Heart Failure (34 page)

Carrie waited.
Go
on. I’ve given you an opening
. She raised her eyebrows in an invitation to tell her more.

“After the case I called home to check my messages. I usually don’t have any—the answering service calls me on my cell—but there was a strange one on my landline last night. It was from someone inviting me to a meeting at the cemetery at midnight. Well, curiosity got the best of me, so I swung by on the way home—stopped at the appointed place, but there was no one there.” He shrugged, then took a deep draught of coffee. “They must have called my phone by mistake.”

“That’s curious.” Carrie did her best to keep her expression neutral. “Do you have any idea who could’ve called?”

“Not really,” he said. But there was something behind his eyes Carrie couldn’t read. Was he lying? She couldn’t tell.

Carrie shrugged. “Well, that’s certainly weird. Anything else?”

Phil looked around. They were standing near the nurse’s station, and people were coming and going in a steady stream. “No, it can wait. Maybe I’ll see you later. If not, why don’t you drop by my office first thing Monday morning? We can talk about scheduling that dinner too. Right now I’m going home to take a nap.” He finished the coffee, tossed the empty cup into a wastebasket, and plodded off down the hall.

Carrie ended her rounds with a stop in the cafeteria. After inhaling the fumes from Phil’s coffee, she considered getting an espresso from the food court but decided to make the trade-off for plain coffee from a container that wasn’t cardboard, consumed at a real table in a relatively quiet setting. After a quick trip through the cafeteria line, she was at a table, holding a mug of coffee in both hands, smelling the aroma and feeling the caffeine energize her tired body. She closed her eyes, leaned back in her chair, and tried to analyze what she and Adam knew.

As she recalled, Phil Rushton once said he grew up in a poor part of Chicago. Like most medical students she was sure he either borrowed money or someone financed his medical education and specialty training. Could it have been DeLuca? Was Phil now repaying the debt by trying to kill Adam?

And Bruce Hartley, the senior lawyer in the partnership where Adam worked, had been in trouble for gambling. Could DeLuca have been the one to whom Hartley owed the debt? It seemed unlikely that he’d torch his own office, though what better way to direct suspicion away from himself? Adam said that if Hartley wanted someone shot, he’d hire it done. Still, so far as Carrie was concerned, he was a suspect.

To complicate things further, Charlie DeLuca had another family—a bigamous relationship with a woman living in a Chicago suburb. When the truth about Charlie came out, the wife had the marriage declared void and her daughter became a cloistered nun. The stepson, trained as an EMT, disappeared. Could he have surfaced in Jameson as Rob Cole? Was Rob Cole really Robert Kohler?

Carrie was halfway through her coffee when she realized someone was easing into the chair next to hers.

Rob Cole, looking like someone who had just finished pulling an all-nighter, smiled across the table and raised his cup in a salute. “Mind if I join you?”

“Tough night?” Carrie asked.

“Yes and no. I ended up working a double shift. One of the other paramedics was sick. But it turned out to be a good night. Took a mother in labor to the hospital just in time for the baby to be born somewhere besides the back of an MICU. And probably saved the life of a guy who got shot in the chest.”

“Dr. Rushton said he did surgery on a patient like that,” Carrie said. “So I guess your night wasn’t a total waste.”

Rob looked at the ceiling as though trying to decide. “No, it was okay. I had some other plans, fairly important ones, but I guess there’ll be another time.”

He started to push back his chair, but Carrie stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Rob, you got called away while we were still talking yesterday. Why don’t we finish that conversation?”

Rob eased back into his chair. “Honestly, I can’t remember what we were talking about.”

Carrie paused to gather her thoughts. She had to approach
this carefully. “You were telling me about the reason you changed your name and moved away.”

“Oh yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess it was the total disappointment after I found out my stepfather really wasn’t my stepfather. I’d really taken to him. My sister and I were so happy to have a dad again. When we found out he had another family, that the whole marriage to my mom was a sham, my sister just cracked up. She decided she had to get away, so she cut all ties with us. She . . .” He shook his head. “I can’t talk about it.”

Carrie plastered a shocked look on her face. “That’s tough, Rob.” She took a deep breath. “I understand your need to get away for a fresh start, but why did you have to change your name?”

“Sis and I were proud of our new family. Mom’s husband said he wanted to be more than a stepfather. He wanted to be our father. Then we found out these terrible things about him. I . . . I ran away. I changed my name because it reminded me of what we had, what he made us lose.”

Carrie took a big swallow of coffee. Here it comes. “And what was your stepfather’s name?”

Rob hesitated so long she thought he was going to evade the question. Finally he spoke. “Du . . . Lu . . . It was Luciano.”

Carrie looked into Rob Cole’s eyes, hoping to find a clue there. Had he started to say “DeLuca,” then changed his mind? Or was the subject painful enough that he stuttered over his stepfather’s name. Was he toying with her? Was this simply a part of the game for him, a game that would end with a bullet for Adam . . . or her . . . or both?

Carrie decided to take a chance and attack the problem
head-on. “Rob, I don’t think your stepfather was named Luciano. I think his name was DeLuca. Charlie DeLuca.”

Rob reached out for his coffee cup, but instead of grasping the handle, he encircled the thick mug with his hand. He didn’t lift it—just squeezed. Carrie watched his hands tremble and his knuckles turn white. She was afraid the mug would shatter, and she shoved her chair back a few inches to avoid the splatter of hot liquid. When she looked up from the cup into Rob’s eyes, they were burning into hers. For a moment she thought he might hit her, or throw the cup at her, or lunge across the table and grab her by the throat.

Carrie was on the verge of calling out for help, when, like a balloon deflating, Rob relaxed back into his chair. He leaned forward so that their faces were just inches apart. “I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore. And I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to get to know you better after all.”

TWENTY-FOUR

ADAM HAD THE OFFICE TO HIMSELF ON SATURDAY MORNING. After he set the coffee brewing, he used his computer to get the phone number for Hermann Hospital in Houston. It turned out that the facility’s official name was Memorial Hermann-Texas Medical Center, but he finally found what he needed. He picked up the phone on his desk, then replaced it and dialed the number on his cell phone. The firm would probably have no problem with a long-distance call, but he didn’t want to leave any record. He couldn’t give a reason for his caution, but he’d learned to trust his instincts. And his instincts always told him to leave as few footprints as possible.

He started with patient information, then was transferred to the ICU, where he was put on hold for what seemed an interminable length of time as the ward clerk found a nurse who’d talk with him.

“Who’s this?” she asked in a voice that was a study in neutrality.

“This is Ad—Sorry. This is Keith Branson. I’m a friend of Mr. Cortland’s. I was talking with him yesterday when the wreck happened.”

“Which Mr. Cortland would that be?”

“All I’ve ever called him was Corky. Give me a sec.” He searched his memory. What was Corky’s listing in Martindale-Hubbel? That was it. Edgar A. He relayed this information to the nurse.

“Are you a colleague?” she said. “A lawyer?”

“Yes. Corky and I were in law school together.”

“Then you’re familiar with HIPAA.”

It was a statement, not a question, and Adam knew what was coming next. He had come up against a wall—a wall called “patient privacy.” Although he knew that the intent of the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996, known as HIPAA, was good, he longed for the old days when a friend could find out someone’s condition without the patient having to include his name on a list of those cleared to receive that information.

The argument didn’t last long, mainly because Adam knew the nurse was acting properly. He thanked her and hung up. But he still wanted to find out about Corky. This meant more work with the computer, and using Switchboard.com he soon determined that E. A. Cortland lived in a rather nice suburb of Houston and had a listed number for his residence.

Before he dialed, Adam tried to recall something. He was pretty sure Corky hadn’t been married when they were in law school. Had Corky mentioned his wife’s name on the phone?
No, he had not. So Adam was calling blind. But he’d done that before.

The phone was answered on the fourth ring by a man’s soft voice. “Cortland residence.”

“This is a law school classmate of Corky’s. I understand he was in a bad accident yesterday, and—”

“Let me stop you. This is his father-in-law, and I guess you’re calling to get the details. Well, the service is day after tomorrow at the—”

It was like a punch in the gut. The man was still talking as Adam disconnected the call. He laid his phone on the desk and put his head in his hands. He felt sorrow about the loss of a friend as well as guilt at having let that friendship lie dormant for so long. But along with all that, Adam felt despair as he watched his hope of learning the hidden secret about Charlie DeLuca’s family disappear into the coffin with Corky.

“Is someone in here?”

A familiar voice interrupted Adam’s thoughts. The office door was locked, so he’d assumed he’d be alone this morning. But it was Mary’s voice that had startled him, and Mary had a key.

He was trapped. There was no way to avoid an encounter with her. “Back here,” he called.

“Be right there.”

In a moment Mary appeared in the doorway, holding two cups. “The coffee pot was still full, so I figured you hadn’t had yours yet. I poured an extra cup for you. Black okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Adam took a sip and put the cup on his desk.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Apparently Mary had no hesitancy in asking questions.
He drank a bit more coffee, hoping the caffeine would keep his brain sharp. “Just finishing a little extra work. What brings you in today?”

“Actually I was driving by and saw your car here, so I thought I’d stop and see if you were free for lunch.”

“Uh, that would be nice, but I’ve got to get home to meet a repairman. The cable’s acting funny, and with the weekend coming up, I want to watch the games. I think the Rangers are playing the Yankees on Sunday.” Adam thought he was right. He wasn’t really much of a sports fan, but he was hoping Mary wasn’t either.

She frowned, almost as though the rebuff was expected, and took in half her coffee with a couple of gulps. “Well, I’d hoped we could do it earlier, but I still have you down for lunch on Tuesday. Right?”

Adam was tired of putting off what seemed inevitable. “Sure. Let’s set the details when we see each other Monday morning.”

He addressed himself to the computer, attacking the keys furiously as though writing a document that had to be completed by sundown or the world would end. In actuality he’d opened a blank Word document and was typing gibberish, but she couldn’t see the screen from her vantage point across the desk.

The ruse must have worked, because Mary took the hint. She put her cup down on a side table near Adam’s door. “I won’t keep you from your work. Have a good weekend.”

Adam heard the door open, then Mary called, “See you Monday.” The door closed, and in a moment he heard a car drive off. He waited another couple of minutes, then sneaked to the front of the office and peered out the window. The
parking lot was empty. Once more he’d avoided giving Mary a chance to probe too deeply into his background. And maybe the identity he’d created would hold up under her questioning anyway, so he had nothing to worry about.

He hoped so. He had enough worries on his plate as it was. There was no need for another.

Carrie was halfway through her front door, her arms laden with groceries, when her cell phone rang. She hurried into the kitchen to deposit the sacks on the kitchen table, then pulled her phone from the pocket of her slacks and checked the display. Adam. She could feel the smile spread across her face.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Have you caught up on your sleep after our late night?”

“Not really. I had to see some patients this morning. But I ran into Rob Cole at the hospital. Adam, I think he’s really Charlie DeLuca’s stepson.”

“Why do you say that?”

After she finished describing her encounter, Carrie said, “I don’t think there’s any doubt that he’s the son of Charlie DeLuca’s second wife. And he’s very angry right now—I don’t know if it’s at you, or at his stepfather, or at me for confronting him with it. And I have to wonder why he showed up in Jameson. I mean, coincidences happen, but this is a big one.”