No Cure for Murder (29 page)
Shelly continued, “It’s common knowledge in the neighborhood that you and Angelina didn’t get along.”
“I wished them damn people would mind their own fucking business.”
“Milo?”
“Shit yeah, we didn’t get along. Big deal. I’ve had it with that bitch. Don’t expect me to shed any tears over that loser. She’s always in and out of the hospital and I’m plain sick of it.”
“Since you don’t have an alibi, I think we better continue this downtown.”
“Now wait just a minute,” he said pointing a grease-stained finger at Shelly. “I didn’t want to say nothing, but I had company that night.”
“Company?”
He wiped his face with a oil-stained rag. “You know...a lady friend.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Misty...Candy...damned if I know. Met her in a bar in Oakland.”
“What bar?”
“I don’t like this shit. Maybe I need a lawyer,” he said pacing and looking into the right rear corner of the garage.
Shelly’s eyes followed his glance to a shelf on which stood an open container of antifreeze.
When Shelly’s eyes returned to Milo’s, he made a sudden sprint for the open door only to meet Hastings who grabbed him by his overalls. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere buddy.”
“Cuff him,” said Shelly, “and read him his rights.”
“Got good news for you, chief.”
“I could use it.”
“We arrested Milo Cass for attempted murder this afternoon. Once he started talking, we couldn’t shut him up. He hated Angelina and got the idea from a TV episode of E.R.. He snuck into her room and pushed three syringe-fulls of antifreeze into her feeding tube.”
“Brier Hospital’s going to give a great sigh of relief,” said Ira.
Word of the arrest flashed through Brier.
“That’s great news,” Bruce Bryant said to Warren Davidson and Jack Byrnes. “Finally, we can get things back to normal.”
Warren looked at Jack and shook his head. He turned back to Bruce. “You must be kidding. You think that Milo Cass, an auto mechanic, wandered through Brier Hospital, unseen. That he killed or tried to kill our patients with morphine, Lidocaine and heparin. That’s pretty sophisticated stuff for someone without medical knowledge.”
“You can learn anything on the Internet,” said Bruce.
“Don’t live in a dream world,” said Jack. “We have an attempted murderer, but someone’s out there a lot smarter and much more dangerous.”
Tommy Wells walked toward Kelly’s Bar, glancing down at his new black Adler slip-on shoes. Four hundred bucks. A few more with the habit of Morgan Ferris and I’ll get that Porsche, he thought.
When Tommy rounded the corner, he came to a complete stop.
The Oakland Police cruiser sat in front of Kelly’s bar, blue lights flashing. A moment later, Morgan Ferris, hands cuffed behind his back and a policeman on each arm, bent over to enter the police car’s rear door.
As the officer placed his hand over Morgan’s head to protect it, Morgan’s eyes widened as they met with Tommy’s.
Tommy turned and walked away. I’m screwed. They’re going to want his supplier...he’ll make a deal. I’m fucked.
One more score...a big one...right away, then I’m out of here.
Chapter Fifty-One
Jacob looked for an opportunity to sit and talk with Zoe. It was unlike him to procrastinate on anything, especially things that involved his practice or people he cared about. Jacob couldn’t see much of himself in Zoe. In many ways they were polar opposites.
Maybe I’ve been projecting, one of Lola’s favorite words, too much on Zoe as my legacy, the guardian for a sixty-year practice.
He watched her in the office and on rounds in the hospital. He read her notes with particular attention to her thoroughness. He made subtle inquiries of physicians who worked with her and patients she treated.
“She’s great! A real asset to your practice, Jacob,” said several physicians.
Questioning patients about Zoe was more difficult, no less interrogating them, but Jacob got a series of reactions: “I love Dr. Spelling, Doc...don’t take it personally, but it’s nice to have a woman physician for a change. Smart as hell, and great to look at, too. Good move, Doc. It’s great knowing she’s around. And, sometimes her mind seems elsewhere, Doc. Maybe she’s overworked.”
At the end of a busy afternoon, Jacob knocked on Zoe’s office and stuck his head in. “I have a few things to do, then can we sit for a minute and talk?”
“Why sure, Jacob. Is anything wrong?”
“You drink decaf? I’ll make a pot and meet you in the lounge.”
“Decaf’s fine.”
Zoe listened to the ‘goodnights’, the ‘see you in the mornings’, as the last of the staff left for the day. She entered the lounge to the smell of freshly brewing coffee. She sat on the aging sofa, picked out a magazine, but only stared at the pages, unable to read. After a few minutes, she stood and paced, becoming agitated. Just when she decided to seek him out, Jacob arrived.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I was on the phone with a patient about to lose it. It took me a while to bring her down.”
“I don’t know how you still have the patience for that after all these years.”
“It’s no different from looking at a throat or prescribing antibiotics, Zoe. It’s giving patients what they need.”
“What did you want to see me about?”
“Have a seat. I only want to take a few minutes to see how you’re doing...how we’re doing.”
Zoe sat on the sofa’s edge twisting a lock of hair. “Have I done something wrong? Is anyone complaining about me?”
“You’re a sophisticated woman, Zoe. I don’t expect perfection from myself or anyone else. You can bet that one time or another, the world will blame you for what you do right and praise you for what you did wrong. That’s why Lola says the only critic that counts is the one in here. ” He pointed at his head.
“I still don’t know why we’re having this conversation.”
“People have noticed that you seem troubled. They don’t know if it’s personal or professional, and I’m not sure that it’s any of my business.”
“What people?” Zoe’s face began burning.
“I’m not making this a matter of personality, Zoe. I’ve noticed, as have others, that something’s affecting your work.”
“My work. Who’s complaining about my work?”
“How are things at home?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“God damn it, Zoe! I’m trying to help you. I don’t want to be your shrink. I’m your partner and your friend. If that’s not enough for you,” Jacob said rising, “then goodnight.”
Zoe choked over each breath. She reached for Jacob’s arm. “No...don’t...I’m sorry, it’s just...”
“It’s just what?”
“I only want to please you, and Lola too. You’re the kind of person...the kind of doctor I’ve always wanted to be.”
“You’ve heard the term ‘feet of clay’? It’s Biblical, you know.”
“I know. It’s from the Book of Daniel.”
“You know your Bible,” said Jacob then he continued, “I have my faults and like any thoughtful person, I want people to appreciate me as a real person, not as fantasy. I’ve made my mistakes...you’ve seen some yourself.”
Jacob hesitated. “These are our observations: You make promises to staff and patients, then you don’t keep them. You don’t return patient phone calls. You slough off reports and letters to me...I really don’t need the extra work, and your interest in your patients goes from disinterest to dismissive. You’ve got to know how I feel about that.”
“That’s unfair...I’m trying so hard...”
“I’m not sure that I want you to respond to these observations. The last thing I want you to do is go on the defensive. Something’s going on with you, Zoe. I know it. People you work with know it, and I think you must know it too.”
“Maybe I should resign.”
Jacob ran his hand over his scalp. “That’s great. You want to take the easy way out. For what? What’s so terrible that you’re unwilling or unable to work out some simple problems?”
Zoe’s eyes focused on a point behind Jacob. With shoulders rolled forward and neck muscles taut, she looked like a spring stretched to its breaking point. “Jacob, I can’t talk...If you only knew what I’m going through...”
“I’m trying to help you like a father.”
“I know. Since we first met, I thought of you as a grandfather...no, a father is more accurate.
“If you can’t talk to me, talk to Lola or have her refer you to someone who can help. We love you, Zoe. The last thing we want is to lose you.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Carleton Dix had finished his last counseling session of the day.
I’m sure glad that one’s over, he thought. How much teenage whining I can take?
Carleton Dix’s secretary came to his door. “I have a woman on the phone, chaplain. She refuses to identify herself.”
“What’s it about?”
“She says she’s an old friend from up north.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take the call.”
He pushed the flashing line button. “Reverend Dix. How can I help you?”
“My, my, how formal. Is that the way to treat a special old friend?”
“My God...Rita, is it really you?”
“In the flesh, and it’s good to hear those soothing tones again. It’s been a while. We really miss you up here, especially on those cold winter nights. How are you doing in the land of Sodom and Gomorrah?”
“Saving souls...lots to save down here. I hope your call means you’ve decided to come here for a vacation. I would enjoy seeing you.”
“I bet you would,” she purred. “Sorry, but right now First Rapid City United couldn’t survive without me. I have talents.”
“I hope you’re not employing those talents at work, Rita.”
“No. I’m exploring other, less risky venues.”
“Well, what can I do for you?”
“No reverend, it’s what can I do for you. Is everything okay in Berkeley?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m afraid a private investigator, Terrence Wilcox from Sioux Falls, has managed to open old wounds with his questions about you and your interlude with us.”
He felt a hollow cramp sensation in the pit of his stomach and began sweating. “What did you tell him?”
“Me, I told him nothing, but he had conversations with the president of the church, several elders, county social services, and with the police. I think, my friend, that old faucets leak, no matter how hard you try to tighten them.”
Please, dear God, the chaplain thought, stunned into silence.
After a minute, Rita said, “Are you still there?”
“Yes, Rita. This is terrible news.”
“Adios, chaplain. Give me a call sometime from wherever your travels take you.”
When Byron Harwood pulled into the driveway, he was surprised to see Zoe’s car. He checked his watch, 6:30 p.m. He couldn’t remember her getting home before 8:00 p.m. in the last year. Byron grasped the knob to the door leading from the garage to the kitchen. It turned, but he had to push hard before it opened. Got to fix that damn door.
He lifted his nose in the hope that Zoe had prepared dinner, but sensed instead, cigarette smoke and trouble. “Zoe, I’m home,” he yelled.
He put his briefcase on the kitchen table and walked through the house. After checking the upstairs bedroom and the den, he retraced his step. Through the patio windows, he saw rising wisps of cigarette smoke.
“Hey, sweetheart, didn’t you hear me come in?”
Zoe took a long drag on her cigarette, and then looked away. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I thought you stopped smoking.”
“I did.”
“You’re home early. Is everything okay?”
She turned to face him. Her eyes were red, but cold. “Who is she?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Please, Byron. Don’t insult my intelligence. Just tell me who she is.”
“Please, Zoe,” he said approaching her. He reached for her hand, but she jerked it away.
“Don’t...don’t touch me.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“How could you do this to me? After all we’ve been through together. How could you?”
“This is absurd, Zoe. I won’t know what you’re thinking until you say it.”
“Why is the wife the last one to know? Tell me about The Waterfront Plaza Hotel.”