Double Vision

by Ellie Hart

  I smile up at the waitress when she delivers my second breakfast. “Don, do you want anything? Coffee?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m good. Just water, please.”

  I almost feel guilty when I take the first bite of sausage-laden gravy and fluffy biscuit. Almost.

  “Is there anything that links Marta’s boss with the, you know, the medical situation?” I’m hesitant to use names and find myself speaking in semi-code. I know I sound idiotic, and I flush. Don grins across at me, obviously finding my attempt at subterfuge amusing.

  “Are you asking if Chrissy Burton’s a part of the organ transplant community, besides being a bone marrow recipient?” He shrugs and takes a sip of water. “What I do know is Beverly Strait gets a finder’s fee for each person she sends to the donor’s clinic.”

  I chew and swallow, giving myself time to process this information. This is beginning to sound bigger than anything I want to become involved with.

  “A finder’s fee. That’s interesting.” I don’t know what else to say. “Do we know how she got involved in this?”

  Don nods, flipping back a few pages in his notebook. “According to my source, she was a volunteer at the hospital that does the transplants. I’m not sure who got her tangled up in recruiting donors, but it’s gotta be someone there.”

  “You mean someone at the hospital asked Bev to enlist people to sell their bone marrow?” I give an involuntary shudder. “That’s creepy.”

  “Right?” Don’s smile is sharklike, wide and toothy. “Almost smacks of Hollywood.”

  Visions of zombies and body parts flit into my mind, and I swallow a bite of sausage with difficulty. I’m definitely not a gory movie person, despite the surgeries I’ve performed at the clinic. That’s the real world. Selling one’s organs definitely feels like a horror flick.

  “Are we talking just bone marrow or something else?” I can feel my shoulders slowly rising toward my ears, tension working its way across my back. I force myself to relax. It can’t be that bad.

  Another shrug. “From what I understand, it’s bone marrow and anything else you can part with, like kidneys. Even lobes from livers and lungs.”

  “That’s hard to believe.” I protest. “This is the Bay Area, not some third world country.”

  “All the more reason to trot out the capitalistic experience.” Don’s eyebrows, dark in comparison to his sparse hair, are drawn together. “Any ol’ way to make a buck or three.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, each of us focused on our own thoughts.

  “So, is there anything that can help identify the woman in the bay?” I ask the question even before I really think the words. And I’m not sure why my mind has gone in this direction.

  “Are you talking an organ connection? Or information?”

  It’s my turn to shrug. “No clue. Sorry, that just popped into my head.”

  “Interestingly enough, yes.” He closes the notebook and flips it back and forth between nicotine-stained fingers. “She actually had a transplant recipient’s card on her, which is how they came to ID her as your gal’s boss.”

  “You’re joking.” This is becoming more and more convoluted, a bad script full of any and all clichés. “How in the world…” I let my words hang in the air between us as the waitress swings by and slaps the bill down.

  “No hurry, hon. I can be your cashier or you can take it up to the front.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a smile. “I’ll take it up.”

  With a swish of her polyester uniform and a smile, she’s off to dispense coffee and sunshine and bills to other customers.

  “As you were saying?” Don nods, watching me over the rim of the glass as he takes another drink of water.

  “I was just trying to figure out how someone could have gotten Chrissy’s card. I mean, isn’t that something she’d be carrying with her for life?”

  “You would think. Of course, I’ve got a theory.”

  “And?”

  “Well, let’s suppose that the dead woman was connected somehow to this Bev Strait.” I begin to protest the absurdity of the idea, but he holds up his hands. “No, hear me out, Dr. Cutler. We now know Bev was a volunteer at the hospital. And we also know her boss is a transplant recipient. And adopted. Let’s just imagine other siblings out there have the same medical issues and need a transplant as well.” He pauses, and I give him an impatient nod, waiting to hear the rest.

  “So, let’s pretend Bev happened to come across this woman at the hospital, made a connection, and somehow got hold of her boss’s card with the intention of making a comparison. The woman takes the card, sees the possibility of finding a long-lost sister, and voilà, we have the perfect setup for murder. Or depression. She could’ve jumped in herself after being rejected. It’s a well-known fact some adopted adults don’t take kindly to being discovered.”

  I can’t help laughing.

  “So, now you’re suggesting Chrissy Burton is a killer. And she killed her sister because she didn’t want a relationship.” I shake my head, ignoring the curious glances from those seated nearby. “Marta’s a great judge of character, and there’s no way she’d work for someone like that.”

  Don gives a half shrug. “As I said, it’s just a theory.”

  I cross my arms on the table and lean forward, lowering my voice. “Well, let’s set her up, see what she has to say about this idea of yours.”

  “Exactly what I was going to suggest.” Now his face is a mass of lines as he smiles widely at me. “You up for a little acting?”

  “If it helps to settle things down at my partner’s workplace. The last thing she needs right now is to be dealing with drama.” I reach for the bill and wave it at Don like a matador’s cape. “And just to show how glad you are to have me on board, you can get this.”

  His snort would make any bull jealous.

  * * *

  The clinic keeps me and Lou busy, a virtual parade of pets moving through the reception area and back to the various examination rooms. Before the morning is half over, I’ve diagnosed pregnancy in a Great Dane, hip dysplasia in an older dachshund, symptoms of diabetes in a Persian cat, and fleas in a ferret. I write scripts for prenatal vitamins and a back leg sling to relieve the hip issues, order glucose tests, and recommend a bath using flea soap. When I take a moment to update my files during a short lull in the action, I notice my cell phone’s screen is flashing silently at me. I’ve got several text messages waiting to be read, one from a number I don’t recognize.

  Just wanted to let you know I ate this morning. A breakfast burrito, no less, and it stayed down. XOXO. Marta’s text makes me smile, and I rapidly text back a reply.

  Sounds good, luv. Busy here but should be home by 5. XO times infinity.

  My nephew Leif has sent me a meme depicting the latest political commentary. I send him an emoticon with its tongue hanging out and eyes crossed. Politics can take a flying leap as far as I’m concerned.

  I open the text from the unknown number. I stare at the screen, reading and rereading the short message. Only four words in length, but the words carry a weighty message: Stay away from Bev.

  “Dr. Cutler, there’s a canine vaccination waiting for you in three.” I look up from my phone and see the new receptionist standing there, concern on her face. “Is everything all right? I mean, is your partner okay?” Lou hired her in my absence last fall, and I still haven’t learned her name. I try to read her name badge without that obvious squint thing I find myself doing more and more often, but no go.

  “She’s fine, thanks.” I give myself a mental shake, forcing my attention back to the here and now. “Can you ask Dr. Grafton to take it? I need to make a phone call.”

  Without waiting for an answer, I head for the small office Lou and I share. It’s just big enough for two desks placed face-to-face, each with a filing cabinet behind it and one shared bookshelf. Closing the door, I sink into the ergonomic chair Marta gave me for my birthday, a bumpy-looking contrivan
ce surprisingly comfortable to use. Calling up my contacts list, I hit the icon beside Don Butler’s name, drumming my fingers impatiently on the desktop as I wait for him to answer.

  When I get his voice mail, I’m tempted to hang up rather than listening to his self-serving message. I wait, though, holding the phone away from my ear until I hear the high-pitched beep.

  “Don, this is Giselle Cutler. Call me as soon as you get this message.” I hesitate and add a gruff thanks before disconnecting.

  I toss the cell phone down and clasp my hands behind my head, my gaze on the ceiling. Who knew we talked about Bev and her part in this fiasco? Closing my eyes, I ran through the past two days, trying to think.

  There was Chrissy Burton, of course, but it doesn’t make sense for her to warn me away, not when she asked for help. Jinx is a maybe, as he might have mentioned to his brother something about our conversation concerning his bone marrow “donation.” Rex, of course, is a possibility. I asked enough questions to make him suspicious, including something about Bev.

  And then there was Bev herself. She had three different contacts who could each tell her about my concern with her part in the organ transplant community. Any one of these four could find out my cell number, especially since it’s listed as an emergency number for after hours. Marta has mentioned this before, citing exactly a scenario such as this one.

  “You don’t need to post your personal contact info, Gij. Just get an answering service. Or set the clinic’s number to ring to you when the clinic’s closed.”

  I’m beginning to see the sense in that suggestion, something that’s never been an issue before this.

  I’m scrolling through Google, trying to ascertain just how much a reliable answering service will cost when my cell phone begins to sing, Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” announcing an incoming call.

  “Giselle Cutler,” I say, and I’m relieved to hear Don’s voice on the other end.

  “You sounded stressed on your voice mail.” I can hear others talking in the background, the sounds of a busy newsroom intruding on our conversation. “Hang on a sec. I need to get somewhere a bit less chaotic.”

  I can hear movement, then the sound of a door opening and closing, effectively shutting out the circus outside.

  “There, that’s better.” A chair creaks as Don sits down, followed by a thump I can only imagine are his feet landing on top of a desk. “You’d think there were a hundred people out there, not just ten. Now, what’s up?”

  I tell him about the text message. Has he received one as well?

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he says, “but I get all kinds of crank messages.”

  “I don’t think this one is a crank, Don. It’s too close to our conversation this morning.” I swing my chair around and face the window, staring out at the small courtyard just behind the clinic. “Either someone overheard us and wants to play games, or someone followed us there.”

  “Or someone’s taking a stab in the dark, trying to rattle your cage.”

  I let that idea hang there for a minute, running through the Rolodex in my mind. Who do I know that would do something like that?

  “I don’t know,” I finally say. “It feels too close to the issue, not like someone’s idea of a joke.” I watch one of the clinic’s assistants, a shaggy-haired college student who has stepped outside for a quick smoke break, arms crossed over his body in an attempt to stay warm. “Personally, I’m leaning toward the scenario that someone out there doesn’t want us to get any closer to the whole organ donor thing.”

  “And I’m inclined to think that as well.” His voice is sober, underpinned with concern rather than the eagerness I would have expected. “In fact, I’m thinking we need to give what we have to the police and wash our hands of the whole thing.”

  A brief memory of Chrissy Burton’s tearstained face flashed across my mind. I promised I’d help her get to the bottom of things. Backing out now would make me feel guilty. On the other hand, I might live a bit longer.

  Before I have a chance to voice these thoughts, the door to my office opens, and the receptionist peers into the room. This time I get a better look at her badge. Maxine, I think it says.

  “Dr. Cutler,” she says, concern on her face, “we’ve got a situation out here. Someone named Jinx is refusing to leave until he sees you.”

  Fabulous. The clinic is becoming a meet and greet. First, Rex and now Jinx. If Bev and Chrissy show up, we’ll have a complete set.

  “Can you send him back here? I’m still in the middle of something.” I point to my cell phone, conscious Don can hear what is being said.

  She nods, a bemused look. She’s too polite to ask, although I can imagine the conversation among my employees. Thank goodness for Lou. She’ll put a screeching halt to anything with even a whiff of gossip.

  “It looks like I’ve got a visitor, Don. Do you want to continue this later or hang on until I see what it’s all about?”

  “I can hang,” he says. “I’ve got some emails I need to check anyway.”

  I can hear rapid footsteps just outside my door again, and I turn around in time to see Jinx slip around the door, his expression troubled. I don’t need to be psychic to know this won’t be a friendly visit. Something else has happened, and it’s not good.

  “Have a seat,” I say, waving at Lou’s empty chair across from me. “Can I get you anything? A water?”

  He shakes his head silently, and it occurs to me he simply walked in, all signs of his signature twirling gone. I hesitate a moment, an idea forming.

  “Jinx, would it be all right with you if I put a friend of mine on speakerphone? I have a feeling he’ll want to hear this as well.”

  Jinx shrugs, still silent.

  “Okay, here we go.” I push the icon for speaker and lay the phone on my desk. “Don, I’ve got Jinx here. He’s Rex’s brother, the one I was telling you about. Jinx, this is Don Butler.” I purposely leave out Don’s title, aware it might shut Jinx down even more.

  “Hey, Jinx. Dr. Cutler tells me you know about the bone marrow donations, right?”

  Across from me, Jinx makes a derisive sound. “Donate, my shiny hiney!”

  I hear Don convert a laugh into a cough at Jinx’s words, and I have to look down to hide a smile.

  “My brother wouldn’t give water to a thirsty saint. It’s all about the money with him.”

  “Is that what you’re here to talk about?” Don has taken over the conversation, and I lean back in my chair, content to be an observer for the moment. He is a seasoned investigator, after all, and something like this is right up his alley.

  “Sort of.” Jinx shifts in the chair, glancing up from the phone to me. “I wanted to tell the doc about something I overheard last night. It’s been bugging me, and I just need to get it off my chest.”

  “Which was?” I say, steepling my fingers under my chin.

  Jinx pauses, either trying to choose his words or debating how much to say. I try not to be annoyed, but I’m suddenly anxious to get as much information as possible. I want an end to this entire debacle. I want to be able to concentrate on my life without the specter of murder hanging over my head.

  “Okay, so, you know how Rex did the whole bone marrow thing, and that woman Bev stayed with him,” Jinx says to me. “Well, it seems Miss Nosy has decided to move in permanently with him. She’s practically taking over his life!” He sounds indignant now, and it’s hard for me to feel bad for him. If he’s interrupted my day to tattle on his brother’s private life, I’ll be very irritated.

  “And why do you think this is important?” Don breaks in, his tone brusque.

  “Because she’s the one in charge of the whole gimme-your-organs thing. And I don’t want my brother involved with someone so ghoulish.” Jinx sounds truly upset, his voice rising as he speaks. I stand up and push the door closed. I don’t need the rest of the office hearing this conversation.

  “How is she in charge?” I lean forward, careful to lower my voice. H
opefully, Jinx will mirror my tone and calm down.

  He swipes at his eyes with the back of one hand.

  “Well, she keeps a laptop and printer at his place, and Rex told me she uses them to schedule appointments for ‘prospective clients.’” Jinx quirks his fingers in air quotes, disgust in his movements. “Like she’s a big-shot business gal or something. I personally think it’s gross, selling body parts. I mean, shouldn’t everyone have to wait in line?”

  Don and I both start to speak at the same time.

  “Go ahead, Don,” I say, pushing a small pack of tissues across to Jinx. He’s clearly very upset, close to tears again.

  “Let me just get this clear, Jinx. You say Bev is running an organ donation business from Rex’s house, and she’s selling these donations to people in need of transplants.”

  “He doesn’t have a house, just a tiny apartment,” says Jinx. “And yeah, that’s exactly what’s she’s doing.”

  “Uh, isn’t that just slightly illegal?” I ask into the silence following Jinx’s statement.

  “I’m looking that up as we speak,” says Don, and I can hear the sound of rapid clicking from his end of the line. Jinx and I wait in silence until Don gives a muted grunt. “Okay, it says here, and I quote, ‘Only one country allows an open market of buying organs from living donors. Iran, however, does limit these purchases to its own citizens in an effort to control the market.’”

  “You’re kidding.” I’m stumped, to be honest. I’m amazed anyone allows this type of trade, much less one of the stricter religious countries in the entire world. “So, I take it that it’s a big no-no here in the good ol’ U S of A?”

  “You would be correct.” I hear Don shuffling paper in the background, and I can imagine he’s writing in his notebook. “Look, Jinx. Is there a good time for us to meet up?”

  Jinx’s eyes widen slightly, and he stares at me as if I’m the one to give him permission. I nod and smile encouragingly at him.

  “He’s a nice guy,” I say to Jinx. “Doesn’t bite, likes coffee, and will pay for any information you give him. Isn’t that right, Don?”