Dead Wrong (37 page)

M
CCARTHY AND SARAH took the covered walkway into the east wing, through the lobby, and back to the office where the same clerk sat. He opened the door for Sarah and called out, “Hi.”

Donna looked up at Sarah, then him. “Back again, eh?”

Problem was, he didn’t have a release for anything other than Bobbie’s records, which he forged. Would the clerk nail him on that? Flashing his most charming smile, McCarthy leaned against the counter, said, “I bet you’re Canadian.”

Donna beamed. “Vancouver. How’d you know?”

“Great city. Love to visit it. Best dim sum on the West Coast.”

Her grin broadened. “Hot dog! The Silver Dragon, that’s my favorite. What’s yours?”

“House of Hong.”

She leaned back in the chair, arms folded, asked, “What can I do for you, Doc?”

“By the way, I don’t believe I introduced Doctor Hamilton last time,” Tom said, hoping that the presence of two physicians might sway her.

Sarah smiled brightly at the medical librarian. “Good morning.”

Tom said, “I was so caught off guard when my patient’s records weren’t here that I forgot to ask for another bit of information. We need to identify the parents of a baby delivered on or about April twelfth two years ago. Male, first name Jordan. It’s crucial.”

Donna pursed her lips into a tight little O, eyes boring into him. “I can try. Assuming you have the appropriate paperwork. Do you?”

“No, but it has everything to do with the patient I just gave you the consent for. So, we assume the consent’s still valid.” Bullshit of course, but the only story he could invent impromptu.

She frowned. “Sorry, Doc. You, of all people, should know the rules. That consent’s for the release of records attached to a specific Social Security number. What you’re asking for now are records on a newborn, a completely different person. Can’t do it.”

Jesus, why had he even tried? Medical record librarians were worse than IRS agents for cutting you slack.

It was time to plead. “Look, I understand the need for privacy, but this is critical. Here’s the situation …” Without citing names, he explained Bobbie’s condition and the need to discover anything they could about the origin of her memories.

The clerk shook her head woefully. “See, Doc, much as I’d like to help that poor gal, I can’t. You know the rules.” With thick arms defiantly folded across her chest she settled back in the chair, clearly in no frame of mind for further negotiation.

Yeah, he’d cover his ass too, if in her place. For all she knew, this could be a sting operation.

“Is there an administrator I can talk to? Would an administrative consent get you off the hook?”

“You can try, but,” with a noncommittal hike of a shoulder, “it’s not going to do you any of good. Good intentions aren’t sufficient reason to break the law.”

Well, shit, time to become resourceful. He smiled, nodded. “Know what, you’re absolutely right. I’ll just have to think of another way to solve this poor woman’s problems.” With his best no-hard-feelings smile and a two-finger salute, he thanked her and led Sarah back into the hall.

With the door shut behind them, Sarah poked his chest. “You’re scheming, Dr. McCarthy. Your eyes are a dead give-away.”

He put his hand on her arm, guiding her back toward the dismal lobby. “My, my, my, Dr. Hamilton, how could you suggest such a thing?”

He led her to a large a floor-by-floor map of the hospital. Silently he studied it a moment, then with a grunt, headed to the parking garage.

She kept abreast of him this time, matching him stride for stride. “Do you plan on letting me in on your scheme any time in the foreseeable future or am I expected to follow you around forever like a puppy dog? Because if—”

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said, grinning at her. “We need to lure Donna away from her office for about fifteen minutes or so. Think you can do that for me?”

With a bemused smile, she considered it. “Why, so you can break in there?” They exited the glass door into a covered walkway to the garage.

He shrugged. “Walk in, not break in. Why, you have a better idea?” Being a rhetorical question, he didn’t wait for an answer. “Your part is to call the hospital operator and ask to be connected to the newborn nursery. When I checked the map, that place looks about as far from medical records as you can go and still be in the hospital. When the nursery answers, tell them you were connected to there by mistake and that you really wanted extension 278. Which is obviously Donna’s. You with me so far?” They entered the garage.

Eyes twinkling, she nodded. “Easy. But why the transfer? Why not just call and pretend to be the nursery?”

“Because Donna’s too smart for this to work any other way. You call her directly from outside the hospital and she happens to look at the caller ID she’ll know the call’s a fake.”

Sarah jabbed his ribs. “You’re a sneaky one, McCarthy.”

“Once you have Donna on the line, tell her you have some paperwork on a discharge that was held over from yesterday. Tell her it needs to be coded and forwarded to billing today. Ask her to come pick it up.”

“Ah, I get it.” Sarah nodded appreciatively.

M
CCARTHY BROWSED A shelf of stuffed animals and a rack of get-well cards in the lobby gift shop while keeping an eye on the main hallway. So far, no one was paying any attention to him, which was encouraging considering yesterday’s news splash. Maybe being this brazen instead of skulking around made the difference between being noticed or not. Or maybe it was the disguise. Whatever, he didn’t plan to push his luck further than necessary to get into Donna’s office, discover what he could about a baby born on the date Bobbie claimed, then move on to the next step of his plan.

Assuming Donna fell for the story, the most direct route from medical records to the nursery should take her straight across the lobby to the elevators. Unless, of course, she chose to climb two flights of stairs. Which he seriously doubted.

Ten minutes passed. No Donna.

Did she peg Sarah’s call for a ruse? Was it that obvious?

Back the lobby he glanced down the hall at medical records but from where he stood he couldn’t see inside the room, which made him nervous. Move closer for a better look? No, too risky. With his luck, Donna would walk out and see him. Instead, he admired the photos of the hospital board. And waited.

Still no Donna.

Go back to the car and see if something with Sarah caused the delay? He decided not to because the moment he left the lobby would be when Donna would leave for the nursery. He had to wait here.

Two more minutes dragged past.

He was just about convinced the trick hadn’t worked when he saw the door to medical records open. He busied himself with peering through the gift shop window as he heard the slap of Birkenstocks grow louder, then recede. He looked up to see her lumbering along the hall toward the elevators and checked his watch, thinking
ten minutes tops
. That’s all he could safely allow. If she wised up and hurried back she could probably make it in five. But she struck him as a talker. Couple that with being alone in the office today and chances were she’d spend a few extra minutes chatting up anyone she could along the way.

An elevator pinged and the door rattled open. Soon as the doors closed he was out of the gift shop, moving down the hall.

McCarthy tried the doorknob but it was locked.
Shit
. He checked the time and licked his lips. Seconds were flying past. Now what?

Three months ago when his office had been burglarized, the head of security observed that the lock on his front door was so poor it could be opened with a credit card and suggested they have a new deadbolt installed. He’d heard the credit card trick before but never actually tried it. At the moment he had nothing better to offer, so why not?

He worked his Visa card into the crack, slid it down to the deadbolt, and pushed. Nothing budged. He wiggled it into a different angle but there was no way in hell he could see how this might work.

Someone boomed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

McCarthy spun around. A beefy security officer stood, feet spread, hands on his wide leather belt, drilling him a serious dose of cop eye.

B
ERTRAM WYSE DROVE along the winding street, checking house numbers in a middle-class suburban housing development of buried power lines, inflatable wading pools, and for sale signs. The neighborhood had a pretentious name, The Parkside, but Wyse hadn’t seen a park within miles. Just a maze of cutesy, vomit-inducing street names, like Hawthorn Hedge Lane, and an SUV or Ford-150 in four out of five driveways.

Aw, there it was! A one-story house, what some people at one time called a rambler. He drove around the block. If you could call it a block. Fucking street wound around like a cobra. But he eventually found his way back to the right street and parked three lots down from the Young’s. He picked his cell off the passenger seat, thumbed in the number scrawled on the Jack in the Box bag, and waited for someone to answer.

“Hello, Mr. Young?”

“Yes?”

“Dr. Bertram Wyse calling. Remember me? I took care of Nora while she was at Lakeview?” He believed turning a statement into a question made it sound benign, establishing an innocent tone that would grease the skids for gathering information.

“Yes, I remember.”

Young’s voice carried a hint of suspicion, making Wyse uneasy. Why should he be suspicious of the person whose saved his beloved spouse’s life? Ungracious prick!

“How’s Nora doing?” Not that he gave a shit.

“About the same as last time you saw her.”

Hmm, the question was meant to be friendly, but since he had no idea whether the answer was good or bad, he changed subjects. “Have you been watching the news by any chance?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve surely heard what happened at yesterday when that whacko doctor went postal and shot all those innocent people in cold blood?”

“Yes.” Young still sounded suspicious, damnit.

“The man doing the shooting, Tom McCarthy, is a doctor. He hasn’t contacted you by any chance, has he?”

“No. Why should he?” Young’s suspicion was now tinged with concern.

Good. The conversation just veered in the direction and tone he intended. “You see, that’s the thing, I don’t know. The police contacted me and said they have evidence that Mc-Carthy had been digging around into the affairs of several of my patients. I have no idea why he’d do such a thing, but out of concern for my patients’ confidentiality, I’ve been calling them to see if I might learn something to help the authorities find him. I don’t want to compromise patient confidentiality by releasing their names to the police. You follow?”

“Well, I can’t help you there.”

Wyse scowled at the phone.
Well, fuck you too, chump
. In his professional voice, he said, “Thank you. Sorry to interrupt your morning. If he does call or contact you, please let me know right away. Will you do that, please?”

Wyse dropped the phone on the seat. Might as well hang out here in Nora Young’s neighborhood on the off chance that McCarthy did show up. He had nothing else to do. He couldn’t pace his office all fucking weekend while incompetent Sikes ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. Besides, going home meant putting up with Samantha. He checked his watch and decided to give it a couple hours. If McCarthy didn’t show by then. Well, then he’d figure out another place to look.

P
ALM PRESSED FLAT against his chest, McCarthy sucked a deep breath and fought to keep both knees from buckling as he looked straight into the security guard’s eyes and said, “Whoa! You just about gave me a coronary. Jesus, you guys always try to scare people to death?”
Holy shit, does he recognize me?

The officer—a skinny Asian with a buzz cut and horn-rimmed glasses—was definitely sizing him up. “If we see someone attempting to break into a locked office, we do.” He nodded at the credit card in McCarthy’s hand. “Want to tell me what you think you’re doing with that?”

Tom’s face reddened, his mind running through a list of excuses that might sound halfway credible. He stalled for two more seconds by sucking another deep breath and slipping the credit card back into the open wallet. “Glad you came by, officer. I’m Doctor Rush.” He flashed the false ID in hope of convincing the officer he wasn’t Tom McCarthy. “I need to get into medical records. It seems that Donna—you know, the one in charge here—is out.” Perhaps a casual name drop might bolster his credibility. Impatiently he checked his watch. “She’s probably on a coffee break. The thing is, I have important dictation to finish. If it’s not done by noon they’ll revoke my admitting privileges. Unfortunately, I only have an hour or so, this morning. Any way you might help me get in that room?”

Oh man, Donna comes back now, I’m totally hosed
.