpet, she kicked off her shoes. Since the garage opened into the laundry room, she stripped and dropped her sweaty clothing into the hamper.
She padded naked into the bedroom where she dumped her denim bag on the dresser while planning her agenda for the rest of the day. A huge glass of ice water, her vitamins, take the phone off the hook and collapse into bed. Tonight, if she woke up at all, she’d order in pizza and watch a schmaltzy old movie.
Right now, though, she felt like she could drink a full gallon of ice water. Remembering that she’d stashed a banana in her backpack, she retrieved it before starting for the kitchen. A nice banana shake with yogurt and wheatgerm would be perfect for lunch, after some sleep.
Feeling somewhat wanton strolling through the house completely nude, she smiled, remembering a remark Gil had once made. He said she only wore clothes as a shield against her true erotic nature. But she wasn’t going to think about Gil. She was going to concentrate on the cool saltillo tile floors caressing her bare feet while the whir of the evaporative air conditioner chilled the atmosphere. The house was dim and peaceful, her sanctuary.
As she walked past the open living room, furnished with equipale leather furniture and Navajo rugs, she blinked against the glare of bright sunlight. She must have forgotten to close the blinds when she left yesterday. If her evaporative cooler had to compete with the boiling Phoenix sun, her electric bill would soon equal the national debt She had to remember to close those blinds on her way back to the bedroom.
Continuing toward the kitchen, her senses suddenly went on full alert. She took three more steps before she realized what had raised her hackles. A reddish footprint on her off-white carpet.
She paused, trying to recall if a repairman or friend had been in the house recently. But, no, yesterday was her cleaning day. Maria had been busily running the vacuum when Valerie had left for the hospital. So how did that rather large footprint appear on her newly vacuumed rug?
Valerie was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that she was completely naked, armed only with a banana. What if the maker of that print was still in her house? The print was
pointed toward the kitchen so she began to slowly backtrack, an inch at a time, her mind frantically working.
There had to be a logical solution. Maybe Maria had come back into the house for some reason and tracked the carpeting herself? No, the answer was immediate. That print was much too large to be made by a tiny woman like Maria.
Her eyes flitting from one shadowy corner to the next, Valerie continued pacing backward toward the bedroom. She had often heard that the human mind took odd turns under stress. All she could think about was being caught in the buff, and the fact that the banana she clutched so tightly in her fist would be too badly bruised to eat.
Really bright, Murphy. Let’s not worry about taking a burglar by surprise and getting shot, but heaven forbid he should see you naked. The illogic almost made her laugh.
She backed into the bright slice of sunlight that told her she was approaching the archway that opened into the living room. If Maria hadn’t returned the cordless phone to the stand in the den, it was sitting on an end table.
Relief washed through her. A few more steps and she could call for help. The Scottsdale police were reputed to be prompt in responding. Help would be here in a matter of minutes. And there was a chenille throw draped over the arm of the sofa. Help and covering were only a few feet away.
She turned to step down into the sunken living room when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.
The motion had been faint, but enough for her conscious mind to register. Valerie had no pets. Someone was definitely in her house. One intruder in the living room and another in the kitchen? And she was trapped like a plucked chicken between them.
Her heart thrummed like an Apache war drum, and blood rushed, hot and furious, through her veins. Her knees threatened to buckle even as she willed her feet to move. To get out of that shaft of brilliant sunlight. Now that the living room was out, the nearest telephone extension was in the tiny alcove built into the wall just a few feet on the other side of the archway. If she could somehow reach the phone, dial 911 before...