Critical (33 page)

“I'd say that was important enough. And who exactly are you?”

After Laurie had identified herself, Dr. Friedlander made the call. As soon as he got Osgood on the line, he told him that a Dr. Laurie Montgomery was standing in his office and wanted to speak with him. Laurie reached out for the phone, but Dr. Friedlander put up his hand to have her wait. Laurie could not hear what Dr. Osgood was saying, but Dr. Friedlander locked eyes with her as he intermittently said “yes” into the phone with a final “I understand.” He then dropped the receiver into its cradle before returning his attention to Laurie and said, “Sorry, I'm afraid Dr. Osgood is fully engaged. He asked that you call him back sometime today at the home office. I can give you the number.” Taking one of his own business cards, he circled the Angels Healthcare number and, leaning across his desk, handed it over to Laurie.

Mildly chagrined at being so impersonally rejected when she thought she was about to do the man a favor, Laurie turned on her heels and walked out of the windowless office.

 

NOW IT WAS
definitely an emergency, Walter Osgood reasoned. The first time it had been vague intuition, based mostly on Dr. Laurie Montgomery's resistance to accepting his rationale for failing to have the MRSA completely characterized. But now it was different. She was back in the Angels Orthopedic Hospital, despite the company's CEO all but telling her directly not to return, and on this occasion requesting to speak with him of all people.

Getting out the emergency number again, Walter called Washington. This time the phone rang even more times than it had the previous day, yet it was eventually answered. The deep, wary voice on this occasion sounded sleep-addled. “What is it this time?”

“The same problem.”

“Are you on a landline?”

“Yes.”

“Call me back at this number.” The man gave Walter another number, then disconnected.

Walter waited for several minutes before dialing. The same man answered, although the slight hoarseness was gone. “Are you talking about the medical examiner?”

“Yes, she came back this morning, apparently investigating even though she was all but told not to. She worries me. I'm not sure I want to continue if something is not done about her.”

“Something is surely being done. You have to be patient.”

“Like what is being done?” Walter demanded. He hated all the secrecy, especially since he was the one out in the cold.

“We have an individual in the city at this moment whose specialty is to take care of this kind of problem.”

“You are going to have to be more specific.”

“I think the less you know, the better.”

“Are you saying someone is here in New York right now?”

“That's exactly what I am saying.”

“How about his or her name and a number.”

“Sorry, I can't do that.”

“I'm not sure I want to continue with all this.”

“I'm afraid you don't have any choice at this point. It was your option to begin, but it is not your option to stop. The pressure must be maintained at least for a few more days.”

Walter felt a mixture of anger and fear, but the fear won out. He didn't respond.

“I hope your silence means you understand the reality of your situation.”

“If she shows up again in the next few days, can I call you to let you know whomever you sent here hasn't convinced her to stop her meddling?”

“Yes, you do that, but rest assured, we have sent our best negotiator.”

“One other question. I don't know your name.”

“There's no need for you to know my name.”

Similar to the call the day before, the line was cut off precipitously and Walter found himself listening to a dead line. Slowly, he hung up the receiver. Despite the reassurances the man had given, Walter panicked and wondered how bad a decision to become involved it would turn out to be when all was said and done. His only consolation was that his son had seemingly stabilized, and the doctors who were administering the supposed experimental treatment were moderately optimistic.

 

BY THE TIME
Laurie had had the time to read only a few of the day's op-ed pieces in the
Times
, Jack had appeared accompanied by a youthful doctor dressed in scrubs but covered by a long, white coat as crisp and clean as Dr. Friedlander's. Apparently, such smartness was hospital policy. Laurie had to admit that it appeared far superior to some of the residents at the University Hospital who seemed to revel in having the most soiled white coats, as if it were testament to how hard they were working.

Jack introduced the man as Dr. Jeff Albright. To Laurie, he had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen.

“I'm lucky,” Jack continued. “Dr. Albright has agreed to pass gas for me in the morning. I told him you were concerned about MRSA and me having surgery, so he graciously offered to come out and have a word with you and hopefully put your mind at ease.”

Laurie shook hands with the anesthesiologist, and noting how young he appeared made her feel old by comparison. She also felt abashed from Jack's introduction, as if she were an oversolicitous mother. Jeff gave the usual stereotypical assurance and said that Jack was as healthy as an ox, making Laurie wonder just how healthy oxen were, since she thought the expression was “strong as an ox.” When Jeff finished his prepared speech, Laurie asked him how many cases he'd done after which the patient came down with an MRSA infection.

Somewhat nervously, his eyes flicked back and forth between Laurie and Jack. Apparently, Jack had not asked such a specific question. “One,” he finally admitted. “It was several months ago, after a shoulder rotator cuff repair. Like the others, it was totally unexpected and unfortunately fatal.”

“What was the name?” Laurie asked.

“I'm not sure I'm at liberty to divulge that,” Jeff said.

Laurie knew she had the right to ask, as it was undoubtedly a medical examiner case, but she didn't push the issue. The name didn't matter, other than to reassure herself she'd not missed a case. She was more interested in Jack's upcoming surgery.

“Was there anything you can remember about the case that was unusual?”

Jeff shook his head. “It went entirely smoothly. Well, there was one thing. We staff have been regularly tested for MRSA ourselves on a weekly basis. During the week that the death occurred, I did turn positive. Whether it happened from that patient, I don't know. But I can safely say I'm free now. I was screened just yesterday.”

“I'm happy to report I'm also free of those buggers,” Jack said.

“Were you the anesthesiologist for David Jeffries on Monday?” Laurie asked.

“No, I wasn't. That was Dolores Suarez.”

“Thank you for talking with me,” Laurie said. She smiled weakly. Jeff's efforts didn't make her any more confident.

“We'll take good care of your husband,” Jeff promised. He said good-bye and disappeared back into the examining area.

“So,” Jack said. “You have to admit this is a nice operation, so to speak. Just the fact there's no waiting makes it unique.”

“It's neat, it's clean, it's pleasant,” Laurie admitted. “But there is obviously a problem here, despite its apparent cleanliness.”

“Don't tell me you are not reassured.”

“MRSA is surely not respecting the luxurious venue.”

“You are impossible,” Jack said with a sigh. “Every hospital is seeing MRSA.”

“But every hospital is not seeing multiple cases of MRSA necrotizing pneumonia that's killing people as if it were a raging hemorrhagic fever like Ebola.”

“Come on!” Jack said with some frustration. “Let's get to work.”

“THIS IS A
fucking mess,” Franco complained. “This is what you got me out of bed for?” He gestured ahead through the van's windshield. In front of the medical examiner's office was an unruly crowd of fifty or sixty people staging an unauthorized protest over the medical examiner's initial report regarding Concepcion Lopez, whom Bingham had posted the day before. Most of the protestors were Hispanic. And most were carrying amateurish placards taped or stapled to broom handles attesting to a supposed cover-up and complaining of police brutality to the Hispanic community.

“What I can't figure is what they're doing here so goddamn early,” Angelo said.

“I'd guess to get on the morning news,” Franco said. “Besides, they get more bang for the buck if they block rush-hour traffic, which they are obviously doing.”

Many of the protestors were wandering out into First Avenue. Police in riot gear were waiting to be called out of their bus parked on 30th Street. For the time being, the regular police were trying to keep the crowd out of the streets and confined to an area directly in front of the OCME but with minimal success.

Franco and Angelo were sitting in the Lucia organization's van, which was mostly used for hijacking and other forms of thieving at Kennedy Airport. They were parked at the curb between 29th and 30th streets in a no parking/no standing area in front of one of the original Bellevue Hospital buildings. They had a good view of the entrance to the OCME, except for a Range Rover parked in front of them.

“What's with this SUV?” Angelo complained. “This is a no-parking zone for chrissake. It's amazing how people just ignore the law.”

“Calm down!” Franco responded.

Angelo hit the steering wheel several times in frustrated anger. “Of all days, why do they have to have their protest today?”

“You're getting yourself all worked up,” Franco warned. “Why don't we just leave. With all these cops around, much less all these bellyaching nuts, there's no way we're going to be able to make a grab.”

“I want to at least see her,” Angelo groused. “Then I want to go to Home Depot.”

With a dumbfounded expression, Franco looked over at Angelo. “Home Depot? What the hell are you going to get at Home Depot?”

Angelo returned the stare, and in the process raised his eyebrows as much as he was able.

“Wait a second!” Franco said, suddenly remembering. “Tell me you're not going to get a bucket and quick-set!”

“Vinnie specifically said I could do it my way, and that is exactly what I plan to do. Ever since I saw it in that movie, I've wanted to do it to someone who deserved it, and no one deserves it more than Laurie Montgomery, as I'm sure Vinnie would agree.”

“Oh, for the love of God.” Franco groaned, raising his eyes heavenward.

“There she is!” Angelo shouted excitedly, pointing out his side window. He reached for the door handle and had the door open before Franco was able to get ahold of his arm.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Franco shouted as Angelo struggled to free his arm. “The place is crawling with cops. It's suicide to go out there.”

Angelo stopped struggling, pulled his foot in, and closed the door. He knew Franco was right. There was no way he could approach Laurie under the circumstances. As tense with anticipation as he'd been all morning, he'd reacted by reflex when he'd caught sight of her getting out of a taxi on the opposite side of the street, obviously avoiding the crowd of protesters in front of the OCME. Suffering from acute and frustrating impotence, he was forced to watch Laurie a mere fifty or so feet away as she leaned back into the taxi and extracted a pair of crutches. Next to emerge was Jack.

“That's her boyfriend,” Angelo growled. “I wouldn't mind icing him at the same time.”

“Calm down!” Franco said again. “I feel like I'm sitting with a mad dog.”

For almost a minute, Laurie and Jack stood in plain sight, severely testing Angelo's restraint, waiting for the light to change. Then, like a cat forced to watch a tempting mouse walk directly in front of its nose, Angelo had to find the self-control to witness their slow progress across First Avenue. When they turned to cross 30th Street, they were only the length of the Range Rover in front.

“This would have been perfect, if it hadn't been for the protest.”

“Maybe so, maybe not,” Franco said philosophically. “So now you've seen her, let's get the hell out of here.”

Angelo started the van. “I'm thinking,” he said. “She's going to recognize me just as easily as I recognized her.”

“Maybe easier,” Franco agreed.

“That means we should have more people.” Angelo put the van in gear, looked behind him down First Avenue, and pulled away from the curb. “When we come back later this afternoon, I think we should have Freddie and Richie with us.”

“I think that's a good idea,” Franco agreed.

 

ADAM HAD SCOUTED
the area around the OCME the night before and had come up with a plan to make a definitive ID on the target. He'd arrived that morning just before seven and had parked his Range Rover in an appropriate no-parking zone where he was reasonably confident the commercial plates would work their usual magic. He hadn't been happy about the protest, which was just beginning to form, not because of the people and the confusion they would cause but because of the TV vans and crews he assumed would be sent to cover the event. Adam wanted to avoid at all costs being caught on film.