He shrugged, unable to give her an answer. “I just feel it in my bones. Chaz’s name will be among the business interests running the place, I’m sure of it. What the tie-in might be to Kelly, I’ll have to figure that out later.”
“What if you’re wrong, and there is no evidence that Chaz is involved? Or even if his name does appear somewhere in the hierarchy of the place, it doesn’t prove anything is wrong. Lots of doctors have business interests in private labs.”
“Then Victor’s getting fired would be one big coincidence. Don’t tell me you believe that.”
“No, not really. I’m saying there may be another reason.”
“Such as?” he asked, waiting for her to continue. Then he figured he knew what she must be going to say. Earlier he’d told her of Earl’s astonishing revelation about Samantha and Walter McShane. “Okay, I have to admit, if the McShanes turned out to own a piece of Nucleus Laboratories – and they do have extensive business interests, if the Wall Street Journal’s to be believed – it might be her we’re after. But why our visit would make either of them fire Victor is even more unimaginable than it is for Chaz. Besides, there’s something that doesn’t fit about the idea of Samantha killing Kelly. There should have been a different dynamic involved.”
“How do you mean?”
“It didn’t sit right when Dr. Garnet suggested it, and now I remember why.” Earl’s testiness when Mark hadn’t embraced the idea outright also didn’t sit well, but he kept that irritation to himself. Someday soon, however, he intended to point out that as coroner on the case, he outranked chiefs of ER from Buffalo. “During my psychiatry rotation at NYCH, we saw court tapes of women on trial for killing their children in what were believed to be Munchausen by proxy syndromes. Now Samantha didn’t really fit that profile, but as Earl said, the dynamic of her playing a noble, self-sacrificing victim was similar. Well, here’s something else she might be kindred in. Each one of those women had accepted her sentence with eerie equanimity, all the while protesting her innocence, as if her incarceration were simply another hardship to endure as part of being a long-suffering mother. If we’re right about Samantha, she could have reacted that way, too, might even have reveled in standing accused by her daughter. It would have given her a chance at an ultimate performance, in court, before the cameras, playing the victim role of a lifetime – mother unjustly charged of terrible wrongdoings by the very child she’d so self-sacrificingly nursed through one mysterious illness after another. It’s unlikely that she would have given up such an opportunity, let alone killed to avoid it.”
Lucy took a sip of tea and stared across the top of her mug, appearing to digest what he’d said. After a few seconds she looked over at him. “Interesting, but did you ever think it might not be your investigation of Kelly’s murder that’s got whoever runs that lab so upset, but something else?”
That surprised him. “Something else?” Her open expression and glittering brown eyes were so lovely and vulnerable, he found them distracting. “Okay, what am I missing?”
She swallowed, seeming uncertain whether to speak, and curled her legs more tightly under her.
“Lucy?”
Her gaze drifted off him and wandered the room. “Something I’ve been mulling over, but didn’t want to tell you until I could be sure what it meant. I can’t even say now how it fits in with either Kelly or the lab.” She again fell silent.
For the two days he’d known her, this self-assured young woman hadn’t betrayed the slightest trace of indecision in her work. Yet here she was, hesitant to speak up. “Go on,” he said, his curiosity growing about what could fluster her so.
“Well, it’s personal, so bear with me-”
Mark’s home phone began to ring, interrupting her.
He took the call on a wall-mounted extension near the back door of the kitchen. “Roper.”
“Mark, this is Charles Braden calling.”
He felt as if a bomb had exploded in his ear. “Ah, yes, Dr. Braden.”
Lucy’s eyes widened into a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.
He gestured her to join him in listening. “What can I do for you, sir?”
She huddled at his side, their ears sharing the receiver
“Well, you can not call me ‘sir’ for starters. Makes me feel ancient.”
“Of course, sir – Dr. Braden.”
“Call me Charles. I’d like that. Gives me the illusion of being closer to your generation than my own.” He finished with a jovial chuckle.
“Give me a break,” Lucy muttered, her eyes shooting skyward in disbelief.
Mark nudged her to keep quiet. “So what can I do for you, Charles?”
“You know how word travels fast in our little community. I hear you’ve got a very attractive houseguest staying with you. Why not drop around for drinks tomorrow night, and bring her along. This sad business with Kelly has reminded me how out of touch we’ve grown. Your father was a regular guest in our home.”
Lucy rolled her eyes again.
“Yes, sir, I mean, Charles. Those were certainly memorable parts of my boyhood.” He had to avoid looking at Lucy for fear he’d burst out laughing. “I’d love to drop over.”
“Excellent. Shall we say around five?”
“Perfect.”
They hung up, and Mark whistled.
“Talk about being invited into the lion’s den,” Lucy said, walking out of the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“Into Saratoga, to buy a dress.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
She turned back, her mouth cocked in a sly grin. “There are some things, my dear Mark, that a woman does alone.” Pulling on her coat and shouldering her purse, she disappeared out the front door.
Mark stood looking after her. Whatever Lucy had been on the verge of saying before the phone call, she obviously thought it could wait.
Thursday, November 22, 3:30 A.M.
The Plaza Hotel, New York City
At first Earl wasn’t sure what woke him.
Then the pain cut across his abdomen and doubled him in two.
“Jesus Christ!” He moaned, writhing in a ball.
His insides had been churning all evening. Once in bed, he’d tossed for a few more hours trying to fall asleep.
No way this could be from stress.
The cramps came in waves, hitting him like body blows. They were so closely spaced together that the pain from one hadn’t released its grip before the next struck.
He got off the bed and tried to make it to the bathroom, but fell to the floor.
Again and again and again the spasms struck, leaving him drenched in cold sweat and biting his lips to keep from screaming.
He’d had his share of “tourista,” especially during conferences to faraway places, but never experienced anything like this. Must have picked it up at one of the fast-food joints he’d been eating at these last few days. The most likely cause would be Campylobacter from undercooked chicken or beef, he reasoned during a few seconds pause in his symptoms. If he could just buy some Cipro – damn! It was Thanksgiving, and most pharmacies would be closed. No matter. He’d get Melanie to get him some from the hospital, providing he could reach her. Then maybe he could still make the trip home, though the idea of being stuck on the can for the whole flight – “Oh, my God!” he muttered, a new onslaught sending him rolling on the floor again.
This time it felt as if someone were twist-tying his intestines and dragging them through hot coals.
By 5:00 A.M. he relented and called 911, requesting they take him to ER at New York City Hospital.
The ambulance attendants tried strapping him down to the stretcher for the trip. He ended up breaking free and taking the ride coiled in a ball on the floor of the vehicle, threatening lawsuits, decertification, and free vasectomies with a dull scalpel on any man who touched him.