His blue-ice detective stare worked like it probably does on every suspect he interrogates, and I made myself stare right back even though I wished I had a trap door in the mattress to escape through.
“Is that a crime?” I asked.
Putting his index finger on my chin, he applied pressure and my head lowered. “Get your nose out of the air. Curiosity is not a crime for you—more like a lifestyle—and I obviously acted like an ass yesterday. But this business with Quinn? Well, you know I’m not so hot at mixing personal stuff with police business.”
I smiled. “You are definitely not so hot in that department. But you are so good in other departments, it makes up for it. So let’s get personal.”
He smiled and ditched the gum.
5
The next morning, I traveled south again, switching the car radio station back and forth between NPR and a local talk show for entertainment. Some days I am easily amused. Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot at St. Mary’s Hospital and stepped out into more typical south Texas weather than the previous frigid days: temperature in the low sixties, gray skies, and enough humidity to make even big hair wilt.
After entering the St. Mary’s lobby with my leather attaché in hand, I stopped at the information desk situated in front of a floor-to-ceiling aquarium and was given directions to the baby ward. I rode the elevator alone and soon found myself staring through picture windows at five clear bassinets holding infants wrapped up like sausages in their white receiving blankets. I was looking at three boys and two girls from their color-coded knit caps.
A woman in fuchsia surgical scrubs, maybe mid-fifties, spotted me and smiled broadly. She came around through a door to my left and said, “Which sweetheart do you belong to? I’ll bring the baby closer to the window for you.”
“Though I would love to belong to one of these sweethearts, I came about a baby who was born here many years ago. Can I ask you a few questions?” I took out a business card, the one identifying Yellow Rose Investigations as specializing in adoptions.
I handed it to her, and while she read, I noted the picture ID hanging from a lanyard identifying her as C. Worthington, R.N.
“If this is about an adoption, I can’t talk about it,” she said kindly, handing the card back. “All patient records are confidential.”
I opened my attaché and produced the notarized release of information letter Megan had addressed to the hospital, the one I used the last time I came here and spoke to the administrator.
She looked, but didn’t touch. “Did you go through administration, Ms. Rose?”
“Yes. Worked with a Mr. Hansen.” I didn’t add that I had bypassed him today. Before she could question me further, I exchanged the release letter for the birth certificate. “This young woman hired me to help her find her mother. Megan Beadford was here once, just like those cute little kids beyond the window.”
The nurse shifted her gaze to the bassinets, her eyes softening. “They are so precious when they sleep. So wonderful.” She refocused on me. “But as much as I’d like to help, I don’t see how I can, Ms. Rose.”
“How long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Ten years, and from the date on the birth certificate, your client made her entrance into the world long before I arrived on the scene.”
“Okay, but maybe you know someone who’s worked here longer.”
She squinted in thought, then said, “No. And if you got no help from Sister Nell, then—”
“Sister Nell?”
“The medical records administrator. But I assume that’s where Mr. Hansen directed you first.”
A baby started wailing—the boy in the middle crib. The nurse glanced back at him and smiled her loving, unruffled smile.
I said, “You probably need to take care of him, so—”
“Darien’s had everything I can offer,” she said evenly. “Fed, burped, changed, rocked. He’s fine.”
I looked uneasily at the wide-mouthed Darien. The kid was into a rhythm and getting louder and more red faced by the second. But since Nurse Worthington wasn’t responding to his screams, I went on. “I visited with Mr. Hansen several weeks ago. When he could find nothing during his computer search, he said he would contact medical records and get back to me.”
“And did he?” Her crossed arms and amused features told me she knew plenty about Mr. Hansen—stuff I obviously did not.
“I had to call him back.”
She nodded knowingly.
I said, “He told me medical records only had baby charts that went back twenty years.”
“Really? I suggest you speak directly with Sister Nell. She’s been here since they opened St. Mary’s doors.”
“Sister Nell. Does she have a last name or—”
“Everyone knows Sister Nell. You’ll find her.”
More noise erupted from the peanut gallery, but the nurse remained unperturbed, despite my sincere belief that Darien, who’d woken the rest of his buddies, was about to burst a blood vessel in his head. I had to get out of here. “Thanks. Is medical records on the first floor?”
She nodded and gave me a little wave, then turned and walked back into the nursery.
Meanwhile I hightailed it to the elevator. If this job would be taking me to more maternity wards in the future, I wasn’t sure I could stay in the business.
Back downstairs, the open door to medical records revealed an office with a fatigued-looking receptionist wearing a white shirt as pale as her face. Her desk was piled with file folders. There were doors on either side of her desk and one behind her.
“My name is Abby Rose and I’m looking for Sister Nell.” I put the business card on the woman’s desk.
She glanced at it just as the phone rang, then waved me in the direction of the door behind her before she picked up the receiver.
I followed a tile path around the desk and stopped in the entry to what I assumed was Sister Nell’s office. Though the receptionist’s desk had been piled ominously high, every available square foot in this room was stacked with books, binders, and manila file folders. Apparently the front desk was the first port of call and everything eventually ended up here.
A graying kinky-haired woman sat at a desk against the left wall staring at a computer screen, her back to me. The monitor was not elevated, and she had to crane her neck and hunch her shoulders.
“Bet you go to bed with a backache,” I said.
She jerked around, hand to her heart. “Mercy, young woman, you scared the bejesus out of me.”
She wore a navy blue sweater, white high-collar blouse, and a charcoal-colored skirt. So where was her nun’s veil?
“Sorry if I startled you,” I said. “But your monitor is too low. That can cause back pain.” Weird image, I thought. Nuns and computers just didn’t seem to go together.
“Oh, you’re the technician. Every time I turn around they’ve got someone new.” She rolled her chair away from the desk. “Have at this evil machine. I cannot seem to make it do my bidding.”
“What’s the problem?” I came around cardboard file boxes filled to overflowing with documents.
“I keep losing the network and I have files to upload, files to download, files to scan, files, nothing but files. And forgive me if I make it sound like a Shakespearean tragedy, but it’s the God’s truth.” She took a deep breath, fingering the crucifix hanging around her neck.
“Hmmm. Could be something simple.” I got down on my hands and knees and checked the network cable running beneath her desk to the wall jack, saw the problem, and looked up at her. “I think you have a furry friend, one who likes to gnaw.”
“The mouse?” She had joined me on the floor. “I’ve been trying to catch that little bastard for a week.”
Little bastard? I smiled to myself. I might just like Sister Nell. I pointed to tiny teeth marks on the cable. “He’ll zap himself if he takes a bigger bite, but my guess is he’s learned his lesson. All you need is an undamaged line and you’ll be fine.”