Читать книгу Working Stiff - Annelise Ryan - Страница 13

The sun is coming up as we leave Karen Owenby’s house. Izzy says he’ll drop me off at the cottage on his way to the morgue and suggests I come into work around ten, giving him plenty of time to finish the autopsy on Karen.

I take advantage of the ride home to quiz him about my latest interest. “So what do you know about this Steve Hurley guy?”

“Not much. He moved here a few months ago from Chicago for reasons no one quite knows. He was a homicide cop there, too, and rumor has it he pissed off someone higher up in his department and got blackballed out of the place.”

“Pissed them off how?”

“Who knows? I’m not even sure that’s the truth. It may just be speculation.”

“Is he good? I mean, does he know what he’s doing?”

“He seems quite good, actually,” Izzy says with a tone of respect. “I imagine he has a lot more experience than most of the other cops here given that he spent fifteen years on the force in Chicago, four of those as a homicide detective.”

“So why here? Why Sorenson of all places?”

“I have no idea. Maybe he got tired of the big city and wanted a taste of small-town life.”

“Does he have a family?”

Izzy shoots me an amused look. “Quit being so damned cagey, Mattie. I could tell you were practically drooling over the guy. Why don’t you just come out and ask if he’s married or dating? That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it?”

“No,” I say, indignant. “I was just trying to make polite conversation. Excuse the hell out of me.”

“Oh, okay.”

“And I wasn’t drooling.”

When we reach the house I unfold myself, climb out of the car, and spend a minute leaning on my door, shifting from one foot to the other as I wait for the feeling to return to my legs. Stalling. Hoping. But Izzy can always outlast me, damn him.

“Fine,” I say eventually. “Give it up. Tell me what you know.”

Izzy smirks. “He’s single.”

“Is he seeing anyone that you know of?”

“I haven’t heard anything definite, but word has it Alison Miller’s been sniffing around.”

Like me, Alison is a Sorenson lifer. We went to school together. Now she does double duty as a reporter and photographer for the local paper, which comes out twice a week on Monday and Thursday mornings. I don’t consider her interest in Hurley as any real threat.

“If I know Alison, she’s most likely just using Hurley,” I tell Izzy. “Hoping to get an inside scoop. Besides, I happen to know she has a thing for bald men.”

I send Izzy on his way and, once inside the cottage, I waddle into the bathroom, turn on the water in the tub, and strip. I hesitate before climbing in, aware of the painful throb I can still feel between my legs. My nurse’s training tells me I should apply ice for a while to try to minimize the swelling, but the thought of sticking an ice pack down there gives a whole new meaning to the term frigid. In the end I give in to the soothing warmth of the tub.

After half an hour of luxurious soaking, I climb out, dry off, wrap myself in a towel, and down another handful of aspirin. Then I collapse onto the couch and start digesting everything that’s happened.

I wonder if anyone has told David about Karen yet. Glancing at my watch, I realize he should be in the OR soon if he has surgeries scheduled for the day. I figure if I pop over to the hospital, I can catch him before he starts and be the one to break the news. That way I’ll have a chance to see the expression on his face when he hears about Karen’s murder.

But first I have to take care of the evidence from my nocturnal spy mission.

I dress and head off through the woods, searching for my scarf along the way. When I near the clearing I freeze and mutter a curse under my breath. David’s car is gone, as I hoped, but another one is parked in its place. And beneath the same window where I was last night is Detective Hurley, standing beside the wheelbarrow, my scarf in his hand.

I hide behind a tree watching his ponderous expression and trying to decide how the hell I’m going to lie my way out of this one. As soon as Hurley wanders around to the far side of the house, I tiptoe back through the woods, hop in my car, and lead-foot it out of there.

I’m not too crazy about the idea of showing my face at the hospital, but I hope that if the Fates are with me, I’ll be able to slip in, do what I need, and slip back out again. Unfortunately, the OR is a limited-access area, and because I no longer work at the hospital, I won’t be able to get in there on my own. And I’m not sure I want to go in there alone anyway; some of my ex-coworkers will undoubtedly consider my presence as an open invitation to ask painful, probing questions under the guise of social duty. I need an escort who can not only get me in, but also effectively deter any attempts at chitchat. And I know the perfect person for the job: Nancy Molinaro, the director of nursing.

Unfortunately, my plan goes awry as soon as I set foot in the hospital lobby. There, off to one side being interviewed by a news crew from one of the local network TV stations, is Gina Carrigan, wife of Sidney Carrigan, one of the surgeons at Mercy Hospital. Gina is a tiny, pretty woman with huge blue eyes, short blond hair, and the sort of camera-loving aura that drives paparazzi wild. She is well-known, well liked, and highly respected in Sorenson, in part because her husband, Sidney, comes from money—lots of it. The Carrigan family have been big shots in Sorenson for several generations.

Sidney and Gina live in the family home, a beautiful old house that sits on a gazillion acres of land just outside of town. I’ve been there several times for parties and have often admired the understated but obvious wealth. Even with my limited knowledge of the art world, I know that the paintings they have hanging in one room alone are worth about ten times my yearly salary.

Despite all that wealth, or perhaps because of it, Sidney is very generous. He’s a great philanthropist, donating money to several worthy causes within the community. Gina gives too, but of her time more than her money, leaving the checkbook in Sidney’s hands. She volunteers for all sorts of community projects, regularly heads up task forces designed to promote some worthy cause or another, and can always be counted on to take an active stance on any issue that affects Sorenson and its citizenry. Her efforts, combined with her movie star looks, have made her a media darling locally and have even segued into the national news a time or two. Wherever Gina goes, a newspaper reporter or TV camera often follows. The woman gets the sort of ink and airtime any politician would envy.

Consequently, running into her now is like my worst nightmare. I lower my head and hurry across the lobby, hoping I can sneak by without being noticed. But Gina sees me and immediately hails me down, right in the middle of her on-camera speech.

“Mattie! Yoo-hoo! Over here.”

I see the camera swoop in my direction and want to duck my head and run. But I know the cameraman already has me in his sights and that my best bet at this point is to try to turn the moment into nothing more than a hideously boring social encounter.

So I paste on my best smile and walk over. “Gina! How good to see you,” I say, giving her a hug. I hate hugging tiny women. It always makes me feel like some sort of genetic accident. “You look great as always,” I tell her. And it’s true. Gina always looks stunning no matter where she is or what she’s doing.

“You look pretty good yourself,” Gina lies. “What brings you to the hospital today? Are you coming back to work?”

“No,” I answer with a nervous laugh, keenly aware the camera is still running. “Not today anyway.” I turn to give the film guy a dirty look and he finally lowers the camera, though I notice he hasn’t bothered to turn it off.

“I hope you’re not here because of any health problems,” Gina says, looking prettily stricken.

“No, nothing so dramatic. I’m just here to…um…visit a friend. What are you up to?” I add quickly, eager to change the subject.

“Well, it is breast cancer month, you know. So we’re doing a public service spot to remind women about the importance of regular self-exams and mammograms. You know the drill.”

“Of course.”

“Say,” Gina says, her eyes widening with excitement, “want to be on TV? We need to film someone having a mammogram. Would you be willing to volunteer?”

Oh, yeah, that’s my idea of stardom. Getting my boobs squished between two plastic plates on network TV. “As fun as that sounds, Gina, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I’m in a bit of a rush.”

“Okay,” she says with a pretty pout. “Another time then. It sure is great to see you, Mattie. Don’t be such a stranger. And take care of yourself.”

“Thanks. You, too.” I make a hasty departure and manage to get to the nursing office without any further delays.

When I enter the outer office, Celia Watson, the main secretary and Nancy Molinaro’s personal guard dog, is sitting behind her desk, typing at a stunning ten-word-a-minute rate. Celia is about as suited for her secretarial job as elephants are for flight. I once asked her to type up a memo for the OR that was to go to a public health department. The memo was less than a page long, yet it had taken Celia an entire eight-hour shift to type it. Then the thing had seven errors in it, including the phrase, “in the interests of pubic health,” something I would later discover Karen Owenby had a special interest in. We all figured the only way Celia had managed to keep her job for the past five years was that she had some sort of dirt on Molinaro.

“Morning, Celia,” I say.

“Mattie!” Celia’s face breaks into a beaming smile. “Never thought I’d see you around these parts again.”

That made two of us. “Molinaro in?”

“She is, but she’s on the phone. Is this an emergency? ’Cause if it’s an emergency, I can stick my head in there.”

Part of Celia’s perceived job description is the spreading of whatever rumors might be circulating, embellishing whatever and whenever she can. The hotter the gossip, the more excited she gets, and I can tell she is bursting at the seams to deliver the news of my arrival. For Celia, the sight of me is like the scent of a fresh kill to a hyena.

I’ve never really liked Celia so I decide to be spiteful just for the hell of it. “I’m in no hurry,” I lie, easing myself into one of the molded plastic chairs that line the wall. “I’ll just wait.”

I grab a nursing magazine that’s four years out of date and start flipping through the pages as Celia watches me. After thirty seconds, she starts fidgeting in her chair, a tentative expression on her face. Beads of sweat pop out on her forehead and run into her eyes, dampening the twenty pounds of mascara she has on her lashes. Three blinks later she has a trail of tiny black dots below her lower lids, as if a bug has run through an inkwell and then across her face. After three minutes of her continuous squirming, I come to the realization that I’ve grossly underestimated my ability to be spiteful. She’s driving me crazy.

“What is it, Celia?” I say finally, lowering the magazine and letting out a weight-of-the-world sigh. “I can tell you have something you want to say. Spit it out.”

She giggles like a schoolgirl and says, “Sorry, but I just have to know. Is it true David has a heart-shaped birthmark on his whatsit?”

I give her the evil eye but it’s a wasted effort. People like Celia are born with a force field in place.

“’Cause if he does,” she sniggers, “then you could say he walks around with a heart-on all the time.” She slaps her thigh and barks out a laugh, obviously pleased with herself.

“Shouldn’t you be typing something?” I ask.

She dismisses my question with a wave of her hand. “Nothing urgent. I can bang it out in no time.”

I roll my eyes and bite my tongue.

“Hey, Nancy just hung up. Let me tell her you’re here.” She picks up the phone and buzzes the intercom. “You’ll never guess who’s here to see you,” she says. Then she giggles. “Nope, it’s Mattie Winston.” A pause, then, “No kidding!” followed by “Okay.” She hangs up the phone. “Go on in,” she says, rubbing her hands together with glee. She follows close on my heels as I head for Nancy’s office and I know she’ll be parked outside the door as soon as I close it, her ear to the wood.

As are many directors of nursing, Nancy Molinaro is often referred to as the DON. The term derives from the initials in the title but it’s used on Molinaro for a totally different reason. Rumor has it she’s a former mob boss who underwent a botched sex change operation before entering the witness protection program. She has a broad stocky build and unusually long sideburns. The dark hair on her head is both shorter and thinner than that on her arms and legs. Bleach does little to hide the push broom on her upper lip and a broken jaw that never healed properly gives her a whispering lisp. There are those who swear that a horse’s head is her favorite bedtime companion.

People she doesn’t like or who cross her in any way have an odd habit of disappearing. Though no one has actually seen it, everyone knows she maintains a hit list, which is sometimes called the shit list, but more often referred to as the Molinaro Fecal Roster. Anyone who makes it onto the list will eventually get a Friday afternoon summons to the nursing office, then never be heard from again. Some think the Friday timing is so administration will have an entire weekend to find a replacement. Personally, I think it’s so Molinaro will have an entire weekend to hide the body.

“Hello, Mattie.” She greets me with a phony-looking smile and a suspicious gleam in her eye. “What a nice surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Actually, I’m here to see David, but I figure they won’t let me into the OR on my own. I want to talk to him about Karen Owenby.”

“Karen Owenby?” Molinaro sits up straighter, her tone as wary as her expression. “What business do you have with Karen?” She probably thinks I’m here to exact some sort of revenge. Apparently she doesn’t know someone beat me to it.

“None. I need to see David.”

“Karen’s not here today, anyway,” she adds quickly. “She took a few personal days.”

More than a few, I think. “I guess you haven’t heard yet. Karen’s dead. Someone broke into her house last night and shot her.”

Molinaro’s reaction surprises me. There isn’t one. Finally she says, “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” I answer, an admittedly bad choice of words.

“How do you know about it already?” Molinaro asks, her eyes narrowing.

“I was there.”

Molinaro’s right hand drops off the desk toward her lap. I imagine she is fingering the revolver she keeps strapped to her leg, trying to get it loose without snagging any hairs.

“I was there officially,” I explain. “I work in the ME’s office now.” I pull out my badge and flash it at her.

She weighs the facts a moment and apparently finds something amusing in them, because a hint of a smile curls her mustache.

“Anyway, I need to talk to David.”

“Why?”

I don’t think telling her I need to rule him out as the killer will open many doors for me, so I opt for evasiveness. “Official business. Part of my new job and all. You know.”

Molinaro stares at me for the longest time and I find myself feeling relieved it isn’t a Friday. “He’s not in the OR,” she says finally. “He’s down in the ER. We had a multicar pileup this morning and there are several surgical candidates in the aftermath.”

There is an undeniable tone of glee in Molinaro’s voice. No doubt she hears the ka-ching of dollar signs adding up. Multiple trauma on young patients with insurance is good business for a hospital, especially if they end up in the OR, where the rooms are rented by the minute and the average markup on items is somewhere around 2,000 percent. For the price of one OR Band-Aid you can buy ten cases of the suckers at Wal-Mart.

“Come on,” Molinaro says, rising from her chair. “I’ll take you down there.”

Walking into the hustle and bustle of the ER is like a ride in a time machine. Izzy was right, damn it. I hadn’t merely liked working in the ER, I’d loved it. The sounds and smells of the place bring back a delicious feeling of anticipation.

As I follow Molinaro toward the main desk, the curtain on one of the cubicles we pass is flung aside and Phyllis Malone steps out. “Mets!” she hollers when she sees me. “Good to see you again.”

“You, too, Syph.”

Syph is short for syphilis. Nurses in the ER have a tendency to refer to patients by their disease or diagnosis rather than their name. Instead of Mr. Jones or Mrs. Smith, it’s “the Leg Fracture in Bed Two” or “the Kidney Stone in Bed Six.” Back when I worked in the ER, we sat around one night discussing this habit, then decided to pick out nicknames for ourselves that were both a disease and somewhat close to our real names. It took a while but eventually everyone had a nickname and, over time, they stuck. The best we came up with for Mattie was Mets—short for metastases, the term used for the spread of cancer. It isn’t great—not nearly as good as Ricky’s Rickets or Lucy’s Lupus—but at least I fared better than Phyllis.

“We’re looking for Dr. Winston,” Molinaro announces in her haughty, lisping tone.

Syph says, “I think he’s in Bed One with the Blunt Abdominal Trauma, Probable Ruptured Spleen.”

“Thanks,” says Molinaro. “Do you have an empty room anywhere?”

“I don’t think anyone is in the ENT room,” Syph says, her gaze bouncing back and forth between me and Molinaro.

I hear the sliding doors to the ambulance bay open, look over, and see Hurley stroll in. I quickly step to one side, hoping to hide behind Molinaro, but it’s like trying to hide a redwood behind a rose bush.

David chooses that moment to appear from behind curtain number one like the booby prize in Let’s Make A Deal. He sees me right away and freezes to the spot. He blinks and stares at me for several long seconds, then says, “Mattie?”

With that, Hurley turns and sees me, too, the expression on his face reminding me of the one my nephew Ethan gets when he sees a bug on the wall. “What are you doing here?” Hurley asks.

“I used to work here,” I tell him with as much indignation as I can muster, hoping it will disguise the fact that I am more or less avoiding the question.

Hurley studies me, his eyes giving me a head-to-toe perusal that leaves me confused about whether I want to run and hide, or wrap my legs around his waist and ride him home. He turns to David. “You are Dr. Winston?”

“I am.”

“I’d like to speak with you please. If you have a moment.” Hurley flips his detective badge out like it’s an invitation.

“Sure. But make it quick. I have a patient I need to get up to the OR.”

“In private,” Hurley says.

I realize Hurley is going to haul David away, which means I won’t be able to see David’s reaction when he finds out about Karen. Then Molinaro, of all people, saves the day. “Is this about Karen Owenby’s murder?” she asks.

Hurley shoots me a look that makes my toes curl up like the witch under the house in The Wizard of Oz. He is clearly pissed. He doesn’t stare at me for long though, because David lets out a “What?” that sounds like the yelp of a wounded dog. All the blood drains from his face and he staggers back as if he’s been hit.

Syph, who is standing across the room, looks up at the sound of David’s outburst and studies the faces in our group for a second. Then she approaches and says, “Let me guess. You told them about that nipple incident, didn’t you?”