Breach of Ethics

by Sharon St. George

  With that time-consuming wild goose chase out of the way, I had killed more than thirty minutes since leaving Lola alone in the library. I sent Harry a text as I walked back across the campus. Quinn said no. Call me.

  A rain cloud overhead burst open just before I reached the library building. I ran to the entrance, gave the door a shove, and smacked into it, banging my forehead on the heavy glass. I reached in my pocket for my work keys, and then realized I had left them in my desk. I did have my cell phone. I dialed the library number, hoping Lola would pick up. She was a reliable volunteer, but elderly, and her hearing wasn’t the best. Especially if she had her ear buds in. She often listened to country music while she worked.

  I was about to hang up when she spotted me waving at her through the glass entry door. She removed her ear buds as she hurried over to the door to let me in. I walked to my desk with my shoes squishing, leaving wet prints on the industrial-grade carpet. My library keys were in the top drawer where I had left them. I dropped them into my pocket.

  “Lola, why did you lock the door?”

  “I witnessed someone behaving suspiciously while you were gone,” she said. “I confess I was alarmed.” I didn’t like the sound of that. Lola was not easily spooked. Like most career librarians, she had seen her share of patrons behaving badly. Teens making out in the study rooms, patrons stealing library materials or sneaking in food and spilling it on valuable textbooks. Even a few oddballs hiding out at closing time and sleeping in the library overnight.

  “What kind of suspicious behavior are you talking about?”

  “I was opening the door to come out of the restroom when I saw someone standing at your desk. He glanced around as if to see if he was alone in the library, which he was. Then he leaned over and opened one of your drawers. He seemed to be searching for something.” Her cheeks colored pink as she continued. “Well, that wouldn’t do, but I didn’t want to get close in case he was dangerous, so I called out from restroom, ‘Sir, may I help you?’ He flinched, closed your desk drawer, and hurried out.”

  “You saw someone looking through my desk?” I flashed back to the image of Dr. Sybil Snyder snooping at my desk the day she had convinced someone from Security to let her in. “Are you sure it was a man?”

  “Almost sure. He was tall and wearing a long coat and a stocking cap.” She hesitated. “Of course, everyone looks tall to me.”

  Lola was four foot ten with a significant dowager’s hump. Even I towered over her, and I was only five four.

  “Lola, you would recognize any of our usual patrons. Did this man look familiar?”

  “I couldn’t say. I was across the room and only saw him from behind. I couldn’t even see his hair because of the cap.”

  She seemed to be recovering from her scare, but I didn’t want to cause her more stress by grilling her further. I urged her to take the rest of the morning off, asking her to let me know if she recalled anything else.

  After I sent Lola home, the library seemed emptier than usual. The wind and rain had picked up velocity, and the storm-darkened day had undoubtedly discouraged any further walk-in patrons. Fine with me. The idea of a mysterious intruder snooping in my desk had me chewing over Lola’s story. I could think of no legitimate reason why someone would be searching through my desk. I decided to scour the library for evidence of suspicious activity.

  I walked the entire room, looking for anything that might have been disturbed on the shelves. The rows of books and magazines were lined up evenly, precisely one inch from the edges of the shelves as Lola insisted they should be. No gaps suggested anything had been shelved carelessly by someone without a librarian’s sense of neatness and order. I made another pass through the room, this time examining the floor, but saw nothing foreign. No dropped pen or pencil, no stray bit of tissue.

  Trace evidence came to mind. The favorite forensic topic on television and in mystery novels. I pulled a forensic reference book off the shelf and turned to that section. The list was long: dirt, fibers, glass, hair, paint, tape, wood, scratches, metal shavings. I stopped there and hurried over to my metal file cabinets. Of the three people who had asked me about the Ethics Committee minutes, only Sybil Snyder knew what they contained. That left Quinn and Hector Korba still wondering. Feeling more than a little silly, I pulled a small, hand-held magnifying glass from my desk and scrutinized the front of each cabinet, looking for scratches near the keyholes. Nothing.

  When I opened the drawer to put the magnifying glass back, I remembered that I had left my office keys in that same unlocked drawer while I was gone. Someone with knowledge of the hospital could have easily used my own keys to open the file cabinets and look for the minutes. I opened the cabinet and found the printed and signed copy in the Ethics Committee folder just as I had left it. But there was another way to get to the minutes. They were stored in my computer. My computer files were password-protected, which would keep most people out, but not necessarily the hospital administrator. Had Quinn come to the library knowing I was tied up meeting with Edna Roda? Looking for the password to my computer? But Lola knew Jared Quinn well. Surely she would have recognized him.

  A howling surge of wind slammed against the library’s double doors, rattling the glass and my nerves. I forced myself to push the mysterious visitor to the back of my mind and concentrate on my accumulating workload.

  I checked the few phone messages Lola had left for me. Two were insignificant; the third captured my attention. Call Mrs. Lowe. Lola had written the caller’s number with a clear, steady hand. Unfortunately for me, Lola was gone, so I couldn’t ask for details.

  Only one possibility came to mind. Dr. Lowe had a wife. Or he’d had a wife. Now he had a widow. I didn’t relish the idea of returning Mrs. Lowe’s call. Not when there was a chance that she believed I was an accomplice in the murder of her husband.

  I called Cleo to see what she could tell me about Mrs. Lowe. I caught her with a few minutes to spare before she had to facilitate a luncheon meeting of one of TMC’s many medical staff committees. She checked Lowe’s credentials file and confirmed the phone number.

  “Rita Lowe called you?” Cleo sounded puzzled. “I have no idea why she would do that.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “I’ve been around her off and on at hospital functions,” Cleo said. “She isn’t exactly unattractive, but she looks her age, and as a couple, she and Gavin Lowe always reminded me of a showy peacock and his nondescript peahen. Sometimes Rita’s gracious and friendly, and other times she’s somber and depressed.”

  “Do you think she’s bipolar?”

  “Not really. I’ve always thought her moods had more to do with her marriage than her brain chemistry.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “It’s the old cliché. Lowe was ten years her junior. In return for a wedding ring, she put him through med school. Her reward was the MRS degree and the big house, but putting up with his affairs for almost twenty years must have taken a toll.”

  The Mrs. Doctor degree. I wondered how many women still considered that the ultimate achievement.

  “So you’re saying Gavin Lowe cheated on her? Was that common knowledge?”

  “Pretty much,” Cleo said. “He was good-looking and charming ten years ago when I first came to work here, but I’ve been told that when he first joined the staff ten years before that, he was so hot that a lot of women were throwing themselves at him. Even married women.”

  “Interesting. I didn’t see him that way.”

  “No, you’re too young or too smart. Probably both, but Lowe was still getting some action, from what I’ve heard.”

  “One other thing. Has Mrs. Lowe called you since her husband died?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from her. Oops, look at the time! Almost noon. I’d better get to my meeting. Let’s catch up later.”

  I locked the door and put up the library’s Out to Lunch sign. I didn’t want to be interrupted or overheard by a patron while I spoke to M
rs. Lowe. She answered on the second ring. I identified myself and explained that I was returning her call.

  “Oh, Miss Machado, thank you for calling. I’m sorry to impose on you at your work, but I felt compelled to speak to you about Gavin.”

  It must have been one of her gracious and friendly days. She sounded perfectly stable and reasonable in spite of her husband’s murder only five days earlier.

  “How may I help you, Mrs. Lowe?”

  “Please, call me Rita. I wanted to speak to you because the day before Gavin’s death, he told me about a scuffle between himself and Jared Quinn. I understand it took place in a committee meeting and that you were present.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t talk about that, Mrs. Lowe. I’m bound by a confidentiality clause in my employment contract.”

  “No matter. I already know all about it. Gavin described the entire incident. He was pleased that you stepped in when you did. He said you had done him a favor.”

  “Then what is it that you want from me?”

  “First, you may already know that Gavin hasn’t always been a faithful husband. I know that sort of gossip travels quickly in hospitals and throughout the medical community.” She paused to clear her throat. “I’ve come to terms with that, but the police have already come knocking, so it wouldn’t surprise me if I was on their radar as the long-suffering and resentful wife of a philanderer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, “and I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. Now I understand you’ve been questioned as well, so you see, it behooves both of us to see that the real killer is identified. Regardless of the circumstances, I’m unwilling to believe it was Jared Quinn.” I wondered how she knew I’d been questioned, but I let it go.

  “Is there someone else you suspect?”

  “Miss Machado, my husband was a good person and I loved him. He treated me well in every respect but one: he cheated on me with other women. I know he had affairs, but he was careful to keep me in the dark about the women’s identities.”

  “How is this pertinent? Do you suspect one of those women killed him?”

  “I think it’s possible. I know I didn’t kill him, and based on what Gavin told me about Jared Quinn and you, I’m sure neither of you would kill to avenge a silly squabble. I’m more inclined to suspect jealousy. It’s a powerful emotion. I learned to deal with it a long time ago, but there are people who let it fester and rule their lives.”

  “Are you thinking one of Dr. Lowe’s women friends decided that if she couldn’t have him, no one could?”

  “Precisely. Gavin never once came close to asking me for a divorce so he could be free to be with someone else. I’m sure he never would have. If that’s why he died, I suspect you’re in a better position than I am to find out who’s responsible. He had very little opportunity to meet women outside the hospital or the medical community.”

  “I’m not sure about that. I’ll keep it in mind, but I can’t make any promises.”

  “Nor do I want promises. I’ll contact you again if I come across any helpful information, and I hope you will do the same for me. In the meantime, do what you can. And stay safe. You and I are not only vulnerable to the police, but in attempting to clear our own names and Mr. Quinn’s, we could also be perceived as dangerous to Gavin’s killer.” That had already occurred to me, but it was unsettling to hear it from Rita Lowe.

  Later Friday afternoon I was filling out a requisition form for the journal Edna Roda had requested when Harry called. I asked if he had seen my text about Quinn.

  “Yeah. Kinda odd he reacted that way, isn’t it? You think he’s guilty?” Harry had met Quinn but had never really gotten to know him. Still, his blunt question threw me.

  “I doubt he’s guilty, but something’s going on with him. We need to know what it is.”

  “Hey, you know the guy better than I do, but now that he knows you’re curious about the crime scene, you should watch your back.”

  I didn’t like what Harry implied. I still couldn’t buy Quinn as a killer, but his determination to keep Harry out of his office was suspicious. I was more determined than ever to find out what Quinn was hiding.

  Chapter 8

  For the rest of the afternoon my attention to library business was diverted by the mystery surrounding Gavin Lowe’s death. The rainstorm dwindled down to an occasional sprinkle by quitting time, and a solitary Friday night loomed ahead, making me wonder if Nick might call. The only date we had made for the weekend was our Sunday morning visit to the Abel’s Breath Ministry’s nine o’clock service. But we had agreed to meet again before that to get our stories straight.

  Driving home I struggled with a jumble of thoughts stemming from one central fact: someone shot Dr. Gavin Lowe dead in Jared Quinn’s office. So far, it looked like Quinn and I were the two prime suspects. I knew it wasn’t me, and I had been sure it wasn’t Quinn either, until he refused to let Harry look at his office.

  Harry called just as I was sitting down to a lonely dinner of clam chowder from a can. He was at loose ends and asked if I had any plans for the night.

  “Not unless you count watching a couple of old episodes of Monk with Amah.”

  “I like those old shows,” Harry said. “Especially that part where Monk says, ‘He’s the guy.’ ”

  “Of course you do. You and Monk think a lot alike.” It was true, but only the part about figuring out how to piece the puzzles of a mystery together. Harry wasn’t OCD—he was the opposite, if there is such a thing. I envied how he usually went with the flow while I was the one obsessing over trivia. “Why are you asking about my evening?”

  “I’ve been thinking about Quinn’s office and the security cameras that show no one going in or coming out. If we can’t access the office, I’d at least like to get some idea of the floor plan and the camera placement. We can’t go there without being caught on the cameras, so I have another idea.”

  “Why don’t you just go to the city building department? I thought all building plans were available to the public.”

  “Most are,” Harry said, “but hospital construction is under the jurisdiction of the state. The plans aren’t accessible online, so I’d have to travel to Sacramento to see them. And if my hunch is right, what I’m looking for would have been done without a permit or inspections, so it wouldn’t show up in any case.”

  “You want to do this tonight?”

  “Why not? Tell Amah I want you to go to a movie with me. She won’t mind watching her TV show without you.”

  “Of course not. If I told her you wanted me to walk on hot coals, she’d help me get my shoes off. But why can’t you come out here?”

  “Trust me. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “All right, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  Harry’s luxury condo sat on a bluff overlooking the Sacramento River. His living room windows faced west, and the nighttime view was a panorama of Timbergate’s city lights. He let me in and led me to his home office, where he explained his plan.

  “I pulled up my drafting program. If you can give me some rough sketches of the fourth-floor layout, I can create a blueprint that might be helpful.”

  “You can draw blueprints on your computer?”

  “Of course. That’s how it’s done these days, except by the old-timers who don’t trust the CAD system.”

  “What’s CAD?”

  “Computer-aided design. Here, take these.” He handed me a pencil and a ruler. “Let’s start with you making a sketch of the public part of that floor. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just start with the corridor and the elevator and stairwell placement.

  I took the pencil and ruler and sketched. Harry entered what I gave him into the blueprint program. “How does that look?”

  “Amazing,” I said, “very close.”

  “Now let’s get specific. Think about the part of the fourth floor where Quinn’s office is located. I need to see where his door is in relation to the cameras.
Do you know where they’re mounted?”

  I tried to visualize his office. I had only begun to pay special attention since Gavin Lowe’s death. “I looked for them the day after the shooting. One is focused on the entrance door to the administrative suite, and the other is mounted at the opposite end, showing the length of the corridor.”

  “Do you know if there are cameras in the elevators?”

  “I asked Quinn. He said no.”

  Harry squinted at his blueprint on the screen. “Okay, go ahead.”

  I sketched a floor plan of the administrative suite at the east end of the corridor, showing Quinn’s office on the north side and Sanjay’s on the south side with Varsha Singh’s reception area between them. I told Harry that visitors had to enter through the outer door to the administrative suite and check in with Varsha, who acted as receptionist and executive assistant to both men. The only access to Quinn’s office, or Sanjay’s, was through the inner doors in the reception area.

  “Is there anything behind the reception area?” Harry asked.

  “No, only the outside of the building.”

  Next I sketched in a little alcove on Quinn’s side of the corridor a few feet from the administrative suite’s entrance door.

  “What’s that?” Harry asked.

  “Nothing, really. It’s a small dead space left after an elevator was removed several years ago. There’s nothing there except a little sofa and a magazine rack. It’s used occasionally for people waiting outside the administrative suite.”