“I guess so,” Vincent said.
“Come on, I’ll tuck you back in.”
But Vincent’s bed, in the room behind the kitchen, hadn’t been slept in at all. He pointed to the back of the house, Hardy’s old office. “I’m in the Beck’s room. Mom said it was okay.”
They got to the connecting door and Hardy noted the heap of blankets next to his daughter’s bed. “Why are you in here?” Hardy thinking it was no wonder his son wasn’t sleeping soundly on the hardwood floor.
“You know the Beck. She gets scared,” Vincent whispered.
Hardy knew. Fanned by her school’s various “awareness” programs, Rebecca’s profound and random fears—about death, teen suicide, stranger abduction, AIDS, drug addiction, and so many more—had reached crisis proportions about a year before. “I thought we’d worked most of those out. What’s she still afraid of?”
“Just the dark, mostly. And being alone sometimes.” Interpreting his father’s heavy sigh, Vincent hastened to add, protecting her, “It’s not every night. She’s way better than she was.”
“Good. I thought so. Do you have a futon or anything to lay on under those blankets?”
“No. I sleep good just on the floor.”
“I see that,” Hardy said. “Except for the bad dreams and being awake at twelve thirty.” But Hardy spoke in a conspiratorial, not critical, tone. The two guys in the house had their own relationship—they had to stick together. “Let’s get you something, though, okay?”
So they grabbed cushions from the chairs in Vincent’s room and put them on the floor. As he got settled, Hardy pulled the blankets over him. “You could probably get in your own bed now and the Beck wouldn’t notice.”
But he shook his head, happy to be important. “That’s okay. She needs me here sometimes. Girls do, you know, Dad.”
Hardy rubbed his hand over his son’s buzz cut. Vincent wasn’t meaning to twist the knife in his heart—he was honing his little man chops, which hopefully someday he would put to better use than his father did. “I know,” Hardy said. His hand rubbed the bristly head again. “Are we still not kissing each other good night?” This nightly ritual had ended only a couple of months before, just after Christmas, but occasionally when Vincent’s guard was down, or nobody else in the family was around, he’d forget that it wasn’t cool to kiss Dad anymore. Tonight Hardy got lucky, and figuring it was going to have to be one of the very last times, held onto the hug an extra millisecond. “Okay, get some sleep, Vin.”
“I will now. Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Want to hear a joke?”
Hardy, halfway to his feet, summoned his last unit of patience. “One,” he said.
“What do you get when you turn an elephant into a cat?”
“I don’t know.”
“No, you’ve got to try.”
“Okay, I’m trying. Watch. My eyes are closed.” He silently counted to three. “Okay, I give up. What?”
“You really don’t know? An elephant into a cat? Think.”
“Vin…” He stood up.
“A cat,” Vincent said. “You turn an elephant into a cat, you get a cat. Get it?”
“Good one,” Hardy said. “You ought to tell it to Uncle Abe. He’d love it.”
For reasons that eluded him, he stalked the house front to back several times, rearranged the elephants yet again. Then he sat for a while in the living room, until he was fairly certain that Vincent had dozed off. He came all the way into the Beck’s room again, leaning down over the cushions and then the bed to make out the dim outlines of his children’s faces, calm and peaceful now in sleep.
He eventually, finally, made it up to the master bedroom. There he double-checked the alarm to find that it was still—again?—set for 4:30. He would have to issue a home edict making his alarm clock off limits except for him and Frannie. He moved it ahead two hours.
In bed, with his wife breathing regularly beside him, he wondered briefly about all the subliminal communication going on in his house, among his family. He and Frannie with the elephants, the Beck’s now unspoken but still clearly upsetting fears, Vincent’s last joke an obvious attempt to keep his father in the room another few seconds, although he would never simply ask. The dynamic, suddenly, seemed to have shifted and Hardy, at least, felt adrift, moving among the rest of them with a kind of gravitational connection, but nothing really solid, holding them together.
He lay awake now, echoes of his son, unable to sleep despite his exhaustion. His memory had dredged up a contradiction that now gnawed at him. Earlier in the day, Rebecca Simms had derided the idea that someone had killed Tim Markham in the hospital. It was ridiculous, she’d said. It must have been an accident.
Or he’d simply just died, which, she’d reminded him, “people do.” But by tonight, such deaths—unexplained possible homicides—had become common, a regular feature during the past year or more at Portola. He wanted to call her back and clarify her position—maybe he’d broken through the culture barrier at the hospital where criticism wasn’t tolerated and then forced her to consider the unthinkable with Markham, and it had awakened other ghosts.
But the facts of the deaths alone—if they were facts, if they could be proven—were staggering in their implications, and not just for his client, although Kensing was going to be in the middle of whatever transpired. For Hardy, it would mean more hours, greater commitment, escalated involvement; less time with his wife, less connection with his children, less interest in the daily rhythms of his home.
It also meant that he was truly putting himself in harm’s way. If someone, whether it was this Rajan Bhutan or someone else at Portola, had in fact killed again and again and if Hardy was going to be involved in exposing those crimes, then he was going to be in that person’s sights.
He turned again onto his side, and might even have drifted off into a semblance of a dream state, where he was swimming in turbulent waters with some of Pico’s sharks circling, snapping at him, closing in. Then something—some settling of his house, a random noise outside—sent a surge of adrenaline through him and he threw his covers off and sat bolt upright in bed. His breath came in ragged surges.
It woke Frannie up. “Dismas, are you all right? What time is it?”
“I’m okay. I’m okay.” But he really wasn’t. That largely unacknowledged yet pervasive fear that Rebecca Simms had described at Portola seemed to be stalking him, as well. Even the familiar darkness in his own bedroom felt somehow sinister, as though something terrible lurked hidden just at the edge of it.
He tried to laugh off the imaginings for what he told himself they were—irrational terrors in the wake of a nightmare. But they held their grip. Finally, feeling foolish, he switched on his bedlight for a moment.
Nothing, of course. Nothing.
Still, it took a long while before his breathing became normal. Eventually, he let himself back down and pulled the covers over him. After a minute, he turned and settled spoon fashion against his wife.
Before his brain could start running again, sleep mercifully claimed him.
K
ensing finished his morning rounds at Portola’s ICU and walked out to the nurses’ station. Waiting for him there was the tall and thin figure of Portola’s administrator, Michael Andreotti, who wanted a private word with him. They walked silently together down one long hallway, then took the elevator to the ground floor, where Andreotti led the way into an empty conference room next to his own office in the admin wing, and then closed the door behind them.
By this time, Kensing had a good idea of what was coming, but he asked anyway. “So what’s this about?”
There was no love lost between the two men, and the administrator wasted no time on niceties. “I’m afraid that the board has decided to place you on leave for the time being.”
“I don’t think so. They can’t do that. I’ve got a contract.”
Andreotti more or less expected this response. He had the paperwork on him, and he handed over the letter. “It’s not my decision, Doctor. As I said, the board has decided.”
Kensing snorted derisively. “The board. You mean Ross. Finally seeing his chance.”
Andreotti felt no need to respond.
“What’s his excuse this time?”
“It’s clearly explained in the letter, but there seem to be too many questions involving you related to Mr. Markham’s death.”
“That’s bullshit. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
Andreotti’s mouth turned down at Kensing’s unfortunate use of profanity. “That’s not the board’s point. There is the appearance.” Andreotti was in bureaucrat mode. He might as well have been a mannequin. He was only there to deliver the letter and the message, and to see that the board’s will was implemented.
“What appearance? There’s no appearance.”
Andreotti spread his hands. “It’s really out of my control, Doctor. If you want to appeal the decision, I suggest you call Dr. Ross. In the meantime, you’re not to practice either here or at the clinic.”
“What about my patients? I’ve got to see them.”
“We’ve scheduled other physicians to cover your caseload.”
“Starting when?”
“Immediately, I’m afraid.”
“You’re afraid. I bet you are.” Kensing’s temper flared for an instant. “You ought to be.”
Andreotti backed up a step. “Are you threatening me?”
Kensing was tempted to run with it, put some real fear into this stooge, but starting with Glitsky’s visit last night, he was beginning to get a sense of how bad things could really get with this murder investigation, this suspicion over him. Some reserve of self-protectiveness kicked in. “This is wrong,” was all he said. Glancing down at the papers in his hand, he turned on his heel and walked out.
It wasn’t yet 9:00 in the morning. The storm had finally blown over. The sky was washed clean, deep blue and cloudless.
Kensing was back at his home, in the living room of his condominium. He moved forward and forced open one of the windows, letting in some fresh air. Then he walked back to his kitchen, where Glitsky had skewered him last night. The lieutenant’s teacup was still in the sink. It was one of a set he’d inherited from his parents after his dad had died, and now he abstractedly turned on the water to wash it, then lifted the dainty thing carefully. There was a window over the sink, as well, and Kensing simply stopped all movement suddenly, staring out over the western edge of the city, seeing none of it.
The cup exploded in his hand, shattering from the force of his grip.
He looked down in a cold, distracted fury. The blood where the shards had cut him ran over his hand and pooled in the white porcelain saucer amid the broken fragments in the bottom of the sink.
Jeff Elliot had his home number from the Baby Emily days, and called him twenty minutes later. He’d been hounding Parnassus for stories lately, and he’d heard the news about the administrative leave this morning, probably not too long after Kensing had gotten it himself. Elliot offered to let him tell his side to a sympathetic reporter who was covering the whole story soup to nuts. He could come right by if Kensing could spare an hour or so.
When he arrived, Elliot wheeled himself into the kitchen. He’d been here before during Baby Emily, and knew his way around. After he sat, his first comment was about the several Band-Aids on Kensing’s hand.
“I was trying to slash my wrists in despair. I guess I aimed wrong.” The doctor laughed perfunctorily and offered an explanation. “Don’t pick up a butcher knife by the blade. You’d think I’d have learned that by now somewhere along the way.” Deftly, he changed the subject. “Hey, I loved your article on Ross, by the way. You captured him perfectly.”
Elliot nodded in acknowledgment. “What motivated that guy to become a doctor in the first place I’ll never know. He seems to care about patients like the lumber companies care about the rain forests.” But then he got down to business. “So they finally laid you off?”
Eventually, they got around to personalities at Parnassus, the players. Elliot said he’d been talking a lot with Tim Markham’s executive assistant, a bitter, apparently soon-tobe-jobless young man named Brendan Driscoll.
“Sure, I know Brendan. Everybody knows Brendan.”
“Apparently he knows you, too. You had heated words in the hospital?”
Kensing shrugged. “He wouldn’t leave the ICU when Markham was there. I had to kick him out. He wasn’t very happy about it.”
“Why was he even there if he’s just a secretary?”
“Bite your tongue, Jeff. Brendan’s an executive assistant and don’t you forget it.”
“So what’s his story? Why’s he so down on you?”
“It must be a virus that’s going around. I’m surprised you haven’t caught it. But the real answer is that Brendan’s one of those hyperefficient secretaries, that’s all. His job is his whole life. He’d been with Markham since before he came on with Parnassus. Anyway, he scheduled every aspect of Markham’s life. Including Ann, although let’s leave that off the record.”
“Your wife, Ann?”
He nodded. “
She
…now she really doesn’t like him. But Brendan’s one of those people who identifies so completely with their boss that they really come to believe they can do no wrong themselves. I’d take him and anything he says with a grain of salt.”
“Well, I did for my purposes. But he could hurt you. He wants everybody to know how close Markham was to firing you, how you were true enemies.”
“Well, he’s half-right there,” Kensing replied. “We didn’t get along. But he wasn’t going to fire me. In fact, if anything, he was on my side. He knew what he’d done to me with Ann. If he fires me, what’s it going to look like? I’d sue him and the company for a billion dollars, and I’d win. And he knew it.”
“So what were all the reprimand letters about?”
A shrug. “Markham covering his ass with the board, that’s all. He’s trying to keep costs down, get those uppity doctors like me in line, but they just won’t listen. Especially me, I’m afraid. I’ve got a bad attitude. I’m not a team player. But Tim couldn’t touch me.”
“But that’s changed now? With Ross at the helm?”
Kensing’s expression grew more serious. “Ross is a big problem. In fact, I should tell my lawyer there’s a good argument to be made that killing Markham was the worst thing I could do if I wanted to keep my job. The truth is that Markham was the only thing that stood between me and Ross. Now he’s gone. If I listen real carefully, I can even now hear the ice beginning to crack under me.”
There was the faint sound of a key turning in a lock, and a door slammed behind them. Kensing was halfway to standing up when they heard a woman’s voice echoing out of the hallway. “Somebody could sure use a good fuck about now. Oh!”
A mid-thirties Modigliani woman with frizzy hair was standing in the entrance to the kitchen. Seeing Elliot at the table, she brought her hand to her mouth in a cliche´ of surprise. “Oh shit.” She turned to Kensing with a “what can you do” look and threw her hands up theatrically.
“Well, this might be a good time for introductions.” Kensing was up now, and moving toward the woman. “Judith, this is Jeff Elliot, from the
Chronicle.
Jeff, meet Judith Cohn.”
“Sorry,” she said to the room. “I’ll just sink through the floor now.”
“I’ll get over it,” Elliot said. “Occasionally I could use one myself.”
It turned out that Cohn wasn’t Ross’s biggest fan, either.
“That son of a bitch. He can’t just lay you off,” she said, fuming. “You should’ve just stayed there working.”
Kensing was standing by the sink again and he shook his head. “Andreotti had a call in to security. They showed every inclination to escort me out if I didn’t want to go alone.”
Cohn stood up in the kitchen, walked to its entrance, slapped the wall, and turned back to face the men. “Those fucking idiots! They can’t—”
Elliot suddenly snapped his fingers and interrupted her. “Judith Cohn? You’re
the
Judith Cohn?”
She stopped, her eyes glaring in anger and caution. “I must be, I guess. Is there another one?”
But Elliot didn’t shrink. As a reporter, he was used to asking questions that made people uncomfortable. “You’re Judith Cohn from the Lopez case?”
“That’s me,” she answered in cold fury. “Infamously bad diagnostician. Perhaps child killer.”
Kensing came forward. “Judith,” he said with sympathy. “Come on.”
Suddenly, the spunk seemed to go out of her. She came back to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sat on it. “That’s not going to go away, is it? And I guess you’re right, maybe it shouldn’t.”
“It wasn’t you,” Kensing said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Whoa up,” Elliot said. “Wait a minute!” He was leaning back in his wheelchair, focusing on first one of the doctors, then the other. Finally he settled on Cohn. “Look, I’m sorry, your name just clicked. I wasn’t trying to be accusatory.”
Cohn’s face was hard and bitter. “But the name clicks, doesn’t it?”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” Elliot said apologetically. “I’m a newspaperman. I remember names.” He scratched at his beard. “And the kid’s name was Ramiro, right?”
“We’re not opening this can of worms again, Jeff. The topic’s not on the table.”
But Cohn raised her hand to stop him. “It’s all right, Eric. It’s past now.”
“Not so long past. Markham sure wasn’t over it.”
“He is now.” Cohn obviously took some comfort in the thought. “Actually, this might be a good time to tell somebody the facts.” She turned to Elliot. “You know the basic story, right? This kid goes to urgent care with his mom. He’s got a fever, sore throat, funky-looking cut on his lip.”
Elliot nodded, recalling. “Some other doc had seen him a couple of days before and told him he had a virus.”
Kensing spoke up. “Right. So this night, Judith is at the clinic, swamped. Overwhelmed, really. She sees Ramiro and sends him home with some amoxicillin and Tylenol.”
“And two days later,” Elliot concluded, “he’s in the ICU with the flesh-eating disease.”
Kensing nodded. “Necrotizing fasciitis.”
Elliot remembered it all clearly now. The flesh-eating disease was always news, and when there was a local angle, it tended to get everybody worked up. So he’d heard of it, and had even heard the rumors about Judith Cohn’s—among many others’—alleged part in the tragedy. The official story didn’t include her by name, however, and Elliot’s own follow-up inquiries at the hospital were met with what he’d come to expect—the typically evasive Parnassus administrative fandango that left all doctors infallible, all administrative decisions without flaw. He’d never gone to press because he’d never felt he had it exactly right.
But Cohn was telling him now in a voice heavy with regret. “They’re right. I should have recognized it.”
Kensing shrugged. “Maybe the first doc who saw him could have, too. But neither of your diagnoses are what killed him.”
“What do you mean, Eric?” Elliot asked.
“I mean that at every step in the treatment, Parnassus took too long deciding what they could afford to do to save him. Ramiro didn’t have the right insurance. There was a glitch on one of the forms in his file. Was this test covered? Was the oxygen covered? Who was going to pay?” He angrily shook his head. “Long story short, they were counting pennies all the way, and it compromised his care. Fatally.”
Cohn’s eyes had gone glassy, the memory still painful to her. Elliot asked her gently, “You didn’t treat him at all after his initial visit to the clinic?”
“No. I never saw him again. Except at his funeral.”
Kensing took it up. “But did that stop Markham from singling her out within the physicians’ group as the primary point of failed care?”
“That’s the impression I got,” Elliot admitted. “But nobody would go on the record.”
“Everybody got that impression,” Kensing said. “Of course, what it really was, was Markham looking for a scapegoat. He himself had been the point man for the lame explanations of what we were not doing and why. Judith was his way to take the heat off him. Fortunately, the physicians’ group went to bat for her.”
“At least enough so I wouldn’t lose my job,” she added with real bitterness. “The only consolation is that I saw Luz—the mother?—at the funeral. She seemed to understand. She didn’t blame me. She blamed Markham.”
“Markham?” Elliot asked. “How did she know Markham even existed?”
Cohn obviously thought it was a good question. “You remember that puff piece they did on him in
San Francisco
magazine? It was lying out everywhere in the system that that poor woman went with her sick boy. Markham’s happy face and how he cared so deeply for his patients. She still had the cover with her at the funeral. She showed me.”
“And you want to know the supreme irony there?” Kensing asked. “It wasn’t Markham either. In fact, they’d all been Ross’s decisions. Ross is the chief medical director. He makes those calls. The truth is that Ross lost that kid single-handedly, and nobody seems to have a clue.”