Snapshot (32 page)

“May I go now?” she asked.

“Certainly,” Donovan said.

The door hissed shut and we swung into action.

Moving an unconscious person is tricky. I'd hefted my share of drunks when I was a cop. Protesters who recommend passive resistance know what they're talking about.

“You should have ordered the nurse to jack her into the chair,” I said. “They know how it's done.”

“She made me nervous,” Donovan responded. “I thought her nose was going to twitch.”

“Forget the robe,” I told him. “Let's just get her in the chair. She won't freeze to death.”

“Protocol,” he insisted. “We'll be stopped.”

“Not if we don't get going,” I snapped. “Take her legs, and for Chrisake, make sure the brakes are set on that thing.”

“Make sure the IV unit's ready to roll,” he said.

We were starting to shift her when the door opened. Our rabbity nurse had been joined by another, obviously her superior.

The more forbidding of the two said, “I've paged Dr. Muir. There is nothing in the written orders for this patient concerning Radiology.”

I smiled at her winningly. “He must have hated getting such an early wake-up call.”

“Hardly,” she said. “He's right here at the hospital.”

Great.

“When was the last time the patient was medicated?” Donovan asked.

“I gave her the regular meds when I came on at eleven,” the little rabbit responded.

“What's your name?” The nursing supervisor stood toe to toe with Donovan.

“Woodrow,” I said while he hesitated. “When Dr. Muir shows up, tell him Mrs. Woodrow's gone home.”

“Home?”

“Home. And the name is Woodrow. Get it right.”

“I thought you said Radiology.” The older nurse turned on the younger accusingly.

“He did. He did,” she said, wringing her hands, almost clasping them in prayer.

“Call security,” the supervisor said.

“Um, can I see your badge?” our rabbity nurse asked Donovan, obviously more afraid of offending a doctor than a nurse. “Please?”

“I'll call them myself.” The older nurse's footsteps thundered down the corridor. I quickly traded my clipboard for the chart Donovan had replaced at the foot of Emily's bed.

“Wake up,” I said to her loudly, to no avail. We propped her with pillows, got a good hold and moved her to the wheelchair. She slumped forward and started to fall out. The young nurse gazed at us openmouthed.

I swore and jammed my body up against Emily's. They ought to make the things with shoulderbelts.

“Nurse!” Donovan ordered. “Give us a hand here.”

She couldn't seem to help obeying. Must be the tone, I thought. The impersonalized “Nurse!”

Emily grunted and snored.

He entered the room quietly, a graying shadow of his portrait, his speckled bow tie askew, his mane of white hair tousled. Perhaps he had been sleeping. One corner of his mouth drooped.

He forced a ghastly smile and tried to seize control of the situation by sheer force of personality; he must have been able to do that easily in his prime.

“Oh, it's you, Keith,” he said. “You've got the whole floor in a muddle. Ruth must have misunderstood. Radiology, my eye. Please explain yourself. What's this foolishness about taking a patient home?”

“Explain yourself,” I returned sharply.

He eyed my mismatched uniform with distaste. “Who are you? Do you work here?”

“Does this patient suffer from Alzheimer's disease?” I demanded. “Does she have cancer? Leukemia?”

He peered closely at the woman in the wheelchair. Raised a hand to his forehead, dropped it, and wiped it across his mouth. “How dare you?” he said to Donovan, lowering his voice in fury. “This is outrageous. Where is her chart?”

“We know who she is,” I said. “Dr. Donovan, can you identify this woman as your patient, Emily Woodrow?”

Donovan said, “I can and I do.”

“You interfering bastard,” Muir rumbled.

At the same time, Donovan said, “Dr. Muir, are you okay?”

“Mrs. Woodrow's leaving,” I announced. “Now.”

“Security,” Muir said softly. He didn't call out to them; they were there. Two guards had silently materialized, one grizzled and stooped with age, one quite young.

“Take me as far as a phone,” I told them. “You can even dial it for me: nine one one.”

The guards seemed puzzled. I gave the wheelchair a push. It went nowhere. I released the brake. Donovan stood frozen.

Muir was blocking the way. His skin looked waxy in the overhead fluorescents. He said softly, “Give me her chart. You can't take a chart out of the hospital—”

I said, “Out of the way.”

He rested a hand at his throat, breathed in and out audibly. “You may mean well,” he said. “Please, just leave. I don't want trouble. Dr. Donovan, I'll speak with you later. I don't blame you for any of this.”

“We're not going without Emily,” I said.

Muir's face looked grayer by the minute.

“Out of the way,” I repeated. “Or tell your guards to shoot. They're armed, aren't they?”

The younger one bobbed his head quickly, patted his holster as if he needed reassurance.

“Great,” I said. “And then, after they shoot us, Doctor, you can try to save our lives.
Doctor,”
I repeated scathingly. “Look what you've done to her.”

If he'd brought the full authority of his presence to bear, the guards would have stopped us. Maybe not shot us, but stopped us. Muir stared at Emily, wiped his hand across his mouth again. He made his way to the edge of the rumpled hospital bed and sank onto it slowly, like an old man.

I wheeled Emily out the door.

The guards looked to Muir for instruction. The younger one said eagerly, “Should we stop them?”

“It doesn't matter,” I heard Muir whisper.

I took off, walking with increasing speed. Down the corridor, past the nurses' station. I could feel eyes boring into my back. Donovan walked stony-faced at my side, a steadying hand on Emily's shoulder. The elevator took about two hours to make the ascent from the first floor.

No one stopped us as we pushed the wheelchair out of the ER. The automatic doors whooshed behind us and I took a deep breath.

“Where?” I said.

“The Brigham ER's closest,” said Donovan. “I don't know how to get her down from these kinds of dosages without risking an MI and God knows what else.”

“See,” I said. “You know the lingo.”

“You were good in there,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You didn't shoot anybody,” he said.

The Brigham's emergency room was jammed. While I was still reeling from the number of awkwardly bandaged arms and legs, the welter of wheelchairs and crutches, the incoherent cries of pain, Donovan collared a nurse, identified himself, and informed her that his patient had complained of chest pain just before collapsing.

In less than five minutes, Emily had moved to the head of the queue. In ten, she was in possession of a bed and full monitoring equipment.

41

I called Mooney from a pay phone. He answered immediately, and the more I talked, the angrier he sounded. He made the trip from Berkeley Street to Brigham and Women's in record time. He brought along two uniformed men.

“Look, I phoned,” I said, as soon as I saw the tilt of his eyebrows. “We missed each other about a million times, but I did phone.”

“I'm the only one in the department? Nobody else?”

“Mooney,” I said, “this may surprise you, but I don't have great faith in the department. Especially when there might be political strings attached.”

“Political?”

“There's money and power in hospitals. Politics can't be far behind.”

Mooney's eyebrows lowered, and I took advantage of the lull to introduce him to Keith Donovan.

“She really sick?” Mooney said skeptically, as soon as I mentioned the word
psychiatrist
.

“Not only is Emily Woodrow really sick, Mooney,” I said, “she didn't kill anybody, so we wouldn't have to pretend she was sick if she wasn't. I
want
you to talk to her.”

“You couldn't have waited until I was available before you went stealing her out of Helping Hand?”

“Stay in your office.”

“Soon as people quit knifing each other, I'll be delighted.” Back from a ruckus in the South End, he was less than cheerful. “I'm not the only cop in town.”

“The only one I trust, Mooney. You want to put me in jail for that?”

“Has her husband been notified?”

I said, “I didn't call him.”

“Nice,” Mooney said. “I guess you leave us a few scraps.”

“C'mon, Moon.”

He made a face. “The way I understand it,” he said, “you've got some pictures, you've got two bits of shiny stuff, and you've got an unmailed letter.”

“Right. And we've got Emily Woodrow.”

“Who might not remember anything,” Donovan added.

“That's it?” Mooney asked.

“Yeah,” I said defensively. “That ought to be enough.”

Mooney said, “Give me details. The pictures are of some kind of machinery—”

“It's a bottling plant,” I said, “an assembly-line kind of thing.”

“Wait—and you think it's at six thirty-two Longwood Avenue?”

“Soon as you get a warrant, we'll know,” I said.

“I need probable cause for a warrant.”

“Find out who owns the place. I'll give you ten to one it's JHHI. Check the ground near the rear door. It's covered with rust—again ten to one it matches the stains on Tina Sukhia's dress. There's some kind of chemical smell. Brand-new locks on the back door. A tiny sign that says ‘Deliveries for Cee Co.' Cee Co.'s got to be a knock-off of Cephagen Company—the cut-rate division.”

I remembered what Tony Foley had told me. That Tina Sukhia had laughed when she'd told him her money came from Cee Co. Muir must have had fun selecting the name.

“Jerome Muir is a respected and powerful man,” Mooney said. “Even with all that—”

“Jesus, Mooney,” I exploded, “don't you know a judge who owes you a favor?”

“I know a lot of people who owe me a favor,” he said pointedly.

“Donovan,” I said. “Tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Donovan and Mooney had disliked each other on sight. Mooney hates psychiatrists. As for Donovan, I guess he was only fascinated with women who felt comfortable with violence, not men.

“What you told me,” I urged. “About how much it costs to manufacture and market a drug like Cephamycin.”

“It costs plenty,” Donovan said shortly.

It seemed like I was in this on my own.

“I'm worried about Dr. Muir,” Donovan continued. “He must be ill. You can see that, just looking at him. Did you notice the left side of his mouth?”

I kept a close watch on the door to Emily's room. It stayed ominously shut.

Donovan said, “We have to be missing something. It doesn't make psychological sense.”

“Psychological sense,” Mooney echoed. “What's that called? An oxy-something? Oxymoron? Psychology doesn't make sense most of the time, Doctor.”

“Donovan,” I said. “You
saw
Muir. You saw his face when he realized we recognized Emily.”

“I saw him,” Donovan agreed, “but I can't comprehend it. It's like—like learning my father was a thief, or a casual adulterer—someone who betrayed my trust over and over again, in terrible ways. I know it can happen. I've heard it from patients. But I know the man.”

“Yeah,” Mooney said, “but what do you know about his lousy childhood?”

“I know the man,”
Donovan repeated.

“You called him a genius,” I said quietly. “He could have fooled you.”

“But this sort of thing, this basic lack of caring …”

“Mooney,” I demanded as Donovan's voice trailed off into anxious silence. “Did you find out why the president of the Cephagen Company was up here? Who he was meeting with?”

“You could have paid back a lot of favors by making that connection for me, Carlotta.”

“We can argue that later, Moon. Did you find out?”

“The meeting was supposed to be with Muir, but Muir says he had no idea of the agenda. Never spoke to Menander directly. Hang on, okay?”

He spent two minutes conferring with his uniforms, gesturing and talking full speed. In another two minutes, he'd have a team scouring city records, searching for paper concerning JHHI, 632 Longwood Avenue, Cephagen, and Cee Company.

Maybe they'd run into Roz.

“You need to get in touch with somebody at the World Health Organization,” I reminded him when he turned his attention back to me. “About Tina's letter.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mooney said, raising an eyebrow. “Switzerland.”

“Berne.”

“Narrows it down.”

A doctor hurried out of Emily's room. Mooney clapped a hand on his shoulder, blocked his way.

“How is she?”

“Hard to say at this point. She's unconscious.”

“When can I see her?” Mooney demanded.

“She's not going anywhere,” the doctor said. “What's so urgent?”

“Tell me when I can speak to her.”

“You can see her when she wakes up. Now, ask me when she'll wake up, and I'll say I don't know, okay? It could be five minutes; it could be five hours. She's not a hunk of machinery, officer.”

I got between them. “Is she going to wake up?” I asked quietly.

His voice softened. “Are you family, miss?”

“No,” I said.

He stiffened up again. “If's she's not responding in twelve hours, we'll try a stimulant. She's not in a coma. That's our major concern, making sure she doesn't slip into one. It would be better if she woke up on her own.” With that, the doctor broke away and strode down the hall.