Out of the Shadow (18 page)

"Okay, we’ll call Hahnemann and see if we can locate him. If you remember anything else, please let me know. In the meantime, we’ve spoken to her mother in Erie and they’ve given us permission to perform lavage, and pump her stomach. We’ll come and get you in the waiting room when we’re done."

Becca drifted back into the waiting area and it soon became clear where it had gotten its name. The suspense made every minute seem like an hour. Unable to stay seated any longer than the time it took to leaf through a
Newsweek
magazine, she paced the floor, observing the people around her for the first time. Most of those waiting to be treated in the middle of the night appeared to be poor people who used the Emergency Room as they would a primary care physician.
Tattered and torn and tormented people,
Becca thought,
down on their luck in every way imaginable.

Finally, the nurse called her to the emergency room desk. "Your friend is in the ICU on the third floor. Take the elevator down the hall to your right."

She took the stairs instead of the elevator to the Intensive Care Unit. After the night nurse cleared her with the doctor, she was led to Angela. The sight shocked her. Angela lay dwarfed by machines which hovered over her like mutant aliens monitoring her every respiration and heartbeat, feeding her through intravenous tubes. Beeps and bells provided background sounds in rhythm with flashing lights and digital displays. Her typically rich complexion had turned sallow, and her hair hung limp on her pillow. Every once in a while she would twitch, but otherwise she lay deathly still.

Frightened, Becca took a seat by the side of the bed and grasped onto Angela’s sweaty hand. "Angela, it’s Becca. I’m here."

For a good half-hour, Becca held onto Angela’s hand like a life-line, murmuring to her in muted tones, hoping her voice might bring her friend back.

A nurse finally came by. "You better go. We have to take her levels. We’ll let you back in at visiting time between ten and twelve."

What could she do in the meantime? Silly to remain at the hospital unless she could be of help. She should make herself useful. "I'll bet the ambulance driver didn’t lock Angela’s apartment. I should go by and button things up. Can I pick up anything for her while I’m there?"

The nurse considered. "She obviously doesn’t need anything right away, but when she comes to she’ll need a toothbrush and a robe."

"I’ll be back at ten with her toiletries." She withdrew a pad and pen from her purse, wrote down her cell number, tore the page from the book, and handed it to the nurse, who glanced at it briefly before shoving it into her pocket. "That’s where you can reach me if you need me in the meantime.''

On her way out of the ICU she ran into Dr. Peters. "Any news on Angela?"

Peters shook her red ringlets. "Nothing yet, but we’re doing our best. We have one of the best group of doctors in the city. Don’t worry. If anyone can solve this mystery , they will."

She worried all right, but that didn't mean she could do anything. If they were the city’s finest medical team and they couldn’t discern what was wrong with Angela, who could? But would they find out in time to save her life?

Becca pushed open the door and let herself into Angela’s empty apartment, along with stale air from the narrow hallway. One glance around informed her Angela had left in a hurry. Her always immaculate living room was a small disaster. The headpiece from her phone hung to the floor, a chair overturned, and a lampshade slanted cockeyed. A buzzing sound filled the air. Not wanting to leave fingerprints in case of foul play, she carefully replaced the receiver with her hand tucked into a jacket sleeve.

Righting the chair, she made her way into Angela’s bathroom. The stench of vomit hit her at the same moment she spotted the path of dried mucus, flecked with red and black specks,
 dribbled across the bathroom floor. A similar trail flowed down the sides of the toilet. Her stomach cramped, imagining what Angela had gone through, alone, during her last hour in the apartment. Or had she been alone?

Becca opened the medicine cabinet to locate Angela’s toothpaste, and spotted a container of
Ambien
on the bottom shelf. Then her gaze alighted on the shelf above, and the bottle of
Arami
s Angela had purchased for Elliot. She immediately noticed the tip of the label had been torn off when Angela removed the price tag. Otherwise, the bottle had been barely used. Dr. Peters had mentioned Angela’s date with Elliot. Did he have anything to do with her sudden deteriorating condition?

On a hunch, she strode over to the bed stand, looking for Angela’s address book. Inside the top drawer she found a barely used toothbrush and a comb with a couple of dark brown hairs, slightly fairer than Angela’s. On impulse, she withdrew the hairs from the comb and placed them in an envelope from Angela’s desk, sealing it. She didn’t want to take a chance on leaving anything pertinent around, in case Elliot returned for his possessions. She considered taking the toothbrush and comb, but decided not to alarm him.

Becca knew she might be overly suspicious since there was no indication from the hospital of foul play, but after all she’d been through, she wouldn’t put anything past anyone. She hoped Angela had only taken ill with a gastrointestinal virus and would fully recover; but just in case, Becca wanted to cover all contingencies. Her throat tightened at the thought of someone's harming her best friend. She loved Angela, and would do anything to protect her.

Then she spied Angela’s cell phone on the floor by her fallen purse. She carefully scooped up the cell with a towel wrapped around her hand and opened the address book. Scrolling through Angela's contacts, she found Elliot’s name—Elliot Schneider—and number. She immediately pressed it. With racing heart, she held the phone close to her ear and listened to it ring. After a couple rings a voice came online with a message, saying the phone number had been canceled or was no longer in service. It was most unusual for a doctor to cancel his number and not answer his calls, no matter the hour. Doctors always had an answering service and an emergency number. What if a patient was in trouble? She jotted down the number on her notepad, hoping it might lead somewhere.

She heard a noise in the hallway and froze. She had left the door ajar in case she needed to call for help, but now wished she hadn’t. By stepping stealthily up to it, she sneaked a peek down the hall. Empty. She decided to lock the door behind her.

Back in the bedroom, she hurriedly put together a suitcase of Angela’s personal belongings and exited the apartment, locking the door behind her. In the hallway, she imagined for a moment a whiff of cologne, which made her skin crawl. Out of the corner of her eye she spied a dark shadow steal into the stairwell. She froze with fear. Recovering quickly, she took the rickety lift downstairs and wondered, while it rattled and shimmied to a halt, if she was any safer in it than in an occupied stairwell. All she knew; she had to get out of the building!

Once back inside her car with locked doors, Becca took an audible breath of icy air. On instinct, she glanced back up at Angela’s bedroom window and thought the curtains had parted a couple inches, but chalked the perception up to her fright-fueled imagination. 

Fear, like a bad case of the flu, followed her all the way back to the hospital, where she spent the remainder of the night curled up in a chair outside of the ICU.

At first light, Becca unfolded herself from her cramped quarters in anticipation of the time she would be allowed to see Angela. Exhausted after a night of little sleep, she dragged herself straight to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face; then to the dining hall for a quick cup of diluted coffee and a bowl of soggy oatmeal. Back outside the ICU, the wait agonized her. She flipped through a copy of
Cosmo
, barely able to concentrate on the articles: "Ten Ways to Satisfy Your Man"; "Twelve Ways to Lose Twelve Pounds." A small commotion caused her to raise her eyes in time to spot Sally Mills and her partner leaving the ICU. They marched right over to where she sat.

"What are you doing here?" Mills asked without so much as a good morning or a handshake.

"Visiting a friend," Becca answered. "I could ask you the same question!"

Mills studied her. "Mind if I ask your friend’s name?"

"Angela Petrocelli. Why?"

"Funny how our paths continue to cross. We’re here to see about Ms. Petrocelli, too."

Her throat constricted. "Are you saying there’s a criminal investigation here?"

Mills nodded. "The toxicology report won’t be back for at least ten days, but they suspect she’s been poisoned. Know anything about that?"

Not at all surprised, Becca shook her head. "Are you sure?"

"Unless she’s in the habit of taking poison or was exposed to it accidentally, it looks like a safe bet. What’s your relationship with her?"

"We’re friends. Is she going to be all right?"

Mills shrugged. "They don’t know yet. There’s been quite a bit of damage. Do you know anything that might help us to understand what happened?"

Not exactly bedside manner, but what did she expect from the police? "She had a date the last evening with a doctor she’s been seeing. His name is Elliot Schneider and she’s crazy about him."

Mills flipped open a notepad and scribbled notes. "At least we now have a last name. Do you know anything else about him? Where he works? Where he lives? Anything?"

"Angela told me he’s associated with Hahnemann Hospital, but you already know that from the doctor." She retrieved the notepad from her purse, tore off the piece with Elliot’s number, and handed it to Mills. "Here’s the number she had programmed into her cell. I tried it, but it’s no longer working.''

Mills took the slip from her.

"I wish I could help you more," Becca said. "I’d like to talk to him myself. I’ve been by Angela’s apartment to pick up her toiletries, and there’s a newer toothbrush in her night table." Becca pulled out the envelope with the hair from her jacket pocket and handed it to Mills. "I removed these hairs from a comb in the same drawer as the toothbrush."

Mills stared at her open-mouthed. "Do you realize you’ve tampered with evidence and contaminated it? No matter what these hairs uncover, we won’t be able to use them or anything else in her apartment after you got through with it."

Yes, she knew, and she wasn’t proud. "I was afraid Elliot might return to gather his belongings before anyone else had a chance to get in there. I have a feeling the hair might match the one on the rag, and I didn’t want to leave it behind."

Obviously disgruntled, Mills smashed the book shut. "How can we prove the hair came from the apartment and you didn’t plant it? I’ll send it to the lab to see what it shows, but it’s useless to us now." Mills frowned at her. "You know, Rosen, you seem to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Becca stared down at the linoleum floor. No matter what she did, it seemed to further incriminate her. "One other thing. There’s a bottle of
Aramis
Angela bought for Elliot in the medicine cabinet. You might want to check it out for fingerprints."

Mills’ tough-looking partner stepped up. "Are you working this case for us or just working us?"

Mills elbowed him aside. "We’ll check it out. We’ll need you at the precinct later today to answer a couple more questions."

With a sinking feeling, and enough awareness to know she was in this deeper than she ever thought possible, she watched the detectives stride away.

"Come back, Angela...I miss you...I need you...don’t leave me," Becca whispered into Angela’s ear. She meant every word she uttered. Their friendship dated back to an isolated table in the rear of their high school cafeteria, where they both had gone to escape the pressure of not being in the cool crowd, and had extended to their days as roommates at Penn State. She had taken the job at St. John’s to work alongside Angela and had stayed on, instead of seeking a more prestigious arrangement. They had been inseparable for many years.

But no matter what she said, Angela failed to respond. Her respirations were shallow and rattling, her complexion jaundiced and deteriorating. She lingered for days in a coma. At one point, a nurse mentioned they had started her on atropine, the antidote for organophosphorus poisoning. It seemed futile. With every phlegmy breath she drew, Angela appeared to be losing her battle.

By the fourth day, Becca refused to let go of Angela’s hand, even after a nurse came by to tell her visiting hours were over. When a second nurse arrived with a firm warning, she tore herself away for home and a short nap, returning to the ICU at the earliest possible opportunity. Evan had stopped by in the late afternoon between classes, and waited with her outside the ICU until they let her in, but he had to leave to attend a seminar.

By the evening visit, Angela’s skin had taken on an ashen pallor and her breathing had become more ragged. The nurses were as reassuring as they could be, but Becca could sense her friend slipping away. She again begged Angela to hang tough, but her words seemed pointless. She was powerless.

When visiting hours ended, she choose to stay nearby. She curled up in the same chair she had made her bed in the first morning, not far from the ICU. Even though she wouldn’t be allowed back in until morning, she knew she had to remain close.