Deadly Errors (31 page)

“W
ERE YOU ABLE to get my wallet?” Tyler asked sliding into Jill’s Lexus coupe, scanning the area yet again for another security guard.

“Here.” She handed it to him, then fired the ignition. “But you’ll have to be the one to claim the rest of your clothes. I didn’t want to have to explain that too.” She gave him a strange look. “Was that you who set off the alarms?”

Tyler scrunched down in the seat so that just his eyes peered over the edge of the window. “I had no choice.”

“I’m getting out of here before you get yourself in another calamity.” She turned, looked over her shoulder to back up and hit the door lock button. “How about we go to my place so we can both catch our breath and figure out what to do next.”

Anything sounded better than hanging around the emergency department parking lot while hospital security kept searching for him. “Sounds good.” He opened the wallet. Good, Ferguson’s card was where he’d left it.

She nosed the car into the street. “From the top … tell me exactly what happened.”

He went through the entire story again. When he finished she said, “Lucky you woke up when you did. Otherwise …” She reached over and stroked his cheek. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

The eastern sky glowed the first orange-red streaks of dawn. Traffic remained sparse. The start of another Seattle Sunday morning. To Tyler it looked as bleak as his future. Did hospital security have enough juice to request Seattle police look for him also? He sucked a deep breath, tried to calm his nerves and the pain in his gut and knee.

“You don’t have any TUMS or Maalox with you, do you?”

“No, but I have something at my condo.”

“Thanks.” He straightened up in the seat.

Neither one spoke as she drove down Madison to Fourth, then north to Stewart. A few minutes later they waited as a large steel parking garage door rolled up, allowing them access. Car parked, he followed her to a carpeted elevator atrium. From there they rode up to the twenty-first floor.

Once inside her condo she pealed off her lightweight black raincoat and hung it in a closet close to the door. “Give me a second. I’ll get you some TUMS.”

He watched he disappear down a short hall to the master bedroom. A moment later she reappeared, handed him an open roll of antacids. “Here. Want a stiff drink, something to calm you down?”

A drink was the last thing he wanted or needed. “What I need is to figure out a way of getting some real clothes.” He pulled at the sides of the scrub pants to emphasize his garb.

“Maybe I can sneak into your apartment, if you tell me what you want.” She waved him into a living room and offered him a seat, but he was too edgy to sit. Instead, he moved to the wall of windows providing a breathtaking view over the roof of the Pike Place Market to the harbor and West Seattle, a view he didn’t appreciate the other night. A white and green ferry boat was pulling away from its slip.

“Maybe you should call the police and tell them what’s happened,” she offered.

He waved that idea away. “Ridiculous. It’d be too easy for Benson to convince them I’m just another druggie after medications … the asshole.”

“Maybe so, but one way or the other you need help with this. Let’s face it, any help I can give only goes so far. I draw the line at hand to hand combat.” She smiled, said, “Here,” and offered him a chair again. “If not a drink, then how about some coffee?”

Although caffeine was the last thing his jangled nerves needed at this point, it might just paradoxically calm his mind. “That’ll work.” He started toward the kitchen area. “I’ll supervise.”

Two bar stools were parked in front of a granite counter. He tried to perch one on one but couldn’t sit still and opted to stand. He watched her pull a bag of beans from the SubZero, ran his hand over his head and tried to think of his next move but all that came to mind was contacting Ferguson.

She stopped working, eyed him questioningly. “You’re planning something … What?”

“There’s this guy … Ferguson. I think he might be able help get me out of this mess.”

She poured coffee beans into a black and chrome Braun grinder. “Oh? And what does this Ferguson fellow do that he can help?”

He hesitated, trying to decide if he could trust here. She capped the grinder and turned toward him. “Well?”

She’d saved his life. Why not trust her?

“He’s an FBI agent.”

“Really!” Her finger stopped just short of pressing the grinder switch. “Is this a personal friend or did you contact him about our little problem with the medical record?”

He tensed at her reply. Something about it left him even uneasier than a moment ago. “Neither. He contacted me.”

She glanced down at her frozen finger and pressed the button. The rattle of beans quickly segued into a smooth whirr. A moment later she released the button, looked him in the eye again. “About?”

“About two or three days ago,” he said. “I don’t know … I’ve sort of lost track of the days.”

She rolled her eyes, sighed exasperation. “C’mon Tyler, Don’t try to be funny. This is important … what the hell did he want from you?”

“He wanted to know if there was a problem with the medical record. Why?”

She set down the grinder and leaned against the counter. “And why would he come to you with that particular question?”

“This is beginning to feel more like an interrogation than idle conversation.”

She shot him a hard look. “It’s important, Tyler. Now answer my question.”

“Because I reported Larry Childs’s death to NIH. He was following up on it. Now get off my back.”

She frowned. “Odd. Why would he be interested?”

“I have no idea,” he lied.

She seemed to consider this a moment. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him what I knew … that Larry Childs had a bad case of radiation necrosis and despite the record saying he received a normal dose, he didn’t.”

“And that’s
all
you told him?”

“Right.”

Seemingly relieved at his answer, she poured the grinder contents into an espresso machine, put two cups beneath the outflow scuppers, and pressed a button. “And when you talk to Ferguson this time, what do you plan on telling him?” Brown liquid began flowing out the scuppers into the cups.

He studied her body language a moment, looking for … what? “Why so curious?”

Her eyes held his a moment. “You have to ask? You just had two attempts on your life. Should I not be concerned about that?”

He believed her. “I’m going to tell him everything I know about this mess.”

“Fine, but do you have anything to back up your story? Last I knew you had nothing to prove the Childs thing.”

“True, but I have the other patients you turned me on to.” He almost forgot Torres. “And my brain abscess patient.”

“Yes, but do you have direct proof? That’s the real question. Without it, who’s going to believe you?”

“Yeah, I have proof,” he said reluctantly. “I burnt all of it to CD. If anyone changes those records now, it’ll be even better evidence.”

She seemed to think about this a moment too, “You stored that someplace safe, I presume.”

“Yes.” He waited to see if she’d ask the obvious.

Instead, she said, “And when you get to the part of your story about last night … the killers … who are you going to point the finger at?”

“A
RTHUR BENSON.”

“Arthur Benson! You’re joking. Why? Because he threatened you?” She barked a little you’ve-got-to-be-kidding laugh, like clearing her throat.

“Seems like a good enough reason for me. Besides, he’s got a hell of a lot to lose if word gets out of a flaw in the system.”

“Tyler, we
all
lose if that word gets out. Every one of us … from Benson on down to the dish washers in dietary. Think about it … sure, the CEO always takes the fall for a bad decision, especially one of that magnitude, but it was the board that signed off on the commitment to Med-InDx. My god, if it got smeared all over the press a security flaw was causing problems, no one would ever want to be admitted to Maynard again. If that happened, the whole hospital would go under. Every nurse, clerk, pharmacist and doctor—including you—would lose their job. Is that what you want? To lose your job?”

He slammed the countertop with his palm and stepped off the bar stool intending to leave. “Jesus fucking Christ, I don’t believe what I just heard. What are you suggesting? That I not talk to Ferguson? That I turn my back on the fact patients are dying because of a software bug? That I simply forget that twice in the past twenty-four hours two thugs have tried to kill me?”

Her right eyebrow arched. “Software bug? What’s this about a software bug?”

Mistake. He’d forgotten. Far as she knew, he still believed in the hacker theory. He tossed a dismissive wave. “It makes more sense to suspect a software problem than a security breach by some serial killer hacker.” He couldn’t leave now, not until he deflected her attention from the software. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you suggesting, stay away from Ferguson because I can’t prove who’s trying to kill me?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” Anger filled her voice. A second later she held up a hand. “Time out.”

She came around the counter, took him in her arms and hugged him. For a moment he did nothing, too caught off guard to know how to respond. His arms encircled her and for a moment he relived the fantasy from the other night.

Nancy’s image floated into his consciousness. He pushed Jill away. “This is bullshit. I have to go.”

She straightened up, a hurt look on her face, and brushed her hair back into place. “Hear me out on this, okay?”

He glanced at his wrist, realized he didn’t have his watch. “One minute and I’m out of here.”

She raised her finger. “All I’m saying is you’ll be more convincing if you can go to Ferguson with facts, not suspicions. If I understand you correctly you have some evidence from four patients’ charts that suggests complications. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes but it’s more than just suggestion. They died because of errors in the records.”

“But you have no idea what really caused those complications, do you? What I mean is, couldn’t some of them—if you really look closely—have been human error?”

“You and I both know it wasn’t human error. Even you must’ve thought there was more to it than just human error. Why else would you give them to me?”

“I never said I was convinced. They looked suspicious, that’s all. And as far as accusing Benson of hiring killers … man oh man, that’s one serious accusation to make without something other than an undocumented conversation between the two of you.” She shot him a questioning look. “Does any of this make any sense?”

In fact, it did. He nodded. Any move against Benson without absolute proof would result in exactly the same type of reprisal his ex-chairman had leveled on him. Only this time it’d be worse, he’d lose his license to practice medicine. Maybe his life.

Jill rotated her cup, seemed to consider asking something. “Is there any way to get more supporting information before you call your FBI contact?”

“There might be.”

J
ILL ASKED, “WHAT?”

Trust her? He wanted to. For what reason, he wasn’t certain. If nothing more, he wanted someone to bounce the idea off of. Who else was there?

“My only hope of finding the kind of evidence you’re talking about is to convince someone inside of Med-InDx to help me. I only know three people even remotely associated with the company. Jim Day, Yusef Khan, and Bernie Levy. Levy sure as hell isn’t going to do anything. Ditto with Khan. That leaves Day.”

“You’re not planning on going near the hospital are you?”

“Not if I can help it,” he lied.

She seemed genuinely concerned. “After all that’s happened, what makes you think you can trust him?”

“He may not have a choice.”

T
YLER COULD FEEL the doorman’s eyes size him up as soon as he exited the elevator and headed through the lobby of Jill’s condominium heading to the front door. Too discrete to ask a point blank question—like who the hell was he—the doorman pulled open the huge hinged hunk of plate glass protecting the high-end building from outside urban uncertainties and uttered a simple, “Good morning, sir,” without completely masking a distinct note of curiosity from his voice.

Tyler figured probably not many homeowners come strolling through the lobby in scrubs. And the pair of heavy, black Zeiss binoculars in his left hand did little to clarify the picture. Or maybe it was something very simple—a security thing—like the guy had never laid eyes on him before now. He decided whatever the issue, it was the doorman’s problem, not his. He avoided eye contact, muttered, “thanks,” and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

He stood to the side of the door, mentally running through his plan. Although the street was still in the building’s shadow, the air temperature was now on the chilly side of mid-sixties. The scent of salt water from a gentle harbor breeze had washed away all evidence of Saturday night car fumes but did nothing to calm the brewing anxiety in his gut. A moment later he turned away from the harbor and started toward the next corner.