The Society (28 page)
The legal reports seemed to be repeated attempts on the part of several different merger-and-acquisition experts to devise a formula for assigning stock and power to at least seven managed-care companies, all of them located in the Northeast. In addition to Premier Health, Cyrill Davenport’s Unity Comprehensive Health was on the list. However, the companies headed by Marcia Rising and Dr. Richard Leaf were not. Aside from the original memo, there did not seem to be any further direct contact between Halliday and Morales.
A merger,
Patty thought as she set the last of the documents aside.
Now, what’s that all about?
Had it ever actually happened? Was it still on the table? Where did Ben Morales stand on the possibility? Were the other victims’ companies involved?
Suddenly energized, she inspected the contents of the final cartons in much less time than the first two, then called and firmed up an appointment with Gloria Davenport.
When Patty finally came downstairs, Wendy Morales was preparing macaroni and cheese in the kitchen.
“Find anything helpful?” Wendy asked.
“Maybe. Did you know anything about a merger or proposed merger between Premier Health and some other companies?”
“No, but that’s not possible. Ben would never allow it.”
“Why?”
“This company was his life. He had wonderful plans for it. Someday he hoped to use it as a vehicle for bringing health-care coverage to those who couldn’t afford it. He would sooner have lost his arm than his company.”
“Do you mind if I borrow those cartons for a while? I’d like to go through them again. I promise to return everything very soon.”
“No problem. Just a minute and I’ll help you carry them down. You can’t stop right in the middle of preparing Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, you know. I add a little ketchup and some sour cream. That’s how my mother used to make it for me.”
“Sounds delicious,” Patty said. “For me it’s always been chunks of hot dogs.”
After the last of the cartons was loaded into the Camaro, Wendy shuffled back to the house, head down. If Patty needed a reason to keep pounding away at the managed-care murders, there she was. She waited until Ben Morales’s widow had closed the door, then took the Beethoven out of the CD player and replaced it with Willie Nelson’s “If You’ve Got the Money (I’ve Got the Time).”
A merger
, she thought again as she pulled away.
Is that a piece of the puzzle, or is that the puzzle?
The mammography unit of the Excelsius Health Cancer Center was beautifully appointed, with richly paneled walls and warm, inviting furnishings. Given the unpleasant exchange that had taken place with Charles Newcomber over the surgical referral for Grace Peng Davis, Will decided that a frontal assault on the man was the way to go rather than trying to call and set up an appointment.
Shortly after Will left home for the drive to the cancer center, Augie Micelli called his cell phone and insisted that he pull off to the side of the road.
“Okay, now,” the attorney said, “give it to me once more. I want to hear your account of the day you passed out in the OR—inch-by-inch, moment-by-moment. I want everything.”
“I just spent a while this morning retracing every move I could remember.”
“Okay, tell me about that, too. There’s a hole in this someplace and we’ve got to find it.”
The Law Doctor sounded vibrant, focused, and energized—a completely different man from the one Will had watched get progressively drunk during their first meeting. Sounding very much like a courtroom barrister, he guided Will through his account with carefully phrased, incisive questions designed to coax out information without being leading. When he was satisfied Will had nothing further to add, Micelli shared what he had learned about the pharmacology of fentanyl. It was an astounding amount of information—far more than Will had ever possessed.
“Has learning all that helped in any way?” Will asked.
“Not yet, but knowledge isn’t represented as a torch for nothing. Assuming you are telling the truth, and I choose to make that assumption, we are searching for an explanation of an event that defies explanation.”
“I understand.”
“I’m behind you all the way on this, Grant,” he said, “but I sure could use some sort of a story that makes sense about how that stuff could have gotten into your body.”
“I have a whole bunch of stories that make absolutely
no
sense,” Will replied. “Will that help?”
“Keep trying. And remember, it doesn’t have to be right, it just has to be plausible.”
Finally, with the promise to stay in touch at least twice a day, Will hung up and pulled off the soft shoulder, back onto the road. With his understanding of both law and medicine, Micelli was going to be a godsend. As Will headed off, he almost immediately became lost in yet another conundrum—the strange finding of the BB in Grace’s chest that did not appear in her mammogram. As with the fentanyl, no explanation made sense, but there was a reality that simply could not be ignored.
The scenario that he kept coming back to was that Grace was a rather thin woman, though broad across the shoulders. Perhaps somehow the angles of the X-ray camera in taking her breast films simply missed the BB. Not very likely but, as the Law Doctor said, plausible—certainly a possibility worth reviewing with Newcomber and also with one of the radiologists at FGH. In fact, Will decided as he pulled up to the clinic, he was going to get a second opinion no matter what. The trick would be getting back into the hospital again without being spotted by Sid Silverman or one of his security people and tossed out onto the street like a barfly. He had made it once. Making it a second time might be asking too much.
Will’s plan to get to Charles Newcomber was simple—act as if he knew what he was doing and not use his real name. Before leaving for the mammography unit he had called in as Dr. Davidson, hoping to review some films with Dr. Newcomber. He was assured by the operator that the doctor was, in fact, in his office and currently on the phone. Will entered the building carrying an X-ray envelope containing films of his left ankle, taken several years ago after he twisted it in a pickup basketball game.
Remember
, he told himself,
look confident, keep moving
.
The crowded waiting room was just what he needed. Two women were queued up in front of a silver-haired receptionist, who was manning the counter alone and seemed frazzled. Seven or eight others, most of whom had someone with them, filled many of the chairs. Will surveyed the room quickly as he strode toward the reception desk. There was only one corridor off the waiting area—Newcomber’s office had to be down there someplace.
“Dr. Davidson,” he said, smiling and holding up the envelope of films as he marched confidently past the receptionist and down the corridor. For several uncomfortable seconds he expected her to call him back and demand more information, but self-assuredness and the title “Doctor” won the moment. To his left, a sign directed patients to the dressing and X-ray rooms. To his right were a series of offices. The doors to each of them were closed except for the one farthest away, which faced the corridor. A discreet plaque fixed to the wall beside it read
Dr. Newcomber
. Seated inside, behind his desk, dictating into a handset, was an unimposing, rotund, ruddy-faced man with a mop of pure white hair. Will was still approaching the door when he realized that what looked like a full head of hair was actually a silver monk’s fringe topped by one of the worst hairpieces he had ever seen.
He was at the doorway before Charles Newcomber glanced up. The radiologist’s expression was one of interest as he scanned Will up and down.
“Looking for someone?” he asked, his voice soft and high-pitched, his tone somewhat inviting.
“Dr. Newcomber.”
“You found him.”
Newcomber continued his appraisal. Will stepped into the room and gently closed the door behind him.
“Dr. Newcomber, I’m Dr. Will Grant.”
The radiologist’s color drained. He placed the handset on the desk.
“I thought you were in prison. What do you want?”
“To come in and speak with you.”
“I’m busy and you’re a drug addict. Get out.”
Will took a small step forward.
“It’s about Grace Davis,” he said, “the woman I called you about a while ago who wanted to switch surgeons.”
“I don’t talk about my patients.”
“You read a cancer in her mammogram and she had the tumor removed and diagnosed by pathology, but I don’t think it was her X-rays you read.”
“That’s crazy.”
Newcomber had picked up a pencil and begun fidgeting with it nervously.
“She’s had a BB in her chest wall since she was a child,” Will went on. “It’s there in the chest X-ray that was done this morning but not in her mammograms—at least not that her husband or I remember.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m sure you just missed it. Probably stoned on something. Now, get out.”
The man’s discomfort was almost palpable. Will took another step toward him. He was now five feet or so from the desk and reminding himself not to lose his cool or do anything stupid.
“Let’s just look at her films together,” he said.
“You have a notarized release?”
“I’m a doctor, for goodness sake. Don’t you want to know if there’s been some sort of mistake?”
“I don’t make mistakes. Now, get out or I’ll call security.”
“I didn’t come here looking for trouble,” Will said, feeling his frustration and his temperature beginning to rise. “Just get the films and let’s look at them together.”
“No!”
The pencil snapped in two. Newcomber’s face was radish red. He was on his feet now, his hands gripping the edge of his massive desk. Will decided to press on. Either the man was going to break down or he was going to go ballistic and let something slip to explain why he was reacting so excessively. Certain he was in command of the situation, Will made the slightest move forward again. The moments that followed were a blur. Newcomber suddenly yanked open the right-hand drawer of the desk, jammed his hand in, and came out with a snub-nosed revolver clutched in his stubby fingers. Hand quivering, he aimed it at the center of Will’s chest.
Will had never had a gun pointed at him for any reason. He froze, his mind frantically sorting out the possibilities available to him. There was no way to tell how close Newcomber was to pulling the trigger, but the amalgam of fear and fury in his expression said that a shooting, accidental or purposeful, could happen any moment. Will raised his hands and took a step back toward the door.
“Easy, Charles,” he said. “Easy. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“Now, get out!”
His eyes still fixed on the portly radiologist, Will backed away. Without looking, he reached behind him, grasped the knob, and opened the door. He could now whirl and dive into the hall, but if the man began spraying shots, one or more of them was bound to hit.
“I didn’t come here to cause you any trouble,” he heard himself saying.
Newcomber said nothing. The revolver drifted slightly to the right, away from Will’s chest. The man’s tension seemed as if it might have lessened just a bit.
Will risked pressing on. “Listen, Charles, whatever is going on with you, maybe I can help. I’m a really good doctor. I’m sure you are, too. We only want what’s best for our patient. That woman Grace Peng Davis is very special. She was once a hopeless alcoholic—a real fringe player in life, an outcast. Then she got sober and pulled herself out of the gutter. Yesterday she almost died from her first chemo treatment. Now therapy for her cancer is going to be a problem. She doesn’t deserve this. Charles, we’re doctors. If there’s something the matter with all this, we need to help her.”
“Get out,” Newcomber rasped, now clearly hyperventilating. “Get out or I swear I’ll kill you.”
“Call me,” Will said. “Wolf Hollow Drive in Fredrickston. I’m in the book. Please call and we can talk.”
He backed through the door, half expecting to see flame suddenly spit from the muzzle. Finally he pulled the door closed, turned, and hurried down the hall.
Charles Newcomer sank back into his chair, sweat accumulating beneath his toupee, soaking through his shirt, and glistening across his forehead and upper lip. More than a minute passed before he loosened his grip on the revolver. Finally, some of his composure regained, he lifted the phone and dialed. An answering machine took his call. There was no greeting, only a beep.
“Listen,” he said, “Will Grant was just here. He knows something’s wrong with Grace Davis’s mammogram. You told me she was the last one. You promised me no one would ever know. Well, Grant’s suspicious. He’s going to keep poking around. I can handle him, but I’m going to destroy the films—all of them. I want the rest of the money you owe me, I want the videos, and I want out.”
He slammed the receiver down.
“You promised,” he muttered, removing a printout list from his desk drawer, folding it in thirds, and slipping it into the pocket of his sports coat. “The money, the video, and a ticket out of here. You promised.”
For the second time in six hours, Will entered the hospital from which he had been professionally and physically suspended. This time, though, the security guard in the lobby merely looked at him and nodded. He was expected. The phone in his condo was actually ringing when he arrived home, shaken and bewildered from the bizarre encounter with Charles Newcomber. As with every call now, Will lifted the receiver expecting to hear the killer’s unsettling electronic voice.
“Grant?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Sid Silverman.”
Sid, listen
, Will came close to blurting out.
I’m really sorry I came into the hospital this morning. I had to see a patient of mine.
“What’s up?” he managed instead.
“We need you to come into the hospital for a meeting. Three o’clock.”
“What’s this about?”