Killer Swell nb-1

by Jeff Shelby

  I took the badge and hung it around my neck. “That, buddy, is something I don’t hear too often.”

  48

  The Santa Anita Room was one of those sterile spaces that could be divided up into sections with ugly partitions, but currently it was wide open and completely filled for whatever was going on.

  About seventy-five tables dotted the room, six chairs around each. I didn’t see an empty seat anywhere.

  The attendees were focused on a long table toward the front, where four people sat. Three men and a woman. The woman was attractive. Early forties, auburn hair cut to her shoulders, an expensive-looking navy suit. She gestured with her hands as she spoke.

  “Our job,” she said, friendly but confident, “is to deal with the people, and the issues, that the rest of the hospital won’t. Can’t, in fact. They aren’t equipped with the knowledge to make those kinds of decisions. Their job is to save the patients. Ours is to ensure that they can continue to do that.”

  A round of applause arose from the tables and one of the men on the panel stood.

  “I think we’ll end on that note,” he said, smiling broadly at the audience, then at the three people to his left. “Let’s thank our panelists today. Chandler Mott, Damian Taitano, and Charlotte Truman.”

  I eased into the back corner of the room as the audience stood and again applauded. The people began to trickle out of the room, smiling and whispering to one another, apparently having learned some big secret to hospital administration.

  I let the room nearly clear out before moving toward the front and Charlotte Truman.

  “That was fabulous,” a woman was gushing at her. “Exactly what most of us needed to hear.”

  Charlotte Truman nodded graciously. “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”

  “I mean,” the woman continued, “I don’t think my hospital has any idea of the confrontations that I face on a daily basis.”

  Truman began gathering up her belongings. “No, they probably don’t. But that doesn’t mean you’re any less valuable. Part of your job is to be good at thankless endeavors.”

  “Yes, yes, I guess it is,” the woman said, nodding vigorously, as if the thought had never occurred to her.

  Truman picked up the last of her folders and looked at the woman. “Great to meet you.”

  “Oh, no,” the woman said. “The pleasure was mine.”

  The woman turned from Truman and pounced on the man that had been sitting next to her.

  I caught up to Charlotte Truman in the middle of the room.

  “Quite a presentation,” I said, falling in step next to her.

  She gave me what I thought to be a very practiced smile. “Thank you. You really think so?”

  “Actually, I didn’t hear a word of it,” I said. “I was just going by her reaction.”

  She cocked her head in my direction, large green eyes sparkling. “It actually sucked.”

  “You fooled her?”

  “Fooling them is the key to getting invited to these things,” she said. “Anything is better than working, right?”

  We walked out into the hallway.

  “I suppose,” I said.

  She stopped. “You don’t look like an attendee.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The visitor badge for starters.” She looked me up and down. “And most of these people don’t own shorts and T-shirts. I imagine they sleep in their suits.”

  “Makes it tough to relax,” I said.

  “Yes, it does. What can I do for you?”

  “Maybe nothing,” I said. “I’m taking a chance.”

  “Shorts, T-shirt, and a risk taker. Definitely not a hospital administrator,” she said with an amused smile.

  “I’m an investigator,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow, suddenly wary. “If you’re insurance, I’m not talking to you outside my office.”

  I shook my head. “No. Something else. A doctor at your hospital.”

  Her eyebrow fell. “I’m not sure I’m following, Mr….”

  “Braddock,” I said. “But call me Noah.”

  “Well, Noah, what is it that you’re here for?”

  “I’m doing a background check on a doctor who works at St. Andrew’s. Dr. Randall Tower.”

  Until that moment, she’d seemed unflappable. Completely comfortable in her skin and her surroundings, totally in command of the room and the subject about which she was speaking.

  Randall’s name destroyed all that.

  The color drained from her face. “What the hell is this?”

  “You know him?”

  She shifted the folders in her arms. “He works at the hospital. Of course I know him.”

  “Friends outside the hospital?”

  Her eyes narrowed, the easygoing demeanor vanished. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m not sure. What am I doing?”

  “Pissing me off, for one,” she said, the color rising back to her cheeks.

  I decided to be straight. “I’m looking into his wife’s death. Her body was found in the trunk of her car along with this piece of paper.” I pulled the scrap from my pocket and handed it to her.

  “Kate’s dead?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She blinked rapidly for a moment, then stared at the piece of paper. She shook her head. “So she knew.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Charlotte handed me the paper back. “Look, you found this and you found me. My guess is you know more than you’re letting on, seeing if I’ll spill the beans for you.” She smiled but it wasn’t warm. “Randall and I were sleeping together, but I think you already knew that.”

  “I had an idea.” I looked at her. “Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  She paused for a moment. Then, “Kate’s really dead? You’re not kidding me, right?”

  “No, Ms. Truman,” I told her. “Kate Crier is dead.”

  She winced slightly, the word “dead” making an impression. She started walking again.

  “I can talk for a few minutes. But only a few minutes,” she said. “Because talking about him for any longer than that will make me ill.”

  49

  We walked outside onto the expansive pool deck. I bought a cup of coffee and a soda from a pushcart under a big palm tree. Charlotte was sitting on the edge of the stone retaining wall that ringed a small garden in the middle of the courtyard. I handed her the coffee and sat next to her.

  She squinted into the afternoon sunlight. “You from LA?”

  “No, San Diego.”

  “And you came up here to see me?”

  I nodded.

  She sipped from the paper cup. “Well, I guess I should talk to you then.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said, setting the coffee next to her. “I met Randall last year. I knew his name as an employee before that, maybe said hello to him a time or two, but didn’t really get to know him until last year.”

  We watched a group spill out from the hotel, deep in conversation.

  “He had to come see me about some problems he was having,” she said.

  “Drugs?”

  She glanced in my direction. “You’ve done your homework,” she said, then after a pause, continued. “The hospital put him on probation because of his drug problem. It’s my job to deal with that kind of thing. Not always fun, but it’s my job.”

  “Why wasn’t he fired?” I asked. “Seems like a huge risk keeping a drug-addict doctor on staff.”

  She crossed her legs and picked up her cup. “You’d be surprised. A good portion of my job is working with our employees who have what I’ll call issues.” She sipped the coffee. “Alcohol, drugs, marital problems, financial problems. Doctors have it all. They aren’t immune from our cultural pitfalls. I could tell you that they are more susceptible, but that’s just my opinion.”

  “The result of a high-pressure profession?”

  “Sure. They get sucked in like the rest of
us.” She rolled the coffee cup slowly between her hands. “Anyway, it was his first offense, as it were. He was receiving counseling and we kept him away from patients for a while to make sure he didn’t slip up.”

  “What was he doing if he wasn’t seeing patients?”

  She smiled at me. “Fucking me, mostly.”

  I took a drink of my soda and said nothing.

  “I was immediately attracted to him,” she said, brushing an auburn curl off her forehead. “I knew he was married and thought a bit of harmless flirting would be just that. Harmless.” She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I’d just gone through an ugly divorce and was not in the right place. He told me the drug counseling was tough on him, that his wife didn’t understand what he was going through.”

  I took another drink of the soda and resisted the urge to point out Randall’s obvious lie. If anyone would’ve known what he was going through, it would’ve been Kate.

  “He didn’t have a lot to do without patients to see,” Charlotte continued. “Some paperwork, but not much else. He came to my office frequently.” She paused, pursing her lips. “One thing led to another.”

  “Were you in love with him?” I asked.

  “Thought I was,” she answered. “He’s handsome, charming, intelligent. Gave me back what I’d lost in my divorce. But I started to realize that wasn’t what he was looking for.”

  “So did you break it off?”

  She finished the coffee, then shook her head. “Not right away. I was enjoying having someone around. I stayed with it until about a month ago.” She paused and set the now empty cup on the ledge. “I realized I wasn’t the only one.”

  “You mean Kate.”

  She turned to me. “No. I had somehow rationalized having an affair with a married man. Got it in my head that I was the good one, Kate was the bad one. I was the one he needed, not his unsympathetic wife.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand then.”

  “He was seeing someone besides me and besides his wife,” she said, sadness in her eyes. “His cell phone was ringing with calls he wouldn’t take in front of me, I was getting hang-ups on my home line. He started making excuses to get out of meeting me. So I asked him.”

  “And he didn’t deny it?”

  “No,” she said, almost laughing. “Can you believe that? I don’t know if he thought I wouldn’t care or maybe he just didn’t care. I don’t know. I think he was surprised when I said that I was done with the whole thing. But I don’t think he was sad.” She looked at me again. “I could rationalize being the other woman to his wife, but I couldn’t justify being one of the other women. Stupid, but I guess I have my limits.”

  “Any idea if Kate knew about the affairs?”

  “No,” Charlotte said, shaking her head. “I didn’t think she did. That’s why I was so surprised when you showed me that piece of paper.”

  “Did you know Kate?”

  “Not really. Saw her at a hospital function once or twice.” She smiled ruefully. “Not a great idea to make friends with the wife of your lover, you know?”

  “I suppose,” I said.

  She looked at her watch and stood. “I’ve gotta get back in there. Time to wow them again.”

  “I’m gonna need to tell the police working Kate’s investigation about you,” I told her. “They’ll want to talk to you.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I really am sorry. You shocked the hell out of me when you said she was dead. I don’t feel good about that.”

  I nodded and stood. “One more question, Charlotte. Any idea who the other woman was?”

  “None,” she said, straightening the folders under her arm. “And that was probably for the best.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She brushed the hair from her forehead with her free hand. “Because I would’ve done one of two things. One, I would’ve found her and kicked her ass. I was furious when he admitted it and I would’ve confronted her if I could have.” She smiled, but it didn’t seem happy. “Or, two, I would’ve told Kate about her. Just to hurt everybody.” She paused, staring at me. “You ever cheated on anybody, Noah?”

  I thought about it and didn’t know how to answer, so I just shrugged.

  “Then you haven’t,” she said. “Because the second you get involved in it, the second you can call yourself an adulterer, you change. You know you’re different than you were before,” she said, shaking her head like she wanted to remove the memory from her mind. “And, trust me, it’s not for the better.”

  I watched Charlotte Truman walk back into the hotel, taking her guilt with her.

  50

  The late-afternoon sun burned brightly as I drove back to San Diego. The traffic choked up in the hills of Mission Viejo, and the half-moon-shaped Dana Harbor looked like a bathtub out in the distance, filled with tiny sailboats as I crawled along the winding concrete highway.

  I called Liz at the office, but got her voice mail. I told her about Charlotte, explained why she might want to talk to her, and gave my opinion that she probably didn’t have anything to do with Kate’s death. I knew Liz would interview her anyway, looking for something I might have missed. I thought about asking Liz to call me, but instead said, “See ya later.”

  I turned Jack Johnson up on the radio, traffic lightening as I passed through San Clemente. I glanced wistfully at the crowded waters at Trestles, which offered arguably some of the most maneuverable waves in southern California. I didn’t have my board or the time, but that didn’t prevent me from momentarily wishing that I could stop for a quick session. Instead, I continued driving and let Johnson’s guitar and smooth vocals wash some of the tension out of my body as I thought about my conversation with Charlotte Truman.

  I believed the things she had told me. I could understand how Randall must’ve seemed attractive. Her telling of the story laid most of the blame in her lap, but I knew that Randall was an equal party. There are always at least two pieces to the puzzle. In this case, though, there seemed to be three, and I didn’t know where I was going to find the third.

  I pondered that as I walked into Carter’s hospital room. He was staring at the television in the far corner of the room, the remote in his hand.

  He motioned to the screen. “I am never going to a game again.”

  I saw several Padres players walking off the field, heads hung low, as the entire Dodgers team danced around home plate.

  “Yes you will,” I said.

  He shook his head violently like a child disagreeing with a parent. “No way, dude. I’m finished with them.”

  “Then who are you gonna root for?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the Devil Rays. They don’t have any fans.”

  I sat down in my chair. “Whatever.”

  He clicked the TV off with the remote and dropped it in his lap. “Where you been?”

  “That is a loaded question,” I said, not sure where to begin.

  Carter studied me for a moment, leaned over the edge of the bed. “You were with Emily again.”

  “No I wasn’t.”

  “Yeah you were. I can tell.”

  “What?”

  “You had sex.”

  “How can you tell that?”

  He pointed to my head. “Those lines in your forehead are gone.”

  “That means nothing.”

  He leaned back in his bed. “Does too.”

  “I haven’t seen Emily,” I said.

  “Well, you did something with somebody,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

  We stared at each other for a minute, neither of us blinking.

  His eyebrows rose up slowly, and the rest of his face broke into a look of horror. “No.”

  “Afraid so.”

  He shook his head slowly. “No. No way.”

  “Yup.”

  “The Ice Queen?”

  A big grin was my only response.

  He dropped his head dramatically back onto his pillow. “I’m in
here for a couple of days and you start making decisions like someone stole your brain.”

  “I’m not here to argue about this with you,” I said.

  “Well, somebody’s gotta argue it because being with her ain’t right.”

  “Isn’t that a country song?”

  “Shut up, Noah,” he said, raising his head up again. “Were you completely ripped? Or maybe in a coma?”

  I showed him my middle finger, but smiled. “No.”

  He looked at me, then waved his hand in the air. “I don’t wanna talk about this right now. My heart can’t take it.”

  “You weren’t shot in the heart.”

  “Whatever. Where else have you been?”

  I told him about my trip to Los Angeles to see Charlotte.

  He whistled when I finished. “Randall just can’t seem to do the right thing.”

  “I know.”

  “But you don’t think she had anything to do with Kate?”

  “She’s clean,” I told him. “She’s a pistol, for sure. But she was pretty honest about the whole deal. Didn’t blame Randall for any of it.”

  “Maybe that’s what she wanted you to think.”

  “I don’t think so, but I left Liz a message about her anyway.”

  Carter winced at Liz’s name. Then he shivered like he had goosebumps.

  “I need to ask him about this other woman,” I said. “She may be just like Charlotte, but I want to talk to her.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” he said.

  I thought about another loose end. “Do you have that key Emily gave me?” I asked. “I gave it to you right before…”

  “…you got me shot,” he finished. He looked over to the small dresser sitting under the television. “Top drawer. It’s with my wallet and watch.”

  I walked over and opened the drawer. The key was resting on top of his wallet. I turned back to him.

  “Charlie Stratton,” he said, anticipating my question. “He has a kiosk in Clairemont Square, by the theater. Makes keys on the spot.” He nodded at the key in my hand. “He’ll know.”

  I put the key in my pocket. “Okay. You alright here tonight? You want anything?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m not feeling so good anyway.”