Imperfect Contract (14 page)

23

When I arrived home—I'd run several errands—I stashed the dog food under the sink, greeted Sunshine, let him out in the yard, and punched the button on the answering machine.  The first message was from the hospital, the risk manager wanted me to call her anytime day or night.  Her voice sounded tense, irritated.

Since it was still business hours for her, I picked up the telephone.  "Brenda," I said when she answered, "this is Sophia Burgess.  You called."

"Detective Ray Stone came in to see me about the Hutchinson death," she answered, sounding ticked.  

I noted that she skipped her usual social litany.  "I thought he would, given he's investigating a homicide." 

"I wasn't prepared.  He raised the possibility the death was negligence, but he seemed more inclined to believe it was murder." 

"I know.  Someone gunned Hutchinson down in the street.  There's a good possibility they wanted to finish the job," I said, trying to keep my tone matter-of-fact.

She exhaled heavily into the telephone.  "I feel a little blindsided here.  All of a sudden, I get this call.  You could have warned me, given me time to prepare."

I started explaining from the beginning.  It took me several minutes to tell her everything I knew or suspected about what happened to Hutchinson in the hospital.  I concluded by saying, "In my defense, I was the charge nurse when Hutchinson died.  The staff sent down an incident report to your office.  I went to your office, read it, and added an attachment of my own.  I was careful to make sure you had a complete report."

"I have it."

"Help me here.  Why do you feel blindsided?"

"The incident reports talks about the patient being found coded, off the vent.  I thought accident.  Murder didn't cross my mind."

"Think of it.  It wouldn't have been appropriate for me to mention murder on the report.  Just the facts.  Remember."  I felt impatient.  I understood the hospital's unpleasant position.  If I were the administrator, I wouldn't want someone murdered on my watch either.  Looks bad.  But on the other hand, the murderer controlled the events.

"Ah . . . um . . ." she stammered.

"Look at it this way," I decided to take a more reasonable tone with her.  It wouldn't pay to tick off the hospital establishment—bad for longevity.  "Not only were there several hospital employees in the room, there were also a number of family members and acquaintances.  I listed all the traffic I witnessed on my addendum.  The possibilities are endless."  I paused to allow her time to stay with my thinking.  "I called Detective Stone and told him a nurse found Hutchinson's ventilator disconnected.  Then I called him when Hutchinson died.  There's a note on the chart from your office directing the staff to keep the police informed on the patient's progress.  It was the appropriate thing to do."

After a long moment, Brenda said, "Just for the record, if something like this happens in the future, don't call a homicide detective with the news without telling me first.  Of course, you needed to notify him.  I agree with you, but you should have told me
in advance
.  It would have given me time to call administration and cover our butts before he came knocking on the door."

"Okay."  What more could I say?  She was right.

I brought her up to date on the investigation, throwing her extra information to maintain some kind of a professional relationship, and we said goodbye. 

Gritting my teeth, I returned to the recorded messages on my machine. 

Ray's voice drifted from my machine, soft and relaxed.  "I want to take you for a nice dinner.  I made a reservation at Pete's for eight o'clock this evening." 

The invitation hit below my lingerie elastic.  He knew I favored Pete's in Boca.  We went there many times in the past for special occasions. 

"I'll be out of touch for the next few hours," he continued, "I'll show up at seven-thirty.  See you then."

What are my choices? I thought.  I wanted to spend the evening with him.  I headed for the shower with Sunshine trailing along.  As I stripped off my jeans, Sunshine hopped on the bed for a snooze.  With him in the house, I was never alone for long.

The dress fit like a dream, slinky, skimming my body, not clinging anywhere, but not bagging either.  It stopped above the knee.  I wore black stockings and black high-heeled sandals.  The spaghetti-strapped bodice—it would have revealed cleavage if I had cleavage—showed under the loose-fitting tunic.  I fingered the sparkling beads, running my fingers over the swirling pattern.  The air conditioning would be an issue in Pete's, but if we ventured onto the dance floor, I'd want to take the tunic off.  I added diamond and gold earrings and a thin gold chain necklace, both gifts from Ray.  I thought he'd be pleased I hadn't given them away.

Ray arrived at seven-thirty, looking good—real good.  His dark suit was a longer-styled, three-button European job that accented his broad shoulders and tapered around his hips.  He'd stopped for a haircut and a beard trim since I'd talked to him in the middle of the afternoon. 
And
, he carried a dozen red roses.

I stood back as he stepped into the entry, then watched as Sunshine welcomed him like a long-lost housemate.  Ray squatted and allowed the dog to lick his face, providing the required ear rub in return. 

I wasn't sure I wanted to climb the hill I faced.  But then again, I did.

When Sunshine finished with him, Ray stood and looked me over.  "Nice."  He nodded.  "You look beautiful."  He handed me the roses.  "These are for you."  He always had a way with stating the obvious.  I guess it was better than just saying
here
.

It had been a long time since someone gave me flowers.  I got on my knees and dug out a vase from behind the dog food and tall bags under the kitchen sink.  After washing it, I arranged the deep-red roses and positioned them in the middle of the kitchen island. 

"Ready?" I said, picking up my black, beaded evening bag.

The Honda shone in evening sun.  He had attended to the car as well as to himself.  The sun hung low on the horizon and glowed red behind scattered fluffy clouds, backlighting them in shades of orange and gold. 

Feeling the heat, I slipped off my jacket before sinking into the passenger seat.  As Ray closed the door, the side windows and black interior enclosed me, creating a topless cocoon. 

Ray sank in next to me, then turned in my direction.  I read the appreciation in his expression.  His eyes traveled the length of me, but he said nothing.  Then he turned the key and pushed the red start button.  The rumbling sound of the engine filled our space, and we were off.  

In truth, he drove sedately out of my small community.  We weren't
off
with a roar until he accelerated onto the Sawgrass Expressway, heading toward the Florida Turnpike.  Then he tromped the accelerator. 

Ray felt speed limits were for civilians.  He'd said many times he trained to drive at high speeds, give chase, and apprehend criminals.  I gave up taking issue with his speeding several years ago.  I noticed, back when we were a couple, he followed the speed laws when we left South Florida.  I guess his police officer conferred immunity wasn't nationwide.

We exited the Turnpike at Glades Road and turned into Pete's driveway.  A thick layer of clouds hid the sky.  Ray glanced heavenward, hit the button for the convertible top, and locked it in place.  He handed a valet key to a kid with dark circles under his eyes and told him to park it. 

"Yes, sir," the kid said.  He slid in and put the key in the ignition, tried to turn it to start the car, then grinned when Ray pointed at the red start-button to the left of the steering column

We watched while the kid glanced at the shift knob, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the driveway. 

"Guess he won't leave the transmission in the parking lot," Ray said, guiding me into the restaurant.

 As we relaxed at our table, our chilled wine on ice beside us, Ray lifted his glass to mine.  The crystal pinged as we touched stemware.  "To old times," he said, his voice soft and low.  "I've missed you."

"To old times." I smiled, feeling warmed by the thought.  I took a sip of wine and set my glass next to my bread plate.  "How's the investigation going?" 

His eyes flashed disappointment, signaling he hadn't planned to discuss Hutchinson's unfortunate demise.  Oh well, I wasn't ready to thrash out our relationship either.

"Not ready to talk about us, huh?"  Though the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, he looked sad.

"Something like that."  Deep inside I was ready to talk, but I was afraid of being hurt again.  "I'd rather take this slow."

"Okay, anyway you want."  He took another sip of wine.  "The list you helped make of people to interview turned out to be very useful."

"Thank God for that.  I did something right."

"Samantha, the nurse who started the resuscitation on Hutchinson, responded as you predicted.  She became defensive and grew more so when she realized I was talking about a murder investigation.  When I said she wasn't a suspect, she relaxed and cooperated."  He sipped his wine.  "She confirmed she discovered Hutchinson off the ventilator and not breathing.  It didn't look to her as if he coughed off the ventilator tube.  The M.E., by the way, confirmed the cause of death—asphyxiation.  He didn't have unexpected blood levels of drugs or toxins, no fresh brain damage, and no evidence of heart attack."

"Samantha has had a tough go of it.  She started slow in nursing—had problems with her skills at the beginning and seemed to be in trouble a lot.  The manager sent her for remediation to fix her techniques several times, and she found that humiliating.  I think that's why she's defensive.  Anytime anything goes wrong, she thinks she's going to get the blame."

"That much was obvious when I talked to her."  He stopped a minute and refilled our wineglasses.  "I talked to your friend Connie today, too."

"Busy man."

He smirked and went on with his report.  "That lady's a piece of work."

"How so?  I think she's a sweet person who's upfront and honest."

"She went off on a tangent about how Hutchinson was better off dead and about how he shouldn't have been kept alive on a ventilator anyway.  To my way of thinkin', she's a nut case."

"She does have some definite ideas about long-term, ventilator-dependent patients.  I suspect she's pro-euthanasia, though we've never talked about it in any detail.  When Kevorkian was having his public legal battles, she was in his favor."

"Maybe she disconnected the vent?"  He stroked his goatee.

"I doubt it.  She's a conscientious nurse and is likely to do more rather than less for her patients."  The waiter came with a basket of bread.  I helped myself and slathered on the butter.  "Besides, she hasn't taken care of Hutchinson that often, not enough to form an obsessive attachment."

"That's not the way she sounded to me."

"Oh?  I'm sure it was just her honesty coming out.  Her father existed in a vegetative state for a long time.  Her stepmother didn't have the heart to end it, so it continued past Connie's tolerance point.  Sometimes those feelings come out a little too strong.  She doesn't mean anything specific."

"You're entitled to your opinion.  She's on my short list of possible suspects.  Low on the list.  But on the list."

Ray's opinion shocked me.  "If it's okay with you, I'll talk to her about Hutchinson and see what she says.  Perhaps she'll tell me something that will convince you she's not a suspect." 

"Can't hurt.  But you know if you find out anything, you could end up testifying against her?"

"Yeah, I know, but I could also testify on her behalf."  I took some time to gather my thoughts, taking a bite of the warm and flavorful bread.  "Did you talk to the docs?"

"Yes ma'am, both of 'em."  With each sip of wine, the pace of his speech slowed, making his southern drawl thicker. 

I remembered the times we locked the door, took the phone off the hook, and emptied a wine bottle.  He always became more southern as the evening continued—in more ways than one.

Ray said, "Doctor Kravitz said the code was in progress by the time he arrived.  He mentioned a lot of cross talk about the staff finding the patient off the vent.  It struck him at the time, and nobody offered an explanation, so he followed up with the patient's neurologist and talked to the risk manager."  Ray repeated Kravitz's comments in detail.