Robin Cook - Critical

"What were they?"

"On his own cases he insists the anesthesiologist give supplemental oxygen, maintain the patient's body temperature, and even monitor and maintain glucose levels."

"Has he had any recent postoperative infection?" Laurie asked incisively.

"I'm glad you asked that question," Jack said smugly. "Although I know it's an egotistical sore point with surgeons, I asked him directly if he had. Surprisingly enough, he said he's only had three postoperative infections in all his career, and all three had been open compound fracture repairs, meaning the cases were dirty to begin with. Also, all three were at University Hospital, not Angels Orthopedic."

"So he's not had an MRSA case."

"Well, I don't know what the bacteria was involving his cases at University, but the point is, he's had no infection problem at Angels."

Laurie stared off. She could sense she was losing the argument.

"I even went a step further," Jack said. "I asked him from one doctor to another if he would go ahead and have the surgery as scheduled given the timing in relation to my injury and the fact that Angels is struggling with an MRSA problem." Jack paused for maximum impact.

"And?" Laurie was forced to say. She wanted to know.

"He said in a heartbeat he would do it. And furthermore, he said he wouldn't operate at Angels if he didn't feel that confident. He said the only thing he would personally do was use an antibiotic soap for several days before the procedure. When I admitted to already doing that, he said I'd be fine. He also said that when I go in for my pre-op bloodwork tomorrow, that he would arrange that I be screened for MRSA, and that if I turned out to be a carrier, he would insist I be treated and that the operation would be delayed. The last thing he said was that he'd see me Thursday morning at seven-thirty a.m., and I'd be back on my bike in three months and playing b-ball in six."

Laurie looked over at her pile of cases and hospital records. She felt a mixture of frustration, anger, and despondency. Jack had certainly made some cogent points, especially talking directly to his surgeon, who was highly regarded and rather famous for operating on celebrity athletes. Yet still, Laurie could not help but feel it was a wrong decision to proceed with the surgery under the circumstances. It would be okay if it were an emergency, but as elective surgery, it still seemed crazy to her.

"Come on!" Jack said, standing up and touching her shoulder in the process.

As if she were in molasses, Laurie got to her feet.

Jack handed her matrix back to her. "I still think you should proceed with investigating this series. There has to be an explanation, and I for one would certainly like to hear it."

Laurie nodded, took the matrix, and tossed it casually onto the rest of the debris on her desk.

Jack wrapped his arms about her and hugged her. "Thanks for caring," he said.

Laurie hugged back.

"I love you," Jack said.

"I love you, too." Laurie said.

"So, how are we going to work this?" Angelo asked Franco.

He and Franco were in Franco's car, having pulled over to the left side of Fifth Avenue between 56th and 57th streets. There was a row of massive concrete urns sitting on the sidewalk, presumably for protection of the Trump Tower from wayward vehicles. The commercial entrance to the building was behind them, forcing one of them at any given time to be looking back over his shoulder to keep the area under observation.

"That's a good question," Franco answered. "This isn't the easiest assignment I've ever had. Where's that description again?" Angelo handed over the sheet of paper.

"Your turn to watch the entrance," Franco said. Facing forward, he quickly reread the description. "I guess we will have to rely on the hair. I can't even imagine what blond with lime-green highlights will look like. It sounds almost scary."

"I think the size issue will tip us off, at least initially," Angelo said. It was easier for him to look back while sitting in the front passenger seat. "It's hard to see the hair color with the angle of the sun, and there's a lot more people coming out. I guess it's quitting time."

"If we don't see her soon, I'm going to start worrying we've missed her."

"That won't bother me," Angelo said. "I have a nagging feeling about this hit."

"Oh, come on, you pessimist," Franco said. "Enjoy the challenge of it. By the way, where are the date-rape pills and the gas you got from old Doc Trevino?"

"The pills are in my pocket, and the ethylene is on the floor of the backseat along with the plastic bags. That stuff is unbelievable how fast it works. Two seconds, the person is out."

"Well, we sure can't use the gas here in broad daylight. Well, maybe it isn't so broad anymore."

"Of course not, but it might come in handy if she kicks up a fuss once we get her in the car. I don't want to be forced to shoot her in the car."

"Hell, no," Franco said. "Not on my upholstery. Let me see the pills."

Angelo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter-sized envelope, which he handed to Franco. Franco squeezed the ends of the envelope together and looked in at the contents. There were ten small white pills nestled in the bottom crease.

"How many of these things do you have to use?" Franco asked.

"Doc said just one. All you have to do is plop it into a cocktail, and twenty minutes later you can pop it to her."

"How come he gave us so many?"

"Beats me. Maybe he thought we could have fun with the others."

Franco tipped the envelope and poured half of the pills into his hand. Then he dropped them into his jacket pocket and handed the envelope back to Angelo. "If we use one tonight and it works, maybe I'll give it a try."

"Sounds like it would be a great evening," Angelo said teasingly. "Viagra for you and Rohypnol for your honey."

Refusing to be baited, Franco said, "I think one of us should walk down there to the entrance and get a better look at each and every one coming out. There would be less chance of missing her."

"That's not a bad idea," Angelo agreed. "But what are we going to do when we see her? We can't strong-arm her with all these people around."

"What about your Ozone Park police badge? You've always said it works wonders."

"It does, but not always in a crowd. People are emboldened when other people are around. She could yell and scream, and there's lots of cops in the neighborhood."

"I've noticed. I'm amazed they haven't approached us to leave."

"You've spoken a bit too soon. Here comes one now."

Franco glanced back over his shoulder. A burly policeman with a strikingly large gut was heading toward them, carrying a pad of traffic tickets in his hand.

Franco looked at Angelo and back at the policeman. In ten seconds, the cop would be at the door.

"I'll jump out," Franco said. "You drive around the block!"

"Why don't I jump out?"

"Because I'm in charge," Franco said. "Make sure your cell phone is on. And most importantly, don't wreck my car."

Franco climbed out onto the sidewalk. "Good evening, officer," he said. The policeman arrived just as Franco reached full height.

"There's no parking or standing," the cop said, as he eyed Franco and then bent down to look in at Angelo.

"He's just dropping me off, officer," Franco said as he also bent down to wave good-bye to Angelo. Angelo had slid across the bench seat to be behind the wheel. Franco closed the door lovingly.

"Hey!" the officer called out suddenly as Angelo started to pull away. Angelo stopped with his heart racing. "Your seat belt!" the policeman yelled.

"Thank you, officer," Angelo said in a tense voice after putting down the window halfway.