Fallen (11 page)

Lydia exited the bay and closed the curtain behind her. She worked to shove down her emotion. Getting the attention of Roe, one of the senior nurses, she ordered the tests. “Have someone keep an eye on her until either Radiology or Gastro comes to take her up.”

Roe had apparently seen Elise in the waiting room. “Someone beat that woman?”

Lydia felt sick. She was in need of a camera. If Elise would consent, she intended to document the injuries.

A short time later, she left the bay once again, having taken the photographs with Roe and a social worker standing by. To her surprise, Elise hadn’t contested them, nor had she objected when Lydia had suggested at least talking with the police to understand her options. But she hadn’t been able to stop the flow of tears or her trembling.

Lydia hoped she had done the right thing in contacting the police.

She noticed the rush of activity inside the lobby. Two ambulances were unloading out front, their red light bars mingling in the morning haze with the blue lights from squad cars. “What’s going on?”

“Narcotics bust went sideways,” Jamaal supplied as he rifled through one of the cabinets behind the front desk.

Thinking of Nate’s shooting, Lydia felt an uneasy déjà vu. At that moment, the automated doors slid open for the gurneys being wheeled inside by paramedics. A young African-American male was brought in first, one shin splinted and his right wrist cuffed to the gurney’s steel sidebar. Two police officers accompanied him. Another gurney carried Antoine Clark, a Narcotics detective Lydia knew from Ryan’s precinct. His broad upper body had been stripped of clothing, and a sterile dressing covered one shoulder. He was bantering with one of the emergency workers traveling beside the gurney, however, talking trash about UGA’s last basketball season. Lydia took charge, sending the arrestee into one of the rooms where a trauma team was assembling.

“Hey, Lydia.”

“How’s it going, Antoine?” she asked, peeling back the dressing for a look.

“Shitty is how it’s going—”

“No entrance wound. The bullet grazed him pretty good,” the paramedic informed her. “It’s going to hurt like hell tomorrow, but it could’ve been a lot worse. We gave him morphine, four MGs.” He twirled a finger beside his ear. “He’s a little loopy.”

“Narco detective with a goddamn buzz,” Antoine said with a half-grin.

“We’ll take good care of you,” she assured him. More police were now appearing inside the lobby. She directed another of the doctors under her charge. “Get Detective Clark into suite three. Start irrigating the wound and set up an antibiotic drip.”

“Your husband’s bringing up the rear,” Antoine called out as he was rolled away.

He’d meant ex-husband. Lydia’s eyes swung to the ER doors, surprise and apprehension threading through her. What was Ryan doing with Narcotics? A uniformed officer was coming in on a gurney, an oxygen mask over his face. Not Ryan.

“Blunt force trauma. He took a shot to the vest,” the accompanying paramedic said. “Good breath sounds, but he’s got some bruising.”

“Suite four. Dr. Gulacki, go with him.”

Ryan entered with Mateo and another officer. He was ambulatory, at least—walking in under his own steam—but gauze wrapped his right forearm. Blood leaked through the white meshing.

“How’s Antoine?” he asked as she reached him.

“It appears to be just a flesh wound. He’s lucky.” But her focus was on Ryan. She looked at his arm.

“A broken window,” he explained. “I cut it on the glass.”

“It looks pretty deep,” Mateo commented.

A nurse called for Lydia from the room where the arrestee had been taken. She hesitated.

Ryan nodded his understanding. “I’m fine, Lyd. Go.”

She wanted to stay and take care of the laceration herself, see how bad it really was. She also wanted to apologize for her disappearance last night. It hadn’t been fair of her. But she’d felt awkward and out of place at McCrosky’s, especially after the blond waitress had shown up on the patio, indicating for the second time that she and Ryan had plans of some kind. The revelation had both surprised and stung her, but she knew she had absolutely no right to feel that way, especially when she was seeing someone herself. She also understood she was needed with the more serious injuries. Breaking her gaze from Ryan’s, Lydia waved over Rossman.

“Take Detective Winter to get his arm cleaned up. He also needs a tetanus. And he’s allergic to penicillin.”

*

“We talked to her. Unless she files a complaint, there’s not a lot we can do,” the young police officer said, giving Lydia an apologetic shrug.

She glanced at the closed door of Elise Brandt’s hospital room. Ian Brandt, her husband, had charged into the hospital a short time earlier, creating a scene at the admissions desk and demanding to see his wife. Lydia had been busy with another patient, but she’d heard about the commotion. “You can’t keep him out of there?”

“No, ma’am. Not if she doesn’t want us to.”

Seavers
was imprinted on the officer’s brass nameplate. Lydia didn’t know him, although she’d seen his field-training officer a few times in the past. The older cop had already gone down to the cafeteria, shaking his head and calling their involvement a waste of time.

“She’s insisting she fell down the stairs,” Officer Seavers recounted. “She asked us to leave.”

Lydia frowned. “I have photos of her injuries. Those weren’t caused by a tumble down some steps—”

“They’ll be evidence if she changes her mind about filing charges.”

She knew the
if
was a pretty big one. Apparently, any courage Elise Brandt had mustered had quickly died at her husband’s unexpected arrival. Frustrated, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. There was no sound coming from the room. She wondered what was going on inside.

“If you don’t mind, Dr. Costa, I need to meet up with Officer Kirkpatrick.”

Lydia thanked him halfheartedly and remained rooted in place as he got onto the elevator. The doors closed, and for several moments she stared at the grouping of potted plastic plants that served as décor in the hallway, trying to decide what to do. A nurse pushing a medicine cart traveled past. She couldn’t let this go. Lydia’s teeth worried the soft flesh of her lower lip, then she went over to the room. She didn’t knock before entering.

Elise lay in bed, clad in a hospital gown and an IV drip attached to the inside of her forearm. She looked away from Lydia, affixing her gaze to the wall. Ian Brandt sat in a chair beside the bed, holding his wife’s hand. He was a big man, well dressed in an expensive business suit, sporting a goatee and raven, slicked-back hair.

“I wanted to see how you’re doing,” Lydia said to Elise. She picked up the chart attached to the foot of her bed and glanced over it, leafing through several pages.

“Who are you?” Brandt wanted to know.

“I’m Dr. Costa.”

“You’re her treating physician?”

“Mrs. Brandt has been transferred to Dr. Waslow, one of our gastroenterologists.” She didn’t flinch from his hard stare. “I admitted your wife in the ER.”

His jaw appeared to tighten as he let go of Elise’s hand and sat up straighter. Challenge laced his voice, which she had noticed held a very faint accent, something she couldn’t quite place. “Do emergency doctors usually make room visits?”

Lydia didn’t respond. She continued to focus on the chart, not liking what she read there.

“Since this
Waslow
hasn’t been here yet, you can sign the papers. I want my wife discharged immediately,” he demanded. “She would prefer to be at home in her own bed where she’ll be more comfortable.”

Lydia tamped down the dislike radiating through her. She spoke with forced patience. “Mrs. Brandt presented with pain in her upper abdomen and shortness of breath. A CT scan indicated a broken rib and blood leaking into her diaphragm. While the leak may resolve on its own with bed rest—”

“As I said, she can get that
at home
.”

Her chin lifted. “We’re keeping her here for twenty-four hours, for observation and intravenous administration of a painkiller. If the bleeding gets worse or doesn’t clear up on its own within that timeframe, there may be a need to cauterize the area laparoscopically. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to further risk her health by taking her out of here.”

Brandt glared at her. Elise sniffled softly and rubbed a hand over her eyes.

“She’s staying.” Touching her shoulder, Lydia gentled her voice. “I want you to call me if you need
anything
at all, all right?”

She didn’t expect a response nor did she receive one. Still, she laid her business card on the nightstand and with a last hard look at Brandt, walked out. She wanted him to know someone was watching. Her back rigid, she had just pushed the elevator button when she heard his voice.

“Dr. Costa.”

Lydia turned. Brandt stalked toward her. “You’re the one who called the police.”

“This is the second time I’ve treated your wife in three months. Her injuries—”

“Are of her own causing.” He waved a dismissive hand, a gold Rolex glinting on his broad wrist, and sighed heavily. “I know how all this must look. But Elise is alone while I’m at work, and what she didn’t tell you is that she drinks too much and takes pills. She has blackouts and doesn’t remember half the things she does.”

No alcohol or drugs had shown up in Elise’s blood panel. Lydia felt anger bubble inside her.

He consulted his watch, frowning. “I’m missing an important meeting because of this. The housekeeper called and said Elise wasn’t feeling well and had taken a cab from the house. I had to call the taxi service to find out she’d come
here
, of all places.”

Lydia understood what he meant. A
public
hospital. She clenched her jaw as her composure broke. “Those injuries weren’t caused by a fall, and
you
know it.”

Brandt stilled, his eyes narrowing.

“Do you understand why she came to Mercy, not one of the private hospitals? She didn’t want you to know she’d gone for treatment.” Lydia pointed at the closed hospital room door. “She attempted to file as an
indigent
. You tell me why a wife would be hiding the fact that she needs medical care from her spouse. You came looking for her because you were worried someone would notify the police about her injuries.”

His tone grew indignant. “I don’t like what you’re implying—”

“I’m not
implying
anything. You’re abusing her, and she’s too afraid of you to do anything to stop it.”

The usually bustling corridor was empty for once. Scowling, Brandt took a step closer, invading her space and towering over her. Lydia felt her mouth go dry. Despite the expensive clothes, he suddenly looked more like a menacing street hood. His lips curled back in cold amusement as his eyes flicked up and down her body.

“Shame. All that pretty ruined by dumpy hospital scrubs and a snotty attitude.”

Her face grew hot. “I’m a doctor in this hospital—”

His voice lowered further. “I don’t give a damn who you are. You should learn to mind your own business.”

“And
you
should be in the back of a patrol car.”

Lydia felt a hard tremor, but she refused to back down. Rage swam in Brandt’s eyes. She understood Elise’s fear—clearly—in that moment. The elevator bell rang and the doors opened. She turned and stepped onto it. He didn’t follow, but his punishing stare remained on her until the doors closed again. Only when the elevator began its descent did Lydia allow herself to breathe. She could hear her blood rushing in her ears.

She wanted, needed, a drink. Her frayed nerves screamed for one. But her shift wasn’t over until six, a long time away.

Had she done the right thing by reporting the injuries to the police? Uncertain, Lydia rubbed a hand over her eyes. Her hope had been that their presence would give Elise a sense of security so that she might be more willing to file charges. That plan had failed with Brandt’s arrival. She thought of the moral precept drummed into every medical student.

Primum non nocere.
First, do no harm.

It was possible she had just made everything worse.

Reaching the main floor, she exited the elevator. Ryan stood in the ER lobby with Mateo and a handful of other police, plainclothes as well as uniforms. Upon seeing her, Ryan approached.

“How’s Antoine?” she asked.

“Stoned and feeling no pain. He’s in a room. They’re keeping him overnight. His wife’s in with him now.”

She looked at his bandaged arm, the sterile gauze fresh. His T-shirt sleeve only partially concealed the familiar tattoo on his upper bicep. It created an involuntary, heated memory inside her that she hadn’t been prepared for.

“Dr. Rossman doesn’t have your light touch,” Ryan said. “Four sutures. No muscle damage, though.”

“Good.” She nodded weakly, glad for some optimistic news.

Looking at her, his blue eyes filled with concern. Gently, he took her arm and guided her out of the flow of traffic. “Hey … what’s wrong?”

He knew her that well, apparently. The confrontation with Brandt had rattled her. She still felt like gelatin on the inside. But she shook her head, not wanting to involve him. “It’s nothing. I had a disagreement with a patient’s family member, is all.”

Ryan searched her face but didn’t push, understanding patient confidentiality. “You were supposed to wait for me last night.”

His tone was more questioning than accusing. She looked away from his steady gaze, not wanting to point out that he’d appeared to have made plans, and she hadn’t wanted to get in the way. She wondered again if her confirmation that she was seeing Rick Varek had spurred him to start dating. If so, she should feel happy for him. “I know … I’m sorry.”

“The downtown can be dangerous at night, Lyd. Do you still carry your pepper spray?”

He’d given it to her several years earlier, after a nurse on the night shift had been mugged outside the nearby rail station. He had insisted she carry it.

“Do you ever stop thinking like a cop?” Tilting her head at him, she sighed softly. “I keep it on my key chain, which was in my hand ready for business all the way to my car.”