It wasn’t. A man covered with freckles smiled and directed her to the left when she asked for the pharmacy.
But that hall led her to a gift shop. She stuck her head in. Helium-filled balloons bounced along the ceiling. Warm and fuzzy stuffed animals exuded joy. The aura of determined cheeriness was almost daunting. “You don’t have a pharmacy in here, do you?” she called to a woman barely visible behind a pile of brightly colored plush toys.
“No, no.” A face with perfect teeth and too-red cheeks smiled brightly. The woman pointed.
Indeed the pharmacy was there, behind the gift shop. Glass walls and little windows everywhere. And more stuffed animals and balloons. Two men seemed to be sorting something behind a glass wall. They both looked up as she placed on the counter the envelope delivered by the helicopter.
“Didn’t think I’d ever find you. This place doesn’t have the best sign system,” she said to the man who met her there. He wasn’t much taller than she. His nose looked like it had been broken sometime long past, and beneath it a toothpick bobbed as he chewed on it.
He put an elbow on his side of the counter, rested his chin in his hand, raised his eyebrows and said around the toothpick, “Anything else you’d like to complain about?”
Rachel’s eyebrows drew into a straight line, but she said nothing.
“Your name?” he asked, looking sad now, like an abused beagle.
She couldn’t think why, or why it mattered to her. And the wondering itself flustered her. “What?”
“Your name.”
“Why?”
“Are you always this grumpy?”
She tried a small laugh. “Not always. But I guess you’re right about now.” She flushed, uneasy. Why was this man with the broad brow, short broad fingers and the nose of a wrestler somehow oddly attractive?
“Well, the grumpy act is usually my job,” he said. “So what’s your name?”
“Rachel Chavez. But I don’t see—”
“I can’t very well find your prescription if I don’t know your name, now can I?” He had turned away and was riffling through a tray of white envelopes. “C-h-a-v-e-z?”
“I’m not here to pick up a prescription,” she said, brusquely businesslike, and tapped the package on the counter. “I’m here because, best I can tell, this is addressed to you.”
He picked up the envelope, glanced at the address label, then gave her a quizzical look. “How did you get it?”
“I own the parking garage around the corner and down a few blocks. The hospital leases some parking space for staff and the daytime use of the helipad on the roof.”
He stared at her. “You own a parking garage.” There was no question mark at the end of the sentence.
“Right.”
“Gabe Lucero.” He stuck out his hand and a smile transfigured his face.
His grip was strong and she felt her own smile broaden.
“Hey-hey.” Another man materialized behind Gabe. “Where’s my introduction?” Bright, dark eyes that missed nothing separated a pair of ears that almost qualified for “loving-cup.” He looked like a freshly bathed and brushed schoolboy.
“Meet our local drug pusher,” Gabe said, tilting his head toward him.
Rachel wasn’t sure how to react.
“Pay no attention to Gabe. He loses his manners every morning on the freeway on-ramp.” The hand the man extended had a few strands of dark hair on the backs of surprisingly long, narrow fingers. “Gordon Cox. Zyrco Pharmaceuticals.”
Gordon was taller than she, but so neatly groomed, right down to his manicured fingernails, that Rachel felt gawky beside him. “Nice to meet you.”
“Usually this place is filled with pharm staff,” Gabe said. “But this is like siesta time for the patients, and maybe the docs, too, for all I know. Not many prescriptions this time of day so I’m the only one on duty at the moment. Gordon here sometimes stops by to hassle me.”
“I see you deliver parcels,” Gordon said to Rachel. He cleared his throat and his even features grinned boyishly. “Messenger service? Competing with FedEx?”
“Occasionally.” Rachel wondered if she should set him straight and decided not to bother.
“She owns the parking garage down the street,” Gabe said. “I guess we rent use of the helipad on the roof.”
Gordon frowned. “I thought there was a helipad on the roof of the garage here.”
“Apparently it needs some repairs,” Rachel said.
Gordon cut in with a change of subject. “What time do you get off?”
“Excuse me?” Never mind that he looked like everyone’s next door neighbor, was he hitting on her?
“Work. What time do you get off work?”
“I don’t, actually, ever get off,” Rachel said stiffly. “I live there.”
“Let me put it another way.” Gordon glanced at his watch. “I’ve got two more stops before I can call it a day. How about you join us for a drink at the Pig ’n Whistle? Gabe here gets off at six-thirty, so how about seven?”
Gabe was watching Rachel’s face.
She glanced at him. “Oh…no. Sorry, I can’t.”
“Why not?” This time the question was Gabe’s.
“I have to deliver this.” Rachel held up the remaining package. She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks and drew back a step or two, hoping they wouldn’t notice.
“That takes four hours?” Gabe asked.
“Hardly.” Rachel backed a few more steps. “But I have to see to the garage. A lot of things happen during rush hours. Besides, I don’t drink.”
“So don’t drink. Have a soda.” Gabe glanced at Gordon. His look seemed to be telling the other man to keep his mouth shut. “Tell you what. Gordon and I will be at the Pig—you know where it is?”
She nodded.
“We’ll be there at seven. If you change your mind, you’re welcome to join us. Otherwise….” He shrugged.
A beat went by before she said, “Okay, thanks. Nice meeting you.” She turned on her heel, and gave a small sigh when the door of the pharmacy closed behind her.
Chapter Twelve
Rachel moved down the hall hoping the laboratory wouldn’t be as hard to find as the pharmacy. She stopped again at the gift shop.
Either the clerk was delighted to be of service, or a too-tight facelift gave her a perennial smile. “Second floor,” she sang out. “Take the elevator in the east wing. You’ll find the hall to that on the far side of the lobby.”
Another long air-terminal-like hall. Good exercise, though. And a good cure for nervous energy. A thin stream of people passed Rachel going the other way. If she did this often there would be no need to go jogging. Finally reaching the elevators, she went on past and opened the door under the exit sign. The stairwell was a utilitarian beige and white high-gloss enamel. She took the steps to the next floor. The door there gave way to an empty hall that dead-ended at a window just beyond the elevators.
Nothing resembling a laboratory was in sight, just a potted plant that looked out of place and sad. For that matter, the whole area looked neglected.
Arriving at a T where the elevator hall intersected another, Rachel swung the box against her leg, annoyed. The least they could do was post some signs. Two big doors blocked each end of this short hall. The lab had to be one way or the other. She turned right.
The doors were dark wood, somewhat chipped despite wide brass plates. The plates up the sides bore fingerprints, the ones across the bottom, scuff marks. Rachel pushed against the right-hand door. It resisted, but when she put her shoulder against it, it gave way, letting her into a cheerless corridor with mud-colored wainscoting and mustard-yellow walls in need of paint.
The lab couldn’t be there. It must be at the other end of the hall.
A foot-square piece of plastic lay face down on the floor beneath the door. She picked it up. Big red letters outlined in black spelled area closed for repairs.
She was turning to retrace her steps when from behind
her came the sound of shattering glass, punctuated by a sharp yell followed by words she couldn’t understand. Spanish? Then there were several voices talking over each other.
Puzzled, Rachel followed the sound and found herself in a long corridor with six or seven doorways on each side. Directly across from her a door stood open to a large room, and she could see the ends of three beds.
Halfway down the hall, a man and a woman, both in white, perhaps nurses or techs, emerged from one room and crossed the corridor to another. They didn’t look toward where she stood in the shadows.
Guessing she had stumbled on some sort of overflow ward, Rachel made her way back to the double doors and pushed her way through. If this wing of the hospital was in use, why did the sign say it was closed?
But her main need was to find the elusive laboratory, deliver the brown envelope, and get back to the garage. She strode to the other end of the hall, swung open the doors, and found herself next to a nurses’ station. Here the linoleum reflected the bright fluorescent lights.
One of the nurses looked up as she approached.
“Excuse me.”
“Oh, dear,” the nurse murmured. She was a big-boned woman with frizzy red hair. “How did you get here?”
“Sorry,” Rachel said. “I’m looking for the clinical laboratory.”
The nurse shook her head. “It’s downstairs. The floor below the lobby.”
“Below the lobby? I was told it was on the second floor.”
“That is the second floor. The lobby is the third floor.” Catching Rachel’s look, she added, “I know it’s confusing.”
“Thanks.” Rachel turned back toward the elevators.
“No, no. Not that way,” the nurse called behind her.
“But that’s the way I came.”
“That’s a restricted area. There’s an elevator down there.” She pointed to the opposite hall, where glossy white woodwork and floor tile ran between bright blue walls.
Rachel shrugged and moved obediently down the hall of the pointing finger. Were all hospitals this hard to navigate? Still preferring to walk, she found another staircase next to another bank of elevators. If this was one floor above the lobby, the one she wanted should be two floors below. She started down.
The banister was metal painted GI khaki and cold. Even Rachel’s light footsteps echoed. Must be some sort of psychological test, she was thinking, to see if patients can get around the building without losing themselves or their tempers. As for her, she was failing on both counts.
Above her, the door she had come through opened and footsteps came down the steps toward her. She looked up, but could see only the underside of the stairs, not whoever was on them.
“The lab is another two flights down?” she called.
No answer. The footsteps had stopped too.
Chapter Thirteen
An unexpected chill rippled down Rachel’s spine. Don’t be silly. Probably just someone who forgot something and stopped to think. Just the same, she ran down the steps, not pausing until she reached the door that should lead to what they called the second floor.
Inside were dazzling blue walls and a sign that read clinical laboratory. Clever place for the first sign, she thought.
A white-jacketed tech behind the counter relieved her of the box. “How do I get out of here?” she asked.
He tilted his head toward yet another hall. “Easiest way is through the emergency waiting room.”
It was getting late. This time she took the elevator and ran all the way back to the garage, plagued by two equally unwanted thoughts.
Why are there people, presumably patients, in a wing of the hospital marked closed? Nothing to do with you and none of your business.
What on earth is so attractive about that pharmacist? Compared to Hank, he’s a one-eyed dwarf with warts.
So when Rachel found herself in front of the Pig ’n Whistle at ten after seven, it was because she had persuaded herself that the first question about the odd hospital wing might be answered by the pharmacist. Or at least that’s what she told herself.
The bar was dimly lit and filled as always at that time of night with the shadows and chatter of people who for whatever reason would rather be there than at home.
She pushed through the crowd looking for Gordon Cox, who she thought would be hard to miss. A perfectly groomed, dapper fellow should stick out among these loosened collars and awry ties. Besides, she didn’t really want to look for the pharmacist. What was his name? Gabe.
A hand tapped her shoulder. She spun around to look into the beaming face of Gordon Cox. “Over here. We have a booth,” he said, and a surprisingly firm hand grasped her elbow and led her past the people perched on bar stools.
“Thanks.” She scooted onto a padded black plastic bench.
“No, that’s my place.” Gordon motioned her to the place beside Gabe, who was furiously chomping a toothpick. He removed it only to take a swallow of the beer from the mug in front of him.
“What do you want?” Gordon asked Rachel. “I’ll get it from the bar. We’re not likely to see a waitress.”
“Club soda,” Rachel said, “with lots of ice, some lemon and a straw.”
“I told you,” Gabe said to Gordon. “This is a woman who knows exactly what she wants.”
If only. Rachel watched Gordon disappear into the mass of shoulders. She thought the only thing missing from the neat figure was that he should be wearing a derby. The guy sure was a sweetheart.
Gabe moved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Glad you changed your mind. I’m new around here. Don’t know many people. Gordon says I should get out more.”
“Is he your keeper?” Rachel asked, and in spite of the fact that his leg was too close, she didn’t move hers.
Gabe gave her an amused look. “He’s a good guy. Better than most.”
Gordon reappeared holding a glass of clear liquid with tiny bubbles breaking against the floating lemon slice.
Gabe removed the toothpick and wrapped it in his napkin.
Gordon set the glass in front of Rachel, slid onto the bench across the table, then reached up and fingered the knot of his tie before picking up his own drink, which looked like scotch on the rocks. “I won the bet.” He gestured at Gabe. “This gentleman thought you wouldn’t show.”
“He was close,” Rachel said. “I didn’t think I would, either. But I have a question, and it occurred to me one of you might be able to answer it.”
Gordon tilted his head toward her. Gabe was wiping up a wet spot on the table with his napkin. They both said the same thing. “Shoot.”
The bubbles buzzed up her nose as Rachel took a sip of soda. She set the glass down and pressed her napkin to her lips. “It’s about the hospital. The east wing on the,” she stopped to count, “I think it’s the fourth floor. The one with the sign that says Area Closed for Repairs or something like that.”
Gabe shook his head. “No clue. I’ve only been here a couple months and I hardly ever get out of the pharmacy. When I do, I go outside, not upstairs.”
Gordon was examining his swizzle stick as carefully as if it were the entrails of a sacrificed animal. He glanced at Gabe. “Maybe she means the celebrity wing.”
Gabe frowned. “What celebrity wing?”
Gordon rubbed a finger along the end of his thumbnail. “You mean you don’t know?”
“So what’s there to know?” Gabe asked.
“Where are we?” Gordon asked. “Could this possibly be Los Angeles? More celebrities than anywhere in the world? Okay, maybe New York has more per square foot, but a load of famous people right here, no?”
Rachel’s eyes moved from Gabe to Gordon. She took another sip of soda.
“So where do you think they go when they get sick?” Gordon asked. “Or maybe even when they just get a facelift?”
Gabe broke into a smile. “Son of a gun, is that right? You mean we might have Paris Hilton up there?”
“Of course they’re
quiet about it. No one wants to be mowed down by a mob of star-struck fans,” Gordon said. “Or worse, a platoon of paparazzi scaling up the outside of the building. I’ve heard that some of the big-time pols, even a president or two, have been here at least once. They know Jefferson will protect their privacy.”
Rachel put her glass down. “Okay, that probably explains it. Thanks.”
Gordon glanced at her. “How did you find out about it?”
“I stumbled across it earlier today when I was lost, and couldn’t help but wonder.”
It wasn’t until she had left the bar and was driving home that it occurred to her that the mud-colored wainscoting and mustard-colored walls didn’t exactly connote celebrity. Incognito or not.
Chapter Fourteen
Later that night on the bench in front of the garage Rachel mentioned to Goldie the Jefferson ward that Gordon thought was reserved for celebrities.
“Makes sense,” Goldie said. “If you’re Julia Roberts and you’re getting tucks here and there, you don’t exactly want your fans running through the halls, barging into your room, askin’ for autographs and seeing you without your face on. Ditto photographers.”
“If it’s a secret place for celebrities, why the ugly color scheme, the dingy look?”
Goldie shook her head, crossed her arms, peered over her eyeglasses and gave what Rachel called her school teacher look. “You ever think that may just be the point? The Army has a name for it. Dis-information or something.”
“Okay. Maybe,” Rachel agreed. “But come to think of it, the room I saw had three beds. Three celebrities in a room?”
“So maybe they have people who stay with them. Secretaries, beauticians, people like that.”
A truck lumbered by, its tires clicking on the pavement, its exhaust fouling the night air.
“That’s two weird things about my newest client. Jefferson Medical Center loses track of kids brought to the hospital, and has a mysterious ward that’s in use, but has a sign—of the few signs in the whole damn place, by the way—that says it’s closed.”
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