Robin Cook - Fatal Cure

Calhoun lit himself an Antonio y Cleopatra and eyed the house. He took a few sips from his coffee which was now cold. There were no signs of life in and around the building and no vehicle in the driveway. Calhoun doubted anyone was home.

Figuring he'd take a look around the way he had at Clyde Devonshire's, Calhoun climbed out of the truck and walked across the street. The closer he got to the building, the worse its condition appeared. There was even some dry rot under the eaves.

The doorbell did not function. Calhoun pressed it several times but heard nothing. He knocked twice, but there was no response. Leaving the front stoop, Calhoun circled the house.

Set way back from the house was a barn that had been converted into a garage. Calhoun ignored the barn and continued around the house, trying to see into the windows. It wasn't easy since the windows were filthy. In the back of the house there were a pair of hatch doors secured with an old, rusted padlock. Calhoun guessed they covered stairs to the basement.

Returning to the front of the house, Calhoun went back up the stoop. Pausing at the door he looked around to make sure no one was watching. He then tried the door. It was unlocked.

To be absolutely certain no one was home, Calhoun knocked again as loudly as his knuckles would bear. Satisfied, he reached again for the doorknob. To his shock, the door opened on its own. Calhoun looked up. Van Slyke was eyeing him suspiciously.

"What on earth do you want?" Van Slyke asked.

Calhoun had to remove the cigar that he'd tucked between his teeth. "Sorry to bother you," he said. "I just happened to be in the area, and I thought I'd stop by. Remember, I said I'd come back. I have a few more questions. What do you say? Is it an inconvenient time?"

"I suppose now's all right," Van Slyke said after a pause. "But I don't have too much time."

"I never overstay my welcome," Calhoun said.

Beaton had to knock several times on Traynor's outer office door before she heard his footsteps coming to unlock it.

"I'm surprised you're here," Beaton said.

Traynor locked the door after letting her in. "I've been spending so much time on hospital business, I have to come in here nights and weekends to do my own," he said.

"It was difficult to find you," Beaton said as she followed him into his private office.

"How'd you do it?" Traynor asked.

"I called your home," Beaton said. "I asked your wife, Jacqueline."

"Was she civil?" Traynor asked. He eased himself into his office chair. Piled on his desk were various deeds and contracts.

"Not particularly," Beaton admitted.

"I'm not surprised," Traynor said.

"I have to talk to you about that young couple we recruited last spring," Beaton said. "They've been a disaster. Both were fired from their positions yesterday. The husband was with CMV and she was in our pathology department."

"I remember her," Traynor said. "Wadley acted like a dog in heat around her at the Labor Day picnic."

"That's part of the problem," Beaton said. "Wadley fired her, but she came in yesterday and complained about sexual harassment, threatening to sue the hospital. She said she'd gone to Cantor well before being fired to register a complaint, a fact Cantor has confirmed."

"Did Wadley have cause to fire her?" Traynor asked.

"According to him, yes," Beaton said. "He'd documented that she'd repeatedly left town while on duty, even after he specifically warned her not to do so."

"Then there's nothing to worry about," Traynor said. "As long as he had reason to fire her, we'll be fine. I know the old judges that would hear the case. They'll end up giving her a lecture."

"It makes me nervous," Beaton said. "And the husband, Dr. David Wilson, is up to something. Just this morning I had him escorted out of medical records. Yesterday afternoon he'd been in there accessing the hospital's computer for death rates."

"What on earth for?" Traynor asked.

"I have no idea," Beaton said.

"But you told me our death rates are okay," Traynor said. "So what difference does it make?"

"All hospitals feel that their death rates are confidential information," Beaton said. "The general public doesn't understand how they're figured. Death rates can be a public relations disaster, something that Bartlet Hospital certainly doesn't need."

"I'll agree with you there," Traynor said. "So we keep him out of medical records. It shouldn't be hard if CMV fired him. Why was he fired?"

"He was continually at the lower end of productivity," Beaton said, "and at the upper end of utilization, particularly hospitalization."

"We certainly won't miss him," Traynor said. "Sounds like I should send Kelley a bottle of scotch for doing us a favor."

"This family is worrying me," Beaton said. "Yesterday they came flying into the hospital to yank out their daughter, the one with cystic fibrosis. They took her out of the hospital against medical advice from their pediatrician."

"That does sound bizarre," Traynor said. "How's the child? I guess that's the important issue."

"She's fine," Beaton said. "I spoke to the pediatrician. She's doing perfectly well."

"Then what's the worry?" Traynor said.

Armed with the social security numbers and birth dates, Angela headed into Boston. She'd called Robert Scali that morning so he'd expect her. She didn't explain why she was coming. The reason would take too long to explain and besides, it would sound too bizarre.

She met Robert at one of the numerous small Indian restaurants in Central Square in Cambridge. As Angela entered, Robert got up from one of the tables.

Angela kissed him on the cheek, then got down to business. She told him what she wanted and handed Robert her list. He eyed the sheet.

"So you want background checks on these people?" he said. He leaned across the table. "I was hoping that you had more personal reasons for calling so suddenly. I thought you wanted to see me."

Angela immediately felt uncomfortable. When they'd gotten together before, Robert had never intimated anything about rekindling their old flame.

Angela decided it was best to be direct. She assured Robert that she was happily married. She told him that she'd come purely because she needed his help.

If Robert was disheartened, it didn't show. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "I'm glad to see you no matter what the reason," he said. "I'll be happy to help. What is it you specifically want?"

Angela explained to Robert that she'd been told that a good deal of information could be obtained about a person through computer searches using just the social security number and the birth date.

Robert laughed in the deep, husky manner that Angela remembered so vividly. "You have no idea how much is available," he said. "I could get Bill Clinton's Visa card transactions for the last month if I were truly motivated."

"I want to find out everything I can about these people," Angela said, tapping the list.

"Can you be more specific?" Robert said.

"Not really," Angela said. "I want everything you can get. A friend of mine has described this process as a fishing trip."

"Who's this friend?" Robert asked.

"Well, he's not exactly a friend," Angela said. "But I've come to think of him that way. His name is Phil Calhoun. He's a retired policeman who's become a private investigator. David and I hired him."

Angela went on to give Robert a thumbnail sketch of the events in Bartlet. She started with Hodges' body being discovered in their basement, then went on to describe the fascinating clue of the tattoo, and finished up with the theory that someone was killing patients in a form of misguided euthanasia.

"My God!" Robert said when Angela ended her tale. "You're shooting holes in my romantic image of the peaceful country life."