Authors: Kate Flora
"Stephen didn't confide in me. He didn't confide in anyone, as far as I know."
"He ever seem nervous or threatened?"
Shorter shook his head. "Stephen was too arrogant to be nervous." He seemed aghast at his own honesty.
"Did you ever hear any rumors or concerns about his misusing controlled drugs?"
The denial was a bit too vehement. Shorter hesitated, then said, "Now it's my turn. What are you taking for your head?" Burgess told him. "Well, I've got something better. The stuff you're using takes too long to kick in and wears off too soon."
He was about to say no thanks when Shorter stopped him. "What did you say earlier? That I shouldn't tell you how to investigate a murder? Well, I do know how to treat pain. You won't make it if you go on like this. Pain saps your energy. I'm going to give you a pill and something for the nausea, and I want you to lie down for fifteen minutes." Burgess started to get up. "Come on, detective. You want to be pig-headed, fine, but it's only fifteen minutes. Isn't it sensible to spend the time if it'll buy you hours?"
Reluctantly, he nodded. Shorter led him down a hall and opened a door. "It's not the Ritz, but it will do. My nurse will bring you what you need." Shorter paused at the door. "In case you're wondering. I don't like being questioned. I bet nobody does, but I do want you to find Stephen's killer. I guess this is my way of helping." He left Burgess admiring the deft way he'd turned the tables.
A nurse knocked and came in. "Detective Burgess? Dr. Shorter asked me to you bring you these." After he took the pills, she put a pillow under his head and covered him with a blanket. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes." She turned off the light and he closed his eyes, grateful for the rest.
She came quietly into the room, the open door following her with a spill of light, and stopped a few feet away. "Detective Burgess?" It was a different voice—not the nurse who'd brought his medicine—but a familiar one. The tone tentative and hopeful.
"Nurse Perlin?" He struggled with the blanket, remembering not to sit up too quickly, unwilling to make his head spin and his stomach lurch again.
"Chris," she said. Quickly, she was beside him, assisting the transition with a whiff of subtle perfume and the touch of strong, warm hands. "Nice and easy, now. I can't stay." He heard the faint strain in her voice. "I've got to get back. But I heard you were here and... and I've been thinking..."
He sat in the gentle darkness, legs dangling off the table, in no rush to rejoin the day. He felt good, the best he'd felt in days. He wanted a minute to savor it, wished she hadn't come in, so he wouldn't have to probe for why she was here. "You were thinking?"
"About what you said at lunch." Her laugh was a warm little self-deprecating sound. "At
my
lunch. Yesterday. I didn't like myself much when I went home last night. I looked in the mirror and all I could think was 'coward.'" Her voice dropped a range, became huskier. The kind of change in a woman's voice that calls forth a physical response. "I see a lot of courage around here, detective, and I didn't like what I was seeing in myself. It seemed cheap, leading you on then saying, 'What? Who me? I can't do that,' and walking away, leaving you frustrated."
"I understood," he said. Could she hear the response in his voice that had everything to do with her and nothing to do with what they were discussing? Did she read voices the way he did? "I see it all the time."
"That's just it. I didn't want to be one of those people you see all the time, the ones who don't help because it's too much trouble, because they don't want to get involved. I don't value people who are too busy or too self-important to care. I believe you are what you do. I wanted to be one of the people you admire. One of the good ones."
She took him by surprise, putting her hands behind his head and gently drawing his face to hers. It was a tender, searching kiss that made him long to put the investigation on hold. "I've been thinking about that since yesterday," she said, slowly pulling her hands away. "I felt a connection between us. I hope it wasn't just my imagination. I hate making a fool of myself." There was a rustle as she thrust an envelope into his hand. "This is the part I had to struggle with."
Before he could speak, she'd gone.
He stayed in the flower-scented darkness a moment longer, collecting himself, then slid off the table, turned on the light, and dumped out the envelope. Copies of letters from patients, from patient's families, complaining about their treatment at the hands of Dr. Pleasant. Bless her. She'd taken a big risk to give him these. Dr. Bailey didn't want Pleasant's failings known, and he was a powerful man.
His cop's gut told him there was something here. Maybe because Bailey and Pleasant's other associates were so secretive, maybe because Chris Perlin had thought it important enough to take a risk for. Either way, he didn't know where it would take him. Had someone outside the circle of colleagues and relatives paid O'Leary or the mysterious second girl to kill Pleasant? It fit his theory that this wasn't what it seemed. He shrugged. Another piece for the puzzle.
Using his one good hand, he stuffed the letters back into the envelope and went to find the Administrator's Office.
There he ran into a brick wall. Marla Leclaire, the director's executive assistant, was poised, polite, and as inflexible as Sister Mary Catharine had been. Her chic gray suit hung off a frame that, if he read her thinning, lusterless hair and dry skin correctly, had been starved into submission. Her office was devoid of character. She was sorry she couldn't help him but rules were rules. Patients and their families expected confidentiality. The death of a respected physician was tragic. Shocking. She had known him herself and was personally distressed, but she wasn't going to answer his questions.
He had the same impulse he'd had with Sister Mary Catharine, to do something to shock her out of her complacency. "If the hospital gets a complaint about a physician, how is it handled?" He listened to her explanation of peer review committees and the hospital board. "At what point do you decide you've got a problem?"
"I'm sorry. I don't understand the question."
"Well, a dog, say, gets one bite before it's considered a dangerous animal. How many bites does a doctor get before he's considered dangerous?"
"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, detective."
Big surprise. And so it went. A Q&A about as satisfying as chewing on gristle. He persisted until she snapped, "What is your problem, detective?"
"My problem? Got a dead man. Like to know who killed him. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm Dr. Pleasant?" She didn't answer. "Do you know whether Dr. Pleasant had financial difficulties?" Again no answer. "If I want to see your records, I'll need a subpoena, is that right?" This time, she nodded.
He stood up. "Thank you for your time. And Ms. Leclaire? You might ask yourself. Anyone close to you ever gets dead, do you really want people to clam up and not cooperate with the police? You think you're protecting Dr. Pleasant and the hospital, but you know who you're really protecting? The killer. I wonder why you'd want to do that?" He walked out of her office. Take that, Sister Mary Catharine. Thirty-five years later, it still felt good.
He was crossing the lobby to see the parking attendant when a voice called, "Just a minute, detective. I want to know what the hell's going on around here." Just what Burgess had been wondering, but from the look on Dr. Bailey's face, they weren't about to have a meeting of the minds. Bailey's broad face was ruddy, his voice half-strangled with suppressed rage. Dressed for the outside in an expensive shearling coat and a black fur hat, Bailey looked massive and important.
He let Bailey come to him. He felt pretty good right now but it was chemical, and temporary. Conserve scarce energy was still the rule of the day. The doctor quickly closed the gap between them, grabbed Burgess's good arm and practically hauled him off his feet. "Over here, if you please, where there's a little more privacy."
Burgess didn't like to be touched, let alone dragged, but humoring Cote in absentia, he allowed himself to be pulled behind a large potted plant. Bailey was much too close, invading his personal space. He took a step back. Bailey took a compensating step forward. Oh my, doctor. Shall we dance?
"Your superior assured me your investigation would be conducted with the utmost discretion," Bailey said through tight lips. He'd insisted on a more private space, but made no effort to lower his voice. "And now the hospital is crawling with police officers, interrupting busy physicians in the middle of their working days, asking suggestive questions about one of their esteemed colleagues."
There was more, but nothing worth listening to. Burgess tuned out, focusing on demeanor instead. He'd never heard the phrase "esteemed colleague" in everyday speech before. Initially, Bailey had impressed him. Now he wondered why the guy was being such a pompous windbag? Was this true concern for the hospital or did Bailey have something to hide? He waited for a question. Finally, Bailey took a step back, sweeping him with a contemptuous look. "Well?"
"Well what, doctor?"
"What the hell is going on here? Is it necessary to broadcast to everyone that the police have concerns about Stephen's finances? His patient care? His decisions about when and what to prescribe?"
So the questions they were asking had really set their little bells jingling. It was a tight little world, wasn't it? Were they trying to hide something here, or was it simply that Pleasant's death was like a healing wound in the hospital's skin and they saw the police as enemies who kept trying to tear that wound open? It wouldn't be the first time he'd dealt with people who just wanted it to "go away" so they could get on with their lives. His presence was an all-too-vivid reminder something bad had happened.
But this diatribe was way out of proportion. The police presence was subtle. They weren't going around in uniforms, brandishing badges and smashing people up against walls. "Broadcast? There are only two officers here, both plainclothes detectives. We've conducted discreet interviews with a few people. We haven't discussed the content of those interviews with anyone. What's the problem?"
"The problem is, I told him not to bother us, and here you are!"
He'd tried to stay cool, but now Bailey was stomping on
his
toes. "You think that's how it works, doctor? Anyone who doesn't want to be bothered by a police investigation just calls up the Chief and says 'make them leave me alone'? Isn't the problem that a man's been murdered, and we need to work together to find out who did it?"
"We know who did it!" Bailey said. "Some hooker. You should be out trying to find her instead of hanging around here, disturbing busy people. I told your boss—"
"Look at me, doctor," he said. "What do you see?"
Bailey's eyes swept him disdainfully. "Overweight, middle-aged cop who doesn't take care of himself, who'd rather hang around here, bothering people, where it's warm and he can drink coffee than go out on the streets and try to solve the crime."
Whereas you take extremely good care of yourself, from your well-cut hair to your polished shoes.
"Yeah, I look like hell, don't I? You think I'd be here if I didn't have to? That I dragged myself here today to be a pain in your ass when I could have stayed in bed?"
"Dammit! Your boss said you would be polite and discreet, and here you are standing in my hospital, yelling at me!"
He'd never found doctors particularly rational thinkers, a prejudice Bailey was confirming. He hadn't been yelling. He'd deliberately kept his voice low. "Dr. Bailey, what would you like me to do?"
"Leave!"
"I have one more person to see. Detective Kyle may be done, or he may not. When we're finished, we'll leave. We will continue to be discreet. We will continue to keep what we learn to ourselves. I hope we won't have to come back, but I make no promises. I'm sorry if this upsets you."
Bailey hadn't been listening. Now he threw up his hands. "This is completely unacceptable. I'm calling your boss again. I want you out of here. I want you stopped!"
"You're spending a hell of a lot of energy trying to keep me away," Burgess said. "Is there something here you don't want me to find?"
"How dare you!" Bailey glared at Burgess. "What the hell is that?" he demanded, trying to snatch the envelope. Burgess kept it out of reach.
"Excuse me, Doctor. I have work to do." Burgess tried to step around him. Kyle was maybe ten feet away, watching. He knew Kyle was reading the situation and would read it right.
Instead of getting out his way, Bailey shoved him backwards. "Hold on," he said. "I'm not finished."
Quickly, Kyle closed the space. He wouldn't interfere unless it was necessary. Burgess felt a swell of anger, a sure sign that his behavior would exceed the limits of Cote's restrictions if he didn't end this quickly. "Take your hands off me," he said coldly, as Kyle moved in beside him.
Bailey didn't move. "Now!" Burgess barked, his hand automatically opening his coat, clearing access to his gun. "Put them down by your sides and back away from me, Doctor. I said now!"
Bailey was so startled he did as he was told, though he was already protesting.
Burgess cut him off. "You're done asking questions. It's time to listen. I don't care how you deal with other people. What matters is this. I am a police officer." He spoke slowly and carefully, all his force and attention focused on Bailey. Bailey's eyes were fixed on the hand that rested near the gun. He wore a slightly stupefied look. "There are some very simple rules in this world about dealing with police officers. You don't touch us. You don't push us around. Assaulting an officer is very serious."