Special Agent Nanny

by Linda O. Johnston

  “She didn’t tell me her concerns,” Cheryl said to Randall. But her tone didn’t seem even to convince him.

  “I’ll look into it further,” he muttered, giving Cheryl a chilly glance before returning his gaze to Kelley. “In the meantime, what is this nonsense about the Silver Rapids cases? I had no involvement. The symptoms suggested influenza—an infectious disease matter, not cardiology.”

  “Maybe,” Kelley acknowledged, “but someone has been trying hard to discredit me by criticizing my handling of those cases. They’ve even planted false documents in my office. Know anything about that?”

  “Of course not.” Randall sneered. “How would I?” He looked like—well, like Randall. And Kelley accepted the unlikelihood of his guilt.

  But Cheryl was another matter. If Kelley were speaking to Shawn, she would definitely suggest he investigate the nurse as an arson suspect.

  Cheryl didn’t meet Kelley’s gaze at first, and when she did, defiance radiated from her like a meteor shower pelting the night sky. “You’re blowing smoke to protect yourself,” she accused.

  Maybe, Kelley thought, but that smoke seemed to be swirling around a certain nurse in this room.

  “I have another matter to attend to right now,” Kelley said. “But don’t be surprised if you’re both required to testify in the Borand matter. Or if you’re sucked into the Silver Rapids mess, too.” She gave them a sweet smile and left.

  SHAWN HAD GIVEN Marge Ralston a lame excuse about why he couldn’t work at KidClub that morning. She hadn’t bought it, but what could she do? Fire him? His job there was nearly over anyway.

  Clad in a black T-shirt, jeans and his ever-present boots, he quietly stalked the halls of Gilpin until he located Kelley. He heard parts of her argument with Randall from the nurse’s station outside the closed door.

  When the door to the room opened, he ducked around a corner but glanced back quickly enough to see the direction Kelley headed, her shoes clicking her brisk pace on the polished linoleum floor.

  He heard another argument inside the patient room as he passed to tail Kelley. Sounded like Randall Stanton and Cheryl Marten were having a lover’s spat. Or something.

  He wished he’d heard the details.

  But right now, Kelley was his target.

  “I KNOW I DON’T HAVE an appointment,” Kelley said to Louis’s receptionist, Hilda. Usually she got along with the woman, but today she had no intention of following the niceties usually associated with being granted an audience with the hospital director. Often, when she came in to see Louis but he was unavailable, Hilda would page her when Louis had some time open up, but today Kelley knew he was there. He had to see her.

  Unconsciously, though, she felt for her pager. It wasn’t in her pocket, where she usually kept it. With her thoughts so scattered, she must have left it in her suit jacket, back in her office. Even if no one wanted her services, she was on call and couldn’t be without her pager. She’d retrieve it later.

  After her meeting with Louis.

  “It’s important,” she insisted to Hilda.

  While in her office before, Kelley had considered what to say. How to say it. But nothing profound had come to her.

  Except to focus on one little piece of the puzzle that Louis had suggested. Maybe it was just a bit of information she hadn’t heard before. But just maybe it meant something more.

  “I’m sorry,” Hilda huffed, “but—”

  Kelley ignored the frowning older woman and burst into Louis’s office.

  He emerged from his private washroom, arms folded above his protruding gut. His suit jacket was off, his green print tie askew. “I don’t recall seeing you on my schedule.” He scowled.

  “No, but I’ve got some questions for you.” She decided to start with the easy ones. “Why is Mrs. Borand gunning for me and for no other medical staff? I doubt you’d have shown her the files, assuming they still exist, but did you see my notes about her husband’s postop treatment?”

  “Kelley, you’re overwrought. I have an appointment soon. Why don’t we set up a time—”

  “Sit down, Louis.” She gestured toward the wheeled leather throne he used as a desk chair. “I’ll want to see those files. Maybe they don’t exonerate the hospital, but they exonerate me.”

  “I didn’t see anything like that. And—”

  “Did you remove some files but plant others?” Kelley knew that hurling unsubstantiated accusations probably wouldn’t help her. But it certainly felt good. “Or—” She deliberately lowered herself into one of the chairs facing him. “Louis, what do you know about the Silver Rapids cases?”

  “Nothing. Except, of course, that there is some evidence of your treating those patients ineptly.” But he stroked the extra skin beneath his chin nervously.

  “But yesterday you mentioned altered blood tests. What did you mean?”

  She had never seen anyone’s face grow so pasty so fast. “I never said anything like that,” Louis stated. His eyes shifted about the room, not meeting hers. “You’re just reaching, Kelley.”

  Kelley took a deep breath. The altered blood tests were a piece of information she hadn’t been given before, but now she guessed the reason—no one knew about them.

  No one except the person who had altered them.

  While exerting his self-importance, leveling accusations, Louis had made a slip.

  “If the blood tests were altered, that would give a lot of credence to some suspicions I have about the so-called flu,” she said slowly. “And Dr. Wilson Carpenter’s. Do you know him?”

  “No. Who’s he?”

  “A friend. He called a few weeks ago, very nervous, and suggested that Q fever microbes were included in the pathogen that infected the Silver Rapids patients. Then he disappeared. Did you have something to do with it?”

  “You’re crazy.” Paxler rose, eyes huge and furious behind his gold-rimmed glasses. But she saw his Adam’s apple work nervously up and down his throat. “You’re just trying to save your own skin by making ridiculous accusations.”

  “Could be. But who could more easily plant that ‘missing’ chart in another file than you? And no one would question the chief administrator visiting my office—to plant additional files there. What about those blood tests, Louis? Did you substitute samples to make sure no Q fever antibodies showed up in the patients’ IFA results?”

  “What are you talking about?” he blustered. But the rapid blinking of his eyes indicated she just might be right. “I never… I didn’t sign on for that.”

  What was he saying? She didn’t take time to sort it out. “I’m talking not only about framing me,” she said, standing to lean over the desk in confrontation. “But also committing arson. I think you set the fire, endangering everyone in this hospital. How were you involved with the epidemic, Louis? What were you trying to hide?”

  “You’d better leave,” he demanded, though his face was white beneath his dark-brown hair. “And consider yourself on suspension. Now.”

  It was her turn to blanch, though she had anticipated this. “I’ll get reinstated by the next administrator,” she bluffed. “Once you’re found guilty of setting the fire, you’ll be gone a lot faster than me.”

  “Get out!” He pointed toward the door.

  “See you in court,” she shot over her shoulder as she left. She slammed his door behind her.

  Thank heavens, she thought a moment later, that Hilda wasn’t at her usual post. She gripped the edges of the receptionist’s desk and leaned over it, trying to catch her breath.

  Trying hard to keep her nausea under control.

  Sure, it felt good to be on the offensive for a change, accusing others of things that she had been accused of, if not officially, at least by innuendo.

  But it wasn’t her. And it took a lot out of her.

  She felt as if she had stirred up a whole apiary of bees’ nests that morning. She just hoped she wasn’t the only one who got stung.

  She righted herself, smooth
ed her lab jacket over her green slacks, and prepared to leave.

  She had taken a few steps into the hallway when the gunshot sounded.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shawn had followed Kelley into the admin wing. He figured she was heading toward Louis Paxler’s office.

  He became certain of it when Hilda, Paxler’s secretary, skittered around the corner like a frightened shrew. She nearly ran into him. “That Dr. Stanton—Kelley Stanton. She’s screaming at Louis as if she’s come totally unglued.”

  Hilda seemed unglued, but Shawn refrained from saying so. “Let’s go see if we can help,” he soothed.

  Then he heard the gunshot.

  He thrust the woman out of his path and raced toward the administrator’s office.

  Kelley stood there, hand on the doorknob. Was she getting up the nerve to go back in—or had she just come out?

  He glanced down. She held no gun. But that didn’t prove anything.

  “What happened?” He pulled her out of the reception room, for danger likely lurked inside the office.

  “I—I just came out after speaking with Louis, and I heard… Was it a shot?”

  “Sounded like.” No time to decide if she was the shooter. If she wasn’t… “Stay here,” he commanded, wishing he was armed. But he wore no weapons for this assignment. Too dangerous around kids.

  Despite his order, Kelley trailed him back into the reception area. He wasn’t surprised. But didn’t she realize that, if she wasn’t the shooter, somebody else was?

  “Get down,” he ordered. Her brown eyes were huge and bewildered. Yet for once she obeyed, sinking to her knees beside the desk.

  “Police,” he shouted outside the closed door to Paxler’s office. No one inside would know he lied. He slammed himself down and against the wall, half expecting a volley of shots.

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Paxler, are you okay?”

  Still silence.

  “I’m coming in. I’m unarmed. I just want to make sure you’re all right.” When he still heard nothing, he motioned to Kelley to keep still, stood, and shoved the door open with a powerful kick. He somersaulted into the room, making himself a moving target, just in case.

  No one shot at him.

  He drew himself quickly to his knees and looked around.

  “Damn,” he said as he saw the body lying faceup on the floor.

  He heard a gasp from the doorway. Kelley stood there, a perfect target if the suspect remained in the room.

  Except it seemed there was only one suspect present, and he wasn’t shooting anyone…else. Red blood oozed through Louis Paxler’s very dark hair, and a small gun lay on the floor, near his slack hand.

  It appeared that Mr. Paxler had tried to commit suicide.

  Tried. Unsuccessfully. For when Shawn drew close and pushed two fingers alongside the man’s neck, he felt a very shallow pulse.

  “Get a team from the hospital E.R. here right away,” he shouted at Kelley. “And then call the police.”

  In the meantime, Shawn, trained in first aid by the Denver Fire Department, did what he could to keep the man alive.

  “IT’S MY FAULT,” Kelley whispered as the trauma team worked on Louis Paxler.

  She stood in the hall with Shawn, near enough to see the activity, yet out of the way. Most of the hospital staff was being kept away by the police, but Shawn and she, potential witnesses, had been told to stay.

  Shawn’s expression was as blank as if he was a store mannequin. More so, for mannequins were often constructed to look pleasant. There was no hint of cordiality, no hint of humanity, as Shawn regarded her with expressionless blue eyes. He didn’t even lean against the wall. His unyielding posture emphasized how much taller he was than her. His arms were folded stiffly against his T-shirt-clad chest.

  If Kelley had wanted to throw up before, now she felt it even more. She loved this man, despite every morsel of rationality she had forced herself to digest. But to him, she was merely a suspect.

  One who may have caused another person to try to take his own life.

  “Why do you say it’s your fault?” Shawn prompted when she forced herself to shut up. He might have been asking why she had chosen corn flakes for breakfast, but his studied neutrality made it clear what he was thinking.

  “I didn’t shoot him,” she retorted, stiffening her shoulders. No matter how she felt, she didn’t want to look defensive. “But I think I drove him to suicide.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Kelley described their confrontation. “I’m sure he knew more about the Silver Rapids epidemic than he let on. Why else would he have let slip a reference to altered blood tests?”

  “What’s their significance?”

  “I’d felt certain there was more to the epidemic than even a mutated influenza virus, but the blood test results didn’t support my suspicion. But if they’d been altered—the real results must have shown Q fever antibodies.”

  “You suspected the patients had Q fever?”

  She nodded. “My suspicions were revived when I received Wilson Carpenter’s call. That’s when I grabbed the files, but soon after that the fire happened and the rumors about my negligent treatment of patients started flying. I wasn’t about to vocalize my bizarre ideas to the hospital’s chief administrator then, not without proof.”

  “I see. So in your scenario, why would Paxler set the fire?”

  “Because he thought the files were still there. And he had to hide descriptions of the disease symptoms. Maybe there was even evidence that the blood tests were tampered with. Blood types could have been mismatched with patients. And… Didn’t your investigators mention that some of the people had gone out to eat in restaurants, or visited the town’s casino?”

  “Yes,” Shawn acknowledged, “but it was a lot of locations. There wasn’t a pattern.”

  “Except that they were all in Silver Rapids on the same afternoon. The disease organisms were most likely disseminated within that time frame, but at different Silver Rapids locations. What if Louis knew where, and notes in the files pinpointed them?”

  Shawn’s pensive expression lifted his dark blond brows. “You could be right,” he said slowly. “Paxler’s involvement would make sense. Gilpin is the biggest major hospital on this side of Denver. It’s no big jump to anticipate that really sick patients from small towns to the north, like Silver Rapids, would be brought here. And if there was a need to hide the disease’s origin, who better than the hospital administrator? He’d know you were a good candidate for scapegoat since your ex-husband likes to dump on your abilities. If files needed to disappear, that same administrator would know how to get rid of them. Too bad, for his sake, that he didn’t check first to make sure they were where they belonged that night.”

  “Then you believe me?” Joy flooded through Kelley as if a menacing storm cloud had suddenly dissipated from the top of the complicated mountain her life had become. The man she cared for so deeply just might, after all, be on her side.

  Only… The balloon of her billowing emotions burst as she reminded herself that he hadn’t believed her before. He’d thought her an arsonist. Maybe even got close to her, made love with her, to catch her.

  Then, he’d thought he had caught her in a complicated plot.

  She’d tried to tell him that someone was trying to frame her. Someone had hidden those pages in her desk to incriminate her, and he had chosen to ignore her explanation.

  “We’ll need more evidence,” he cautioned. But he had said we.

  Foolish relief at his apparent support must have affected her mind. She certainly didn’t forgive him for doubting her before. Yet she realized that if they hadn’t been in a major crowd of people, if what was happening around them wasn’t truly a matter of life and death, she might have thrown herself into his arms.

  “Dr. Stanton?”

  Kelley turned at the male voice. One of the police detectives who’d flashed his ID earlier approached her. His somber demeanor fit the f
unereal appearance of his dark suit.

  But that did not mean that Louis Paxler wouldn’t survive. She hoped.

  “Yes, I’m Dr. Stanton,” she told the detective.

  “Is this yours?” He held out a small digital pager packed in a sealed plastic bag.

  She bent to regard it more closely. “Possibly. Everyone at the hospital is issued one like it. Is my name on it? I put it on a sticker so it would be returned if I ever lost it.”

  “Where’d you find it?” Shawn had moved so that he was at her side. On her side. It felt wonderful.

  Except that, at the detective’s reply, she felt him pull away once more.

  “We found this under Mr. Paxler,” said the detective. “And, yes, it has Dr. Stanton’s name on it.”

  SHAWN WATCHED KELLEY’S bewildered expression—real or feigned? “I didn’t drop my pager when I was in there,” she said. “I didn’t clip it on this morning.”

  “When did you last see it, Kelley?” Shawn asked.

  “I don’t remember. I’m fairly sure I left it in my office. But…” Her eyes widened in shock.

  “You think I shot him?” she asked the young detective, whose credentials identified him as Lt. Darrick.

  The thought had replanted itself deep in Shawn’s mind, too—like a leech that would not die.

  “We’re looking into all possibilities.”

  “But he shot himself, didn’t he?” Kelley looked at Shawn for confirmation.

  He figured she wanted the truth. “Guys who tried to commit suicide with guns usually eat the barrels or shove them against their temples. It’s pretty hard to miss, but Louis’s wound suggests someone else did it.”

  Kelley flinched. Shawn resisted the urge to take her into his arms. Be objective, coach. He at least had to appear objective, if he’d any hope of being taken seriously by Darrick.

  “But couldn’t he have changed his mind?”

  “Maybe.” Shawn hoped, for Kelley’s sake, that her idea would be supported by the wound’s entry angle.