The Society (36 page)

While Micelli was making his rapid-fire volley of calls, Will made two—the unsuccessful attempt to reach Patty and a call to Jim Katz. The older surgeon’s relief was almost palpable. If the killer was true to his promise, he would be off the hook. After that, only time would tell whether or not his frangible relationship with Will could heal.

Beyond Patty and the vast implications of the overlooked clothing bag, Will wondered about Charles Newcomber and how the odd little radiologist would handle a visit from both him and Susan Hollister. Images of the radiologist—red-faced, terrified, trembling, and perilously close to firing a bullet into Will’s chest—brought a fist-size knot to his gut. Susan was as calm and elegant as he was emotional, and if anyone could break through Newcomber’s bizarre paranoia, it was she—especially armed with a notarized release from Grace Davis. Still, dealing with the man would be a test.

Will rolled from his back to his side and finally felt the beginnings of sleep settling in. For a time, the blue plastic clothing bag floated through his thoughts like the Goodyear blimp. Then, quite strangely, he envisioned himself as he would from the dirigible, lying in the bed in the ICU, an endotracheal tube connecting his lungs to a ventilator. It was a sickening vision, but symbolically the scene marked the beginning of the hell he had been through, and envisioning it now, so soon after Augie’s incredible find in the ER supply closet, meant that he had begun the journey back to reclaim his life.

Finally . . . finally . . .

As his breathing slowed, and the tension in his neck and shoulders abated, two words echoed in the darkness in his mind:
Who? . . .
and
Why? . . .

Where could she be? . . . What’s happened to her? . . .

Will awoke the way he had drifted off—bewildered by a torrent of questions. By the time he left Micelli’s apartment to pick up Susan, he was consumed with fear for Patty. She knew where he was staying. Something had to have happened to her last night or she would have contacted him. Worse still, there was no obvious way he could find out if his concerns were founded. Phoning her office got him only an answering service. He left a message for her and then one for Wayne Brasco, as well, feeling that the man now in charge of the managed-care murders would return any call from him.

Will pulled into the lot behind his office, a captive of worry and his own wild imagination. Was there anything else he could do to locate her? What kind of danger did she feel he was in last night? Had it passed? Was it safe for him to go back to his condo? Had she been in danger, too? Would she be angry with him if he tried to call her father?

Susan, looking the total professional in a conservative charcoal-gray suit, kept her phone pressed against her ear and her conversation going as she motioned him to the chair across the desk from her.

“Well, thanks again,” she was saying. “I really never expected to enjoy The Boss as much as I did. It was just great. We’ll talk later, okay? Bye.”

The breathless way she said the last word left no doubt in Will’s mind that she was talking to someone special to her.

“So, you’re a new Springsteen fan.”

“I want
him
to think so,” she replied, gesturing to the phone, “but if I had just one last concert I could go to, I’d still take Cecilia Bartoli or Yo-Yo Ma.”

“Let’s hope you don’t have to make that choice for a long time.”

“Amen to that. Well, the hospital lawyer stopped by and left a notarized authorization she went and got last night from Grace Davis, so we’re all set.”

“Amen to that.”

“Are you all right?”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re partners and I’ve seen you almost every day for years and you always look exhausted. Don’t take this wrong, now, but today the bags under your eyes are baggier and the droop of your lids are droopier, and you nicked yourself shaving, which you almost never do, and—”

“Okay, okay, enough. The truth is, last night was a real emotional roller coaster that ended at around three or four o’clock this morning with me sleeping on a pullout in the Law Doctor’s living room.”

“The Law Doctor! Will, I forgot to ask. Did anything good come of last night?”

“Well,” he said, dragging out the word and managing a self-effacing grin. “I think you could say that.”

“Yes!” Susan exclaimed, pumping her fist.

Will hurried through the events surrounding the clothing bag. Susan’s expression was one of amazement and excitement.

“Incredible,” she said. “D’you think the insoles will be positive for fentanyl?”

“I don’t want to even consider the possibility that they won’t.”

“Me, neither. So, did you drink too much last night? Is that why you ended up on the couch?”

Will hesitated, then checked his watch. They had half an hour. He hadn’t really spoken to anyone about his connection with Patty, but suddenly he wanted to. And Susan, who had supported him in the Society and worried about his isolation and long work hours like a protective sister, was the perfect person on whom to unburden.

“You know Patty Moriarity, the detective?”

“Very cute, very serious, carries a gun.”

“Well, she and I have begun . . . um . . . seeing each other.”

“Aha! You know, when she was hanging around here interviewing everyone, I actually thought in passing that she looked and sounded like an interesting match for you. The gun turned me off, though.”

“I’m a little embarrassed to say it, but even though at first the notion of it made me edgy, recently it’s actually begun to sort of turn me on.”

“I thought you said Newcomber’s gun scared you half to death.”

“Correction.
Newcomber
scared me half to death. Having him standing there like an apoplectic frog, his hands trembling as he held a gun on me, merely came close to completing the job.”

“Well, I’m happy for you. You’re going through tough times, and having someone has got to help.”

“It would, only she seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“She left a message with Augie Micelli that I was in danger and should stay with him last night, then she never got back to me.”

“I don’t know,” Susan said. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Police are always going on stakeouts and clandestine operations and such and—”

“Ah no, young sir. You are too simple. You might have said a great many things about this proboscis of mine.
Mon dieu,
why waste your opportunity.”

The bellowing was coming from the waiting room.

“. . . For example, thus: Aggressive: Sir, if that nose were mine I’d have it amputated on the spot! . . .”

There was no question the voice was Gordo’s, yet it wasn’t.

“. . . Friendly: How do you drink with such a nose. You ought to have a cup made specially. . . .”

Will and Susan hurried through her office door and down the hall to the waiting room entrance.

“. . . The descriptive: ’Tis a rock, a crag, a cape! . . .”

Cameron, gleaming epee in hand, darted about the deserted waiting room with surprising grace, furiously fencing against an invisible adversary. He was sartorially quite subdued this day—tan slacks, white dress shirt, sedate suspenders, blue tie. A navy blazer lay over one of the chairs.

“. . . A cape? Nay! Say rather a peninsula. The curious: What is that receptacle—a razor case or a portfolio? . . .”

Amused and astounded as much by Cameron’s deftness with the sword as the recital, itself, his two partners stood by the wall, arms folded, and watched.

“. . . The kindly: Ah, do you love the little birds so much that when they come to sing to you, you give them this perch to sit on?”

Cameron noticed them and lowered his sword, his head tilted back haughtily.

“Cyrano?” Will asked.

“Very good, lad,” Cameron replied, his brogue now returned, richer than ever. “Believe it or not, I’ve won the role of de Bergerac in my local community theater’s upcoming production.”

“That’s wonderful, Gordo,” Susan exclaimed. “Cyrano de Bergerac is a marvelous play.”

“Yes, bravo,” Will said. “You surely seem to have the skill and the voice. But wasn’t Cyrano . . . um . . . I mean, wasn’t he . . .”

“Thin?” Cameron said, instantaneously changing his accent from Robert Burns to Olivier. “I, sir, am the consummate actor. I can do British, I can do French—
bonjour, mademoiselle et monsieur
. I can do German—I vas only following orders. I can do Confederate—frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn. And by God, I CAN DO THIN!”

He switched accents facilely as he spoke and was right on with each of them. Will suddenly remembered a number of times over the years when Gordo had regaled a cocktail party with stories requiring accents and even impressions. The man was good.

“Well, Gordo,” he said, “if anyone can pull off a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Cyrano, my money’s on you.”

He smiled and patted his partner on the back, but something had started gnawing at him. When he was retracing his steps through the hospital, searching for the way someone could have gotten fentanyl into his body, and trying to tie the frame-up to the serial killer, he wondered about Gordo simply because he was around that fateful morning. Now another piece had fallen into place—the OR shoes. Gordo had ready access to his locker, and Will kept the key to it on the ring with his car keys. If the man really wanted to, there were any number of ways he could have gotten the key to make a duplicate. In fact, Will felt certain, within recent weeks Cameron had borrowed his car at least once—maybe even twice.

Troublesome, though, in linking Gordo to the phone calls was that even with his voice electronically distorted, the killer had absolutely no accent, and certainly no brogue. There was no way Will could believe the caller was Gordo—no way until now. Opportunity, method—all that was missing to close the circle was motive.

“We should get going,” Susan said. “In an hour I have some varicose veins to make magically disappear. Hey, Cyrano, knees slightly bent, head more erect, and keep your tip up.”

“Since when did you become interested in my tip, lass?”

“Come on, Will, this is Cyrano de Pigsty.”

With a flourish Will thrust a phantom sword deep into Cameron’s gut.

“Keep your tip up, Gordo,” he said.

Over the short drive to the Excelsius Cancer Center, Susan had Will fill in the rest of last night’s story, including more about the unsettling call from Patty to Augie Micelli.

“If you’re worried, then I’m worried,” she said, “but I certainly sense that this is a very capable woman who almost surely can take care of herself. If she hasn’t called, it’s probably because whatever operation she was involved in simply isn’t over yet.”

“I hope you’re right, and I appreciate your listening to me.”

“Hey, I’m all for young love. Like The Boss sang at the Fleet Center last night: ‘I wanna die with you Wendy on the streets tonight in an everlasting kiss.’ ”

“‘Born to Run.’ ”

“Exactly.”

“So he
did
get to you.”

“Just don’t let Yo-Yo find out.”

The parking lot of the mammography unit of the Excelsius Cancer Center was largely deserted.

“How should we do this?” Susan asked.

“Carefully, that’s how. Very carefully. The man’s sanity seemed to be hanging by a thread. I know it would probably go smoother if just you went in, but the truth is, Newcomber and I have some unfinished business, and I really do want to face him again. I didn’t leave his office easily or without comment, even with that gun waving at me. It was clear that something was terrifying him. The man was screaming at me like a banshee. When I first called him about changing his referral from you to me, he sounded angry way out of proportion to the situation. Same deal yesterday. The thing is, even though I was the one who was there, I’m not at all sure it was me he was frightened of. I tried to calm him down, to convince him I wasn’t a threat. I told him Grace’s story—how she made it all the way back from the gutter. I begged him to get in touch with me, to let me help him with whatever was wrong, but he just got more and more agitated until it really did seem as if he might pull the trigger.”

“And you want
me
to be the first one through his office door?”

Will turned her to him by the shoulders and perched her chin up on his fingertips.

“Maybe that’s not such a good idea after all.”

“No, it’s okay,” Susan said. “I’ve met him before, remember? Besides, who could shoot someone with such an angelic face as this?”

The entrance to the mammography wing of the Excelsius Cancer Center was on the south side. The waiting room was empty save for two women in their fifties and the silver-haired receptionist who had let Will visit Newcomber on his last visit.

“Dr. Davidson,” she said, “nice to see you again.”

Will nearly corrected her, then remembered making up the name. He made a major upward revision of his initial impression of the woman’s sharpness. Susan’s expression said that she had caught on immediately.

“Thank you for remembering me, Mrs. . . .”

“Medeiros. Martha Medeiros. I have a thing about remembering names and faces. Sort of a hobby.”

She tried for a coquettish smile that missed by about four decades.

“This is—”

“I know, I know, Dr. Hollister,” she said proudly. “Sandra?”

“Susan,” Susan said. “That’s remarkable. Absolutely amazing. It’s been about a year since I was here.”

“Thank you. I enjoy shocking people.”

“Consider me shocked.”

“Mrs. Medeiros, we’re here to see Dr. Newcomber.”

“Was he expecting you?”

“No, but we just need to pick up a set of mammograms from him.”

“Well, Dr. Newcomber isn’t here.” Will and Susan exchanged disappointed glances. “He never comes in on Thursdays until after one. It’s like his day off, only it’s just half a day. Dr. Debra Grossbaum is here. Can she help you?”

Susan stepped forward and handed over the release signed by Grace Davis and notarized by Attorney Jill Leary.

“All we need are these films. Can you help us out there?”