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Rafy, Paula, and Tracey entered the hotel restaurant with arms linked, Paula in the middle. While I was figuring out if Rafy and Tracey were supporting or dragging Paula, they reached Andrea and me, and separated.
“Join us for dinner,” Tracey said. “My treat.”
I looked at Paula. She nodded. The waiter seated us and took our orders. My mother's illness had taken my appetite away, so I ordered only a chicken noodle soup.
“Is that all you want?” Tracey chided. “Don't worry about the cost. I'll deduct it on my taxes.” She laughed. “Just kidding. Please order more.”
I looked at Paula again. “Is everything all right?” Tracey asked.
“My mother's in the hospital.” I said.
“Why didn't you say so?” Tracey replied. “Is there anything we can do?”
“What's wrong with her?” Paula asked.
“She went in with stomach pain. They found something in her lower abdomen. She's feeling better now, and is waiting for more tests.”
Paula paled, and folded her napkin on the table. “I have to go see her. And your father, too.”
I recognized something in her look. Her concern for my mother had triggered a PTSD-like flashback to her stay in a cancer hospital as a nine-year-old. Her tumor had proved benign, but the emotional scars were malignant.
Andrea cleared her throat. “I'm sorry to hear your news, David. You should've told me. I don't mean to tell you what to do, Paula, but I think you should eat first. Before you go to the hospital.”
“Yes, Paula,” Rafy said. “After all, you've ordered already.”
Paula looked at her watch and sighed. “OK,” she said. “But I won't stay long.”
The food arrived and we ate. Our silence was broken mostly by Rafy talking about his favorite subject--himself. His accomplishments, his visions for the future, his tapped and untapped talents. I was surprised that he didn't include a discussion of his conquests. But maybe I missed that part, because I tuned in and out.
“How's your investigation going?” Tracey asked. That woke me up. “Have you found anything to help poor Mitchell?”
Paula and I looked at each other. It was clearly not the appropriate setting to say anything of substance about the case. “Not much,” I said.
I forced myself not to look at Andrea, as my “faces” are all too easy to read. Especially by women. I hoped that she remembered my admonition not to speak about the dicta-pen.
Rafy looked back and forth between Paula and me, his smug smile morphing into a steely frown. He threw his napkin onto the table. “What's going on here? Are we friends and colleagues, or just suspects to you?”
Paula and I looked at each other yet again.
“Calm down,” Tracey said. “It's nothing personal.”
“Yes, Rafy,” Andrea said. “No one's targeting you. Believe me.”
I couldn't help shooting a glance at her this time, willing her to shut up. Hoping that liquor hadn’t loosened her tongue.
Rafy's glance remained fixed on Paula and me while Tracey and Andrea spoke. He stood up and focused on Paula. She shrank in her seat, her hands gripping the sides. I began to stand up, but Paula restrained me with a touch.
“I thought,” Rafy said, “after all we've been through, that we'd at least reached a level of comfort. If two colleagues don't trust each other they shouldn't work together. Now if you'll all excuse me, I have work to do.” He took a last look at his nearly empty plate, picked up his wine glass, and downed the last half in one gulp. After patting his mouth with his napkin, he tossed the napkin back down, swiveled and left. I think he flipped his hair.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
I wanted to laugh at Rafy, but I also wanted to pulverize him. What had he meant by “all we've been through?”
Tracey shook her head. “What a drama queen. Don't worry, Paula. He has some nerve talking about trust. I could tell you stories about colleagues he's knifed in the back. His definition of cooperation is both sides doing what's best for him.”
“By now,” Andrea said, “you probably know that Rafy blows hot and cold. By tomorrow he'll have forgotten all about this. As long as you kiss up to him, of course.”
And as long as you're an attractive woman, I thought. Were Rafy's antics those of a murderer? I would have enjoyed answering yes, but to be honest his behavior seemed more childish than suspicious.
He's a brilliant guy, I reminded myself, fully capable of putting on any act he chooses. Keep your guard up. I hated him for the way he was treating Paula, but knew she'd tell me that she could take care of herself. As if any of us could really do that.
“Thank you,” Paula said, once again folding her napkin on the table. “I'm afraid that I've lost whatever appetite I had.” She'd eaten only half of her food. My reflex thought, which I knew that Paula would normally have shared, was to wrap up her uneaten food. But it was Paula's food, Paula's mood, and Paula's decision.
“Don't worry about it,” Tracey said. “Or about us. We understand.”
“Ready to go?” I asked.
Paula stood up. “Thank you for dinner, Tracey. And for your support.”
Tracey waved it off. “Don't mention it.”
I stood up. “Thank you, Tracey. And nice talking to you, Andrea. I hope you feel better, too.”
Andrea gulped down the food in her mouth. “Thank you. And I hope your mother's OK. See you tomorrow.”
#
Having deliberately avoided drinking alcohol with my “dinner,” I had no problem driving to the hospital.
“You know,” I told Paula, “no one’s diagnosed my mother with cancer.” “Yet,” I’m sure we both thought.
Paula stared straight ahead. As I had no further reassurance to offer, I moved on to Andrea's dicta-pen revelation. “I know we're going to the hospital to see my parents, but I have to see Stephanie, too. I want her permission to search her home. In fact, since I just saw my mother, my plan is to go to Stephanie, and Jonathan Singer, first.”
Paula didn't speak. “What would you like to do?” I asked.
“I'll go with you to Stephanie and Dr. Singer first. And…no matter.” She probably wanted me by her side when she faced my mother. As I had wanted her earlier.
Stephanie was alone with Dr. Singer. Nurses came in and out, but Singer had no other visible protection from any murder suspects. Lieutenant Hansen, I presumed, must have told the nurses that having Mitchell in custody, and formally charged, was protection enough for Jonathan Singer.
Something else was wrong with the scene. What was it? Singer looked worse. His immobility had deepened, if that was possible, as if all spirit had ebbed out of him. He displayed no opposition to the respirator's invasion of his body. The rhythmic whooshing, in time with the inflation and deflation of his chest cavity, seemed like the drumbeats of a departing funeral march which Singer himself had long since abandoned.
Stephanie was dressed in a casual shirt and jeans. That was a change. She was also much less made up than usual. But...I had it! Judith Klansky was missing.
“Hello, Stephanie,” I said. “How is Dr. Singer doing?”
She neither greeted us nor turned in our direction. “Nothing. Nothing's doing. Just look.” She pointed at Singer for a moment, then turned to us. “This has gone far enough. It's got to end.”
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“Sorry? Right. I'm sick of sorry. Torture is more like it. For him and for me. They tell me the situation is very bad, but you never know. Judith tells me not to give up hope. Jonathan's unique.” She shook her head. “What the hell does she know about it? Well, tomorrow's the end. One way or another. If he doesn't improve I'm pulling the plug.”
She shot us a grim smile. “I was stupid enough to tell that to Judith, just a few minutes ago. She threw a hissy fit. Would you believe it? Well, I had enough of her so I threw her out. She made threats, but who gives a shit?”
She paused. “You know what? I don't want the two of you here,
either. So please leave. I'm sorry if my manners aren't very good right now.” Tears gathered in her eyes.
I wanted to accede to her wishes, but I had to ask my question first. “We'll leave, Stephanie, if that's what you want.” Paula nodded. “And I'm sorry for the timing,” I continued, “but I have to ask you something.”
“Oh?”
“We'd like to search your house. We have reason to believe that Dr. Singer's schedule may be there. It would help us find his...”
“Murderer? Didn't the police already look? I gave them permission.”
“That's true, but we have some new information. If you'd rather that we get the police involved again...”
“No, that's not necessary. I don't mind if you take a look, but I'll have to be there with you. Nothing personal, but strangers looking through my drawers...”
Paula and I looked at each other. Stephanie half-giggled. “I didn't mean it quite that way, but you get the idea. Now this search may be important to you, but it's way down on my list of priorities. I'll get to it when I get to it. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in the afternoon. I can search with you, get myself together, and get back here by the end of the day for the...end.”
“Thank you...in such a difficult time. So you'll call me? Or we'll call you?”
“Whatever. Now I'll ask you again. Please leave me alone with Jonathan.” She turned her chair back to face her husband.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Paula and I went next to my mother's hospital room, only to find my father and her asleep. They were facing each other in the bed, she under the sheet, he above it. His mouth was open. Her hand was near her mouth, harking back to thumb-sucking position. They looked so serene, carefree toddlers masquerading as senior citizens. It was unreal to think that my mother, so apparently at peace, was harboring a time bomb under her skin.
Paula took my hand and we left the room. My tears welled up, hers streamed down her face. “We'll come back here tomorrow,” I said. She nodded, and dabbed her cheeks with a tissue.
We walked out of the hospital, and into the parking lot. “Where's the car?” I asked. “I thought-”
“Something's different.”
“There it is.” I pointed to the right. “It's where we left it, but-”
“It's in the dark now. I'm sure it was well lit when we parked it there.”
I felt a chill. “Something's wrong.”
I took Paula's hand. As we walked to the car it grew progressively darker. “Look,” she said, pointing upward. “The light's out.”
When we took a couple more steps something crackled under our feet. We both bent over; I saw several glints. “Don't touch,” I said. “It's glass. I don't like this. Let's get out of here.”
The car was twenty feet away. We hurried to it. I pulled the car keys out of my pocket, and dropped them onto the ground.
“Hurry, David.”
My apprehension had obviously infected her. I passed my hand over the ground and found the keys. After two abortive passes at the lock I found the keyhole and unlocked all the doors.
“One second,” Paula said, placing her hand on my arm. When she glanced through the windows at the back seat I realized that she was checking for uninvited guests. Was our worry logical or silly?
“Seems OK,” she said, and opened her door.
We got into our seats, closed and locked our doors, and buckled in as quickly as possible. “Safe at last,” I said, as though saying it might make it true.
I heard a car engine start up, sounding nearby. Gravel crunched as a dark shape rolled up alongside our car on my side. I switched on the ignition, then noticed the other car's passenger-side window slowly descend.
Don't be such a paranoid New Yorker, I thought. It's probably just someone who needs directions or something. Be neighborly. I pressed the knob which activated my own window's descent. It was much too dark to identify the hooded person in the other car, but when my window was halfway down I saw something move in my direction, and caught a glint of a different sort.
“Get down!” I lurched to my right, restrained by my seat belt, and managed to push Paula partially down. A crack and a whizz passed above my head. The explosion of glass to my right proclaimed that a bullet had shattered Paula's window, and gone to its final resting place. “Paula!!”
The other car's tires screeched as it pulled away. “Let go of me, David. You're hurting my rib.”
She felt calm to my touch, whereas I was shaking. I pulled away, sat up, and rubbed my own sore waist and ribs. “Tell me you're OK, Paula.”
“I'm fine,” she said, then whirled to me. “And you? Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, too,” I echoed. “Did glass get you?”
Paula briefly touched her face and brushed her clothes. “No. Nothing.”
Her self-inspection seemed half-hearted to me. But the bullet traveling through the car suggested that broken glass would be mostly outside, anyway.
“Let’s call the police,” I said.
“Yes, right away,” she said. She began to unbuckle her seatbelt, but stopped. “Did you see the person who shot at us?” she asked.
“No.”
“Man or woman?”
“Couldn’t tell.”
“How about the car? Can you describe it?”
“Dark,” I said. “I think. And big, maybe a van. Maybe.”
“How about the gun?”
“Right. Like I could distinguish a revolver from a howitzer.”
“Do you see what I’m getting at?” she asked.
“That we’ll never find the person who did this?”
“Yes, and-”
“What about the bullet?” I asked.
“You mean the one that’s in the wilderness, who knows where, probably never to be found?”
We were both silent for a moment.
“And even if the bullet is found,” she continued, “it won’t help us trace the gun. Unless it’s the same gun used in a previous crime, which a mastermind career criminal decided to use again.”
Paula was definitely discouraging me, but…”what about searching our current suspects for the gun?” I asked.
“You mean the gun they cleverly left out in the open for the police to find? And even we amateur detectives know that the police can’t just go search innocent people’s private property. They need probable cause. Search warrants.”
“So it’s hopeless,” I sighed.
“Yes. But I’ve also talked myself into another point.” She touched my hand. “You’re not going to like this.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t want to go to the police-”
“What?”
“I mean now,” she said. “I’m tired and in pain, and I have a talk to give in the morning.”
She squeezed my hand. “Do you see what I’m saying? If we go to the police now we’ll be up all night filling out forms, which will ruin my talk. And all for a fruitless exercise.”
I shook my head. “I see your point, but-”
“Please, David. We’ll go to the police as soon as possible after my talk.”
I wasn’t sure that would happen, either, but I was too shaken and tired to argue further. “I give up,” I said.
I turned on the car and began driving to the hotel. “At least this exonerates Mitchell,” I said. “He’s in jail.”
“Fine for us, but you can imagine what Lieutenant Hansen will say. An unrelated coincidence.”
She was probably right. Hansen couldn't ignore our shattered car window, but he was likely to come up with an alternative explanation. Still, he'd explode if we didn't report it at all.
Paula and I didn't speak the rest of the way home. When we stepped out of the car I brushed her off, in case any glass fragments remained.
We walked to her door, where she threw her arms around me for a hug. “Thank you for saving my life,” she whispered. I floated back to the car to brush it out, as well, and to tape a clear plastic bag over the broken window.
> I squirmed in bed all night, alternating between nightmares and thinking about Singer's case. My mother was hanging by her feet, screaming...The light in the parking lot must have been shot out. It might not lead to anything, but the bullet might be embedded in the fixture, and therefore recoverable...My mother hit a home run and a triple at the same time, then was forced to keep running the bases, around and around and around and around...Who had taken the shot at Paula and me? I had no idea, having seen only darkness and shadow and flash. Judith Klansky had been on the scene at the right time, but picturing her as Bonnie Parker shooting the lights out, I didn't know. All the other possibilities were just guesses...In my final dream of the night, Paula pointed out to me that my pants and wallet were missing, while I searched my unidentifiable room, frantically and fruitlessly.
THURSDAY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
I woke up at 6:30 Thursday morning, caked in dried sweat. My plan--after showering, that is--was to visit my parents in the hospital first. Then I'd return to meet Paula for breakfast and conference.
I arrived at the hospital at 7:30 and found my mother's bed empty. After a moment of panic--emergency surgery? something worse?--I calmed down. Most mysteries in hospitals have banal explanations. Delays, inefficiencies, inconsequential errors. The clerk at the nurses' station paged my mother's nurse to help me locate my mother, then returned to her chores and forgot my request.
After one minute of patient waiting and two minutes of fuming I repeated my request. The clerk's first response was a ‘what's with you, I'm just the hired help’ look, but then she spotted and pointed out the nurse in question down the hallway.
My mother had been taken to the Radiology department to have her CT scan. I found her with the help of a series of four friendly staff members. She was sitting in a wheelchair, right side against the wall of a hallway, behind a line-up of four other patients on gurneys.
How well I recognized that hallmark of poor service! Medical care in the U.S. is organized around the needs of workers, not patients. Five sick people were lined up in a hallway, waiting, if not in pain, at least in reduced comfort, so that staff could work without wasting a moment. In my own small way I'd tried to address such issues back home at CoMed, by proposing ideas from the “patient-centered” movement to my boss.
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