Fatal Reaction (8 page)

CHAPTER 16

The snow crunched under the tires of Dorian’s Land Rover, the color of which—Baltic Blue it was called—appeared black except in sunlight. He pulled into the empty driveway of his Oakland Street office, exhausted, achy, and annoyed that his overpriced plow service hadn’t yet done its job.

Twelve hours of surgery, the news about Sydney’s death, and avoiding the repercussions of Stephanie Martin’s complications had him run ragged. He’d had too many close calls, evading both Riley, Stephanie’s husband, and Mitchell Altman, who was, no doubt, more concerned about potential legal action than Stephanie’s well-being.

Dorian unlocked the side door and went up the back stairs that divided the examination and waiting rooms from the staff offices. The stale air smelled of heat and construction dust, the aged ventilation in desperate need of cleaning now that the remodeling was finished. Dorian opened the window an inch to let in the cold breeze. His office had been straightened. The charts he needed to review were stacked neatly in the center of his desk. On top of them, a copy of the next day’s schedule was marked with red ink. He picked up the paper, rolled his eyes, and grunted. His first hour had been blocked, his patients rescheduled, and Noreen had written
Meeting with Mitchell
in their place. He collapsed in his chair and buried his face in his hands.

“Everything okay?”

He nearly shot out of his chair at the sound of Noreen’s voice. “Jesus, Noreen. Announce yourself or something, would you?”

Fresh snowflakes clung to her wispy bangs, and she wore a loose, baby doll dress instead of the scrubs he’d seen her in earlier.

“Aren’t you freezing?”

“I’m comfortable enough.” She lifted her arm to show him the wool trench coat draped over it. “I was on my way home and saw your car parked out back. I figured I’d better make amends. I’m sorry I lost my temper earlier. It was unprofessional, and it won’t happen again.” She hung her coat on the empty chair across from him and leaned forward, giving him a look down the wide neck of her dress. Her nipples were visibly erect beneath the black lace, demi-cup bra.

“Noreen, I really have to get these charts done. I’m exhausted.”

She smiled when he stared longer than he should have.

“Let’s see if I can help with that.” She stood behind him, kneading the tension from his shoulders.

The massaging felt so good that Dorian lowered his head and closed his eyes.

“You’re really knotted up. What happened today?”

“Where to start?” he whispered, the question punctuated with a soft moan.

“How about with Stephanie Martin?”

The mention of her name drew Dorian immediately back. He pushed Noreen’s hands away and opened one of the charts on his desk. “Did you get her the private ICU room I asked for?”

“I did.”

“Then you know what happened.”

“I know you had to reverse the transplant. What went wrong?”

“Clotting. She would’ve died if I waited. First surgery is an official failure.”

Noreen reached across his lap and pulled open his top desk drawer, brushing his groin with her hand. “Maybe this will make you feel better?” She handed him an envelope with the flap tucked inside. “I delivered Mitchell his, too.”

Dorian examined the watermarked bank check in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars.

“Derrick had it couriered over first thing this morning.”

“Think this’ll help with tomorrow’s meeting?” Money always eased things with Mitchell.

Noreen shrugged. “Can’t hurt, right? I talked to the nursing staff in the ICU, and they understand that Emily Warren never transfers to the surgical floor. I don’t see any reason to risk the Martins and Warrens crossing paths, especially not while we’re keeping the news about Stephanie quiet.”

“That’s all I need, Riley talking to Derrick. The guy’s nervous enough as it is.”

Noreen set her hand back on Dorian’s shoulder. “Riley Martin is upset, but there were no guarantees. We have every legal waiver and consent, signed, in Stephanie’s chart.”

“That’s not the problem, and you know it.”

“We’re covered, Dorian. Relax. There’s no paper trail, nothing to tie Stephanie Martin to Sydney Dowling. You took care of your end, right?”

Dorian nodded, starting to see the light at the other end of this.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.” Noreen pushed his chair back from the desk and stood in front of him. “You need to let this go,” she said, putting his hands on her hips.

Dorian buried his face in the thin fabric covering her stomach and closed his eyes. The delicate smell of lavender radiated off her skin, seducing him and bringing him closer to the ever-shrinking line between them. His hands smoothed over the gentle slope of her toned buttocks, and he lifted the hem of her minidress.

“I can’t do this,” he said, without pulling away.

“Yes, you can.” Noreen pressed her parted lips to his, opening her mouth slightly and touching the tip of her tongue to his.

“Stop. We can’t.” This time, he moved back. Sex with Noreen, which he had so far avoided, spelled eventual disaster.

“You know I can keep a secret,” she said, as though issuing a reminder.

With as much as Noreen knew about him, he had to tread lightly. “It’s not that. It’s not you.”

Noreen rolled her tear-filled eyes. “It’s not you; it’s me,” she mocked. “That’s just great. You can sleep with half of Marion, but I shouldn’t take it personally that you find me repulsive.”

“Don’t say that. You’re beautiful, Noreen, and brilliant.” He reached for her hand. “I
am
attracted to you,
very attracted
,
but I can’t give you what you want.”

“And what, exactly, do you think that is? I’m not looking for a marriage proposal. I just thought we could have some fun is all.”

Suddenly, sleeping with her seemed the easier option.

“You deserve more than that,” Dorian said in a tone as sincere as he could muster. “You’re too important to me to be a one-night stand.”

The hard lines of anger melted from her face, and her lips curled slightly upward. “You mean it?”

“Sure do,” he said, to which she smiled.

He’d won her over. He just didn’t know for how long.

CHAPTER 17

Dr. Clara Lynch, a pathologist from Saint Matthew’s Hospital who worked per diem for County since before Marco was hired, had filled the brief gap of his three-day suspension. Clara was a stellar clinician, but controlling and pigheaded enough to believe that hers was the better way. Most people wouldn’t move so much as another person’s pen, especially not for a few days’ work. Clara wasn’t most people.

Marco couldn’t find even a pack of slides without a scavenger hunt, and he wondered how she moved so much so quickly. He looked up at the clock, impatient for his last delivery.

Brenna Wiese, his lab assistant, put the day’s pathology reports in envelopes for mailing. She hummed out of tune, listening to music through a pair of skull and crossbones earbuds.

The noise annoyed Marco, but history taught him little would come from his complaining. Brenna was smart, conscientious, and premed, on course to be a forensic pathologist. Mitchell had seen to it that she was hired as a favor to her father, one of his country club cronies, and he’d reminded Marco more than once that Brenna’s appearance didn’t matter in a lab.

Brenna pulled her dyed black hair back into a rubber band, exposing a set of gauges so large that a highlighter could pass through her thin earlobes. Her nails, also painted black, had been chewed back to the skin, and she was spinning something around in her mouth that Marco was afraid was a piece of fingernail.

He waved to get her attention.

The usual thick tension of two diametric opposites working in close quarters was made worse by his brief absence.

“Brenna.” Marco slapped his hand against the counter, and she jumped.

“I’m sorry, what?” She took the bud out of her right ear.

“Do we have the final schedule?”

Brenna looked around the desk and shook her head. “I didn’t get an update this afternoon. I’ll call over and have one sent.”

She picked up the phone and was about to dial, when a young man, early twenties, with long hair spilling out from underneath a surgical cap, rushed through the door, pushing a specimen cart.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s crazy back there.” The man slapped a piece of paper in front of Brenna and haphazardly unloaded his haul.

Marco watched as the young man, whose tattoos peeked from the edge of his scrubs shirt, tried to get Brenna’s attention. A disaster, on several levels, unfolded. The disorganized new hire was at least partly to blame for the schedule getting so far off track.

“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Dr. Marco Prusak.” Marco’s extended hand met one slick and clammy.

“Matt Hogan,” the young man said, keeping his eyes on Brenna.

“First day on the job?” Marco lifted a specimen container of intestine and searched, unsuccessfully, for a patient label.

“Second.” Matt peeled the half-stuck label off another specimen jar and affixed it to the side of the container still in Marco’s hands. “These things stick to everything.”

Marco raised his eyebrows.

“Look, it’s right.” Matt pointed at the list in front of Brenna. “Hemicolectomy, patient 224789. It’s the only intestine on the schedule.”

Brenna smiled.

“I’ll see you later.” Matt patted Brenna’s desk before leaving.

“Can’t wait.” Marco straightened the label, still not completely stuck to the plastic. “Brenna, we’re going to have to match the specimens to the list to make sure we have everything.”

“I can do it. It’ll only take a minute.” Brenna grabbed a red, felt-tip marker and set to reconciling the list. “We
are
missing one, the add-on case, Stephanie Martin.”

The name registered immediately.

“Let me see that.” Marco snatched the schedule from her hand, unable to believe what he was reading.

Dorian’s transplant had failed
.

Brenna picked up the phone to call for the missing specimen.

Marco stopped her. “Don’t call. I’ll go.”

Brenna wrinkled her forehead as she hung up the handset. “Ohhh-kay.”

“What operating room was the surgery done in?”

Brenna called up the schedule on her computer. “OR three, which is up next for cleaning.”

“Thanks,” Marco said, and hurried out the door.

CHAPTER 18

Ana arrived at the Parker and Sons Funeral Home, suited in head-to-toe black, a half hour before viewing hours were scheduled to start. Her feet ached from the high heels she only ever wore to funerals, and she had a dull headache from the tightly wound bun of hair tugging at her temples.

John Parker, the youngest, possibly strangest of the Parker sons, with whom she went to high school, met her at the door, wearing an ill-fitting, navy blue suit and a silver-gray, clip-on tie. His pale skin glowed white in the harsh, natural light flooding in through the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows. Other than his thinning brown hair, John hadn’t changed a bit from the shy outcast others had made fun of.

Ana’s stomach flip-flopped as he offered her his arm and led her down the long aisle toward Sydney’s coffin.

The heavy smells of white lilies and embalming fluid reminded her of her parents’ funeral held in this exact room. Nothing had changed, not even the carpet, and she was unprepared to be the little girl standing coffin-side, tracing the lace edge of her mother’s pink blouse, only this time with her sister.

She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her fitted suit jacket and wiped her running nose as Sydney came into view.

John slid the kneeling bench in front of the mahogany coffin.

The white satin liner sharply contrasted with Sydney’s black dress and blended with her fair skin. Her hands had been folded, and unlike the knotted, wrinkled hands Ana recalled from funerals past, celebrations of long lives well lived and lost only to old age, Sydney’s were young hands, beautifully positioned to hold the ornate rosary beads that had been their mother’s. Her nails had been painted a cotton-candy pink to match the gloss on her lips. Her long hair had been washed and styled in a way that covered the heavy autopsy stitching, and a cascade of curls framed her expressionless face.

A flood of memories nearly made Ana collapse.

John caught her just as her knees started to buckle, and he ushered her to a seat in the front row.

“Are you all right?” he said. “Should I get you a glass of water?”

Ana crumbled, crying so hard she couldn’t answer.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her and pulled her close. A low shushing accompanied the patting of her back and the familiar, musky smell of Mike’s cologne. She leaned into him, and he rocked her, not speaking or offering condolences, but letting her grieve, in the same way she could tell from the hitch in his breath, that he was grieving.

Minutes passed before Ana felt cried out, the dry, momentary spent feeling easily mistaken for mustered strength. She pulled back from Mike’s firm hold and held his hand.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I can’t be alone.”

“You’re not alone.” He said it in a way that made her almost believe him. “You just have to get through the next couple of hours.”

The clock struck eight, and the first wave of visitors arrived. Ana wondered if she had the strength in her to face them.

A row of police officers and investigators, some still in uniform, made their way up the aisle.

Coop offered Ana a warm smile and bent down to hug her. Always the lightest spirit in the room, Coop emanated goodness. “If there’s anything you need, Ana, I’m here.”

Ronald Graham, Julian Blake, and Elsa Russell formed an impenetrable barrier that backed the growing line of mourners down the aisle and into the overcrowded waiting area. Each extended their sincerest condolences, and the words “I’m sorry for your loss” opened Ana up a little more each time she heard them.

Ron straightened his uniform shirt, taut over his round belly, and offered Elsa his arm. The two walked silently forward. Elsa never looked directly into the coffin and pulled Ron away after little more than a moment of silence.

Ana excused herself, focusing her attention on anything that would give her a reprieve from the inundating apologies. She turned a fresh page in the signature book and read the cards on the floral arrangements.

Mike stayed close behind her.

Several large arrangements blanketed the funeral parlor walls. Most had been sent by either police or emergency medical services. Smaller arrangements, plants, and baskets made a double half circle around the casket. Ana read the tags, unfamiliar with a handful of the senders. One of the larger bouquets, three dozen or so dark red roses at the foot of the casket, caught her attention.

“Who’s that one from?” she asked Mike, who was standing closest to it.

Mike carefully picked through the buds and shrugged. “I don’t see a card.”

Ana checked the floor to see if it had fallen, but she found nothing. “Maybe the florist made a mistake.”

With only one local florist—one very busy local florist, based on the number of arrangements—it seemed possible.

Ethan made his way across the room. His royal blue tie emphasized his sapphire eyes, and Ana could see his sadness was less to do with Sydney than with her. He pulled her into an awkward embrace she only half accepted and asked her how she was holding up.

She answered with a shrug, their night together an unwelcome intruder between them.

“Listen, I’m sorry I had to run out this morning, I . . .” Ethan’s whispers caught Mike’s attention.

“I really can’t talk about that right now.”

Mike flashed a puzzled look that quickly disappeared when the front door opened and the funeral home filled with the sound of a woman shouting.

“You don’t belong here.
Leave
.”

Ana recognized the irate voice as Patricia Dentmore’s and went to see what was happening. She nudged her way through the crowd and found Trish, crying on the porch with an empty Styrofoam cup at her feet.

Anthony stood on the sidewalk, dripping with coffee.

“I tried to make him leave,” Trish said.

“Get out!” Ana shoved Anthony as hard as she could, but he barely moved.

Mike, Coop, and Ron Graham, who was in uniform, hurried outside.

“I mean it, Anthony. Get the hell out of here.” Ana pounded her small fists into his chest, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

Anthony stumbled back a step, but he didn’t fight her or try to protect himself.

“Mike, should I do something about this?” Ron reached around the back of his belt for his handcuffs.

“Let me handle it. Anthony, what are you doing here?”

“I have every right to say good-bye, Mike. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t.”

Ana kept punching and pushing him. “You have no right, you cheating piece of shit.”

Faces pressed against the funeral home’s windows.

“Mike, please. Talk to her.”

“Ana, stop it.” Mike pulled Ana back and steered her toward Ethan. “Take her inside.”

“I’m not going anywhere until he leaves.” She marched back to Anthony. “Go, get out of here.”

Mike blocked her from hitting him again. “Ana, that’s enough.”

“Enough? My sister is lying in a coffin, and you say ‘enough’? This is his fault.” She pointed her finger at Anthony and quoted his e-mail. “‘Give me what I want or I’ll take it.’ Isn’t that right,
murderer
?”

“Ana, it’s not what it sounds like.”

Mike handed Anthony a wad of tissues, and he patted the coffee from his face. “Ana, go inside. We’ll talk about this later.”

“You haven’t told her yet, have you?” Anthony asked Mike.

“Told me
what
?”

Ethan reached out to Ana, and she slapped his hand away.

“Told me
what
?” Ana repeated.

“That you’re engaged to a home-wrecking
whore.
Is that the big secret?” Trish said. Mascara tears rolled down her cheeks, and the faint green-yellow of a shiner peeked through her makeup.

“No,” Anthony said, staring directly at Ana. “It’s that Misty’s pregnant. Before you go making any more accusations, ask Mike about my alibi.”