Critical (25 page)

“Fine,” Laurie intoned in frustration.

“Anyway, thanks for passing up the Rodriguez case.”

“You're welcome,” Laurie said insincerely.

“The cause of death was straightforward, as I'm sure you assumed it would be. I mean, the victim, a construction worker, fell ten stories onto concrete from a building under construction.”

“Can you get to the point!” Laurie complained.

Jack stared at Laurie for a beat. “You're in a crummy mood.”

“No, I'm just a little impatient to talk about something which, with due respect, I think is more important.”

“Okay, okay,” Jack said. “So as not to hear about this for a week, tell your story!”

“No, I agreed for you to talk first, so finish! Just pick up the pace.”

Jack smiled wryly before continuing. “The internal exam showed all sorts of blunt-trauma injury, including detached heart, ruptured liver, and bilateral compound fractures of the femurs. But I knew that wasn't going to help with the manner of death, so I visited the scene.”

“I hope you didn't cause your own
scene
,” Laurie quipped. “Because I did a site visit myself and inadvertently caused a
scene
, which has Bingham spitting bullets.”

“Not diplomatic me!” Jack said. “Actually, everyone had a ball. What I did was fill a plastic body bag with sand courtesy of the contractor so that it was the same weight as the victim. Then, up on the tenth floor…”

“I hope you didn't climb ten stories on your injured knee,” Laurie interjected.

“No!” Jack said as it if was totally out of the question. “They took me up in the construction elevator. Up there, I checked where the guy was working when he fell. Ironically enough, he was putting up temporary guardrails. With a guy down on the ground with a stopwatch, we first rolled the bag off the ledge like what would happen if Mr. Rodriguez had accidentally fallen. And do you know how far away from the building the bag ended up?”

“I can't imagine.”

“Six feet, and it took two and a half seconds. When we heaved the body bag off as if he were pushed or leaped on his own accord, guess where it landed in two-point-six seconds?”

“Please, just tell me your story?”

“Twenty-one feet on the nose. Pretty cool, huh? It proves it wasn't an accident.”

“What if he stood at the edge of the building, closed his eyes, and took a baby step?”

“Wouldn't happen. He wouldn't want to hurt himself by hitting the building on the way down.”

“You're sure of that?”

“I am. I thought about it myself once, a few months after the plane crash.”

“Oh,” Laurie merely said. It was an area she didn't want to revisit at the moment. Jack still struggled with depression on occasion.

“I'm going to sign the case out as suicide. Do you know why?”

“I can't guess,” Laurie said. “Why?” Despite her initial pique, she was interested. “Why not homicide? He could have been pushed or thrown.”

“Because on external exam, he had healed scars across both wrists. He'd attempted suicide before. This time, he used a more efficacious and guaranteed method.”

“Very interesting,” Laurie said with questionable sincerity. “Now, can I speak?”

“Of course,” Jack responded. “But I think I know what you are going to say.”

“Do you?” Laurie questioned, with a touch of superciliousness.

“You are going to tell me by the looks of all these case files that there has been a surge at Angels Orthopedic of MRSA postoperative infections, and that I have to cancel my surgery or at least reschedule it for some indeterminate later date. Am I close?”

“You are right on the nose,” Laurie said, “but, smarty pants, I think you should hear the details.”

“Can't we do it over a bite to eat somewhere along Columbus Avenue?”

“I want to tell you now,” Laurie insisted. “These MRSA cases are truly a mystery. In my opinion, what is happening actually cannot be happening, either naturally or intentionally.”

Jack's eyebrows raised when Laurie mentioned the idea that the MRSA was being spread intentionally. He asked her if she truly thought it was possible. When she said yes, he didn't dismiss the idea out of hand. Laurie had a track record of ferreting out several equally bizarre situations some years earlier that everyone else had dismissed.

“Okay. Let's hear the unexpurgated version, and I promise not to interrupt.”

First, Laurie handed over her unfinished matrix and then went on to tell Jack everything she did that day, and everything she'd learned and everything that was pending. She finished up with: “There shouldn't even be a discussion whether or not you should proceed with your operation. You shouldn't, plain and simple.”

“Well, I'm sorry that Blowhard Bingham gave you a hard time. I think your visit to the Angels Orthopedic Hospital should be a source of commendation, certainly not the opposite. I'm intrigued myself by all you have told me, except for your final conclusion. Now, don't argue with me!”

Laurie had tried to complain.

“I let you speak without interruption, so let me have the same courtesy. I have been proactive today anticipating your attempting to change my mind, so I've learned some things as well. First off, these MRSA infections in your series are not technically nosocomial, since they are not within the time period of forty-eight hours.”

“That's true,” Laurie agreed, “but that definition is more for statistical purposes.”

“The forty-eight-hour limit is because infections within that time very often are from organisms carried in by the patient. And that will undoubtedly turn out to be the case with your series, and my reason for believing that is twofold: One is because of what you have learned in your investigation—namely, that the contamination cannot be occurring naturally or by intention, ergo, it is being brought in by the patients; secondly, the cases all seem to be community-acquired MRSA, which by definition comes from the community, or in other words from outside the hospital.”

“Can I say something now?” Laurie questioned.

“If you must.”

“The CA-MRSA, or community-acquired, has definitely shown up as a problem in hospitals, and that's been over a number of years at an ever-increasing rate.”

“That may be so, but I believe the fact that the bug is the CA-MRSA exclusively lends more credence to my theory. But be that as it may, I also called Dr. Wendell Anderson's office and spoke to his scheduling nurse. Thinking of you, I asked her whether it would be possible, if I put off the surgery, to again be scheduled at the seven-thirty slot. She said it would be up to the doctor, because he always starts at eight-thirty or nine and that he was doing me a favor by coming in early on Thursday.”

“Well then let's delay it,” Laurie said.

“I don't want to delay it. That's the point. Yet I wanted to ask in case I changed my mind, but I didn't.”

“Why not?” Laurie demanded with obvious irritation at Jack's intransigence.

“Because the sooner it gets done,” Jack growled, “the sooner I'll be on the bike and on the b-ball court.”

“Jesus Christ!” Laurie exclaimed, throwing up her hands in frustration. “How can you be so foolishly stubborn?”

“I'll tell you how,” Jack snapped back. “Before I hung up with Anderson's secretary, I asked her to have Anderson call me back, which he did within the hour. I put the questions to him very directly. First, I asked him if he knew about the MRSA in the Angels hospitals. He said he did, and he admitted there was a significant mystery to it, because he told me all the infection-control mechanisms that the hospital had instituted at great expense. He said infections had decreased but were still occurring at a much-reduced rate. He also told me that he had himself instituted some control measures above and beyond what the hospital was doing.”

“What were they?”

“On his own cases he insists the anesthesiologist give supplemental oxygen, maintain the patient's body temperature, and even monitor and maintain glucose levels.”

“Has he had any recent postoperative infection?” Laurie asked incisively.

“I'm glad you asked that question,” Jack said smugly. “Although I know it's an egotistical sore point with surgeons, I asked him directly if he had. Surprisingly enough, he said he's only had three postoperative infections in all his career, and all three had been open compound fracture repairs, meaning the cases were dirty to begin with. Also, all three were at University Hospital, not Angels Orthopedic.”

“So he's not had an MRSA case.”

“Well, I don't know what the bacteria was involving his cases at University, but the point is, he's had no infection problem at Angels.”

Laurie stared off. She could sense she was losing the argument.

“I even went a step further,” Jack said. “I asked him from one doctor to another if he would go ahead and have the surgery as scheduled given the timing in relation to my injury and the fact that Angels is struggling with an MRSA problem.” Jack paused for maximum impact.

“And?” Laurie was forced to say. She wanted to know.

“He said in a heartbeat he would do it. And furthermore, he said he wouldn't operate at Angels if he didn't feel that confident. He said the only thing he would personally do was use an antibiotic soap for several days before the procedure. When I admitted to already doing that, he said I'd be fine. He also said that when I go in for my pre-op bloodwork tomorrow, that he would arrange that I be screened for MRSA, and that if I turned out to be a carrier, he would insist I be treated and that the operation would be delayed. The last thing he said was that he'd see me Thursday morning at seven-thirty a.m., and I'd be back on my bike in three months and playing b-ball in six.”

Laurie looked over at her pile of cases and hospital records. She felt a mixture of frustration, anger, and despondency. Jack had certainly made some cogent points, especially talking directly to his surgeon, who was highly regarded and rather famous for operating on celebrity athletes. Yet still, Laurie could not help but feel it was a wrong decision to proceed with the surgery under the circumstances. It would be okay if it were an emergency, but as elective surgery, it still seemed crazy to her.

“Come on!” Jack said, standing up and touching her shoulder in the process.

As if she were in molasses, Laurie got to her feet.

Jack handed her matrix back to her. “I still think you should proceed with investigating this series. There has to be an explanation, and I for one would certainly like to hear it.”

Laurie nodded, took the matrix, and tossed it casually onto the rest of the debris on her desk.

Jack wrapped his arms about her and hugged her. “Thanks for caring,” he said.

Laurie hugged back.

“I love you,” Jack said.

“I love you, too.” Laurie said.

S
o, how are we going to work this?” Angelo asked Franco.

He and Franco were in Franco's car, having pulled over to the left side of Fifth Avenue between 56th and 57th streets. There was a row of massive concrete urns sitting on the sidewalk, presumably for protection of the Trump Tower from wayward vehicles. The commercial entrance to the building was behind them, forcing one of them at any given time to be looking back over his shoulder to keep the area under observation.

“That's a good question,” Franco answered. “This isn't the easiest assignment I've ever had. Where's that description again?”

Angelo handed over the sheet of paper.

“Your turn to watch the entrance,” Franco said. Facing forward, he quickly reread the description. “I guess we will have to rely on the hair. I can't even imagine what blond with lime-green highlights will look like. It sounds almost scary.”

“I think the size issue will tip us off, at least initially,” Angelo said. It was easier for him to look back while sitting in the front passenger seat. “It's hard to see the hair color with the angle of the sun, and there's a lot more people coming out. I guess it's quitting time.”

“If we don't see her soon, I'm going to start worrying we've missed her.”

“That won't bother me,” Angelo said. “I have a nagging feeling about this hit.”

“Oh, come on, you pessimist,” Franco said. “Enjoy the challenge of it. By the way, where are the date-rape pills and the gas you got from old Doc Trevino?”

“The pills are in my pocket, and the ethylene is on the floor of the backseat along with the plastic bags. That stuff is unbelievable how fast it works. Two seconds, the person is out.”

“Well, we sure can't use the gas here in broad daylight. Well, maybe it isn't so broad anymore.”

“Of course not, but it might come in handy if she kicks up a fuss once we get her in the car. I don't want to be forced to shoot her in the car.”

“Hell, no,” Franco said. “Not on my upholstery. Let me see the pills.”

Angelo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter-sized envelope, which he handed to Franco. Franco squeezed the ends of the envelope together and looked in at the contents. There were ten small white pills nestled in the bottom crease.

“How many of these things do you have to use?” Franco asked.

“Doc said just one. All you have to do is plop it into a cocktail, and twenty minutes later you can pop it to her.”

“How come he gave us so many?”

“Beats me. Maybe he thought we could have fun with the others.”

Franco tipped the envelope and poured half of the pills into his hand. Then he dropped them into his jacket pocket and handed the envelope back to Angelo. “If we use one tonight and it works, maybe I'll give it a try.”

“Sounds like it would be a great evening,” Angelo said teasingly. “Viagra for you and Rohypnol for your honey.”

Refusing to be baited, Franco said, “I think one of us should walk down there to the entrance and get a better look at each and every one coming out. There would be less chance of missing her.”

“That's not a bad idea,” Angelo agreed. “But what are we going to do when we see her? We can't strong-arm her with all these people around.”

“What about your Ozone Park police badge? You've always said it works wonders.”

“It does, but not always in a crowd. People are emboldened when other people are around. She could yell and scream, and there's lots of cops in the neighborhood.”

“I've noticed. I'm amazed they haven't approached us to leave.”

“You've spoken a bit too soon. Here comes one now.”

Franco glanced back over his shoulder. A burly policeman with a strikingly large gut was heading toward them, carrying a pad of traffic tickets in his hand.

Franco looked at Angelo and back at the policeman. In ten seconds, the cop would be at the door.

“I'll jump out,” Franco said. “You drive around the block!”

“Why don't I jump out?”

“Because I'm in charge,” Franco said. “Make sure your cell phone is on. And most importantly, don't wreck my car.”

Franco climbed out onto the sidewalk. “Good evening, officer,” he said. The policeman arrived just as Franco reached full height.

“There's no parking or standing,” the cop said, as he eyed Franco and then bent down to look in at Angelo.

“He's just dropping me off, officer,” Franco said as he also bent down to wave good-bye to Angelo. Angelo had slid across the bench seat to be behind the wheel. Franco closed the door lovingly.

“Hey!” the officer called out suddenly as Angelo started to pull away. Angelo stopped with his heart racing. “Your seat belt!” the policeman yelled.

“Thank you, officer,” Angelo said in a tense voice after putting down the window halfway.

Franco's heart had raced as well. With definite relief, he smiled at the policeman, then walked north toward the Trump Tower commercial entrance.

 

AMY LUCAS LOOKED
over at the clock high on the wall across from her desk. With utter relief, she saw that it was finally five-thirty, her normal quitting time. The day had been a mixture of anxiety and tedium. The anxiety had been getting called into the CEO's office and being questioned about Paul. She'd never even met the CEO before, much less been called into her office. Although she suspected it would be about Paul, she wasn't entirely sure. There was always the concern about being fired, not that she'd done anything to deserve it but more because she couldn't afford to be fired. Financial need evoked a kind of paranoia, and her finances were being strained by her contribution toward keeping her mother in an assisted-living facility. Each month was a struggle to stay in the black.

Paul's absence had also been the source of anxiety. She'd been working for the man for about ten years and had moved with him from their previous job to Angels Healthcare about five years ago. When he'd not shown up by ten that morning, Amy feared something was wrong, because Paul Yang was generally very precise and methodical, like most accountants, unless he had been drinking. That was the worry. As the day wore on and he didn't appear or call, she came to believe he was on one of his binges, like he'd had before the move to Angels Healthcare, and it saddened her. Back then it had been difficult, because she'd had to make excuses for his absence on a regular basis, and even on one occasion rescue him from a fleabag motel.

After the motel incident, he'd seen the light, and overnight he became thankfully motivated to stay away from alcohol. Only Amy knew he'd gone to AA meetings and had kept it up for years now. She'd hoped he'd stay away from alcohol for good, but now, five-thirty in the afternoon, she was certain he'd relapsed.

If it was true, as she expected it was, that he'd gone back to alcohol, she blamed the stress he'd been under regarding the stupid 8-K form and the ballyhoo about whether or not to file it. She knew he was upset about it because he had specifically told her so, but he didn't tell her why he was so agitated. Amy wasn't an accountant, and had never even gone to secretarial school. She was pretty much self-taught, although she did take appropriate courses in high school and was exceptionally good with the computer.

Sometime after she had typed the 8-K on Paul's laptop, he had called her into his office, and then, as if there was a great conspiracy afoot, gave her a USB drive, which contained the 8-K file.

“I want you to keep this,” he'd whispered. “Just put it someplace safe. On a separate file is the Securities and Exchange Commission's website.”

“But why?” she'd asked.

“Don't ask! Just keep it unless something happens to me.”

Amy could remember looking into his eyes. He was being so melodramatic that she'd thought he was joking with her, because he did have a sense of humor. But he apparently wasn't joking, because he dismissed her and never mentioned the USB drive again.

Now, as she was ready to leave for home, she opened her bag and took out the USB storage device and looked at it as if she expected it to communicate with her. She couldn't help but wonder if Paul's absence fulfilled his request for her to file the 8-K. When he'd given her the charge, he'd never described what he meant by “unless something happens to me.” Certainly, going on a binge qualified as something happening to him, but Amy wasn't confident. She slipped the drive back into its side pocket and closed her purse. Her last thought before leaving was whether she should call his home. She'd considered doing it off and on all day but wasn't sure if she should. She'd even considered calling one of his old girlfriends, whose number she still had, but she decided not to do it since he'd had no contact with her for five years, as far as she knew. With a sigh, her indecision was such that she thought it better to do nothing than to do something that might make the situation worse. With that thought she turned off her desk lamp and left the office.

 

“WHAT THE HELL
is going on?” Carlo said with a shake of his head. He was mystified.

“I haven't the slightest idea,” Brennan said.

Carlo and Brennan were in Carlo's black GMC Denali, pulled over to the right side of Fifth Avenue at Grand Army Plaza. Just to their right was the Pulitzer fountain with the statue of a naked Abundance in all her glory.

Carlo and Brennan had picked up Franco and Angelo the moment they'd emerged from the Neapolitan Restaurant. At a safe distance in Johnny's parking lot, they had joked about the two Lucia enforcers, trying to decide which one was the weirdest-looking. To them, Franco looked like a hawk with his narrow, hatchetlike nose and beady eyes, while Angelo looked like someone from a horror movie with his extensive facial scarring.

“What a pair,” Carlo had commented as he'd put his sub sandwich down on the center console and put his car in gear.

Tailing the two had been easy, since Franco's car stood out from the crowd with its erect tail fins and whiter-than-white sidewall tires. The only problem spot had been getting on the Queensboro Bridge, since they had missed a traffic light, and Franco's car had driven out of sight. After a short period of anxiety, they had been able to catch up to their quarry, thanks to the traffic light on the Manhattan side of the bridge. From there, they had proceeded to Fifth Avenue without a problem until Franco had suddenly pulled to the side a bit beyond the commercial entrance to the Trump Tower.

Franco's parking had been so precipitous that Carlo had had to drive by and make a right at 55th Street, and go around the block. That maneuver had also caused a bit of concern about losing them until they'd returned to Fifth Avenue and saw Franco's car still standing where it had been.

For the next thirty-five minutes, Carlo and Brennan had stayed where they were next to naked Abundance, alternately watching Franco's car with a pair of binoculars Brennan had thoughtfully brought along. They couldn't see much, just two silhouettes having an active conversation from the looks of their intermittent hand gestures. While they waited, they finished the sandwiches they'd gotten at Johnny's. Without knowing where they were going or how long it would take, they'd jumped at the chance to have some food.

The stakeout had gradually become boring until both men sat up a little straighter when the NYPD officer had appeared and closed in on the car.

“What's going down?” Carlo had questioned. Brennan had the binoculars at the time.

“I don't know. They're just talking.”

“Let me see!” Carlo said. He took the binoculars from his colleague, who was lower in the organizational hierarchy. Carlo and Brennan had known each other for years from living in the same neighborhood and attending the same high school.

“Franco's walking toward us,” Carlo said as he continued watching through the binoculars.

“Uh-oh,” Brennan said urgently. “Angelo is driving away! What should we do?”

“Let's stick with Franco,” Carlo said. “He's stopped at the Trump Tower entrance. My guess is he's waiting for someone to come out of the building.”

“What about Angelo? I could get out and stick with Franco while you tail Angelo.”

Carlo shook his head. “My bet is Angelo's just going around the block. Let's stick where we are. I'm starting to think they're planning on snatching someone.”

“That's crazy with all these people around, not to mention the cops.”

“I can't argue with you there,” Carlo said, and then quickly added, “I think he sees who he is after. He just tossed his cigarette into the gutter.”

“Who is it, a man or a woman?” Brennan questioned. He eyed the binoculars and had to resist an urge to grab them away from Carlo. After all, he'd had the sense to bring them along.

“I think it must be that girl with the green coat. She's taking a cab, and he is, too. I bet he's pissed because Angelo's not in sight.”