Playing God (4 page)

"I'm afraid it's necessary. Your husband was a radiologist?" She nodded. "On his own or with a group?"

"Pine State Radiological Associates. At Maine Med. His specialty was oncology." She hesitated. "Cancer. The person to talk to there is Ken Bailey. He's the... I don't know what you call it in a group practice... the closest thing Stephen had to a boss, I guess. Ken—Dr. Bailey—he's a good man. A kind man."

Did that mean her husband had not been kind? He felt like a rat, taking advantage of her vulnerability. But a well-trained rat. Right now she was talking freely. It was the shock, and her age, and the weariness. Whatever he didn't learn now he might have trouble getting later, when protecting privacy and putting a good face on things had become important. When the family had closed ranks.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Yesterday morning. Around seven-thirty. He ate breakfast and left. Said not to wait up. That he'd be late."

"Was that his usual schedule?"

"Stephen was a workaholic. He left even earlier when he was going to be in Auburn or Damariscotta. Sometimes we'd meet in the city for dinner. He did a lot of business over dinner, liked having me there. He was frustrated that I didn't like leaving the baby."

"So he left around seven-thirty. On a normal day, when did he return?"

"It varied. Anywhere from six-thirty to nine."

"Did you speak with him during the day?"

She nodded. "He called around noon. Said he'd set up the appointment with the lawyer. Wanted to be sure I had a sitter."

"That was the last time you spoke with him?"

"I... he... he left a message on the machine while I was changing Stevie, reminding me to get the garage door fixed. We didn't speak."

"When was that?"

"Around four, I think."

"And that's the last time you had any contract with him?" She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "Did he seem agitated or worried, either time?" She shook her head. "You said your husband saw other women, Ms. Kelly. Any particular woman?"

"He wasn't very particular," she said, then bit her lip. "I'm sorry. That was shabby. Stephen was... I don't know... hypersexual. His appetites. I couldn't satisfy... he picked up women. All sorts of women. Look. Okay. I'll say it." She swallowed. "He paid women to sit in his car and suck his dick. Oh, God!" She blurted it out fast, the way you move something hot so it won't burn you. "Do we have to talk about this?"

"I'm afraid we do," he said. "How did you learn about his infidelity?"

She didn't answer. She looked diminished, sitting there clutching her baby, a small woman made smaller by the things he was forcing her to reveal. He wondered who Jen Kelly, alone in this splendid house, confided in. "I can come back another time, if that would be easier. I wish I didn't have to ask these questions, especially at a time like this, but your husband's been murdered. The first few days are crucial in finding his killer. To do that, we need to learn as much as we can about him."

She lowered the baby to her other breast, closing the shirt modestly this time, and raised sad eyes to his face. "I'm sorry. Even after what you've told me, it's hard to think of Stephen as a victim. He was so cocky. So confident. He ran... I'm sorry. You'll think I'm awful to say this, but he could be arrogant in the way he ran over people's feelings. He was so impatient, so certain he was right. He was not..." She gazed toward the windows, but not at the restless blue ocean, searching for words "Despite what he did... the people he treated... he wasn't a very compassionate man."

Burgess pounced. "His patients didn't like him? Were there complaints?"

"I don't know."

"Was he ever sued? Threatened?"

She shrugged, drooping on her chair. "Not that he ever mentioned."

"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?"

"Besides Janet?" He nodded. "I can't imagine... The women in his car got paid, right? Patients are supposed to be grateful for having their lives saved. You don't have to like your doctor." She looked up, shaking her head. "No. Don't get me wrong. He was a good doctor. His nurses? His broker? His mechanic? My father?" She shook her head. "No. No! I don't mean that. My father's a gentle soul. He just doesn't think Stephen treats me well. But look at this..." She swept a hand at the room. "I'm kept in lonely splendor."

"Who were your husband's friends?"

She considered, her eyelashes resting on her cheeks in a gesture of utter weariness. "There were a couple doctors at the hospital he played golf with." Burgess wrote down the names. "He and Jon Shorter, he's in internal medicine, lives down the street, are running buddies. The guys in the practice did some stuff together. He didn't really... I think most men don't... have friends. Not like women do. Do you?"

A feeble attempt to deflect conversation from herself. It was chilly in the kitchen. Her bare feet, neatly aligned on the granite tile, were purple and her pale face had gone white. It was time to stop.

"You ought to have someone with you," he said. "Who should I call?"

"My father." Her voice small and tired. "His number's on the wall by the phone. Jack Kelly." Suddenly, she detached the baby and held it out. "Here. You take him. Burp him." She shoved a cloth into his hand. "Sorry. I'm going to be sick."

Chapter 3

He'd barely scratched the surface of what Jen Kelly knew, or suspected, about her husband, but he had to move on. As he left, stylish studio portrait of Pleasant in hand, a rusty old pickup turned in. The driver, presumably Jack Kelly, wore a blaze orange hunting cap low on his forehead, and a jacket with the collar turned up, so he formed no impression other than short and wide. Burgess noted the license number, hoping, as he watched the truck roll to a stop, that Kelly would be kind.

He called to see when the autopsy had been scheduled, eleven, then transferred to Terry Kyle, and got Kyle's clipped, "Kyle, investigations."

"Lab gone over the car yet?"

Kyle made an affirmative noise. "The lab and Terry Kyle. Thought I'd get in the back seat with Dani Letorneau. Got Wink Devlin instead."

"Find anything?"

"Maybe too much." Except for rare bursts of eloquence, Kyle hoarded his words. "Why don't I have Dani go over it when you get in."

"All right. Can you call Dr. Ken Bailey at Pine State Radiology, ask can he see me? Might as well head over to the hospital, catch some people before I go up to Augusta."

"You want me there?"

Vince Melia, who headed the CID, liked two people at autopsies, just in case one quit the force or got run over by a bus before the matter came to trial. But Kyle was up to his ass processing illegal guns they'd taken from the home of a suddenly deceased local dealer. "Be nice to talk some things over on the way, but forensics'll be there."

"Right. I'll make that call, get back to you." No small talk. No time wasted. The City of Portland could do a lot worse than spend its money on detectives like Terry Kyle.

The sky was clouding up as he drove back into the city. That was New England weather. You had to get up early—get up or be up—to see the sun. Kyle called back as Burgess wound his way uphill to the hospital. Portland was a little like San Francisco, the downtown clustered on a hilly peninsula that sloped down to the sea. The Maine Med buildings dominated the back side of the West End hill, looking out over Back Cove and the Deering flats. "Bailey's in now, Joe. He's holding a 15-minute window for you."

"How generous," Burgess said. "Thanks." He parked near the door, nodding to the security guy on duty. "Gotta see a man about a body, Charlie. Don't let anybody steal my ride."

"No problem, sir." God. Even Charlie was getting old. Maybe it was winter. The cold, dry air withered them all up, pinched their faces, reddened their noses, stooped their shoulders defensively and turned their hands into cramped little claws. "It's too bad about Dr. Pleasant," the man added.

"You knew him?"

Charlie nodded.

He'd have to come back and talk to him, Burgess thought. Security people noticed a lot.

He stopped at the information desk and asked them to tell Bailey he was on his way, then stepped into the elevator, surrounded by people whose business he didn't want to know, watching the doors slowly close. He'd watched those doors so many times, visiting his mother. Wondered if he'd ever ride an elevator in this hospital and not be dragged back to those days. Go to work, spend the day on other people's death and disaster, come here and sit with his own. He shrugged, noticed the woman beside him staring, gave her a 'back off' look.

Dr. Kenneth Bailey projected an avuncular competence suggesting you'd be safe in his hands. Big, strong warm hands, the dominating handshake of a politician. "Detective," he said. He had a growly voice. "We're all shocked by what's happened. Anything we can do to help. Anything. I've told the staff to give you full cooperation." He swept a hand toward an open door. "This way..."

Burgess followed him into a spacious office, nicely furnished, but so cluttered with files and journals there was barely room to move. "I'm no housekeeper," Bailey said. "Trying to keep abreast of new developments. Trying to keep my patients alive. The rest..." He waved dismissively. "I'll get to it someday. Sit down, Detective. You look tired."

He hated being told he looked tired. He moved a thick red notebook and sat, feeling a twinge in his left knee, a legacy from high school football. Damn the aging body anyway! The younger officers were always in the gym, getting buffed and polished. He was too busy taking care of other people's dirty business. If someone developed a form of exercise he could do while sleeping, he'd look into it. Dr. Bailey cleared his throat. Burgess realized he was keeping the doctor waiting. He opened his notebook. "Jennifer Kelly says you're the closest thing to a boss her husband had. I assume you knew him pretty well?"

Bailey looked pained. "We're a partnership," he said. "Naturally there's a sharing of information and experience. I've been at it longer, so I have more of each. But I wasn't Stephen's boss." He shook his big head sadly, clasping his hands as he leaned forward. "How's Jen doing? This can't be easy..."

He wasn't here to answer questions. They only had fifteen minutes and Bailey had a phone. He could find out for himself. "What was Dr. Pleasant like?"

"He was a terrifically bright and extremely competent physician." Burgess waited. Bailey shifted uncomfortably. "He was a very ambitious man. Financially and personally. He was the one who persuaded us to open satellite clinics in other parts of the state for the convenience of our patients. It's difficult for people to travel when they're so sick."

Couldn't argue with that. "There are how many in your group?"

"Six of us. There were six."

"And you have how many clinics?"

"Two. One in Damariscotta and one in Auburn. And here, of course."

"And the six of you staffed them?" Bailey nodded. "What was Dr. Pleasant's relationship with his colleagues?"

"Cordial. Everyone is independent, of course. Sees their own patients, but we do a lot of consulting with each other."

"He was well-liked?"

Bailey had been fiddling with the magnets of an executive desk toy, though he didn't seem like either the fiddling or the toy type. Now his head came up. He gave Burgess a searching look. "Well enough, I suppose. It was a business relationship. His colleagues and I appreciated his expertise. Even though he maintained a very busy practice, Stephen was always available to give a colleague advice."

Whether they wanted it or not, it sounded like. "What about his staff? Did he get along with them?"

"Stephen was,—" Bailey pursed his lips "—exacting. They sometimes struggled to meet his standards."

Not a very helpful answer. "Did
you
like Stephen Pleasant?"

Bailey gave a snort of irritation and glanced at his watch. "What difference does that make? We're professionals..."

Professional evaders of the truth? "Look, doctor, I have no interest in tarnishing your colleague's reputation, but someone killed the man. I'm trying to learn enough about him to find the person who did it. To do that, I need your help. If you're not forthcoming, you make my job harder."