Breach of Ethics

by Sharon St. George

  “No, and remember, there were no photos of Gailworth or his wife on the Abel’s Breath website—just lots of artists’ renderings of meadows and snowy mountains, and rays of sunshine slanting through clouds. And a bridge over a foaming river, of course.”

  We went silent for a few minutes, munching our snacks and sipping coffee until my cell phone rang. It was Harry, asking for a report. I filled him in on the scant intelligence we had gathered and asked if he had any ideas.

  “You know my idea, Sis. Get me into your boss’s office.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Work harder. You’ll think of something.”

  Nick motioned for the phone, so I passed it over to him. He made arrangements to meet Harry later at the dojo, then rang off and put the phone on the table. After a minute it rang again. Cleo’s ring tone. Alarmed, I picked up right away. Cleo almost never called me on weekends.

  “Aimee, I thought you’d want to know. Natasha Korba’s taken a turn for the worse.”

  “Oh, no! What is it?” I had a sinking feeling I wasn’t going to like her answer.

  “Peritonitis.”

  “Damn and double damn.”

  Cleo had been called by a nurse who was having trouble getting through to Dr. Snyder. It seemed Snyder had decided to treat herself to a spa day, leaving her husband on call for all their mutual patients. Melissa Gailworth panicked when she saw Glen Capshaw arrive in his wife’s place and insisted that Sybil Snyder be called in to deal with her daughter’s worsening condition.

  Capshaw claimed to have no idea where his wife was. Cleo had followed a hunch and called the spa, because she and Snyder were both members there. It turned out that Snyder wasn’t answering her cell phone because she had left it in a locker, along with her purse and clothes.

  “Are you at the hospital now?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t have to go in,” Cleo said. “I called the spa from home, and they put Sybil on the phone. When she heard ‘peritonitis,’ she was all over it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she showed up in Pediatric ICU with an avocado mask on her face and cotton between her toes.”

  Cleo went back to her Sunday afternoon with Sig, and I told Nick the grim news about Natasha. Peritonitis is an inflammation of the tissue that lines the inner wall of the abdomen. If it spread into Natasha’s blood and other organs, she would need extensive antibiotic treatment to prevent multiple organ failure and death. Her blood chemistry would have to be checked daily, and if her hemoglobin dropped to a critical level, she would require another blood transfusion. Ironic, since her mother and stepfather had objected so strongly to the one Gavin Lowe had ordered just one week ago.

  Nick’s eyes were wide by the time I finished explaining. “You do know you sometimes sound like a medical dictionary, don’t you? Did you ever want to be a nurse? Or a doctor?”

  “Nope. I’m only good with rounding up information and passing it around. I’d be terrified to lay hands on a patient.”

  “Speaking of laying on hands ….” Nick walked over and put his hands on my waist. I closed my eyes and raised my face for a kiss, feeling vulnerable and wanting him. After a moment, when nothing happened, I opened my eyes. He stood there looking down into my face with a puzzled expression.

  “You’re not going to pull away or tell me you’re not ready for this?” His voice was husky and urgent, but his question had broken the spell. I stepped back.

  “What is it, Aimee?”

  “Are you sure you’re ready? You seemed to have doubts last night.”

  “What do you mean?” His brows rose as he remembered. “That business about saying we haven’t set a date? That was for our cover story.”

  “Are you sure? We were stuck in neutral the two months you were away. We might not be ready …. I don’t know, Nick. Somehow I think we’re both holding back.”

  “You’re right.” He stepped away from me and leaned against my kitchen counter, crossing his arms in front of him. “I’ve been patient because of Paris, and because no matter how many times I tell you nothing happened the week I was there with Rella, you’ll always have doubts. I want to be with you, but I won’t make that commitment unless you believe that I would never cheat on you or lie to you.”

  “And do you believe the same about me?”

  “Absolutely, and that’s the problem, as I see it. I believe in your integrity one hundred percent.” As he walked to the door, he shook his head again. “I keep hoping you’ll eventually feel the same way about me, but I’m running out of ways to convince you.”

  This was my chance to make him understand. “You don’t have to convince me of anything. I’ve finally realized that whatever is going on with me goes deeper than Paris.”

  “Want to explain?”

  “I’m not sure I can. Did you ever want something terribly, wait for it, then get it, only to fear that it might be snatched away?”

  “Not really. I’ve always been of the school that says cut your losses and move on.”

  “You make that sound so easy.”

  “It was, until you came along.” He pulled me into a hug. “I’m not ready to cut my losses yet.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Then we’re still in this together. That’s enough for now.”

  After he left, I realized Nick and I had learned nothing concrete about Abel Gailworth. On the other hand, we at least had defined the problem holding back our relationship. Trust.

  Thinking it through, I realized what was holding me back. I had never felt insecure or vulnerable with other men I dated because I’d never cared about them the way I cared about Nick. I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life, and a few months ago, I’d almost thrown that chance away. Since then I’d learned a hard lesson. I wanted no part of an emotion as negative as jealousy to come between Nick and me.

  That reminded me of the conversation Harry and I had overheard in the TMC stairwell the day before. Sybil Snyder was right when she told her husband his jealousy was boring and unattractive. His tirade was downright ugly.

  Harry had been struck by Capshaw’s jealousy, too. He had asked me then if Sybil Snyder was hot. I thought I knew why he asked. Some men can’t deal with a pretty wife. Snyder was attractive, but lately her hair was a lighter shade of blond and its style more glamorous. Was she grooming herself to please a man other than Glen Capshaw, her suspicious husband? An interesting question, one I had told Harry had nothing to do with Lowe’s death.

  Now I wasn’t so sure. Was there a chance she and Lowe had been stealing moments together? She had seemed shaken when I told her he was dead, but so was I when I first heard the news. I thought back to the Ethics Committee meeting. Had Snyder and Lowe been giving off signals? I recalled the seating arrangement. Snyder had sat at the head of the table, and I had been on her right, facilitating and taking minutes. Gavin Lowe had sat on her left. Quinn was next to Lowe. Could I make any inferences from Lowe sitting close to Snyder at that meeting?

  I couldn’t recall any telling glances exchanged between them that morning, although I did flash on a moment before Snyder called the meeting to order. She realized she didn’t have a pen and asked me if I had an extra. Before I could answer, Lowe had taken one from his inside jacket pocket and held it out to her. She hesitated, then took the pen without thanking him and proceeded to call the meeting to order. She wasn’t a warm fuzzy type, but I’d never known her to be rude to her colleagues.

  The pen exchange didn’t prove anything was going on between Lowe and Snyder, but the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced it struck an odd note. The quarrel Harry and I overheard in the stairwell proved Glen Capshaw was jealous of someone he referred to as that bastard. He had not mentioned a name, and he hadn’t referred to Lowe’s murder, but I had a feeling Capshaw belonged on the list of people who might have wanted Lowe dead.

  Chapter 11

  First thing on Monday morning I spotted an email reminder of TMC’s Department Head meeting scheduled for ten o�
��clock. Quinn was still working on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so I assumed he would chair the meeting, as usual. There was no agenda attached, which was often the case if last-minute items were being added on the day of the meeting.

  Department Head meetings were mostly routine, with each person giving an oral report. I rarely had any exciting information to share, so my turn usually came toward the end when my colleagues were sneaking peeks at their watches or phones and hoping I’d be brief.

  I pulled my report from the previous month and updated a few minor points about subscriptions to new databases and medical journals. I added a reminder that many popular medical texts, such as Gray’s Anatomy and Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine, were available for download into e-readers like Kindle and Nook.

  With that out of the way, I called Cleo to see if she had any new word on Natasha Korba’s condition.

  “She’s improving,” Cleo said. “But I hear her stepfather is questioning every minute detail of Natasha’s care.”

  “That’s going to be a problem if Natasha needs more blood.”

  I heard Cleo sigh. “No doubt, unless Sybil Snyder can win over Melissa Gailworth. That husband of hers seems to have a powerful hold on her.”

  “What about Hector Korba? Have you heard how he’s reacting to all this?”

  “Not well. He’s in the unit demanding to be kept informed almost hourly. The nurses know he’s president of the governing board, so they’re complying, but you can imagine their stress level.”

  “It’s so unfair—their job is already so demanding.”

  “I have to get off,” Cleo said. “I’ll see you at the Department Head meeting.”

  I thought about Gailworth’s dangerous hold over his wife and what it meant for her daughter and found myself hoping Korba could convince the courts to give him custody. He might be gruff and intimidating, but I guessed he was a softy where his granddaughter was concerned.

  A while later Sanjay D’Costa walked into the library along with a slightly familiar elderly man wearing the orange blazer of a hospital volunteer. He was shorter than my five foot four, and the sleeves of his jacket almost hid his hands. His blue eyes twinkled behind wire-rimmed glasses, and he sported an impressive crest of thick white hair.

  “Good morning, Aimee.” Sanjay flashed a brilliant white smile. “This is Mr. Bernard Kluckert, here to become your Tuesday and Thursday auxiliary helper.”

  Before I could ask why I was getting another volunteer, and why he was here on Monday if he was supposed to work Tuesday and Thursday, Mr. Kluckert put out his hand.

  “Bernie’s my name. Put ’er there, miss.” I shook his leathery hand. He was one of those men who don’t want to let go, but I managed to pull my hand away.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Aimee Machado. Thank you for volunteering.” I gave Sanjay a questioning look, which he didn’t seem to notice.

  Bernie looked around the room. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning, Miss Machado, ready to work, don’t you see?” I heard clicking noises when he spoke and guessed his denture adhesive wasn’t getting the job done. Apparently my fate was sealed. I had a new volunteer, whether I wanted him or not.

  “Mr. Kluckert made a special request to be transferred to the library,” Sanjay said. “I know you no longer have help on Tuesday and Thursday, so it occurred to me that this is the perfect arrangement.” He seemed so proud of himself I decided to let it go. If Bernie had any skills at all, I could probably find something for him to do.

  “Is Lola Rampley working today?” Bernie asked.

  I glanced at the wall clock. “She’ll be arriving soon. Do you know her?”

  “Oh, yes.” His eyes lit up and I began to suspect where his interest in the library was really focused. Lola, a widow for more than a decade, had put herself back on the market, and she was in demand. I thought back to the day a week ago that I had organized a birthday party for Lola. She’d left with another volunteer, Oslo Swanson. Now I recognized Bernie Kluckert as the man who had seemed disappointed to see Lola on Swanson’s arm.

  “You know, Bernie, you won’t be working with Lola. She’s here only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

  Bernie seemed unfazed. “I’m aware of that, but working here will give us something in common to chat about, don’t you see.” The clicking sounded again, and he used his thumb to push up on his two front teeth. “When Lola said you needed help, I jumped at the chance. Beat out that kid, Swanson, don’t you see?”

  Just what I needed. Another love triangle. I knew Oslo Swanson was no kid. Lola had confided to me that he was seven years her junior, which put him at seventy-five. I suspected that Bernie Kluckert was closing in on ninety. I’d have to remember not to do anything on his work days that might startle him.

  Sanjay and Bernie left, missing Lola’s arrival by five minutes. When I told her the news about my new volunteer, she blushed and fluffed her snowy cap of hair with delicately manicured pink fingertips. “He’s a very nice man. I’m sure he’ll be helpful.”

  I waited for more, but Lola kept any other thoughts about Bernie to herself and went about shelving the newly arrived journals. Requests for online resources kept me busy until it was time for the Department Head meeting.

  I reached the conference room in the main tower in time to save a seat for Cleo. She blew in and sat down next to me as Sanjay called the meeting to order. Varsha Singh sat at his right, taking minutes. Cleo and I exchanged sidelong looks. Where was Quinn? Sanjay had never chaired a Department Head meeting. We soon learned why Quinn was absent.

  Sanjay stood. “First order of business. I should like to explain that Mr. Quinn will no longer be working on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Nor will he be on the premises of Timbergate Medical Center any other day. Although his administrative leave of absence is probably temporary, you must understand that I now hold complete responsibility for every facet of this medical center until he is permitted to return.” Varsha looked up from her note taking, her expression grim.

  “Crap on a cracker,” Cleo whispered.

  Murmurs filled the room, and several hands were raised. Sanjay held up both of his hands, palms out. “Please do not ask for details. This is a home office decision and I have been instructed that no explanations are forthcoming at this time. Now let us get on with the usual business of routine reports.” He sat down and nodded at Edna Roda, chief nursing officer, whose face was beet red. She’d been blindsided just like everyone else, but she managed to get through her report.

  The meeting dragged on for an hour and a half, ending with my yawn-inducing report on the business of the Health Sciences Library. As soon as we were out of the room, Cleo headed across the street to Margie’s Bean Pot to save a table, and I hurried to the library to tell Lola I was going to lunch. I asked her to leave early so I could lock up, then sprinted over to Margie’s so Cleo and I could hash over the news about Quinn.

  Cleo had picked a table in the back corner, where we could avoid being overheard. I ordered the special, navy bean and bacon soup.

  “Good choice,” Cleo said. “That’s what I’m having.”

  I unfolded a napkin. “Did Sanjay warn you about Quinn?”

  “Not a word. And I haven’t heard from Quinn, either. You?”

  “Nothing. What do you think it means?”

  Cleo took a sip of water and said, “I’d ask Sanjay, but he’s been inaccessible lately. I’m starting to think his newfound responsibility is going to his head.”

  “No kidding. Besides, he’s already warned all of us that it was a home office decision.”

  “ ‘No explanations are forthcoming,’ ” Cleo said. “What kind of BS is that?” She thought for a moment. “I’ve met TMC’s legal counsel in L.A. a time or two, and we confer by phone fairly often about medico-legal stuff. I’ll give Loren Davidson a call.”

  Knowing Cleo’s winning way with men, I guessed that was our best shot. Any man who had met her w
ould remember her voluptuous figure, and most of them would probably tell her more than they should.

  “That’s a good idea. Do you think one of us should call Quinn?”

  “Definitely.” Cleo grinned. “Why don’t you do that? He seems to think a lot of you.”

  “I thought he did, until I asked him if Harry could have a look at his office.” I hadn’t told Cleo about Quinn’s adamant refusal, so I filled her in.

  “My God, Aimee, that sounds so unlike him.” Cleo’s obvious distress made me I wish I’d kept the news to myself. I knew what she was thinking, because I had thought the same thing. If he’s innocent, why be so protective of his office? The crime scene. “I’d better call him myself,” she said. “I’ll play dumb if anything comes up about you wanting Harry to have access to his office.”

  “Good. You’ll probably have a better chance getting through to him, but he might not be taking calls.”

  “Can’t hurt to try,” Cleo said. “We need to get back to work. With Sanjay in charge, I’m afraid we’re going to be busy keeping him out of trouble. He’s awfully green.”

  “Speaking of that, do you think Varsha Singh knows why Quinn was put on leave? Executive assistants are usually privy to almost everything that involves their supervisors.”

  “She might, but she’s bound by a confidentiality clause just like we are, and her loyalties are divided between Quinn and Sanjay. She’s paid well to keep what she knows to herself. I’d rather not approach her until we’ve consulted our other sources. She can’t afford to risk her job; I happen to know she’s a single mom.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know that.”

  With her four kids at home and Sanjay at work, Varsha wasn’t someone to envy, no matter how well she was paid. I remembered her somber expression at the Department Head meeting. She clearly had her doubts about Sanjay’s ability to fill Quinn’s shoes.

  Cleo and I were finishing our soup when Margie strapped on her accordion and perched on a stool across the room from us. The remaining Bean Pot diners were in for a treat. Margie’s spot-on renditions of tunes heard in Parisian cafés and bistros in the first half of the twentieth century delighted her loyal patrons.