Miranda (2 page)

“He arrived in critical condition. He suffered fractures to his femurs in both legs. We can repair them in surgery. However, what worries us most right now is the intracranial bleeding that we have not been able to control and is causing dangerous pressure levels on his brain. We are still very cautious about his prognosis. We've placed him in the intensive care unit and we’ll keep him in an induced coma until the pressure on his brain has been alleviated. Later we can discuss the surgeries to repair the fractured femurs.”

In summary, Norman was in very poor shape.

“Is there something I can do?” I asked as tears welled up in my eyes.

I knew nothing of medicine. I had spent years working in the healthcare industry, but not on that side. The naïve comment apparently was a bit humorous to the doctor, who half smiled.

“For now, pray a lot. He needs it.”

“May I see him?” My face echoed the supplication in my words. I needed to see him.

“Not at this time, but if all goes well, perhaps during morning visiting hours.” The doctor’s gaze shifted to the watch on her left hand. “In other words, in four hours you’ll be able to see him. Although, as I already explained, don’t expect too much from the visit. He’ll be under sedation as long as is necessary.”

“Thank you,” and I said nothing more.

This truly was very serious. Norman was in a very precarious situation.

How did you get into this Norman?

The doctor vanished, I blinked and she was gone. Once more, the blue eyes watched me with some authority.

“Will you be staying here?”

“Until I can see him, I don’t have any other choice.” The sudden changes of intonation in my answers did not seem to bother him.

“Will you have coffee with me? I would like to speak with you. You may have information that could help us understand what really happened.”

What could I know about Norman that could help solve the case?

All I knew about him was related to us and Medika, his company. Outside of that, he was unknown to me.

“Could I get in trouble for talking to you?”

The seriousness in his eyes turned into a grin that managed to calm my anxiety.

“No. You don’t need to call a lawyer, for now.” He pointed the way with his hand, in a way I thought was polite.

“In that case, I’ll join you.” I batted my lashes and turned toward the slabs that marked the path to be followed.

Are you really flirting with this man?

For some time, my hormones had been suffering from insomnia and had invaded my dreams. There were still after-effects from their last showing before the inspector woke me.

We walked down the same hallway that had led me to the waiting room. This time, instead of turning right and heading to the exit, we continued on our way to the cafeteria.

“With cream?” his voice sounded friendlier.

“What did you say?” Hernandez’s question made no sense. I was obviously on another planet.

“How do you want your coffee?” The detective, who was used to dealing with people, realized that I wasn’t in full control of all of my faculties. I wasn’t there, even if my body was.

I displayed a timid smile that I felt take shape on my face–a reaction, perhaps involuntary, to apologize for my cluelessness.

“Oh! Yes, with cream and two sugars.” Still confused, I didn’t even make a gesture to pay.

Hernandez took care of the bill and headed to a table that was secluded in a corner of the cafeteria. As in any other hospital, even that space was good for getting hypothermia. My body reacted immediately. The hairs on my arms stood up and I shivered a little. The detective poured the sugar in my coffee. He watched every detail… every move I made.

“Why were you surprised that Mr. Clausell listed you as an emergency contact person?”

Until then, I had not realized that my tone and response to receiving the phone call had been thoroughly studied. I thought it had gone unnoticed. In seconds, I checked each
of the personal files I had
in my mind before answering. I found nothing that could make sense of what was happening. I looked the detective in the eye. I was honest.

“I really don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he asked, and I realized that I did nothing but think about Norman giving me one of his usual smiles. That was all I had in mind.

“I don’t quite yet understand.” Those cop eyes didn’t reflect any emotion.

“Let me see if I can help you. How do you know Mr. Clausell?”

The story of our lives crossed my mind at lightning speed. A sigh gave way to my answer.

“He runs the company where I work.”

“Your boss?” He took a sip and jerked the cup away from his mouth, his face contorted in pain. The coffee was hot.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied. He pressed a napkin against his lips. “This always happens to me. I love this stuff so much that I always forget that they serve it hot enough to skin a chicken.”

His candidness was endearing. A silent smile allowed me to relax for several seconds. The man liked my reaction, but did not want to risk straying from the conversation.

“You were telling me that Mr. Clausell is your boss,” he commanded me to continue the story with his eyes.

“Yes.”

“And what is your relationship to him?”

The interrogation began to bother me.

“I already told you: he’s my boss.” That was another half answer.
We’ve known each other for over twenty years.

“And where do you work?”

“Medika,” I drowned the name in a sip of coffee.

Abruptly he moved the cup away from his mouth, but this time not because he had been burned.

“Medika? The pharmaceutical company?” The questions came out in a mild stutter. “Is he
the
Norman Clausell, the chairman and C.E.O. of Medika?” The way he pronounced the pronoun “he” made me understand that until that very moment, Hernandez had no idea who exactly the victim in this case was.

“Yes, yes, and yes.” I noticed that the detective was as surprised as he was disappointed to not have realized which Norman Clausell was in such serious condition sooner. I almost read his mind.
How could I miss such a detail?

He leaned forward to face me up close. If the table had not been between us, my personal space would have been invaded.

“And what is your position at Medika?”

“I’m the Director of the International Business Division,” I answered automatically, without even noticing the responsibility that entailed. He narrowed his eyes and forced his eyes further into mine. I thought they revealed an air of astonishment.

“It must be a position of great responsibility for someone who looks so young...” he remarked with the intention of giving leave to continue talking. I don’t know how he dared make such a remark if he also looked too young to be a detective.

“I’ve never been bored with my work, and about being young, well... thank you for the compliment. Let’s just say the years have treated me well.” If his questions made me uncomfortable, his scrutinizing eyes were worse. He crossed the line that delineated what he should be allowed to say and ask professionally. “I don’t think the questions related to me are going to help determine what happened to Norman.” I risked speaking to him that way to divert his attention from me.
How stupid of me. How could I think of doing such a thing?
He didn’t expect the comment, but clearly, it encouraged him. I knew it as soon as he scowled.

“I think you’re right, Miranda,” he breathed and began to speak again. “Miranda, right?”

“That’s right.” A thought crossed my mind:
I can’t believe it worked.

“I
should
talk to a relative. Do you have the contact information for any of them?”

“No,” and I thought:
He is all I have and I’m all he has.

“Do you at least know where I can get it?” He leaned back in his chair. “Wife, children?”

“No. Norman is still married, but I’ve never met his wife, much less his son.” I took another sip of coffee. “I believe his son lives in Europe.”

I stopped talking because it occurred to me where the detective could contact the woman that was still his wife.

“Do you have any paper?”

Hernandez pulled out a small notepad and pen from his jacket and placed them on the table. I reached out. With a look, I asked permission to take them. It wasn’t until he agreed with a nod that I moved them towards me. I wrote down a name and a number with my best handwriting.

“This is Norman’s attorney. He may be able to help you contact his family.” While reaching out to take the pen and pad back, he brushed my hand.

God, these hormones are driving me crazy.

“Thank you. I hope you don’t mind if I contact you again, if necessary.”

Another unwelcome thought.
Why would it bother me that such a handsome man contacts me?

“You’re welcome. I’d be happy to help you with whatever you need.” I made sure he understood that I was at his complete disposal,
for whatever he needed.

He again reached out to say goodbye. I did the same and, for a second, I sensed that his eyes were like an open book, and just when I thought I could read them, the book closed again. It was as if he had realized his misstep. Then I felt guilty about thinking how attractive I thought he was with his tanned skin, when the real reason I was there with him brought me back to reality… Norman.

I thought of calling someone… someone else from the office, of course, because they should know what was happening. I thought that a call at that hour would upset anyone, so I decided not to. I left a voicemail message with Medika’s corporate counsel, and Norman’s attorney, Ethan.

I walked towards the waiting room. There were seats available now. I entered and sat down.

I awoke to the ring of the cell phone. Yawning and anxious, the cell that I had in my hands fell to the floor. I answered with a raspy, cracking voice.

“Miranda Wise, hello.”

I recognized Ethan’s voice instantly.

“What the hell is going on?” Tactfulness had never been one of his strengths. “Where the hell are you?”

I had forgotten my executive voice and used a more calm and informal one.

“In the hospital waiting room,” I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to feel my body’s reactions and make sure that it was still there. If only there was still hope of waking up from a bad dream.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“Yes. It’s Norman. He had an accident a few hours ago.” My voice cracked the moment I said
accident
.

“God! What happened to him? How is he? How is Norman?”

My silence aggravated Ethan’s usual characteristic anxiousness. He asked me again how our friend was. I explained briefly, without embellishing the situation: “It’s bad.”

That instant, only silence came across the other end of the line. Then, a moment later:

“I’m on my way. You can explain in person.” The called ended.

The cell’s screen backlight had barely shut off when I heard a masculine voice above all others.

“Relative of Norman Clausell!”

I felt like they were calling me, like I was that person, even if I wasn’t. I looked up and saw a nurse in blue clothing, standing below the “authorized access only” doorway. The man saw me and, noticing my anguished expression when hearing Norman’s name, knew that I was the one he was looking for. He waved me toward him using the papers in his hand, opened the door a little more, and indicated the way with his other hand.

“You may see Mr. Clausell now.”

I followed the nurse through another set of doors with a sign that read
Intensive Care Unit.
We passed three cubicles and arrived at Norman’s. It seemed like there was no hospital equipment that wasn’t connected to his body. I watched him carefully. His face had suffered enough: his cheeks were swollen and purple, and the inflammation in his right eye was worse. The impression this made left me standing at the foot of his bed staring with a lump in my throat, an upset stomach, and short of breath.

“You may stay for a few minutes. Dr. Martinez will come to speak with you soon.”

I approached Norman. With every step I took, I seemed to feel the pain of his wounds in my own flesh. My legs couldn’t stand it anymore and there, next to the bed, I fell to my knees. I took his pinky between my hands. I began talking to him the way he always spoke to me.

“I don’t have time for this, Norman. You better get out of here quickly. This is no time to be taking a vacation. Leave that to others.” I could barely hold back my tears. I couldn’t help but think of our last conversation, less than twenty-four hours ago.

Norman had been leading a campaign against me. He was determined that I devote myself to living. He would say that I spent too much time studying and working–that at thirty-two it was time for me to do something more with my life.

Did he sense that something would happen to him?

I felt a stare at my back. I couldn’t lift my head. The weight of profound sadness from seeing him this way was too much. A woman spoke from the doorway. It seemed to me like she didn’t want to see my reaction to the bad news. She must have learned that was the best way to deliver it: without looking people in the eye.