Lifeblood (12 page)

“You know his name?”

“Her name. Corazon Lopez. I remember because it was tooled in neat little letters inside. But even if I could find her, I couldn’t afford to buy another one now. It was pretty expensive.”

Rachel spent the afternoon calling credit card companies and her bank, then standing in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles while Irene kept an eye on the garage.

“What a pain. And I still have to get keys made,” she told Irene when she got back. “I hope that doesn’t mean new locks.”

“No, you don’t.” Irene smiled angelically and held up a ring of keys. “While I was getting some made for myself, I had a whole new set made up as a spare.”

Rachel didn’t know whether to thank her or strangle her. She decided on the thanks.

“Gypsies, dear girl, that’s what they were,” Irene said, wagging her head as the feather earrings she wore swung back and forth. “An old gypsy trick, that is. They have been to that hospital before. This time I hear it’s the king come down from San Francisco for heart surgery. Jefferson is very good at heart surgery. Or was it ear surgery? I hear about a hundred came with the king. They sleep in chairs and on the floor—makes no never mind to a gypsy—in the lobby and the waiting rooms.”

“The hospital puts up with that?” Rachel asked.

“That and more. Those gypsies even steal the plumbing out of the bathrooms—I mean to tell you, luv, the faucets, the drains, the toilet flushers, everything.”

“And the hospital doesn’t throw them out?”

“Those that run hospitals love gypsies. Gypsies pay cash, dear girl. Cash on the barrel head. In advance.”

999

It wasn’t until after work the following night that Rachel sat down in front of her computer, brought up Google and typed in scrub suit, thought a moment and added +hospital. Dozens of hospital supply companies turned up. The scrubs weren’t expensive, but she had no idea there were many different kinds. It wouldn’t work if she didn’t match those at the hospital.

What kind of scrubs did Jefferson use? The emergency room techs were wearing scrubs the day she brought the two boys in. But what kind? Green. That’s all she could remember for sure. But they were so nondescript she had no recollection of the style. How could there be so many styles? Pullover tops, button tops, trimmed tops. And different shades of green. Did they have to match? She wasn’t sure.

Maybe she should buy the plainest, palest green ones she could find. She could ask Gabe about the style and color. Or maybe Gordon would know. He was parking in the garage now, too. Rachel didn’t think he was supposed to because he wasn’t really Jefferson staff, but she had an extra space, so she let him have it. He was grateful, too, kept asking if there was anything she needed, anything he could help her with.

Maybe the whole idea of trying to get into that fourth floor wing was stupid. Goldie was probably right. She was obsessing about those boys. Maybe it was just a way to not have to think about Hank.

She needed the income from Jefferson’s lease. If she got caught, would that be trespassing? They might cancel the lease. And she wouldn’t exactly be in a position to enforce the terms.

Just a worst case scenario. Nothing to really worry about.

999

Watching a man leaving the garage the next afternoon, Rachel was trying to place him when he turned around, caught her eye and waved. Gordon Cox. Could he possibly be as young as he looked?

She waved back, and when he beamed with such apparent pleasure at seeing her, she left the booth and joined him at the door that led to the sidewalk.

“Hey, Rachel. When are you gonna let a couple of the nicest guys in town take you out for another drink?”

“It’s hard for me to get away, Gordon. Especially now. I’ve been gone too much this week already. My purse was stolen, and I spent forever dealing with it, the driver’s license, credit cards, the whole mess.”

Gordon’s baby face puckered into a frown. “That’s too bad. How did it happen?”

“I was having lunch at the hospital of all places.”

Gordon had already begun nodding. “Ah. The gypsies. I heard they got cash from the register and about a dozen wallets and handbags.”

“They sure got at least one handbag,” Rachel said. “So how about you? How’s business?”

“You wouldn’t believe how good. I hardly have to work any more. I just drive around and schmooze with friends.”

Rachel remembered something. “Can I ask a dumb question?”

“Okay.”

From the tone of his voice, she wondered if he thought she was going to hit him up for narcotics. On the other hand, maybe he was hoping she would ask for drugs. Jesus. Was Gordon a pusher? No. His company would have dozens of safeguards. To dispel that, she asked quickly, “You happen to know where Jefferson buys its scrubs?”

A black Chrysler swooped past them.

“Scrubs? Why?”

“Well, it occurred to me that scrubs would be terrific cover-ups. Like in a garage, I’m always doing things that pretty much wreck my clothes. Scrubs would be light in the summertime. And they have a little more style than overalls.”

“You’re not only cute, you’re clever,” he said. “I’ve never thought about where they buy scrubs. You want me to ask around?”

“No. Don’t bother. I can probably find some.”

By the next afternoon, Rachel had already ordered the plainest pale green scrubs she could find on the Internet.

She would wait until maybe seven p.m., walk into the lobby as if she were a visitor, then go to the visitors’ john and change before sneaking over to the east wing and up to the fourth floor. She was sure the Jefferson emergency room crew had been wearing light green—whitish green, not yellowish—scrubs. But the uniform wouldn’t arrive for at least a week. And now that she had made up her mind what to do, she was impatient.

Looking up from a Newsweek someone had left behind, she saw Emma heading up the ramp to her car, and waved.

On her way out, Emma stopped her BMW next to the booth.

Before the driver’s window had slid down more than a few inches, Rachel knew exactly what she would do. “Nice to see you again,” she said.

“And you,” Emma said. “I really enjoyed our lunch. We should do it again.”

“Yes,” Rachel said. “And next time it’s on me. But meantime, I’ve changed my mind, I’d like to take you up on your offer to let me watch you do surgery some time.”

Chapter Twenty-two

The pharmacy was behind on filling prescriptions and Gabe was trying to catch up. He counted out 30 Fondril XT and wondered why the MD didn’t prescribe the less expensive generic. Doctors were so busy these days there was no way they could keep up on pharmaceuticals, but why didn’t they ask? All it would take was a phone call. He guessed a lot of them didn’t want to admit there was anything they didn’t know.

Gabe didn’t see Gordon until his friend was standing at the counter, checking the prescriptions kept on small clipboards, and preparing to help fill them. Technically, that was stretching the rules a bit, but the pharmacy had techs doing more than they probably should as well. Gabe would check each bottle before he stapled it into the little white bags with the patient’s name.

He shook his head. “Why the hell do they prescribe Tynex?”

“Why not?” Gordon asked.

“The price is outrageous. Way more than a buck apiece. And people can get virtually the same thing off the shelf at Wal-Mart for about a dime a tablet.”

“Well, not quite the same thing,” Gordon said with a disarming grin.

“The generic is as good or better than this stuff,” Gabe shot back. “You know damn well the manufacturer just did a minuscule alteration to re-brand it when the generic was released.”

“Well, don’t look at me. It wasn’t Zyrco. It isn’t mine.”

“I know this patient. She’s on Medicare/Medi-Cal. She can’t afford to pay 10 times what this is worth. Are the docs dumb, or do they own stock, or only prescribe it to patients they hate, or what?”

“Ah, the docs are so damn busy these days, they don’t have time to keep up with things like meds,” Gordon said. “With the insurance companies lining their stockholders’ pockets by squeezing payments to physicians, the MDs and DOs have to see a patient every twelve minutes to make as much as you and I make.”

“You, maybe. Not me.” Gabe was still frowning at the bag he had just stapled. He tore it open again. “I think I’ll put a note in there and tell her to buy the generic off the shelf.”

“The owner of this place will not be happy.” Gordon was lining up the bottles in threes.

“Watch what you’re doing,” Gabe cautioned. “We don’t need to kill some poor slob with the wrong medication.”

“That’s why you have insurance.”

“It doesn’t bring the patient back.”

“But it can make the family very rich.”

“Speaking of that.” Gabe looked over the bottles of stock medications. “I need a favor.”

“Sure.”

Gabe named one of the most expensive drugs Zyrco made.

Gordon whistled. “Okay.”

“It’s for a guy who works here,” Gabe said. “Well, not him, his daughter. He just happened to mention it to me a couple days ago.”

“I think I know who you mean. I’ve got him covered.”

Gabe’s eyebrows climbed toward his hair. “Dan?”

Gordon nodded. “Morris. The daughter’s an adult, no insurance of any kind.”

“Paying for that drug would put Dan in the poorhouse,” Gabe said. “You’re quite a guy.” Despite the fact that he looked like a government-issue CPA—the kind they stack on back shelves and wind up at tax time. Gabe sometimes entertained himself with new analogies for Gordon’s neatness. Of course that had nothing to do with Gabe’s own sometimes sloppy dressing.

They filled the remaining bottles and Gabe began opening each bottle, checking the contents and replacing the cap.

“You are obsessive,” Gordon said.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“Not according to you.”

“Well, that’s why they pay me so I can pay my ex the big bucks.”

Gordon sat down, leaned back, and watched Gabe work. “When are you going to find yourself another honey?”

“The first one cost me too much, and I don’t just mean the money.”

“How about that fair lass down the street?”

“Who?”

“The one with the cute butt.”

“Rachel?”

“I may have to try her on myself.”

Gabe swung around to face him. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he said conversationally.

“Aha!”

“Okay, so she’s interesting. A little…mmm…weird, a little hard to deal with, but maybe worth it. She’s interesting.”

“Weird?”

“The on again, off again with the engagement ring.” Gabe laid the packages out on the counter to alphabetize them by patient names.

Gordon pointed at the alphabetization process. “Why do you have to do that?”

“One of the afternoon techs is out sick, the other is at the dentist, a third hasn’t shown up yet. The fourth is on annual leave. I’m not doing anything else except jawing with you. So why not?”

“So what’s interesting? Other than her butt, I mean.”

“Well a woman owning a parking garage is kind of intriguing.”

“I guess if you want a place to park near downtown LA, it could be.”

Gabe shrugged and gathered up four bags for patients whose last names began with T. “She’s different. Seems to have some unusual interests.”

“Like what?”

“Like she’s met some MD here. A surgeon. And Rachel’s going to observe surgery sometime.”

“Yech,” Gordon said. “When?”

“I think she said it’s on for day after tomorrow. Early. I find someone who wants to do that interesting.”

“More like weird. Why would anyone want to watch somebody cut up somebody else?”

“Curiosity. At least that’s what she said.” Gabe was finishing the last of the alphabet. “A chance to do something ninety-nine percent of the world has never done, was the way she put it.”

“And wouldn’t want to,” Gordon said. “You wouldn’t catch me doing it. All that blood. Way down my list of fun things to do.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Wearing a denim jacket against the early morning chill, Rachel walked the six blocks from the garage. It was 6:05. Emma said most surgeons found their senses were sharpest early in the morning, so that’s when they preferred to work. Rachel had opened the garage early and asked Irene to keep an eye on things.

She smiled and nodded at the two security guys who were copping a smoke on the sidewalk in front of Jefferson’s main entrance.

This time she had to find the west wing. That’s where Emma had said the O-R was. It seemed like a 5-k hike before she found a door to the stairs around the corner from a bank of elevators. Rachel went down two flights as Emma had directed.

Voices and bright light came from behind a pair of huge double doors. Rachel pushed through them. A dozen or so sinks lined the wall and at least as many people, some in green scrubs, some in street clothes, were moving about. They all looked purposeful and efficient.

She expected someone to stop her, question her right to be there, but no one did. Apparently not a lot of people wanted to crash an operating room at six-something in the morning. A bench of wood more orange than brown, with edges rounded by countless coats of shellac, held stacks of green garments arranged according to size.

Collecting shirt, pants, a mask and three stretchy bag-like things, one large, two small, Rachel studied the women moving through the room and decided that the large bag was to be worn like a shower cap, the two smaller ones must fit over shoes.

She found an empty dressing room and changed clothes. Eying herself in the mirror, she decided the scrubs were so shapeless, so nondescript, that everyone wearing them would look about the same, especially with the addition of the mask, except for height and weight. In some cases, even gender might be hard to guess.

A long row of beige lockers stood just outside the dressing rooms. A few had combination or key locks, but many did not. Most staff probably left valuables in their offices. Rachel had her purse, a replacement for the one just stolen, but she never carried much cash and she hadn’t yet received the replacement credit cards. She placed her belongings in one of the open lockers. Edgy as she was about theft since her recent experience in the cafeteria, it still was hard to imagine someone stealing from a locker in an O-R. And it was a bit late now to do much about getting a lock.