John Lescroart - The Oath

Judith Cohn's office number, too, was listed and Hardy was surprised and happy when he got his second human being in a row to answer the phone at a little past 5:00. He identified himself to the receptionist, explained his relationship to Eric Kensing, then asked if Dr. Cohn would please call him when she got the message.

"I could page her right now," the cooperative voice replied. "If you give me your number I'll just punch it in."

Two minutes later, Hardy was standing by his open window looking down on Sutter Street when his direct line rang. He crossed to the desk in three steps, picked up the phone, and said his name. On the other end of the line, he heard a sharp intake of breath. "Eric's lawyer, right? Is he all right?"

"He's fine. Thanks for getting right back to me. I wondered if I could ask you a few questions?"

"Sure. If they'll help Eric, I'm here."

"Great." Hardy had considered his approach-he didn't want to scare her off-and written a few notes. Now, sitting down, he pulled his pad around. "I'm trying to establish Eric's movements on almost a minute-by-minute basis on the day Tim Markham was killed."

"The police don't still believe he had anything to do with that, do they?"

"I think it's safe to assume that they do, yes."

He heard her sigh deeply. "Don't they know the man at all? Have they ever talked to him?"

"Couple of times, at least."

"Christ, then they're idiots."

"They may be," Hardy said, "but they're our idiots. And we have to play with them. I understand you had your own patient or patients in the ICU on that day, as well. Tuesday a week ago."

"Oh, I remember the day well enough. It started bad and kept getting worse. You know how it works with scheduling the ICU and ER, don't you?"

Early on, Kensing had explained the Parnassus idea to maximize efficiency. The doctors at the Judah Clinic, who were part of the Parnassus Physicians' Group as well as usually on the staff at Portola, were responsible for making sure that at least one physician was assigned to the ICU, and at least one to the ER as well, at all times. This duty was on a rotating schedule and its essential purpose, according to Eric, was to eliminate at least one full-time doctor's salary from the payroll. Its other effect was to leave the clinic perennially shorthanded. It was not a popular policy.

"Basically," Hardy replied, "there's a staff physician covering each room."

"Right. In the ICU, only a few of the beds, if any, contain that physicians' personal patients. Except if they get somebody straight out of ER or the OR, or a critical baby, something like that. Anyway, so that morning I had ER downstairs, late to work as it was, when the Markham madness just broke it open-"

"Wait a minute. You were with Markham in the OR? You did the surgery on him?" So, Hardy realized, she had not just floated by the ICU to check a patient-she'd been there at Portola all morning.

"Yeah. He was a mess. I was amazed he survived to get in, much less out. Anyway, I walked in, frazzled at being late to begin with-I'm never late-"

"What had happened?" Hardy asked quickly. "With you being late?"

"It was so stupid, I just overslept. Me, Miss Insomnia. I think I must have turned off the alarm when it went off and never really woke up. I guess the only good news is I was well-rested for Markham's arrival. I needed to be, believe me. Although Phil-Dr. Beltramo? He'd just worked ten to six-he didn't appreciate it much."

"So when did you make it up to the ICU finally?"

"I came up with Markham's gurney, when we got him admitted and settled in there, Eric and I. Then I bopped up, I don't know for sure, must have been four or five times before he died. Maybe every forty-five minutes, whenever I got a break. I'd pulled him out, after all. He was my patient." She grew silent for a moment. "I didn't expect him to die. I really didn't."

"He didn't just die, Doctor. Somebody killed him." Hardy was trying to assimilate this unexpected information, which, he had to admit, Cohn was volunteering easily enough. He wasn't picking up any phony sympathy for Markham, any reticence to describe her own actions. "And the police continue to think it might have been Eric. Were you in the ICU when Markham went code blue?"

"No. I was down in the ER. Although I heard it, of course, and came right back up."

"But you didn't notice Eric in, say, the ten or fifteen minutes before?"

"No. The last time I saw him he was in the hallway with Rajan Bhutan. He's a nurse there. They were with a patient on a gurney."

This comported perfectly with everything he'd heard so far about the minutes just before Mr. Lector's monitors started to scream and, as before, it didn't do his client any good, except insofar as it might implicate Cohn herself.

"Let me ask you this, Doctor. Did Eric tell you anything about his visit to Mrs. Markham's later that night?"

"Not really," she said. "I was asleep when he finally got in and then we didn't get any time together for a few days after that. What would there be to say, though? It must have been depressing as hell."

But Hardy had cued on something else. "What did you mean, when he finally got in?"

"Back from Mrs. Markham's, you meant, right?"

"Right. So you were at Eric's place that night?"

A small laugh. "You didn't know that? Whoops, blown our cover, I guess." Then, more seriously, "I thought he could use some company after the day he'd had. I know I could."

Reeling from this latest revelation, Hardy struggled to control his voice. "So what happened? Did you go home from work together?"

Another laugh. "No, no. We've given up trying to plan anything. We're both on call half the time. Our hours get too weird. I just went over there and let myself in. I've got a key."

"Aha," Hardy said, jostling her along.

"But Eric stayed late at Portola, then went to Mrs. Markham's. By the time he got home, I'd finally gotten to sleep."

"The insomnia kick back in?"

"Jesus, with a vengeance, probably because I'd slept in that morning. I've said a million times, if I could change one thing in my life, other than my frizzy hair, it's insomnia."

"Hemingway says he wouldn't trust anybody who's never had it."

"Yeah, well look what happened to him. Insomnia just plain sucks. There's no upside and I ought to know. Can you imagine what it would be like to want to go to sleep, close your eyes, and presto, you're gone? I would call that heaven. I'd sell what's left of my soul for half of that."

"But that wasn't Tuesday night?"

"Jesus." She suddenly sounded tired just thinking about it. "It must have been one o'clock, and I started trying-I'm talking in bed with the lights out-around ten."

"And Eric wasn't home by then?"

"No. He was still at Mrs. Markham's. Evidently it went on pretty late."

Glitsky held the warrant up in front of him. "We're talking now," he said. Marcel Lanier was with him and brushed past in a show of force, getting himself inside the apartment.

"Where do I start, sir?" he asked.

"Back to front, but maybe first the bedroom. I'll be with you in a minute or two."

"What are you looking for?" Kensing had gotten back from a run recently. He still wore his running shoes, shorts, and a tank top. He'd been at his kitchen table, drinking orange juice and ice, when the doorbell had rung. Now he turned at the sound of Lanier rummaging somewhere back in his room. "You can't just come in here and tear things apart."

Glitsky turned the warrant around, pretended to read it, came back to Kensing. "Judge Chomorro says I can. Oh, and before I forget." He handed him Ash's subpoena, as well.

"What's this?"

"An invitation to talk to the grand jury. Tomorrow, nine thirty."

"You can't do this," Kensing repeated. "This isn't right. Mr. Hardy had a deal with the DA. I'm going to call him."