Johnston - Heartbeat (7 page)

Maggie put the rocker between them and asked, “Roman is a suspect in all those deaths?”

“All of the children who died were his patients,” Jack said, easing down onto the sofa. “And we haven’t found any other common links.”

“Lots of people have access to the ICU.”

Jack laid his head carefully against the back of the couch and rubbed at his blurry eyes. “Maybe so. But I’m putting my money on Hollander.”

“What’s his motive?” Maggie demanded. “Hollander’s written a bunch of journal articles suggesting he considers quality of life more important than mere survival.”

Maggie snorted. “I feel the same way. Does that make me capable of murder?”

“Under the right circumstances, anyone’s capable of murder.”

Maggie stared at him, her eyes stark, her hands gripping the back of the rocker so hard her knuckles turned white.

The lawman in Jack saw guilt, and he fleetingly wondered whether he was making a mistake telling her so much. The man who was attracted to Maggie saw distress and concern. That man kept right on talking.

“All of the children who died would have faced some serious physical or mental handicap if they had survived,” he said. “We figure Hollander did his best to fix them up, but when he couldn’t, he killed them out of kindness.”

“What
evidence
do you have that he did it?” Maggie demanded.

“You sound like Hollander’s attorney!” Jack bolted upright, then froze, waiting for the dark to recede and things to come into focus again before he eased himself back down onto the arm of the couch. “Are you going to represent Hollander if I arrest him?”

“I don’t do criminal work,” she said. “But I’m certain you have the wrong man, Jack.”

“Maybe Hollander doesn’t want his failures hanging around to remind him he’s not God.”

“That’s preposterous!” Maggie started pacing between Jack’s stone fireplace-useful in South Texas maybe two or three weeks a year—and the rocker. “Anybody, even someone off the street, could be giving those kids an overdose of potassium chloride, and you’d never know who it was unless you had a video camera in the ICU.”

Jack tried to wrinkle his brow in a frown, realized that was a bad idea and, keeping his head as still as he could, said, “You seem to know a hell of a lot about it.”

“I overheard the nurses talking about the perfect way to kill a patient without getting caught,” she said, her lips twisting wryly. “Murder 101. Insulin came up, but they all agreed potassium chloride was a better killing agent.”

“Explain.”

“Potassium chloride—the nurses called it KCI—is readily available around a hospital because every patient on an IV for more than twelve hours needs potassium to replace what they’ve lost. It’s not a controlled substance, so it isn’t locked up. A little too much potassium in an IV, and wham—” She slammed her hand on the coffee table. “You’re dead of an apparent heart attack, and no one’s the wiser.”

Jack winced. “That’s for damn sure.” He rubbed his throbbing temples. “Unless you’re looking for an overdose, and sometimes even if you are, it doesn’t show up in an autopsy.”

“It doesn’t?” Maggie asked, settling on the edge of the wooden coffee table far enough away that he couldn’t reach out and touch her. “The nurses didn’t mention that.”

“The way it was explained to me, the heart stops beating so quickly the potassium chloride never reaches the ocular fluid, which is where a forensic pathologist checks for poison,” Jack said. “And because red blood cells create potassium when they break down after death, it’s hard
not
to find massive amounts of it in your system. When you’re embalmed, the evidence of the crime drains away with your blood.”

“So how did you discover the Morgan child died of an overdose?” Maggie asked.

Jack smiled ruefully. “MEDCO was looking for a way they could avoid malpractice liability, so the investigator asked the medical examiner to look for some cause of death other than negligence by the doctor, like foul play. The hospital sent Laurel Morgan’s body for an autopsy with all the IVs intact, and the medical examiner discovered enough excess potassium chloride in the tubing to verify an overdose.”

“Couldn’t a nurse simply have made a mistake? Given an accidental second dose?”

“Of course,” Jack said. “But that wouldn’t have gotten MEDCO off the malpractice hook. The investigator did a computer search for similar deaths and found five of them, all with the same primary care physician. Assuming Hollander was committing murder rather than malpractice, and assuming MEDCO had no reason to suspect him of such nefarious activities before they hired him, they were home free. Because it’s an interjurisdictional matter, MEDCO called on the Texas Rangers
to
investigate further.”

Maggie knew most of MEDCO’ s business, but this had escaped her because it was a criminal matter, and the firm did no criminal work. She was appalled at what she’d just heard. “You mean Roman became a murder suspect because MEDCO didn’t want to pay a malpractice claim against him?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

She rose and paced away from him. “That’s absurd!”

“Somebody’s killing kids, Maggie,” Jack said seriously. “All the victims were less than ten years old. A couple were only babies.”

Maggie sank into Jack’s rocker. “Oh, God. It can’t be Roman. He has a little girl of his own. He could never—”

“Hollander may turn out to be innocent,” Jack interrupted. “But right now he’s my number one suspect, and I need the complete cooperation of the nurses and the staff when I’m asking questions about him. That’s why I’m posing as an insurance investigator looking for evidence to defend Hollander against the Morgan malpractice suit. If everybody I interrogate thinks they’re helping the doctor by giving me information, I’ll get more of the truth out of them.”

“Are you sure you’re looking for the truth?” Maggie said. “It sounds to me like you’ve already got Roman tried and convicted.”

A horn blared in the quiet.

“That’s my cab,” Maggie said, rising and heading for the door.

Jack stepped in front of her before she could get there but was careful not to touch her.

“Are you going to blow my cover?”

“Roman is my friend. He has the right to know he’s a suspect.”

“All I want to do is ask a few questions, Maggie. If the doctor’s innocent, no harm done. If he’s not . . .”

“You don’t play fair, Jack.”

“I’m not playing at all. Someone on staff may be a murderer, Maggie. I intend to find out who it is, so I can stop him. Are you going to help me?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Maggie said. She stared into his eyes, the message clear:
Stand aside, Jack.

He took a step to the left.

“I’ll see you Monday,” she said as she walked past him, shoulders back, chin high. She pulled the door open, then turned to look at him. “Oh, and Jack . . .”

“What?”

“Don’t go to sleep tonight. You might not wake up.”

Chapter 5

Maggie was chagrined that for the second time in two weeks she was running late. This time, she was tardy for SAG’s Monday morning Bioethics Committee meeting, where she acted as counsel for the hospital. That was a problem because the chair, Roman Hollander, was never late. The meeting always started on time and latecomers had to catch up as best they could. Maggie had never like playing catchup.

She bypassed the crowd at the elevator and headed up the stairs to the second-floor conference room. She was wearing a black double-breasted Nieman Marcus knit with gold buttons and a tuxedo-fronted white silk blouse. If she had to confront Jack Kittrick sometime during the day, and she did, she wanted all the armor and ammunition she could muster.

Maggie had spent the rest of the endless night after she left Jack’s house trying to decide whether to keep his secret or tell Roman what was going on. She had tossed and turned, plagued by vivid memories of the Texas Ranger’s potent kisses. She had spent a groggy day Sunday doing housework and laundry and thinking unaccountably-and constantly-about having sex with Jack Kittrick.

When her alarm had gone off at 6
A.M.
this morning, she was still suffering heart palpitations from an incredibly vivid dream, but she was too keyed up to linger in bed. She had climbed into her jogging shorts and shoes for her usual five-mile run, determined to sweat Jack Kittrick out of her system.

Maggie was halfway out the door when she had turned back around, grabbed the kitchen phone, hit the button for a frequently dialed number, and waited for the call to be answered.

“Jack Kittrick is a Texas Ranger,” she blurted. “He’s looking for somebody killing kids in the ICU with potassium chloride.”

She listened impatiently, rubbing at her bloodshot eyes. “Easy for you to say. He wants me to help him with his investigation.”

She frowned and shook her head. “I suppose it makes sense to help him. At least that way I’ll know everything he knows.”

Maggie hung up the phone and headed out the door for her run. But the conversation had left a bad taste in her mouth. She hated the secrets, all the sneaking around. To make matters worse, Jack Kittrick struck her as the kind who always got his man . . . or woman . . .

Maggie had run out of time after she’d showered to dry her hair completely. She’d put it up in a French twist and pulled a few wisps free, but it felt heavy on her head. She had just stepped through the stairwell door onto the second floor of the hospital—a little breathless because she’d decided to haul up her skirt and take the stairs two at a time—when a voice stopped her.

“You’re a disgrace.”

Maggie had learned to expect the insult every time her mother-in-law—former mother-in-law—addressed her, but it didn’t make it any easier to take. She pulled down the skirt that was hiked halfway to her hips, turned, and faced her nemesis. “Good morning, Victoria.”

Maggie struggled mightily, and frequently failed, to achieve the “old money” look Victoria seemed to manage effortlessly. Of course, Victoria cheated. She really was “old money.” Victoria Cobb Wainwright had been rich and privileged from the day she was born.

Despite Maggie’s personal feelings about the woman, she couldn’t help admiring Victoria’s perfect, blond coiffure, short and off her forehead, the pearl studs in her ears, the soft rose Chanel suit bearing a simple pearl and diamond bow-shaped Cartier pin, the dyed leather heels from Italy, and the matching clutch purse caught beneath her elbow. Victoria didn’t have a wrinkle anywhere-not even on her face.

“I’m in a hurry, Victoria. The meeting’s about to start,” Maggie said.

“I know. I’ve agreed to serve another term on the committee myself.”

Maggie managed not to sigh. Victoria sat on the SAG Bioethics Committee as a concerned citizen—and a major contributor to the hospital’s expansion fund. The Wainwright Trauma Center, devoted to neurological patients, had been named after her husband, Richard Woodson Wainwright, who had died of a stroke two days after his only son’s death.

Sometimes Maggie felt sorry for Victoria, losing both her husband and her son in so short a time, and ashamed that she’d done nothing to help ease her mother-in-law’s grief. But the truth was, Maggie had been too devastated to deal with her own grief, much less someone else’s. They had been no comfort to each other then. And they were a thorn in each other’s sides now.

Victoria glanced at her diamond-studded Piaget and said, “Since the meeting has already started without us, I want a word with you before we go in.”

“Make it quick,” Maggie said, glancing just as obviously at Cinderella’s gloved hands, working to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“Was it really necessary for you to expose yourself that way at the picnic, Margaret?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maggie said.

“I am talking about the ’Daisy Dukes,’ ” Victoria said, her voice dripping with disdain.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with wearing a pair of cut-offs to a picnic,” Maggie protested.

Victoria pressed her lips flat rather than argue, and Maggie was left to accept the censure or continue a dispute she had no chance of winning. The situation was especially galling because she had known the cut-offs were over the edge.

“I also heard you left the picnic with a strange man,” Victoria said. “Is that true?”

Maggie knew explanations were useless, but she made them anyway. “I left the picnic with a man, but he wasn’t a stranger. Jack Kittrick is an insurance investigator for the hospital. I accidentally hit him in the head with a baseball, and I escorted him home to make sure he arrived there safely.”

“I advise you not to do it again,” Victoria said. “So long as you bear the Wainwright name, you owe a responsibility to this family.”

“I know exactly what I owe this family,” Maggie said in clipped tones. Ten years ago, in the throes of unbearable grief, Maggie had made a confession to Victoria that—with the help of her brother—she had used to keep Maggie from abandoning the Wainwright family. It was something neither of them would ever forget, something Victoria could never forgive.

Tension simmered between them, while Maggie braced herself for the next attack. “Is that all, Victoria?”

“Are you attending the Cancer Society Gala on Friday?”

“I have tickets.” Because Victoria was hostess for the fundraising event, Uncle Porter had bought a table for ten and given two tickets to Maggie and the rest to associates at the firm.

“Do you have an escort?” Victoria asked.

Maggie knew from experience that Victoria had stringent ideas about what was and was not socially correct at a charity function. One did not arrive at an event like the Cancer Society Gala alone. One came as half of a couple, and one’s partner had better be someone socially prominent. If Maggie didn’t speak up, she was going to find herself saddled with some scion of a noble Texas house who would bore her to death before they had gotten through the shrimp cocktail.

“I’ve invited Mr. Kittrick to come with me,” she said. Surely the Texas Ranger had a tux. And she already knew he wasn’t likely to be out with friends or have a date on Saturday.