Code Blues (37 page)

I pointed at the phone. "If you know who did
it, you should tell the police. They'll take care of it."

She laughed and propped her behind up on the
desk, watching me. Her French accent had grown more pronounced. "I
have no doubt they would figure it out eventually. But after all,
what is one doctor to them when they have biker wars and gangs to
fight? This is my work. My revenge."

I shook my head. "You're being a vigilante.
If you have evidence, you should turn it over to the police."

Her laugh was like shards of glass. "I don't
have concrete evidence. When I do, the police will be the next to
know." She waved her hands in dismissal. "I'm sure you have
something more important to do. Alex, perhaps?"

A low blow, but I shook it off. "Mireille, I
know why you're doing this."

Her lips drew back in a snarl. "Because I
loved him."

I nodded. "And because you couldn't have him
in life."

She slammed her hand on the desk, rattling a
cafeteria tray and upending a plastic tumbler. "Spare me your
amateur—"

I kept talking. "I understand that. I really
do. But don't risk your own life, Mireille. Just turn the guy in.
That's what I would do."

She raised her chin. "I. Am. Not. A
coward."

In a way, she was right. I have almost
always played it safe. And in the end, I didn't have as much
invested in Kurt's death. "Insulting me won't bring him back."

Her mouth worked.

I said, "At least tell someone else what
you're thinking. It doesn't have to be me. Just tell someone,
okay?" Her mouth opened, but I knew it would just be more slagging.
I twisted the doorknob and let myself out.

Chapter 23

So now it was morning and Mireille preyed on
my mind even more than Alex. I called Tori and left a message on
her machine about Mireille's intended one-woman show. "Maybe she'll
listen to you." There was no love lost between me and Mireille, but
I didn't want her dead, either.

My head ached. I tried to think. Who was the
murderer? Who was she referring to? Intelligent. Cunning. It didn't
sound like Bob Clarkson, but he could play the fool for us and
mastermind behind the scenes. Alex? I had sex goggles on when it
came to him. I didn't have confidence in my own judgment on
Alex.

I could call the police myself and tell them
Mireille thought she had solved the case. But it sounded ludicrous.
I'm sure a lot of grieving partners fancy themselves detectives
after a murder. She wasn't necessarily in danger.

I rubbed my forehead. I understood Mireille
better, anyway. She was single-minded and loved the spotlight. No
wonder she hosted a party right after Kurt's death. She wasn't just
holding a wake, she was questioning people. At Grand Rounds, she
had publicly announced her intentions. And now she wanted to shove
it in my face: I know, you don't.

She certainly had the advantage of knowing
all the players. Hell, she'd slept with at least two of them.

I turned on the radio as I brushed my teeth.
No news on Kurt. My evening shift was from 5 p.m. until midnight.
The empty day stretched ahead of me.

I wandered back to my living room. It looked
even more disastrous in the clear light of day. At least the
bookshelf was up and ready to go, so I started shelving more
medical textbooks. When I had the extra-heavy, red and white
Tintanelli ER tome in hand, I paused. I knelt on the floor and
flipped to the section on domestic violence. I didn't see a lot of
new information, although I liked the headings "Why does she stay?"
"Why doesn't she tell?" Under "Men Who Batter," it said the men
didn't fit any neat profile. Any economic, racial, religious, or
educational background. They were more likely to have personality
disorders, but no one such disorder in particular. They were
controlling. They used denial. They minimized the damage they'd
done. They blamed others for their actions.

I wondered why Kurt had chosen this topic
for Grand Rounds, besides its relevance to family medicine. Now
we'd never know.

I decided to take a single leaf from Alex
and stop thinking. I turned up the volume on my stereo. When I got
tired of Katy Perry, the Black Eyed Peas and Sean Kingston burning
up the dance floor, I turned to good, old-fashioned CBC Radio. I
hung up my clothes, cheered to see my outfits again, even if they
severely needed ironing. I couldn't compete with the French girls
yet, but now I had more ammunition.

Making order out of chaos was more
satisfying than I'd expected. I assembled two more bookshelves and
threw volumes at them. I unpacked my pots and pans and arranged my
spices in the sticky white shelf above the stove.

By the time I sailed out the garage on my
bike at quarter to five, I was in a fine mood. I was even going to
be on time. Life was good.

Except my brain started clicking again. Just
riding my bike made me think of Alex and our foreplay by the bike
rack.

No. I pedaled faster, dodging a
double-parked car, four-ways flashing, while a car roared around me
and an oncoming car in the opposite lane slammed on its brakes and
its horn.

Even a near-death experience couldn't stop
my thoughts. Who had paged Kurt the night of his death? The police
must know it was a vital clue. Had they recovered the pager, or at
least the numeric messages? What about his cell phone? Had Mireille
used the numbers to track the murderer?

I rode up the exit side of the parking
circle. Instead of dismounting and walking my bike up the sidewalk
curb, I jerked my steering wheel upward. I hit the curb and bumped
over it. All the saliva had dried out of my mouth. My heart pumped
hard.

If Mireille could solve this, so I could I.
I just needed to ponder it more. I locked the bike and tossed the
keys in my backpack.

When I got on, Dr. Dupuis was working the
acute side. Double bonus. I smiled and headed straight toward him,
barely registering the ambulatory side until a man raised his
voice. "No. It would be ridiculous to start in the emergency room,
without any follow-up. The man needs a family doctor. Have him
follow up with the FMC."

I paused and turned. Sitting behind the
long, white counter, yelling at a medical student, was my man, Dr.
Morris Callendar. My heart sank. I'd have to forgo Dr. Dupuis. Dr.
Callendar was one of the main players. If I wanted to talk about
Dr. Kurt's final night, now was a good time and here was a good
place.

Dr. Dupuis had come outside the nursing
station to see a patient in a gurney lying between the ambu and
acute side. He waved at me.

I crossed to his side and gestured at the
walk-in area. "I'll work here for a bit, and then I'll join you, if
that's all right with you."

"Sure." He gave me a strange look. He knew
I'd never chosen the ambu side before and had been previously
allergic to Dr. Callendar. "It's up to you. I'll pull you over if
there are any interesting cases."

"Thanks." If my luck held, I'd get to pump
Dr. C. and join Dr. Dupuis immediately after.

"Sure." He strode off to take care of
another mini-crisis. He seemed unflappable. Then I remembered his
red face when we found Kurt's body. No, he was flappable.

Dr. Callendar grunted when he saw me, and
gestured at the charts. In addition to the ones who were already in
rooms, the clipboards hung on the walls with blue numbers affixed
in order of priority. There was also a long trail of charts snaking
its way down the counter between triage and the patient rooms. He
ducked around the other side to check an X-ray.

I nodded hello at the medical student. "I'm
Hope, an R1. Who are you?"

He mumbled, "William York." He was a skinny
white guy who'd buttoned his white coat all the way up to his neck,
with just the knot of his brown tie showing.

Poor guy. He reminded me of Robin—must have
been the tie—with no articles to back him up. I wanted to tell him
he'd get used to Dr. C., but then the man in question sailed back
around the corner. "Hope, William, we're not paid by the hour.
Let's get a move-on!"

Grr. I wished he was the murderer, but I
couldn't see how he'd manage to sneak out of a busy ER, kill his
buddy, and make it back down undetected. Even if he just let the
charts molder on the counter.

I picked up the first chart. Someone had
scrawled a Post-it note that said "Computer flashed 'drug.'" The
case was a 31-year-old woman with dental pain.

When I emerged from the room, Dr. Callendar
and the medical student were occupying the only two chairs, so I
leaned against the counter and waited my turn. Dr. C glared at me
throughout my entire presentation, then snapped, "Does she have a
fever? Is there any evidence of an abscess?"

At least leaning on the counter, I got to
literally look down at him. I shook my head. "I don't see anything.
But she says the only thing that helps is Demerol."

He stood up. "I don't put up with this kind
of nonsense. Come with me." He turned and gestured at the medical
student. "You too!" William sent me a wide-eyed look and followed
us. Dr. C. threw open the door of room 3 without knocking. "Hello,
I'm Dr. Callendar, how are you?"

"Oh," the woman moaned, "My tooth is killing
me. I had a cavity here—"

"Open up." He grabbed a flashlight and
tongue depressor from his pocket and tapped on her tooth. "I don't
see anything."

"But it hurts. It's killing me. You
gotta—"

"If there's no infection, there's nothing to
treat. See your dentist tomorrow."

"I did. He—"

"Good-bye, ma'am. Come back if you have any
fever, swelling, redness, or difficulty opening your mouth." He was
already halfway out the door, William hot on his heels. I shrugged
helplessly at the patient.

She slid off the examining
table, her hands bunched on her considerable hips. Her face was
bright red. "That's
it
?"

"Uh, I guess so. Sorry."

"What about my
Demerol
?"

"Uh—" I glanced at the door again. No
cavalry. "I guess you don't need any. Goodbye." I slipped out.

She yelled at my back, "I'm not leaving
until I get my Demerol!"

When I reached the desk, Dr. Callendar was
writing up another chart and talking to William, unperturbed.
"She's a drug-seeker." He pointed at the Post-it note. "We keep a
record on the computer. It came up when she registered at the front
desk."

"Oh.
That's
what it means." Of course, I
knew that people came to emerg for drugs, but no one in London had
ever asked me for them. I thought the note was something about the
computer!

More shouting from room 3. The nurse tapped
Dr. C. on the shoulder. "Morris, you'd better come talk to her. She
won't leave."

"She will." He stood up and tucked the chart
under his arm. "Both of you. See more patients."

It was machine-gun medicine, seeing and
reviewing patients rapid-fire. Asthma exacerbation, sore knee, sore
throat, urinary tract infection, atypical chest pain. I despaired
of getting a chance to ask Dr. Callendar about Kurt's last
night.

The med student took an age to see each
patient. He was only in second year, so this was a trial by fire
for him. Strangely, Dr. Callendar seemed more mellow with him.
"What do you think this is?"

"Uh," William said, "I think she has a
cold."

"Do you have a differential?"

William shook his head. His fear and
subservience seemed to endear him to Dr. Callendar. Meanwhile, the
same doctor would snap at me, "Is that all? Don't you have a plan?
You should know what to use for strep throat on pen-allergic
patients. Is it a real pen allergy? You didn't ask what his
reaction was? Well, what good are you, then?"

He sure knew how to charm the ladies. I
started tuning him out. There was something I was missing about
Kurt. Something Mireille had noticed. Her e-mail to him in May—the
"Don't call me" message—could have been evidence of harassment, but
I didn't think so. She wrote, "I can't be friends with you." Kurt,
as usual, trying to be all things to all people, must have been
trying to maintain friendship with his ex. Still, sometimes the
line blurred. He might have been persistent to the point of
harassment. Maybe that's why he chose the topic for Grand Rounds.
Physician, heal thyself.

I pictured his body again in the lounge.
Mottled face, staring eyes. No pager. No cell phone. The last two
still seemed significant. The killer must have contacted him and
asked him to meet him in the middle of the night.

While Dr. Callendar battered me with words,
it clicked. I knew what had bothered me about Kurt's desk. There
were no articles on abuse. There were articles on vaccination, but
nothing on abuse at all, even though Tori said he'd printed out a
stack of references. And the computer didn't work. Not just because
it was a St. Joe's special, but maybe because someone had already
reformatted the hard drive.

Maybe the killer had not just confiscated
the pager and cell phone, but cleared the office of any articles or
references on abuse.

My mind made the leap.

The killer was an abuser.

How had Mireille figured it out? And how was
she going to obtain hard evidence for the police? I closed my eyes,
remembered every time I had seen Mireille and what she had said.
The party. Coming to my house. Hanging around with her former
surgery comrade. I figured she was the one calling me and
pretending she was Vicki. Every time, she had been on a mission.
Collecting evidence. Intent on revenge.

Until last night, when she had told me to
stay away.

My mind made another leap. She was going to
confront the killer.

And I finally knew who he was.