Vanishing Point (v5) (epub)

by Marcia Muller

  “Okay, how did that bring you to Santa Rosa and Crescent City?”

  “I picked my friend’s brains again, and she told me about the Board of Registered Nursing. State agency. License renewal is every two years. You have to renew whether you’re working in the profession or not—so long as you’re alive and ever plan to work again. You can track a person through the relicensing, if you have the right contact at CNA—and my friend does. Smith’s license was last renewed in nineteen ninety-one, and her address at that time was in Santa Rosa.”

  Patrick’s saga fascinated me, because it mirrored so many strange, twisting investigative journeys I’d taken over the years. “So you went to Santa Rosa—a town of over a hundred and fifty thousand people and God knows how many hospitals and clinics and private practices—in the hope of getting lucky?”

  “Nope.” He smiled. “You know that mantra you’ve been drumming into my head—‘Work your contacts, and your contacts’ contacts, and their contacts, too?’ That’s what I did. Happens my friend has another friend whose fiancée is a doctor on the staff of Santa Rosa Memorial. It seemed as good a starting point as any. I drove up there, exercised some of my Irish charm, and she agreed to check about Smith with Human Resources. Their records show that she was in Pediatrics and left in ninety-two. That was when I got lucky. The doctor is also in Pediatrics, so she asked around, and one of the older RNs remembered Smith. Said she’d left to take a job as an emergency-room nurse at Sutter Coast Hospital here in Crescent City. It was brand-new at the time.”

  “So what’s your problem?” I asked. “Why do you need my help? You can just call them up and ask about Smith. For that matter, why did you have to go through your friend’s friend’s fiancée, rather than just calling around to Santa Rosa area hospitals?”

  Patrick’s broad grin spelled out his delight in knowing something the boss didn’t. “Because large health-care facilities are very protective of their employees’ information. My friend said that any inquiry that didn’t come from someone with a legitimate need to know would be handed off to Human Resources, which then would tell me the information was confidential and turn me away.”

  “Sounds like trying to find out something from Social Security.”

  “Right.”

  Beside me, Hy said to the waitress, “The blackberry pie with vanilla ice cream, please.”

  I turned to stare at him. “You never eat pie.”

  “Today it sounds good.”

  “It’s lucky that Citation belongs to RKI, and not to you. If you flew it all the time, you’d get fat.”

  He smiled benignly at me.

  “Okay,” I said to Patrick, “you came up here . . . ?”

  “Hoping to exercise more Irish charm. Didn’t work. As predicted, I was quickly turned away at Sutter Coast. So I called my friend, and she told me that the most gossipy and informative place in a hospital is the cafeteria. If you’re there at breaks or the lunch hour dressed like an employee, and can walk the walk and talk the talk, you can find out pretty much anything.”

  “So why aren’t you at the cafeteria today?”

  “I don’t think I can walk the walk and talk the talk.”

  “What happened to that Irish charm?”

  “It’s challenged by this assignment. For one thing, the majority of nurses are female, so a male stands out. I tried to place myself in the role of a doctor, orderly, EMT, or lab technician. None of it felt right, and I’m really afraid I’ll blow it. But you can do it, Shar.”

  “Me? A medical professional? I don’t know anything about those jobs.”

  “People on their lunch breaks don’t necessarily talk about their work. Some of them stuff their faces”—he looked over at Hy, who was digging into his pie and ice cream—“but mostly they gossip. Besides, you can act. I’ve seen you do it. My friend gave me a perfect scenario for you, and she’s willing to go over it on the phone. But first we have to pay a visit to the uniform shop I found earlier.”

  From the bathroom of Patrick’s room at the Econo Lodge I called, “Are you sure this is the kind of outfit nurses wear? Why don’t I have a starched white uniform and a little hat?”

  “When was the last time you saw a nurse dressed like that?”

  I thought. “In an old film on late-night TV.”

  “Right; their dress code varies from place to place. Sutter Coast uses hospital scrubs and white shoes or sneakers for nursing personnel. Let’s see how you look.”

  I stepped through the door, and he surveyed my light blue V-neck tunic top, loose elastic-waist slacks, and athletic shoes. The top and slacks were courtesy of the uniform shop, the shoes my own.

  “Perfect.” He gestured at the plastic nametag holder that hung around my neck. “I’ll borrow the typewriter I saw in the manager’s office and put your alias on that, just in case. But remember to keep the tag twisted, so they can’t see the front. My friend says the ID tags can be a joke, because they’re always hanging the wrong way.”

  “Dress rehearsal’s over?”

  “Yeah. You look great.”

  “Then I’ll get back into my own clothes, and we’ll grab Hy and hit that country-and-western bar he discovered.”

  Patrick frowned. “You’re not gonna drink too much, are you?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t want to be hungover for your performance tomorrow.”

  First I’ve got Ted worrying about my owning a gun and flying a plane. Now Patrick’s concerned about my drinking habits.

  I said, “I’m only going along to watch over you. We can’t have you exercising that Irish charm on the wrong women.”

  Two hours later, Patrick was definitely exercising his charm on a woman. She was tall, extremely thin, clad in tight jeans and a tank top, and she was beating him at straight pool.

  “Must be true love,” I said to Hy. “He doesn’t seem to mind she’s making him look like a klutz in front of all these strangers.”

  He glanced over from where we sat at the bar. “If his tongue was hanging out any farther, it’d interfere with his bank shot.”

  The bar, Tex’s, was crowded and noisy. A band that was never going to make it to Nashville or even Bakersfield played—largely ignored—at the rear of the cavernous room. As they segued into a cover of one of Ricky’s songs, “The Midnight Train to Nowhere,” I grimaced. He would have, too, could he hear them.

  Hy said, “So tomorrow you assume the persona of Nurse Betty.” The reference was to a movie we hadn’t much cared for.

  “Nurse Patsy Newhouse, in case anyone asks.” I often assumed my sisters’ names when undercover; they were familiar enough that if someone called me by one of them I’d be likely to notice, if not immediately react.

  Hy asked, “Is Sunday a good day to go to the hospital? Won’t they be short on staff on the weekend?”

  “Yeah, that’s a drawback. Patrick’s friend says a Friday would be perfect because people are always more relaxed and gossipy before the weekend. But I certainly can’t wait around till Friday, so I might as well try my luck tomorrow. I can always go back on Monday.”

  “How d’you explain that none of the staff have ever seen you before?”

  “There’s a thing called the nurses’ registry; it’s like a temp agency, and it gives me a license to ask questions. I say I’ve just come from registry, don’t know where anything is, that kind of thing. Deflect any of their questions by asking a lot of my own.”

  “Sounds tricky.”

  “It isn’t going to be easy. I talked on the phone with Patrick’s friend for a long time this afternoon. She says the nurses know everything about everyone, but it’s a close-mouthed community when it comes to outsiders. They’re smart and, if they’re old enough to have known Laurel . . . Josie, whatever, they’ve been around long enough to know better than to talk freely to a stranger. But the friend prepped me well, and I’m a good actor. I’ll haunt that cafeteria until I get the information I’m looking for.”

  “Ho
w long d’you think it’ll take?”

  “I don’t know, but if you need to get the plane back to El Centro, Patrick and I can drive down to the city in his car. Later on I’ll hitch a ride with somebody from North Field who’s flying south, and pick up Two-Seven-Tango in Paso Robles.”

  “Kessell wants the Citation back on Monday so we can both go back to headquarters, but I tell you what: I’ll ask him to detour to PRB, and then I’ll fly Tango back to San Diego and up to Oakland midweek when my business down south is done. You get a lead here, there’s no telling where it may take you.”

  I grasped his hand, twined my fingers through his. “Thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary. We’re partners, remember?”

  “That’s not something I’m ever likely to forget.”

  We were silent for a moment, listening to the band mangle another of Ricky’s songs.

  “You know, McCone,” Hy said when they’d finished and—mercifully—left the bandstand, “I’ve been thinking about your house, and I just may have come up with a solution to our living-space problems.”

  A tickle of apprehension ran along my spine. “And that is?”

  “I don’t want to go into it until I check some things out.”

  Such as the price it would bring on the open market? Call a real estate firm, ask for comps? It’s my house, dammit! I bought it, put my own hard-earned cash and physical labor into it. I don’t interfere with what you do with your ranch, so why should you—

  Stop it! You’re reacting as if he said he wanted to burn it down for the insurance money.

  “What things?” I asked, keeping my voice level, the tone casual.

  “Well, I’ll need to look it over carefully, but—”

  Shouting erupted from the area where the pool tables were. Alarmed, I swiveled around. A crowd blocked my view.

  Both of us stood. I still couldn’t see what was going on. I grasped Hy’s arm. “What’s happened?”

  More commotion, and then one of the bartenders shouldered his way through the crowd. Hy moved forward in his wake. After a moment he came back and said, “I suspect Patrick and I will be making a visit to the Sutter Coast Hospital emergency room. I don’t know what he said or did to her, but his pool-shark friend just decked him with her cue.”

  Sunday

  AUGUST 28

  Sutter Coast Hospital was reasonably well staffed for six-thirty on Sunday morning. I stood near the cafeteria doorway, surveying the various tables, and after a moment spotted one at which two women wearing nametags and dressed in scrubs were seated. They looked fresh and rested, probably having breakfast before going on the day shift, and they were old enough to have been working here at the same time as Laurel Greenwood, a.k.a. Josie Smith.

  I crossed to the food line and got an English muffin and a cup of coffee, paid the cashier, and went over to the table. Plopped down and said, “Hi.”

  One of them, a short brunette in pink, nodded to me.

  I asked, “Are either of you in Pediatrics?”

  “No,” they both replied.

  “Can you direct me? I just came from registry. I don’t know where anything is.”

  The other woman, tall and blonde, sighed. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  I’d been warned by Patrick’s friend that some RNs were unfriendly to the registry nurses, considering them more trouble than they were worth because they were unfamiliar with the hospitals they were sent to, and always asking questions. It also didn’t help that they earned top dollar.

  Quickly I said, “I felt the same way you do when I was on staff at Santa Rosa Memorial, but, hey, I’ve got two kids at home and need to make a living.”

  “Sorry. Yesterday was a rotten day, and I’m not expecting today to be any better.” She looked back at the brunette. “As I was telling you, I said to him, ‘Dr. Strauss, this patient is very anxious.’ And he says to me, ‘You think the patient’s anxious? I’m the one who’s anxious. If I don’t finish my rounds in ten minutes, I’ll miss my tee time.’ The worst thing was, he meant it.”

  The other woman rolled her eyes.

  In the vernacular provided by Patrick’s friend, I said, “Docs!”

  “Yeah.” The woman in pink nodded emphatically. “Dedicated, huh?”

  I sipped coffee, then asked, “How long have you worked here?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Then you might’ve known my aunt, Josie Smith. She was an RN in the ER.”

  She thought, shook her head. “Name’s not familiar. When was she on staff?”

  “She started in ninety-two, when the hospital was brand-new.”

  “Then she must’ve left before I came. Hey, Linda,” she said to the woman on the other side of the table, who was staring into her coffee cup, “were you here in ninety-two?”

  “I didn’t move here till ninety-four.”

  “And you never heard of a Josie Smith?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry,” the brunette said, glancing at her watch. “Got to run. You want, I’ll walk you toward Pediatrics.”

  Well, at least I’d proved to myself that I could walk the walk and talk the talk—even if I hadn’t found out anything.

  After the nurse had pointed the way to Pediatrics, I left the hospital, went to Patrick’s car, which I’d parked a couple of blocks away, and read the morning paper. It was still too early to go back to the hospital, so I did the crossword puzzle, then took a walk. The morning was clear, but strong offshore winds gusted through the town and, from long experience with the vagaries of coastal weather, I sensed the fog would be in by evening.

  When I got back to the car, I still had time to kill. One of my occupational hazards: too much waiting. Fortunately, I’d brought my briefcase along, so I opened it and reviewed the Laurel Greenwood files until lunchtime. Then I returned to the cafeteria, where I struck up conversations with various personnel, and in the process learned some interesting and not-so-interesting things.

  Dr. Martin was getting a divorce from his wife of twenty-three years; she had run off with her personal trainer. Diane, in the pharmacy, was marrying her ex-husband—for the third time. Judy, one of the receptionists in the ER, was having an affair with an EMT, but nobody knew which one. An unnamed advice nurse spent her lunch hours in her van in the parking lot, working on a novel on her laptop; it was rumored to be something involving knives and guns. Marie was developing bunions; Nell had sold her home at a fifty percent profit; Dan had bought a new motorcycle; Trisha’s cat had puked again—but on the hardwood floor, not on the white rug, thank God; Mike was goddamn glad to be starting his vacation tomorrow; Kim’s mother-in-law was coming to dinner next Sunday, and she was considering seasoning the roast with strychnine.

  I learned nothing about Laurel/Josie. Most of the people I spoke with hadn’t been on staff in 1992.

  When the cafeteria began to clear out, I escaped the hospital and drove to a city park, where I sat on the grass, leaning against a tree trunk; I’d go back at two-thirty before the swing shift started. My mind was cluttered with idle chatter, and I tried to clear it.

  Usually I found nothing wrong with idle chatter: we indulged in plenty of it at the pier, over coffee and sandwiches or just hanging out on the catwalk; it helped us get through the days that were mundane, boring, or just plain tedious. But today my ears were ringing with voice-noise, and it kept me from focusing. After a while it faded, but something worse took its place.

  I’ve been thinking about your house, and I just may have come up with a solution to our living-space problems.

  And what’s that?

  I don’t want to go into it until I check some things out.

  What things?

  Well, I’ll need to look it over carefully, but—

  My God, what had I gotten myself into?

  I shook my head to clear it, tried a few deep-breathing exercises. They didn’t work. I was glad when it was time to go back to the hospital.

  “Just leave me the
hell alone,” the thin, poorly kempt woman said.

  All I’d done was set down my tray—more coffee, another snack—across the table from her. I looked closely at her face, saw eyes with dilated pupils and facial muscles drawn taut with strain. A relative of a patient with a life-threatening condition? No, she wore scrubs and a nametag.

  “Sorry.” I picked up the tray, turned.

  She muttered something unintelligible.

  A hand on my arm. I looked around at a kind-eyed, dark-haired woman in blue scrubs. “Come sit with me,” she said, and led me to a nearby table.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  She sighed, sat down, nodded at the place opposite her. “What d’you think?”

  “I don’t know. I only came today from the registry.”

  “Well, she’s up to her old tricks, and pretty soon she’ll be outta here for good.”

  “Drugs?”

  The woman hesitated, then her eyes flashed with anger. “Yeah. She’s been through the rehab program once, and one chance is all you get.”

  “Too bad.” I glanced over at the thin woman. She was crumbling the bread from a sandwich into tiny pieces and casting narrow-eyed glances at us.

  “Yeah, it’s too bad. She used to be a good nurse, till she started forging prescriptions.” The dark-haired woman’s mouth closed firmly; she’d realized she’d said too much to an outsider.

  I said, “My name’s Patsy Newhouse, by the way.”

  “Barbara Fredrick.” She extended her hand. “How’s it going so far?”

  “Okay. This is a nice place, people are friendly. My aunt always said so.”

  “Your aunt worked here?”

  “Yes, maybe you remember her—Josie Smith. In ER.”

  “Josie?” The smile took on a frozen quality.

  “She started here the year the hospital opened.”

  “. . . Right. But she left a year later.”

  “D’you know where she went after that?”

  “She’s your aunt, and you don’t know where she is?”