Lifeblood (5 page)

“That’s Van Buren, capital V, capital B. We have a few problems you may be able to help us with.”

“Yes?” Rachel drummed her fingers, waiting for him bring up the boy’s bill.

“You have some available space in your garage?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” She would have to rethink her disbelief in magic and genies and fairy godmothers. “As it happens I’ve just gotten word that one of my clients is moving to the Valley. I have at least a hundred spaces. I could give you a firmer number in a couple hours.”

“Good.”

Then it occurred to her this might not be quite the pure stroke of luck it seemed. “You realize I’m not open all night. I close the doors at ten. And I’m not in a position to collect individual fees.”

“Of course. No problem. For the most part, we only want to be able to park a few of our medical staff there on weekdays. Nights and weekends there’s room in our own lot.”

“A few…?” Rachel asked. “I thought you wanted more like a hundred.”

“At least a hundred,” he said. “To me, that’s a few. We have something like nineteen hundred on the staff.”

“Good heavens, that’s a lot.”

“Of course they’re not all here at the same time. But when they are, we have to be able to park them. And right now we’re at least a hundred spaces short.”

“Do you want to write up the lease yourself or use one of my forms?”

“We’ll do the lease. But there’s one other thing. You have a helipad there, do you not?”

“Yes.” She had visions of medics and gurneys and ambulances racing through the garage. “Several clients use it during business hours, but there isn’t proper lighting for use after dark, and I don’t think it could accommodate patients even during the day.”

“No, of course not. We don’t accept helicopter transfer patients. We’re not a trauma center. Our emergencies arrive from the street. But your helipad might be handy for medical supplies from time to time, and for some particularly perishable items.”

“That would work,” she said. “If it’s only occasional, I could even do delivery and pickup.”

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

When they had hung up, Rachel leaped from her stool in excitement. What a windfall! A bonanza, a break. Financial disaster would stop looming. And she wouldn’t have to make any more calls to beg for business.

Her delight would not last long.

Chapter Nine

Archie Van Buren didn’t waste much time. That same afternoon he called again. When she confirmed the number of spaces, he asked if she would be available the next morning to go over the lease.

She would. Absolutely.

Dressed in her only suit, navy chino, and a prim white blouse, Rachel got to the medical center ten minutes early, was escorted through what seemed like miles of corridors to the administrative wing and hence into a huge, elegant conference room. The mahogany table was so highly polished she could have used it to put on eye shadow.

Rachel wasn’t sure whether to put her purse on the table or on the floor next to her chair. It was a very special handbag, with an intricate design on the flap—an impulse purchase from a leather worker at an arts fair back when she could afford such things. The purse really was a work of art. She decided to place it flat on the table.

She was soon joined by Van Buren and two other men. One was introduced as a vice president of something or other, the other apparently was the attorney who drew up the paperwork.

She wondered briefly if she should have her own attorney look it over, but the lease, neatly printed on legal-size paper, was not fundamentally different from those of her other clients. So a couple strokes of a pen and a few pleasantries later, Van Buren was escorting her back through the lobby, and she left the hospital with a check for the first three months’ rent in her handbag.

In mid-afternoon, Rachel looked up from her eternal book work to see a black man in navy jacket and pants, white shirt and solid red tie, standing quietly in the door to her cubicle. Below round cheeks, soft eyes like melting chocolate, and a gentle chin, his middle strained a bit at the confines of his belt.

“Dan Morris,” he said, with a somewhat shy smile. “I’m in charge of security at Jefferson Medical Center. When you have time, I just need to take a look at your license and whatnot.”

“Of course.” Rachel gestured to where the license and certificates hung in diploma frames just below the glass windows.

Morris studied them and nodded. “Mind if I take a look around? I doubt we’ll be stationing anyone here since it’s just the day staff that will be parking here, but I’d like to know the layout and all that.”

“Sure. Go ahead. Anywhere you like.” There was something about his eyes that spoke of sadness—maybe something he’d seen he couldn’t forget—a little like some of the war vets she knew from AA. She watched him wander up the ramp with the rolling gait of a man whose few extra pounds had done little to hinder an innate grace.

He must have been thorough because it was a good half hour or more before he returned.

“About the helipad,” he said.

Rachel frowned. “Something wrong? If so, I’ll get it fixed right away.”

“Nope. No problems I can see. When can we start using it?”

“Well, your lease is dated the first of next week, but if you need to send or receive something sooner, that’s okay. I bill once a month based on the number of times a helicopter touches down for you.”

“Good. We’ll be needing to send something off. In about an hour. That okay?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“What’s the procedure with you?”

“Well, I’d like to meet whoever will be going up there. I don’t like strangers wandering around the place. But generally, I keep the door to the pad unlocked and once I’ve met whoever it is, if I’m here, that person might just stop and give me a nod so I know what’s going on and I can record the use. If for some reason I’m not here, which won’t be often, please just leave me a note—stick it under the door of the booth.”

“Mostly, I’ll be that person.”

“Okay. How often do you think you’ll be using it? The pad, I mean.”

“Could be every day weekdays. Outgoing that is. There may be other stuff coming in. I can’t predict that right now.”

“Good heavens. I’ll have to check my insurance about that much use. If the premiums go up, I’ll have to raise the fee to cover.”

Morris hitched up his pants and smiled. “I’m sure that’ll be fine so long as you justify it.”

Half an hour later, he was knocking at the window of her kiosk hoisting a package of tightly taped Styrofoam measuring about eighteen inches high by a foot wide and deep. A blue plastic handle was attached to the thick black rubbery-looking elastic bands that bound the parcel.

“Looks like you’re going on a picnic,” she said.

He smiled. “Don’t I wish.”

She nodded. Watching him check his watch, waiting for the elevator, she decided his muscles might be a little soft, but all the same, she wouldn’t relish tangling with him.

Less than ten minutes later she heard the loud thrum-thrum-thrum of the helicopter.

And a few minutes after that, he tapped on her window, made an O with his thumb and forefinger, then ambled toward the street door.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Rachel called after him.

He turned and ambled back with an inquisitive look.

“You’re with the hospital. Maybe you could help me out on something.”

“I’ll sure try.”

“I found a couple of young boys locked in a van here and took them to the emergency room. I was told one of the kids was dead but the other was okay, just dehydrated.”

He nodded, raised eyebrows, waiting.

“I got to wondering about the kid who was alive, sort of felt responsible for him in a way, I guess.”

“Sure,” he agreed.

“So I went back over there to see if I could visit him.” She stopped, remembering that it was probably someone on this man’s staff who had ultimately escorted her to the door to get rid of her.

“Was he okay?” Morris asked.

“I wish I knew. That’s the problem. They said he didn’t exist. They said there was no record of any kid like him being admitted to the hospital that day.”

Morris turned his head slightly, narrowed his eyes, and hitched up his pants.

Rachel fiddled with a pencil. “I guess I should add that I made a little bit of a scene because I figured that wasn’t possible. One of your guys came and showed me the way to the door.”

Morris’ dark eyes examined hers. “If he wasn’t courteous, you tell me what time it was and what he looked like and I’ll have a talk with him.”

“Oh, no,” Rachel said quickly. “He was perfectly nice. My question to you, since you must know hospital procedures, is can you think of any reason I would be told by the emergency room people this boy was okay, that he was just dehydrated, and that he was being admitted to the hospital. But instead he disappeared?”

Morris stared at his feet, as if examining the condition of his shoes. “Well, I think dehydration can be pretty serious. Maybe they were wrong about this kid’s condition. Maybe he died before he was admitted.”

Chapter Ten

Weekend chores and errands gave Rachel little time to think, but by Sunday night she was again dwelling on what Morris had said.

If both boys were dead, all her efforts had been wasted. The worst of it was that the second boy’s death would be on her conscience. She knew only too well that one of them had been knocking that bolt against the side of the van, desperately trying to alert someone to the plight of the two locked inside. And she hadn’t responded.

The next morning, she was standing at the garage entrance watching Irene laying out tarot cards for a passerby the old lady had cornered, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned to find a harried-looking woman holding up a cell phone. “Can I help you?”

The woman raised both hands in the air in a helpless gesture. “My car won’t start, my cell is down….”

Rachel led the way to the glass booth. “I’ve got several chargers. Let me see your phone.”

The second connection she tried fit. “Good. Now let’s see about the car.”

“It’s in C-3,” the woman said. C was the area newly leased to Jefferson.

Rachel followed her client to a pale blue BMW. “Mind if I give it a try?”

The woman handed over the keys. She didn’t look like the helpless type, but she obviously didn’t know much about cars.

The engine ground over with plenty of strength but didn’t catch. Rachel popped the hood, opened it, and looked around for something obvious like a stray distributor wire.

The woman was pacing back and forth behind the bumper.

“Okay, my guess is it’s the fuel pump. There’s no smell of gas, but I’m no expert,” Rachel told her. “Couple things we can do. If you have Triple A we can give them a call but no telling when they’ll get here and all they’ll do is tow it—you pick the place. Or, I know a guy who will come out, take a look, and if it isn’t too serious, he’ll fix it right here. He’s not as expensive as some repair places because he knows where to get most parts at the best prices. But I don’t know how busy he is or exactly when he could take a look at it. Take your pick. Triple A or Johnny Mack. For that matter, if Johnny takes a look and decides it has to be towed, Triple A can do it then.”

The woman looked relieved. “You can vouch for this guy?”

“As much as I’d vouch for anyone. And if you wind up having to rent a car, I could probably give you a lift to some car rental place.”

The woman’s face lost its harried look and gained one of the nicest smiles Rachel had ever seen. “I didn’t know that kind of service existed any more. I will certainly let the business office at Jefferson know what a good deal they have with you. Let’s give this Johnny Mack a try.”

Rachel punched three numbers into her phone, explained the situation, and listened, nodding, then turned to the woman. “He can come by between two and four, If you leave me a key, you don’t have to be here. But if it is the fuel pump, you may have to rent a car for a day or two. Up to you.”

The woman handed over the keys. “Let’s do it.” When Rachel finished the arrangements, she added, “Will you at least let me buy you lunch?” She held out her hand. “I’m sorry. How rude of me. I’m Emma Johnson.”

“Rachel Chavez.” She took the hand, which was long-fingered and surprisingly strong.

“Chavez.” The woman pronounced it the right way, with the accent on the first syllable. “Have you ever been to Pedro’s Cantina, over on one of those streets off Olvera?”

“No.”

“Well, one of the reasons I was especially upset about the car going out right now is that Pedro only has cabrito once a month and this is the day. I try never to miss it.”

“Cabrito?”

Emma Johnson looked at her quizzically. “You’re not familiar with Mexican food?”

“Sort of. But I don’t know the language. Or at least not any more than the couple words you learn here and there on the streets.”

“Cabrito is goat.”

“Goat?”

“If you don’t feel up to trying that, there are lots of other things on the menu. Real, genuine Mexican. Not this phony Cal-Mex or Tex-Mex nonsense. Even menudo, although I doubt you’d want to try that.”

Rachel was nodding, liking the idea. “Okay. You’re on.”

Emma started up the ramp, then turned back. “Damn. How stupid of me. We’ll have to get a cab.”

“Not to worry, I can drive. Wait here.”

Rachel went to the garage entrance and called to Irene, who was dealing tarot cards for a newcomer. Today’s hat bore butterflies. When Irene raised her head, Rachel jerked her thumb back toward the cubicle. “I’ll be back in an hour—two at most.”

Irene waved. “I hope it is fun, dear girl, not work.”

Rachel got her Civic, picked up Emma at the exit, and the woman expertly directed her to the restaurant without a single wrong turn.

Pedro’s Cantina was exactly what its name implied—a Mexican diner with a small bar that served Dos Equis and Corona beer in bottles, another brand on tap, and a dozen kinds of tequila.

The place was swarming with people, but as Rachel and Emma entered, an affable swarthy man caught sight of them and moved quickly through the throng wiping his hands on his apron. Pedro himself. He took Emma’s hand in both of his own. “Ah, Señora médica. Muy bien. Is good to see you again.”