After the Fall (11 page)

“Where is he? Call him.”

“I can't. He must be home. I can't call him there. His wife—”

“How does he manage to sneak over here if he's married?”

“His wife is out of town for a few days. Usually he does not stay here. She works late and he leaves me before—”

“Call him. I need to know the timing.”

Addie checked her watch. It was just after ten-thirty. “I'm not sure—”

“Do it. Tell him you have to see him. Tonight.”

A woman's voice answered at Jake's home with a simple “Hello.” Addie had never called his home number. She assumed it was his wife.

“Is Jake Harter there?” she asked.

“Who's calling?” the voice countered.

Addie hung up. What was she going to say? “This is Dr. Adawia Abdul with Replica Laboratories. I need to obtain some confidential information from your husband about Immunone.”

“I couldn't just leave a message,” she informed the staring face from her past.

“A lot is at stake here, Adawia. Not just your family, but mine too. Unlike you, I did marry and I have two young sons. Let me look at your Replica contract. Get it. Now.”

Addie did not understand the Badur-turned-Dru's cryptic charge, but her need to get rid of him before Jake arrived seemed
more urgent than her desire for answers. She retrieved a copy of her Replica employment contract from her briefcase and handed it to Dru. He was a banker; in fact, she'd always planned to contact him for advice about investing the money.

When Dru finally left, Addie locked the door after him. She tried to recall their relationship back in Ann Arbor. He'd been supportive, nonjudgmental; she, the appreciative mentee. Nothing more. No strings seemed attached. But who was this new Dru? Could she trust him?

“I don't need either of you,” she said to no one. Jake, a coward, plain and simple; the wimp couldn't muster the guts even to call tonight. Dru, suddenly reinserting himself into her life.

Addie stormed into the kitchen. She yanked the chicken out of the oven and dumped it, splattering drippings on every surface near the garbage bin.

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
19

Jake pulled the Jeep into his driveway. He left the motor running, climbed out, and slammed the door behind him. Heading to his mailbox, he glanced about, but it was too dark to tell if any of his neighbors were watching. He hoped they were. After retrieving his mail, he returned to the Jeep, got back in, slammed the door again, and continued up his driveway. He parked in his usual space just outside the garage, got out, and for the third time, slammed the Jeep's door shut before approaching the front door to his house, turning the key in the lock, stepping inside.

He realized he was holding his breath and, only when he saw Karolee lying lifeless, exactly as he had left her, did he exhale a sharp breath of relief. Jake had rehearsed the actions of the caring husband in shock when he discovers the bloody corpse of his wife sprawled on the entryway floor of the family home. The Good Husband kneels, fumbles to feel her neck for a pulse, getting blood on his shirt cuffs. Then he takes action. And that's what he does. Jake barges out of the house, running to the house across the street, pounding on the door of neighbors he knows only by sight, yelling for them to call 911.

And that they do, handing him the phone to clutch in trembling hands to blurt out that his wife has been shot, that he thinks she is dead. He acknowledges the dispatcher's instructions to stay right where he is, to not go back inside his house.

Sirens screaming, lights rotating, the cops and the ambulance arrive. Jake makes a show of trying to barge into his home, but police officers keep his frantic efforts at bay. Finally, a female officer politely pulls him aside, offers her condolences, confirms that Karolee is dead, possibly of a gunshot wound to the chest. To establish cause and means, she explains, the medical examiner will investigate and confer with detectives. Jake summons the dramatically correct blend of shock and grief as the scene plays out, just as television viewers have a right to expect.

Three detectives usher him inside his house via the back door. They interview him in his kitchen.

Question: How had Jake found his wife?

Answer: Almost tripped over her body.

Question: Exactly when had he found her?

Answer: At eight fifty-five, approximately. Hadn't checked his watch. Just before he called 911.

Question: Where had he been before coming home?

Answer: At work. Car stalled out on the way home. Had to get it towed to a garage. Lucky they could fix it. Grabbed something to eat at McDonald's on the way home.

Question: Where had she been?

Answer: Expected home from the airport, having visited their son and new baby granddaughter.

All the logical questions. Then they released him to call his son before escorting him to his bedroom, suggesting that he grab a few personal things. The property was now a crime scene.

Naturally, they listened in as he dialed Mark's Miami number.

Mark's wife answered.

“Claire, it's Jake, is Mark home?”

“He just got the baby down, and he drifted off to sleep on the couch. I don't want to wake him. Did she get home? Please tell me she's not stuck in Florida anywhere.”

“Karolee made it home.” Jake struggled to make his voice sound shaky. What he felt was triumphant. “But please wake up Mark, it's important.”

Claire sighed. “Okay, if you say so.”

Mark sounded groggy. “What's up, Dad?”

“Your mother, she's dead. I don't know how to say it any easier. A break-in at the house—They shot her in the chest—”

“You did pick her up?” Mark asked. “Then how—?”

“I didn't go into the office today until late. I had the most god-awful gastrointestinal thing all night and most of the day. When I did go in, well, I hate to admit it, but I nodded off at my desk. That sounds lame, I know.”

“But I told you her arrival time.”

“Yes, I know. 4:10 p.m. I did know that. I planned to be there, but—”

“Mom's dead?” Mark repeated, maybe for Claire's benefit. If she reacted, Jake didn't hear it. No love lost there, but Mark sounded really upset.

“I've got to go now, Mark. The police are here.”

“Okay, Dad, I'll be there tomorrow. I can't get out tonight, but first thing tomorrow. Don't know about Claire and the baby. Up to her. But I gotta be there. Call me, Dad, if you hear anything else, and make sure the police find out who did this. Maybe we didn't always get along, but she was my mother…”

Shit. Jake hadn't counted on Mark coming to town, possibly even with his wife and baby. Jake had enough going on, didn't need that distraction.

He desperately needed to talk to Addie, but couldn't risk contacting her. She expected him at her place tonight and would be pissed when he didn't show up. But wait until she found out why—he was free—free to marry her! Jake wondered how long he'd be under investigation—a suspect, he guessed—as the cops searched for Karolee's killer. How long could he stand being away from Addie?

Now, his priority was a place to spend the night. He decided on a motel near the FDA.

For the next week he'd have a helluva management load: keep Immunone in limbo, unapproved; contact Karolee's lawyer about her affairs;
cooperate
with the cops with the murder case; plan the funeral; and most importantly, make sure Addie was okay.

T
HURSDAY
, F
EBRUARY
20

Laura carefully timed her call to Keystone Pharma, holding off until that fleeting moment when the effect of her pain meds would be minimal and yet her pain not too overwhelming. When she spoke to Paul Parnell, she wanted him to hear in her speech and voice only alertness and competence. She needed to sound credible when she proposed showing up for work in just four days.

Her years of experience in dealing with severe pain, anyone's pain but her own, were less than useful now. But she did understood the pharmacology of narcotics, that there was a trade-off: the relief of debilitating pain means mental impairment. She needed mental clarity and had set a schedule to stop taking all narcotics. Sunday would be her last dose, no matter what, so she could start work at Keystone this Monday with a clear head. A new job with new challenges should help keep her mind off her damaged hand. Later, when she felt more in control, she'd go back to Tampa to wrap up her professional and personal life there.

She'd been awake that morning when Dr. Hanover made rounds. He'd declared her much improved. Ready for a simple sling to replace the apparatus that hung her arm from a pole on her bed. That meant she could ambulate without assistance, a huge improvement. Just after that assessment from Dr. Hanover,
Tim left the hospital to attend a staff meeting at CHOP. Laura was glad to see him start paying attention to his own professional life.

When Laura dialed Paul Parnell's direct number, he picked up immediately. After expressing her condolences for Fred Minn, and after accepting “get-well” wishes, she asked whether the VP job still was available. Across the line, she heard a loud sigh of relief.

“Thank God, Laura. Yes, it is. When can you start?”

“Monday,” she said, waited until he expressed disbelief, and answered, “Yes, I am sure. I can start Monday.”

“You don't know how much better that makes me feel,” he replied. “Losing Fred in such a traumatic way… Well, Laura, we'll bring you up to speed on Monday. Right now, I have to focus on Fred's funeral tomorrow. But would it be okay if I sent over Barney McCoy, our VP of human resources, to work out the employment package? It will be most generous, I assure you. Oh, I can't tell you how pleased we are. And to help sweeten the bad news about your resignation in Tampa, Keystone will donate a million dollars to their surgical department in your name.”

“Mr. Parnell, that's far too generous!” Laura did feel an urge to procrastinate about those difficult calls to Tampa City Hospital and the medical school.

“We're colleagues, Laura. Paul, the name is Paul. And Barney can come by the hospital today. How does early afternoon sound?”

After hanging up with Paul Parnell, Laura dialed her number at Tampa City. Before calling anyone else, she needed to tell the news to Eileen Donovan, her secretary of fifteen years. Next, she'd inform the CEO of Tampa City and the dean of the medical school; Parnell's offer of a million dollars should make the news easier to take, and relieve any anxiety about replacing her with a skilled—and able-handed—surgeon.

Laura and Eileen shared an emotional moment; the older woman knew all her kids, knew all her idiosyncrasies. She'd been
Laura's support system. Through some tears, she poured out her good wishes. Laura would miss her and their relationship. They were saying extended good-byes when a kid in a white coat looking no older than her daughters stepped into her hospital room.

“Have to go,” Laura said. “Heading off to a physical therapy session. Better described as a torture session.”

“Before you hang up, Laura,” her secretary slipped back one more time into her habitual role, “did you ever return Mr. Greenwood's call?”

No, she hadn't.

“Mr. Greenwood,” Eileen reiterated. “Lonnie Greenwood, with the Detroit mayor's office. The man with the son who needs a lung transplant? He left you that cryptic message. He called again, and I told him I gave you the message, but that you were hospitalized in Philadelphia. Hope that was okay?”

Laura felt her heart start to twitch. After the fall, she'd completely forgotten about that ominous message. The cue that took her back to the darkest corner of her life. Johnny Diggs. Her mind must have wanted to keep that corner buried. She thought it
had
been buried since her discussion with Detective Reynolds, the day she left Detroit—twenty-one years ago.

“I will call…Mr. Greenwood,” she promised.

She had to call the man, Laura knew. She had to find out about his link with Johnny Diggs. Did it pose a threat to her? To all she'd become since…? But not now. She had unavoidable misery to face. She had insisted on immediately starting physical therapy on her hand, knowing it would be pure torture, but would expedite getting back to as close to normal as she'd ever get.

“Okay, Dr. Nelson, time to rock and roll.” Her young therapist managed a brave grin. “I'm going to take your arm down, leave it in a sling at heart level. Our aim is to get function back in the hand. Not going to kid you, it'll be painful and will take a long time. Dr. Hanover wants you medicated to the greatest extent possible.”

Laura had wanted to tough it out, but before they had progressed much in the exercise routine, she asked for medication. Her injured hand was being stretched to the agony threshold. She wished she had made those calls to Tampa, but they would have to wait. As would Lonnie Greenwood from Detroit.