Code Blue

by Debra E Blaine

  Enter the unrestricted media, teaching patients that they should never have to be physically uncomfortable and then terrifying them with the horrible possible consequences of not getting this medication or that treatment—all to raise the pharmaceutical company’s stock value. And then put all that in the hands of an increasingly rapacious and privileged population, like the community Tobi worked in, and what do you get? A culture of anxiety-ridden, entitled people who have no coping skills and feel justified in demanding whatever treatment they saw on television or read about on the internet. It was a great recipe to feed corporate greed that focuses on profit margins rather than on improving health in the population. The tycoons must be laughing all the way to the bank.

  There were many communities where people respected and appreciated medical care, but it seemed the more affluent the neigborhood was, the more importunate and entitled its people behaved.

  Long Island had plenty of sick and injured people who should be coming to urgent care for treatment, and Tobi wanted to focus her energy on them. But corporate was much more interested in rapid turnover, meaning people who were not particularly ill. Corporate giants, like Big Pharma, pandered to a culture of impatience, and fostered general anxiety about health onto unwitting Americans, who already had few coping skills. It was simple math; increased volume meant increased charges, but a wheezing patient should get a nebulizer, which tied up a room for another fifteen minutes. So, the real money was in the people who came to urgent care like a stop at the grocery store, not for a genuine illness. And like any business model designed to sell product, the corporate giants tossed their net wide to ensnare the market, even if it meant creating a need where there was none, just in order to increase revenue.

  Like a “must have” at your favorite specialty store, urgent care offices made more money if they had more sick people to prey upon, so advertising campaigns encouraged people to come in with the most minor concerns, like a post nasal drip, and then promised that all patients would be in and out in less than an hour. But no matter how you slice it, Tobi thought, without fever, a stuffy nose for less than a week is still a cold, and there is no magical formula to make it go away any faster.

  But of course, when those patients did not get what they wanted, and without delay, they sent scathing Press Ganey scores that stuck to dog-tired, diligent health care workers like cat fur on a flannel shirt—as if B. Healthy were selling Apple TVs instead of treating human beings.

  The model was clearly unsustainable, and when the profits peaked, Tobi was sure B. Healthy would just cash out and sell their business as they would dump a stock that was about to tank. They had no vested interest in helping human beings and cared nothing for the destruction they might leave in their wake. She felt the niggling in her head again, telling her this place was going to fall hard on its face, and she should get out now, while she could.

  Chapter 6

  Mannfort Tzenkov grabbed his laptop and his wallet and secured his trusty silencer in place, then fastened his piece to his hip beneath his shirt and hopped in his rented Maserati Granturismo. He had left the top down, but fortunately, the Sheraton on the Sea had covered parking, or it would have been soaked from the storm. In a couple of minutes, he was cruising south on Captain Cook Highway toward Cairns and the contact Marcus had given him. His GPS said an hour and ten, but he planned to push that up and he hit the accelerator.

  Smartass guy, that Marcus, he fumed. Thought he could just dismiss me out of turn, did he? Didn’t want to give up his connection? What, money wasn’t enough? Just so happened, they were both interested in finding out about this Robain guy, or Mannfort would have popped him as he drove away.

  Mannfort hadn’t been involved in any first-hand bloodletting in a while, and he sorely missed the rush. That was, after all, why he had chosen to come do this job himself. Now he was savoring the idea of knocking that smirk off Marcus’s face for good.

  He found the little back street shop in Cairns easily enough. It didn’t show on his GPS, but Marcus had given him an address nearby and precise directions from there.

  The a-hole behind the counter didn’t want to help him even for five Gs until Mannfort mentioned Marcus by name. Then he was pretty friendly. He suggested Mannfort get a drink and a bite to eat. It would take a couple of hours to retrieve the files, so he took a walk amidst the bustle and music of Cairns. He stopped in to Bon Aliment par la Mer, a pricey little French restaurant for a juicy steak and a glass of Ringbolt cabernet sauvignon.

  Mannfort savored the decadent cuisine at a side table with a view of the Coral Sea. Where else could you get a crocodile appetizer, grilled to perfection? He called his contact in Kiev.

  “Kazimir, talk to me. What do you remember about the American who wrote our first software?”

  “He had a terrible car accident, Mannya, you grow forgetful.”

  “No, not the first guy. The really smart one who developed the blueprint completely, so we could start using it. He started snooping at the end and then died in his home of a heart attack, but he finished the program before he died. We’re still using it, with a few tweaks.”

  “We had nothing to do with that. He had a bad heart, they said.”

  “Nyet, Kazimir, I know all that. But who was he, really? What else did he do besides write software?”

  “What, Mannya, you going soft on me? You want to know what he was like? After all this time?”

  “Yes, Kazi, I want to know everything we knew about him. His hobbies, his interests, his family ties, and where they are right now.”

  “You want me to dig in his old file?”

  “Dah! That’s what I’m saying! Dig, and get back to me.”

  Mannfort hung up the phone. He hated being called “Mannya,” and Kazi knew it. He had gone to great lengths to remove the stain of poverty that had riddled him before Yeltsin came to power. When the Russian economy had privatized, it finally opened up new opportunities for the courageous and fortuitous like himself, and he had jumped on them. He didn’t even mind being called a kleptocrat. Swiss banks were always safest, and he had plenty of cash he needed to stash these days. The more the world digitized, the easier it was for the Project to bring him profit. But he hated the name Mannya. It reminded him of the days of hunger.

  His laptop was not salvageable, but the a-hole had retrieved all his data and put it on an external hard drive. Then he transferred it to a new PC and told him he didn’t owe him anything more, the five grand covered it.

  Mannfort opened the new laptop and checked to make sure everything was there and not corrupted. He asked for the hard drive he’d used for the information transfer and took his old laptop back. Then he told the a-hole he wanted to give him a little something extra for his trouble. Mannfort reached under his shirt and pulled out his Makarov pistol, its silencer still attached, and shot him in the chest. The a-hole fell with a look of disbelief on his face. Mannfort shot him once more in the head, just to be sure.

  He smiled and holstered his pistol and got back in the Maserati, feeling the rush of adrenaline, like endorphins in his blood. This time he closed the top. It was dark and chilly, and he preferred the tinted windows now. He was back at the Sheraton on the Sea by 10:00 p.m.

  Chapter 7

  The Bluetooth sounded above the noise of freezing rain on the windshield.

  “Hi, Tobi, it’s Chloe. I know you’re probably up to your elbows cooking––”

  “Actually, I’m in the car on my way home. What’s up?”

  “I thought I heard rain … I’m just feeling stressed,” Chloe groaned.

  “How’s Larry doing? He’s not due for chemo again for a couple of weeks, right?”

  “Yes, and he’s such a trooper,” Chloe said with a sigh. “He gets really tired a few days after, but so far that’s it. By the next week, he seems to be mostly back to normal. For now, anyway. He’s still got a long way to go. The week
of, he says he feels like he’s being poisoned. His body gets very heavy.”

  “Well, he is being poisoned.”

  Chloe was one of Tobi’s closest synagogue friends. She didn’t go every Friday night like Tobi did, but they made it a point to get together for lunch at least once a month and on some holidays too. At a glance, Chloe looked like a privileged soccer mom, always dressed to the nines, but she was actually one of the strongest, most compassionate, and most introspective people she’d ever met. Tobi felt blessed to have her as a friend.

  “Tobi, have you ever come across this supplemental insurance called Kordec? These people approached Larry with it, said that with his type of leukemia, he’ll likely need a bone marrow transplant at some point. Kordec is for seriously sick patients who may encounter a lot of bills that could break them. After his regular insurance maxes out, it covers hospital bills, rehab, and it gives a stipend if he’s disabled and can’t work anymore. But it’s super expensive—like crazy—and so far, Larry’s doing pretty okay and he’s able to work. He doesn’t want to spend all our resources paying for this supplement when we’re getting by with the Blue Cross, but it would be so hard to get insurance on him now.”

  “Is it life insurance too?”

  “No, that’s the only thing they don’t cover, I guess because they figure he’s not a good risk.” Chloe’s voice caught.

  Tobi pulled into her driveway. “Never heard of them. But don’t worry, Chloe, I think he’s going to beat this. He’s doing amazingly well.”

  “I hope so. We have Sebastian’s wedding coming up next summer too, so money is an issue. My baby boy! I should be so happy for him, what’s wrong with me?”

  “How is that going?”

  “We’re trying to get them to keep costs down. At first, they were talking about this hundred-thousand-dollar-wedding, but we just can’t swing it, and I don’t think her family can either. And we’d rather they use the money we have for them to start their life, not pay for a party.”

  “It sounds so unnecessary,” Tobi said. “I mean, unless you’re a millionaire, and a hundred K isn’t a big deal, but you could still feed a thousand homeless people for a week with that. I went through this for Ben’s bar mitzvah. I gave him the option to have the expensive four-hour party or a modest party with games and a DJ, and we could go on a trip somewhere. So, we went to Australia for two weeks. It was incredible. We hiked in the Blue Mountains, fed wallabies and kangaroos, and Ben got to dive the Great Barrier Reef on his first real scuba trip.”

  “That sounds amazing. What made you think of the Great Barrier Reef?”

  “I don’t know. Reuben always wanted to go there, but he never made it, and Ben was saving his first Israel trip for his father. Plus, it was summer in Australia, and they speak English. Driving on the left side of the road was a challenge, though.” Tobi chuckled.

  “I bet! I hope Sebastian does something like that, make it a destination that would also make for a magnificent honeymoon, all for the same price. But he doesn’t listen to me anymore ….”

  “Give him time, Chloe, and trust him. He’s a smart kid. I mean, we really can’t make decisions for our kids after a certain point. We just have to hope we taught them everything we could and then have faith in them to live their own lives, wisely.”

  “I know. It’s so hard to let go.”

  “That’s a big add-on to your stress right there, girlfriend. Between your oldest leaving the nest and worrying about Larry, it’s amazing you’re not completely strung out,” Tobi said. “Give yourself some credit!”

  “Maybe you’re right. Are you home yet?”

  “Just pulled up.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you go. Thanks for the chat. Have a great holiday!”

  Chapter 8

  Mannfort paced in his penthouse suite for an hour until Kazi called him. It was only 11 p.m., but he hated to be kept waiting.

  “Did you find what I need?” Mannfort asked.

  “Dah. Reuben Sokowsky, American. Born in New York City. Excellent with computers, he wrote our first successful program, and it was even better than expected. He started snooping though, and we thought we’d have to treat his, ah, curiosity, but he did it himself. Found dead in his apartment in Austin, Texas, on October 31, 2000.”

  “Interesting … anything else about him?”

  “He had a pilot license, was a PADI certified Divemaster and scuba instructor, and did freelance underwater photography ... sold some of it. Employed by Cray Research and Superior Oil before us and worked at NASA on the American space shuttle project. Graduated University of Texas, Austin, 1979. That’s it.”

  “Positive ID on his death?”

  “Looks like it; it was a closed case. Identified by friend, then cremated.”

  “No DNA confirmation?”

  “Mannya, no one did DNA testing back in 2000, not unless the vic was some Big Shot. But there is something strange ….”

  “What, Kazi, what?”

  “Well, we lost one of our insureds about that time. Guy named James Arlan. He was scheduled for a heart transplant. Diagnosis was cardio … carmayo … oh, hell, I can’t pronounce it. Some heart condition. Was going to cost a fortune. We were about to take care of it, but he just disappeared. The weird thing is, he never got the transplant, either, so we let it go.”

  “People don’t ‘disappear’ unless we make them, Kazi.”

  “I know, Mannya, but I don’t see any follow-up on him, or any charges to Kordec Insurance for the surgery. I guess nobody noticed.”

  “Hell of a thing to not notice. Nobody looked for him? What about his family?”

  “Arlan didn’t have much family, and not in America anyway. He was presumed dead by his Canadian cousins after his wallet turned up in the Colorado River. That case was closed too.”

  “Body was found in the river?” Mannfort asked.

  “Nyet, nothing found but the wallet. Maybe was assumed he went downstream.”

  “Kazi, you’re sure we didn’t do it?”

  “Positive, Mannya. Maybe he committed suicide.”

  “Why would a man about to get his heart transplant commit suicide?”

  “No idea.”

  “What about Sokowsky? Did he have family? Kazi, some hacker has been poking around in the Project’s files, as recently as a few weeks ago, and I’m wondering … scuba instructor, huh? I want to know about every job Sokowsky had, every hobby traceable back to his last known server, and every email he ever sent to anyone. There’s always some kind of trail. Start with the information we had on him back then and work forward. Understand?”

  “Dah, Mannya, dah. Give me more time on that, it was a long time ago. I’ll call you back.”

  Chapter 9

  Tobi walked in the house and was greeted by her dwarf cat, Pantelaymin, who was a muted tortie on her back, with vivid calico colors on her tummy. Her deep gray and beige markings made a flawless line down the center of her face, giving her a certain harlequin appearance. There was also a perfect line down the length of her belly, so she was a great genetics lesson. It was like seeing the fusion of the neural tube. And, like a mirror, she always seemed to embody Tobi’s own emotions and reflect them back to her.

  Tobi barely got through the door, with little PanniKat rubbing against her legs. The cat purred loudly and gazed up at her with those wide green-gold eyes, looking very concerned by her human’s lateness. Tobi took off her wet coat and sneakers and picked her up. The fatigue of the day began to dissolve with the soft, rhythmic vibrations against her chest. They nuzzled each other, face to face, and then little Panni rubbed the top of her head under Tobi’s chin.

  She changed clothes and was ready to tackle the kitchen to prepare for Thanksgiving when Ellie Milton called. She was the doctor who worked opposite Tobi in their office. In her usual style, Ellie started the conversation without preliminarie
s.

  “So, Rufini wants to meet with both of us this time. Like, really? I already met with him last month and he was a jackass. Why do I have to do it again? He already told me I was the slowest provider in the whole company, so what else is there to say? Oh, happy Thanksgiving, by the way.”

  “Hey, you too,” Tobi said. “Are you doing dinner? And you can’t be the slowest, he said I was.”

  “Going to my mom. Thanks for the kugel recipe, it looks yummy.”

  “Hope you like it. Ismar came in today, right after an ED transfer. Patient was really sick too, flu and new onset a-fib; he looked a mess. Of course, Ismar made a comment about the backup wait time that caused, and he mentioned the meeting next week. And somehow my tablet was switched, and Jorge thinks it was Ismar who took it and was using it in the back.”

  “He’s not supposed to do that!” Ellie said. “Did he change anything?”

  “I have no idea, Jorge told me when we were closing up. I just wanted to get out of there, and I didn’t think to go through all forty-eight charts and see if anything had been changed. Kind of ticks me off.”

  “It would me!”

  “He said Molly is also coming next week,” Tobi added, with disgust. “She’s some high up muckety-muck now, right? She comes off so sweet, like she’s supportive and understanding, but she’ll cut your throat if you close your eyes for a second. And she doesn’t understand medicine at all, which is the most frustrating. What was she in her former life, a bookkeeper for some small business, I think? How is she running the corporate operations of a medical giant?”