Snapshot (12 page)

“I don't like it,” he said, staring down at glossy linoleum, cut and stained to imitate parquet. “I'd skip that one, if I were reading your paper.”

“It's human interest,” I said with a shrug. “You wouldn't want to help me out on it, would you?”

“How?”

“Well—just off the top of my head—I could start with a peek at the room where she died. Maybe do sort of a mood piece.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn't know where it was.”

“Probably a lousy idea anyway. My editor's more of an upbeat guy. Loves sports.”

“Do you know about our bike race?” Renzel asked eagerly.

“Huh?”

“Bike race. With research costs out of control, and with the government cutting back and insurance rates taking off, we have to rely on charity more and more. We have wonderful organizers here. Every year, there's a cross-country bike race, a balloon race, a carnival, a Las Vegas night. You name it.”

“Um,” I said. “That's really interesting.”

“If your editor's into sports, the bike race is a natural.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“You don't sound enthusiastic.”

“If it's biking, he'll assign one of his buddies to write it. I'll come up with the story idea, and somebody else will get the by-line and the paycheck.”

“Too bad.”

“Yeah,” I agreed wholeheartedly, as we passed another wing of unfinished rooms. “But, you know, I may have another idea.”

“What?”

“Well, tell me what you think of this,” I said, reaching back to Donovan's story about Emily Woodrow's early memory. “When I was really little, I had my tonsils out.”

“They hardly do that anymore,” he said. “I'm surprised they took yours out. It couldn't have been fashionable when you were a kid. You're way too young.”

He was right. I hadn't adjusted for the age difference between Emily and me. “Mine were infected,” I said hastily. “But the main thing I remember is a doctor putting something over my mouth, like a mask, and I guess I passed out after that.”

“Anesthesia.”

“I mean, there must be a lot of people with the same memory. Maybe I could sell my editor on an update, what they do in a modern place like this. I bet you don't just knock kids out like that anymore, right?”

“Anesthesia's not my area.”

“Is there somebody I could talk to? Somebody you'd recommend? I don't mean today. I'd go through regular channels, do it right, get in touch with PR.”

“You'd want to make an appointment to see Dr. Hazelton. Or even Dr. Peña.”

I scribbled their names in my notebook. “Why do you say ‘even' Dr. Peña?”

“Well, he's a new resident. He's here so many hours, he probably sleeps here. He wouldn't thank me for volunteering him for more work.”

“I'll try for Hazelton.”

“I'd do that. I'm not sure Peña is as up-to-date in his methods.”

“I thought you said he was new.”

“My understanding is he didn't exactly graduate at the top of his class.”

“A place like this, I'd think you could pick and choose.”

“We used to,” he said, lips pursed disapprovingly. “Tell me, do you do this, uh, reporter work, full-time?”

“No,” I said, deciding to turn him off the personal stuff once and for all. “The kids take up most of my time. The twins, especially.”

“You must be busy,” he said, edging back from the precipice. I pretended not to notice his discomfiture, but I was almost certain he'd been on the verge of asking me out.

He glanced abruptly at his watch. “I'm sorry. I have to get back to my office.” It was a definite kiss-off. Little doubt about it; he'd played escort because he needed a date for Saturday night.

I smiled politely. “Well, thank you. And I'll be sure to tell the ladies about the new construction at the next meeting.”

“Can I see you out?”

“I think I ought to stop by Dr. Muir's receptionist first. Make sure he's not going to be out of town November twenty-fifth.”

“You remember the floor?”

“Two.”

“I'm on four. If you decide you want to do a story on the pharmacy. Or if you need an escort for that Silver Crescent bash.”

Well, if twins and a two-inch height difference didn't discourage the man, what would?

“I'll keep it in mind,” I promised with a genuine smile. Maybe if he wore contact lenses …

Looks change, but great voices are great voices.

14

I thought I was in luck. The black woman, Savannah, was in sole possession of the counter. She recognized me and smiled.

“Still here?” she inquired.

“Would you know where I could find a guy named Peña? Anesthesiologist?”

Barbara, the dragon lady, came up behind me and cleared her throat to let me know she was in charge.

“Hi,” I managed pleasantly. “An anesthesiologist named Peña, would you know where I might find him?”

“Dr. Peña?” It was more a correction than a question.

“Doctor,” I agreed, perhaps with less than the proper reverence.

“I wouldn't know,” she said disapprovingly.

The young black woman piped up with, “I saw Pablo about ten minutes ago in the lounge on the fourth floor. Drinking coffee. Big dark-skinned guy, kind of vague-looking.”

“Thanks,” I said, regretting the dragon lady's untimely return. “Appreciate it.” I left without asking the black woman her last name. I figured she was in enough trouble, first-naming a doctor.

Pablo. Pablo Peña. On the whole, I thought his parents should have considered a different choice. On the other hand, they could have christened him Pedro, which would have been worse.

People like me, cursed with alliterative names, think about stuff like that in elevators. Sandra Everett had no such problem. I decided Everett was probably her married name. She was the kind who'd keep it for the kids' sake. I'd never taken my ex-husband's name, even though it would have moved me out of the alliterative ranks.

I roamed the fourth floor in search of something resembling a lounge. I couldn't wander far; JHHI was housed in a tall building, but not a large one. I strolled past another roped-off construction area with a sign that read:
PLEASE EXCUSE OUR APPEARANCE. A RENOVATED JHHI TO SERVE YOU BETTER!
The pharmacy seemed to take up more than a quarter of the floor space. I wondered at its location. More convenient on the ground level, I'd have thought. But then, old buildings rarely seem designed with human needs in mind. The pharmacy looked busy and efficient. One line of customers stood at a counter to hand in prescriptions and another waited by a register to pay. A stream of white- or green-clad individuals bypassed the civilian queues and went about their business behind the counters, in a warren of rows and shelves and refrigeration units.

Hank Renzel was nowhere in sight, but then I wouldn't expect the Chief of Pharmacy to hold down some front-desk clerical position or count out pills.

As long as I kept up a purposeful stride no one challenged my right to pass. I kept walking, not wishing to endanger my status by asking for directions.

I did a perimeter search, then picked a bisecting hallway.

Four small tables and a collection of vending machines behind a partially closed curtain made up the lounge. It was deserted except for a man who matched Savannah's description. His hospital greens were wrinkled and stained, and a surgical mask drooped below his chin. He rested his elbows on a table, his head in his hands.

“Dr. Peña?” He wasn't that dark. More the color of heavily creamed coffee.

He didn't lift his head. “What?”

“Dr. Muir said I'd find you here.” Since I was planning to lie anyway, I thought I might as well start by dropping a name that would carry weight.

“Muir? What's he want?” Peña muttered in hardly the awed tone I'd come to expect. He had no trace of an accent.

“He said you wouldn't mind speaking with me. I won't take much of your time.”

He finally glanced up at me and Sandy awarded him her very best smile. He reached to straighten a nonexistent tie. Pure reflex action.

“Time, I've got. Sit down.” He stared at his watch. “I'm on for another six.”

“Six hours?”

“Thirty down, six to go.”

“You want a cup of coffee?”

“Nah. I forget whether I'm tired or not after the first twenty-four. It's better that way.”

Sandy giggled. I let her. Me, I never giggle.

“What did Muir send you for? See if my health insurance is paid up?”

“He said you'd give me a good quote. I can see why. You're funny.”

“He said that?”

“Not exactly.”

“I'm surprised he knew I was on duty.”

“I got the impression he took a personal interest in the staff.”

“Look, he's great. I'm tired. Way past tired. It's just—”

“Just?”

“I mean, I heard so much about him. Before. I guess nobody could live up to press like that. Greatest doc in the world, you know, and all he does is worry about the building fund. What do you want to talk to me about?”

I handed over another of Sandy's phony business cards. I don't know why, but cards seem to inspire confidence. “I'm writing a story about a little girl who died here.”

“You're from a newspaper? And they let you in?”

“I'm a personal friend of Dr. Muir's,” I said. I sound much more convincing when I lie than when I tell the truth.

“Oops,” he said.

“Oh, I'd never repeat what you just said to Jerome. I mean, no one would trust me if I gossiped, would they?”

“Well, what do you wanna know? A lot of kids die.” His voice was flat and uninterested. His words about kids dying—well, he could have been talking about plants wilting or rain falling.

“The girl's name was Rebecca Woodrow. I'm doing a feature story about her last day.”

“She spent it here? Too bad. She should have gone to the beach.”

“It was January.”

“She should have stayed home, then.”

“You remember her?”

“You want coffee?”

“If you have a cup, I'll have one.”

He patted all his pockets and looked bewildered and vague, and I wound up buying the two plastic foam containers of brown liquid.

A uniform, even just hospital greens, makes it hard to get a fix on somebody. His watch was good, but not flashy. Probably something he needed for work, an accurate watch with a sweep second hand. He wore paper hospital slippers, so I couldn't use his shoes to figure his financial worth or fashion flair. He was a big guy, even sitting down. Maybe six-two or six-three. Twenty pounds overweight. He had a habit of licking his lips.

“You remember Rebecca Woodrow?” I asked when I'd sipped enough coffee to regret buying it.

“It's a big place.”

“How big?”

“Two hundred and twelve beds.”

“That's not huge.”

“I put 'em to sleep and wake 'em up.”

“This one didn't wake up.”

“I don't remember names.”

“A six-year-old girl. In for chemotherapy.”

“You're talking to the wrong person. I don't supervise chemo. Nurses handle that.” His eyes were almost closed, his speech faintly slurred, as if he couldn't make the effort to be more precise.

“Have you slept lately?”

“Twenty minutes here, half an hour there. I'm fine, really.”

“You don't look fine.”

“Muir send you to check up on me?”

“No.”

“I got less than a year to go and then I'm out in practice.”

“You're not a real doctor yet?”

“Of course I'm real. I'm just not paid like I'm real yet, okay?”

“I thought this wasn't a teaching hospital.”

“It's private, but even private places take in a few residents. They need to. Time I'm putting in, I'm probably earning a buck an hour. System's built on slave labor.”

I drank bad coffee and let him talk.

“Guys collecting the fees and the guys putting in the hours, they're two different sets of people,” he complained.

“Paying your dues,” I suggested.

“Yeah, and when I'm out of here, you think I'll be able to cash in the chips? Hell, it'll be National Health by then. These old guys, they did a number. Milked the system so bad, the rest of us are gonna pay. If I'd done an MBA, a lousy MBA, I'd be rolling by now. Kids five years younger than me got houses and two BMWs, and I'm working my butt off.”

“You're a specialist. Aren't specialists well paid?”

“Oh, yeah, and now the government's coming in to tell me what to do, how to treat a patient, how long a patient can stay in the goddamn hospital, and setting my fee wherever some clerk outa high school thinks it ought to be. It's the damn DRGs.”

“DRGs. Is that, like, drugs?”

“DRGs. Diagnostic-related groupings. Fitting a patient into a diagnosis, and getting paid based on which grouping you plug them into, like all people only have one thing wrong with them at a time.”

He still hadn't made much eye contact, but his voice wasn't a monotone any longer. “Bunch of legislative lawyers,” he went on. “They hate doctors. Screwing the whole system and it's just gonna get worse. Bureaucrats'll take the money, and the patients'll end up worse off than ever. It's not doctors, it's technology. It's tests. It's machines. Own the machines and the technology, you've got it made. Me, if I don't invest, I'm gonna be a wage slave working for some bureaucrat doesn't even respect what I do.”

“That bad?” I murmured sympathetically.

“And it's not like there's no money. You see the construction, like we've got to have a new wing and a new garage and a new lab and a helipad on the roof, the whole nine yards. You writing this down? I thought you were a journalist.”