Toxin (31 page)

Tracy pulled up alongside of Kim's car. She stopped and set the emergency brake.

Kim pointed to the record-room window that he'd smashed to gain entrance into the building. It had been boarded up. He explained to Tracy he'd done it with one of the large rocks lining the parking lot.

“What's the plan?” Tracy asked when Kim paused.

Kim sighed. “I've got to get to the hospital. Tom's agreed to look in on my patients, but I have to see them too. Then I'll go see Kelly Anderson. I happen to know where she lives.”

“We have some decisions to make concerning Becky,” Tracy said.

Kim nodded but looked off in the distance.

“I know it is difficult,” Tracy said. “But we have to make funeral arrangements. It might even help us accept her death.”

Kim bit his lip.

“Anger and denial are part of the grieving process,” Tracy said when Kim didn't respond. “I'm guilty of using them as well as you, but we do have responsibilities.”

Kim turned to face Tracy. There were tears in the corners of his eyes. “You're right,” he admitted. “But, as I said, I need a little more time because of what's happened. Would it be too much to ask for you to go ahead and make the arrangements without me? I know it's
asking a lot. I'll certainly agree to anything you decide, and, of course, I'll be there for the service. I'd just like to follow up on this Kelly Anderson idea immediately.”

Tracy tapped her fingers against the steering wheel while she stared at Kim and pondered his request. Her first thought was to say no and to tell him that he was just being selfish again. But then she reconsidered. Although she didn't want to make the arrangements by herself, she knew that the service itself was far more important than making the arrangements. She also recognized that at the moment she was probably more capable than he was.

“You won't mind what day I pick?” Tracy questioned. “Or where a service might be?”

“Not at all,” Kim said. “Whatever you decide.”

“All right,” she said. “But you have to promise to call me as soon as you get home.”

“I promise,” Kim said. He reached over and gave Tracy's forearm a squeeze before getting out of the car.

“I'll wait to make sure your car starts,” Tracy said.

“Good idea,” Kim said. “And thanks.” He shut the door. He waved before heading over to his car.

Tracy waved back and wondered if she was doing the right thing.

 

K
im opened his car door, but didn't get right in. He looked at Higgins and Hancock and shuddered at the memory of the previous night. The terror he'd felt running from the man with the knife came flooding back. It was an experience he knew he'd never forget.

Kim started to get into the car but hesitated again. For a brief moment, he entertained the idea of talking with the guard on duty to find out how to get in touch with Curt, the guard from the previous night. But Tracy's
admonition immediately came to mind, and Kim decided she was right. If Curt were willing to lie to the police about Marsha's presence, he certainly wouldn't be apt to tell the truth to Kim. And the fact that he probably was lying meant there was more to this affair than might appear on the surface.

Kim's car started with ease, and he waved at Tracy who waved back before preceding him out of the parking lot. Kim followed at a distance, rethinking their recent conversation. He thought it was ironic that the awful events of the last few days—Becky's death and his having come close to being murdered—could end up making him feel closer to Tracy than he had in years, maybe even ever.

They parted company on the freeway. Kim beeped his horn in farewell. Tracy beeped back as she sped away toward her neighborhood. Kim took the exit appropriate for the med center.

On Sundays the doctors' parking lot was almost empty, and Kim was able to park close to the front entrance. As he climbed out of his car he told himself the first order of business was for him to go directly up to the surgical locker room. He wanted to clean up, shave, and change into the street clothes he'd left there Friday morning.

 

M
artha Trumbull and George Constantine were both in their early seventies, and both had been faithful volunteers at the University Medical Center long enough to have been awarded the prestigious Friends of the Hospital service pins. Martha proudly wore hers on the front of her pink volunteer smock, whereas George wore his on the lapel of his cerulean volunteer blazer.

Martha and George's favorite assignment was manning the information desk in the hospital lobby. They particularly liked to work there on Sunday when they had it to themselves. On the other days of the week, a paid hospital employee was in charge.

Taking their roles seriously, they not only knew the layout of the hospital with the same detail as the floor plans of their own homes, but they also knew the names of the entire hospital professional staff. When Kim came through the door on his way to the elevator, they both thought they recognized him yet they weren't a hundred-percent certain.

Martha glanced at George. “Is that Dr. Reggis?” she whispered.

“I think so,” George said. “But I can't imagine what he's been doing in that white coat, unless he had to change a tire.”

“I think the beard looks worse than the coat,” Martha said. “Someone should tell him, because he's such a nice-looking man.”

“Wait a second,” George said. “Weren't we supposed to call Dr. Biddle if we saw Dr. Reggis?”

“That was yesterday,” Martha said. “You think it's the same today?”

“Why take a chance?” George said as he reached for the phone.

 

T
o Kim's relief the elevator was empty when he boarded it on the ground floor, and he was able to ride solo all the way to the surgical floor. He wasn't quite as lucky on his transit of the surgical lounge. There were a number of the OR nurses and on-call anesthesiologists
having coffee. Although no one said anything, those assembled eyed him with curiosity.

Kim was glad to get into the surgical locker room and away from the inquiring faces. He was particularly pleased to find it vacant, and he lost no time. After rescuing his hospital I.D., a few papers and pens, plus some surgical tape from the pockets, he pulled off the coat, the scrubs, and even his underwear. Everything went into the laundry hamper.

Completely naked, Kim was shocked to catch his reflection in the mirror. His visage was far worse than he imagined. His ratty whiskers were significantly more than a five o'clock shadow but far from being a beard. And his hair was a mess, plastered down across his forehead yet standing straight up in the back, suggesting he'd just gotten out of bed.

Opening his combination lock, Kim got out the toiletries he kept in his locker and quickly shaved. Then he got into the shower with a vial of shampoo.

Kim had his head under the jet of water when he thought he heard his name called. Leaning out from the stream but with his eyes closed tightly against the suds, he listened. Someone repeated his name. The voice was definitely more authoritative than friendly.

Kim rinsed off the soap, then looked toward the shower entrance. He was in a common shower with four heads. Standing on the tiled threshold were Dr. Forrester Biddle, Chief of Cardiac Surgery, and Dr. Robert Rathborn, Acting Chief of the Medical Staff. They made a curious pair. In contrast to Forrester's ascetic gauntness, Robert was the picture of self-indulgent obesity.

“Dr. Reggis,” Robert repeated when he was confident of Kim's attention. “As the current head of the medical
staff, it is my duty to inform you that your hospital privileges have been temporarily revoked.”

“This is a curious conversation to have while I'm in the shower,” Kim said. “Or was it your specific intent to catch me naked?”

“Your glibness has never been more inappropriate,” Forrester spat. “I've been warning you, Dr. Reggis.”

“You couldn't wait for five minutes?” Kim questioned.

“We felt it was important enough to inform you as soon as possible,” Robert said.

“What are the grounds?” Kim asked.

“For obstructive behavior during your daughter's cardiac resuscitation attempt,” Robert said. “Three doctors and two nurses have filed formal complaints of physical intimidation by you that precluded them from carrying out their duty.”

“And I am appalled at your decision to perform open-heart cardiac massage on your own daughter,” Forrester said. “In my opinion, it is beyond the pale of acceptable professional behavior.”

“She was dying, Robert,” Kim hissed. “The closed chest massage wasn't effective. Her pupils were dilating.”

“There were other qualified people on the scene,” Robert said sanctimoniously.

“They weren't doing crap!” Kim snapped. “They didn't know what the hell was going on. Nor did I until I got a look at her heart.” Kim's voice broke, and he looked away for a moment.

“There'll be a hearing,” Robert said. “The issue here is whether you are a threat to patients or even yourself. You'll have an opportunity to present your side of this unfortunate episode. Meanwhile, you are not to practice
any medicine within these walls, and you are specifically forbidden to do any surgery whatsoever.”

“Well, it's good of you gentlemen to come into my office like this with such good news,” Kim said.

“I wouldn't be so glib if I were you,” Forrester warned.

“Nor would I,” Robert said. “This incident and our action will be communicated to the Board of Medicine. You could very well find your medical license in jeopardy.”

Kim turned around so that he could present what he thought was the most appropriate part of his anatomy to his two guests. Bending forward, he went back to completing his shampoo.

 

T
he El Toro bar looked like a completely different establishment in the daylight. Without the red glow of the neon bull and without the lively, percussive sound of the Hispanic music, the ramshackle building looked abandoned. The only evidence it wasn't were the freshly discarded beer cans scattered about the deserted parking lot.

Shanahan shook his head at the miserable scene as his black Cherokee navigated the pockmarked parking area. The rainy, foggy weather didn't help as it blanketed the area with a dense pall. Shanahan pulled alongside Carlos's truck whose condition matched the surroundings.

Carlos climbed out of his truck and came around to Shanahan's driver's-side window. It was heavily tinted, and Carlos could only see his own reflection until Shanahan lowered it.

With no greeting and no explanation, Shanahan handed Carlos a hundred-dollar bill.

Carlos looked at the money then back at Shanahan.
“What's this?” he said. “You told me two hundred. The woman's been taken care of just like we talked about.”

“You messed up,” Shanahan said. “It wasn't clean. We heard about the doctor. You should have done him. You knew he was there looking for the woman.”

“I tried,” Carlos said.

“What do you mean, tried?” Shanahan asked with derision. “You're supposed to have this great reputation with a knife. The guy was unarmed.”

“I didn't have time,” Carlos said. “He set off the silent alarm when he broke in, and the police got there before I could finish him. I was lucky to get rid of her blood and stuff.”

“What did you do with her car?” Shanahan asked.

“It's in my cousin's garage,” Carlos said.

“We'll pick it up,” Shanahan said. “I don't want anybody using it. It's got to be junked.”

“Nobody's going to use it,” Carlos said.

“What about her phone?” Shanahan asked.

“I got that in my truck,” Carlos said.

“Get it!” Shanahan ordered.

Dutifully Carlos returned to his truck. A minute later he was back at Shanahan's window. Carlos handed the cell phone to the security man.

Shanahan tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. “I hope I don't have to ask you if you made any calls.”

Carlos raised his dark eyebrows innocently but didn't respond verbally.

Shanahan closed his eyes, put a hand to his forehead, and shook his head in dismay. “Please tell me you didn't use the phone,” he said through clenched teeth, although he already knew the answer.

When Carlos still didn't respond, Shanahan opened
his eyes and stared dumbfounded at his accomplice. He tried to control his rage. “All right, who did you call? Don't you know they'll be able to trace the call? How can you be so stupid?”

“I called my mother in Mexico,” Carlos admitted guiltily.

Shanahan rolled his eyes and started to worry that he would now have to get rid of Carlos. The trouble with this kind of work was that when things started to go wrong, they had a way of quickly getting out of hand.