The Second Opinion, page 16
If you’ve wrecked this, Sperelakis, I’ll never speak to you again! she shouted at herself.
Dan rescued her.
“Is that what you want to talk about?” he asked. “Why I left the force?”
“People often talk before they, well, you know. I just thought that might be an interesting subject.”
He brought her hand to his lips and held it there.
“You are a piece of work, Doctor,” he said before setting her hand down. “An absolute piece of work. Okay, you ask, you get. But I warn you, it’s not a very pleasant tale.”
For half an hour they talked about the terrible sequence of events that led up to and followed the shooting of fourteen-year- old Patrick Suggs in the front yard of the Montrose Middle School. As she listened, Thea ached for the man. His sensitivity was what had drawn her to him in the first place. Now, it seemed, that deep gentleness and caring were destroying much of the promise of his life.
“Isn’t there a position in the police force where you wouldn’t have to carry a gun or . . . or shoot anyone?” she asked.
“Nothing I’d really care to do. For as long as I can remember, the only thing I ever wanted to do was to be a cop. The fallout of the shooting is that I was unemployed and unemployable. Then I stumbled on the ad for a security guard here. So far, so good.”
“So far, so good,” she echoed, her eyes nearly filled.
His scent was intoxicating. It didn’t matter if it was cologne, aftershave, or shampoo, or his own unique chemistry. She felt herself getting excited just breathing him in. Dan slid his hand from her knee up along her inner thigh.
“Mmmmm,” she murmured. “There’s more that I want to learn about you, but I can’t wait any longer to kiss you.”
“Good idea,” he said.
He held her face gently between his hands, bringing his own face so close that their breaths became one. Her eyes closed, she felt him briefly kiss each eyelid, then the tip of her nose before setting his lips upon hers. Her lips parted as his tongue moved between them.
Kissing Dan was not what she had expected. It was better. It would have been perfect if she hadn’t suddenly found her mind listing all of the muscles involved in their kiss. Although such a thought was absolutely typical for her, she fought back the urge to laugh and share it with him.
“Until you know a man, and know him well,” Dr. Carpenter had once told her, “don’t ever laugh during sex no matter how happy or giddy you might be feeling. Regardless of the saintliness of the fellow you’re with, he’s sure to misunderstand and take it as a personal affront to his manliness.”
With their lips still touching, his hand slid from her neck and brushed across the front of her blouse, pausing over each erect nipple.
“I . . . um . . . forgot my bra upstairs,” she said, wondering if an explanation was even called for.
“Hey, no problem. You’re just sparing me the humiliation of wrestling with the clasp.”
He removed his black T-shirt before unbuttoning her blouse and letting it slip from her shoulders. His hands caressed her breasts and glided over her hips, resting on the curves of her behind.
“I really love doing this with you,” she whispered, unbuttoning then unzipping his jeans.
Tighty whities. Where had she first heard that term, she wondered now. It had to have come from Dimitri. When he was a teen, he was always parading around in his underwear.
“So Thea—the question of the day,” Dan said. “Do you prefer men in boxers or briefs?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I believe I need a closer inspection before I can give you an answer.”
“Inspect away,” Dan said.
Thea placed her palm over the fly of his briefs.
“Briefs,” she declared. “Based on this scientific assessment, I definitely prefer briefs over boxers. However, there may be an element of bias due to the . . . um . . . due to the experimental subject’s impressive underlying . . . attributes.”
“Well, then, to avoid any unnecessary bias, it’s probably best if I ditch the underwear altogether.”
She ran her fingertips across his lips, then reached up and flicked off the table lamp. They made love on the rug, in the moonlight washing through the century- old living room windows. Later, much later, Thea was nestled in the curve of Dan’s body, pleasantly exhausted, when they heard the crunch of tires heading past them toward the carriage house.
“It’s Dimitri,” she said. “I don’t trust him not to show up here.”
Dan gathered up their clothes and Thea, giggling, helped him sort them out.
“Hey, Doc,” he said after they had dressed, “don’t be any more frightened about that guy in the parking lot than you have to be. I won’t let anything happen to you. Not now, not ever.”
CHAPTER 26
The day was gray, but balmy, with a warm breeze raising tiny sand devils on the beach. Dan pulled the rented Avalon to a stop before a small, gray-stained clapboard cottage on a narrow seaside street, then stepped out into the late afternoon sun and cleared his head with some deep breaths of salt air. There was a dark blue Nissan Sentra in the drive.
His friend, June Tilly, had come through big time at the crime lab—not only a match for the single print taken from the glasses, but a twelve- year- old military photo as well, and a name: Gerald Prevoir. There was no way to be absolutely certain that the man in the grainy snapshot was the orderly who had assaulted him outside the ICU, but Dan believed it enough to take a personal day off from work in order to fly from Boston to Philadelphia, and drive down the coast to South Carlisle, Delaware, the last known address of the man, who had received a Marine Bronze Star with valor device for action in Afghanistan.
There was no hall of records in South Carlisle, but 57 Salt Spray Lane was listed in the registry of deeds in Dover, and had been owned by a business called Hessian Homes of Miami for nearly ten years. No surprise. Dan had gotten several breaks already. It was unlikely that finding the man who attacked him would be smooth sailing all the way.
If the trip to Delaware brought him no closer, he would consider the risk of having Thea file an official report claiming assault and battery, and use his friends on the force to expand the search for Gerald Prevoir. He also had a bit of savings he was willing to use for a private detective. If needed, he knew he could ask Thea for help.
A day had passed since his evening with her. She had been an exciting, passionate, and joyous lover, open and enthusiastic, lithe and as sexy as she was unself- conscious. There would be no fake orgasms from this woman. No fake anything, for that matter.
They would have spent the night together, but Dimitri was waiting up for them. In addition, the attack on Thea, and the threats, most definitely upped the ante of their situation. She was in danger, as was her father.
In his own way, Dimitri Sperelakis was as unique as his sister. He was mercurial in his personality and in his attention span, camped in front of his bank of computer screens, moving from video games to complex, well- supported theories of attempted murder, to YouTube clips of his favorite illusionists, the Pendragons, performing their remarkable Metamorphosis. It was almost as if he needed the constant motion to stay focused. Even his voice seemed modulated. One moment he sounded like a child, the next like a nuclear physicist.
After reviewing his animation and theories regarding Petros’s hit-and-run, Dimitri had scrambled into the backseat of Petros’s Volvo as Thea drove them to the scene of the accident. Having viewed Dimitri’s cartoon at least as many times as the Pendragons’ inconceivably rapid transformation from men to women, Dan had little difficulty understanding why Thea’s brother had come to believe the accident was premeditated and purposeful. The angle at which the car had to be coming, the flight of Petros’s body, and the lack of skid marks led to no other conclusion.
Dan had expected Thea’s brother to be something of a smart al eck. Instead, he was delightfully self- deprecating and off beat, and certainly not afraid of verbally stepping on Dan’s toes or Thea’s. It remained to be seen if he was reliable, but no matter what, his intelligence could prove an important asset.
“Hey, big fella, you sure are a tall one.”
An elderly woman in a shabby faded blue house dress looked up at Dan from a foot or so beneath him. Her face was badly sun-damaged and deeply etched, and what teeth she had were in poor repair. Gnarled mats of silver hair protruded from beneath a paisley bandana tied in place behind her head. Her breath carried an odd, fishy odor.
“Six-foot-four,” Dan said. “Name’s Dan.”
“I have a cousin named Dan, or maybe it’s Daniel. I can never remember.”
Dan had little hope that the old woman was going to be of any help, but he nevertheless took the time to establish that her name was Noreen, that she had lived across the street for more than twenty-five years, and that she knew most of the people who lived in the neighborhood, but not the people who lived in number 57 Salt Spray Lane and were, as she put it, “foreigners from another country.”
“They’re renters,” she added. “A nice young couple who don’t have much interest in chatting with an old woman like me. I know it’s hard to believe, but I wasn’t always this old. I was once the runner- up for Miss Dover.”
“That’s terrific, Noreen.” Dan brought out the photo of Gerald Prevoir. “Actually, I’m looking for a man who once might have lived in that house.”
He passed the photo over and watched the woman’s expression as she examined it. There was not a flicker of recognition.
“You a policeman?” she asked.
“Nope. Just a man looking for a man. That man.”
“His name Dan?”
“No, no. That’s my name.”
Dan wrote his full name and phone number on a sheet from his notepad and passed it over.
“And you’re a policeman, you say?”
Dan smiled patiently.
“Thanks for your help, Noreen. I think I’ll go and talk to the people who live in that house.”
“Probably just the woman will be there. I’ve only seen the man once or twice. Not nearly as big and tall as you. Six feet tall, you said, right?”
Noreen seemed to be getting more addled as their time together went on. Dan slipped the photo out from between her fingers, thanked her, and headed up the front walk of the cottage. Noreen shrugged and backed across the street to lean on a telephone pole and watch.
The pretty young woman who answered the door of 57 Salt Spray Lane spoke only Russian—at least that was Dan’s guess. Her name was Ludmilla, and she conversed with him through the three- inch space allowed by a brass chain, which she showed no inclination to undo. She managed to overcome her mistrust, lack of understanding, and fear just enough to look at the photo of Prevoir and vehemently shake her head. Then she smiled nervously and gently shut the door.
The entire encounter took less time than it had taken the flight attendant on US Airways to give safety instructions. When Dan turned back to the street, Noreen was gone. The round- trip flights, the rental, the loss of one of his two personal days at work—hardly an even trade. Still, it had been worth the try.
Dan decided to use the two hours he had left to canvass the neighborhood with Prevoir’s photo. He knew he would draw blanks, and in that regard wasn’t disappointed.
For a time, he sat on a rocky jetty, flipping stones into the ocean, and trying to think of something, anything, he could do next. His resources were limited, and between Josh and the job, there was no way he could muster the time to push on with his search. But Gerald Prevoir was a man who had not only beaten and humiliated him and, in all likelihood, had tried to kill Thea’s father, but had also assaulted and threatened her. The goal of nailing such a beast would keep him going for as long as it took.
The best he could come up with after half an hour of thought was a name—Albert Mendez. Mendez was a low-rent private eye from Manhattan whom Dan had met at a forensics course at NYU. He was something of an operator, and a bit taken with himself, but he was also quite sharp, streetwise, and amusing to be around. He had, it seemed, watched every CSI show ever made, and it was his grand plan to use the course as a stepping- stone to getting an investigator’s job in a medical examiner’s office.
“The forensic guys get all the chicks,” he had said more than once.
Mendez had mentioned that his office was in Greenwich Village, and directory assistance had a PI with his name listed on Houston Street. The woman who answered Dan’s call—a service, he guessed—had a dense New York accent and was almost certainly chewing gum as she talked. Dan left her his name and cell number, and a little prompt in case Mendez had forgotten him.
Five miles from the Philadelphia airport, the detective called, and by the time Dan pulled into the rental car return, a fee—a reduced fee, Mendez assured him—had been agreed upon.
“Send me what you got and that retainer, and I’ll find the dude,” Mendez said. “You have the ol’ Mendez guarantee. Good thing you got a hold of me when you did, pal. I got something big pending that’s gonna get me out of this racket and into the office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York City himself.”
Dan promised to send a check along with the details of what he had learned, and turned his attention to trying to find a decent Philly cheese steak before catching the flight back to Boston.
Down the street from 57 Salt Spray Lane, Noreen Ecklestone had fetched a scrap of paper from a metal file box filled with such scraps. This particular scrap had the name Gerald written on it in pencil, and below the name, a phone number. An answering machine picked up after the third ring.
“Leave a message,” was all it said.
“Hello, Mr. Gerald,” she said. “This is Noreen from Sea Spray Lane. You asked me to call if anyone came snooping around asking about fifty- seven. Well, a real tall man was just here showing a photo of someone named Prever or Peever or something like that. His name was Dan, Dan Cotton, and his number is 617- 426-9444. I hope you’ll send me that reward you promised.”
She set the receiver down, put her bandana aside, and opened a can of sardines from a shelf full of similar cans, representing most of the food she kept in the cottage.
CHAPTER 27
There was an hour before Thea was scheduled to meet Julian Fang. The man had been an acupuncturist for more than sixty years, and had skills in the area of diagnosis that were regarded among those in his profession as uncanny and unequaled. If anyone could evaluate the success or failure of Hayley’s therapy, it was he. So far, she had a few, nonspecific symptoms from her treatment with SU990, but nothing at all debilitating, and she certainly looked like a woman who was handling a devastating disease as well as possible.
Thea had time to visit the step-down unit. She sensed the moment she entered her father’s room that he was still unresponsive and unaware. He was propped forty- five degrees onto his side by pillows, a position designed to relieve pressure on critical points such as his heels and sacrum. Those places where pressure was a concern were carefully protected.
Thea checked several of the critical areas where a skin breakdown could sometimes lead to death as surely as a blood clot or cardiac catastrophe. Perfect. All of them perfect. No redness, no cracks, no discoloration. For all of her responsibilities as director of the most renowned service in the world, Amy Musgrave was still the quintessential nurse. Every one of the hundreds of nurses on her staff seemed to know and respect the importance of attention to detail in achieving optimum patient care.
“Anything, Marlene?” Thea asked the private-duty nurse sent over from the agency.
“No change,” the woman, a young grandmother with years at the Beaumont, replied. “I’ve washed him down and given him a massage. He’s not moving anything.”
Thea excused the nurse and did an exam searching for any encouraging neurological sign. His pupils remained mid-position with minimal, if any, reaction to light. Despite his locked-in syndrome, he had been able to respond to her, albeit sluggishly. Now there was no movement at all. Several times, Thea begged him to move his eye. Nothing.
Questions about the persisting change in his condition were quickly sorted out as to their possible significance and how well they fit what she was observing. Over his long life in medicine, it had been the clinical technique of the man lying there before her and, largely because of him, it was her way as well.
Was this the natural evolution of his trauma? Had brain swelling suddenly become an issue even though there had been none for days? Could he possibly be having a reaction to one of his medications? Was there any way someone could be administering a paralytic, curare-like drug such as succinylcholine or pancuronium? Of all the questions, this last one seemed the most disconcerting—and in some ways the most possible.
Thea sent for the special-duty nurse.
“Do you have the list of visitors I asked you to keep?”
“Right here, Thea.”
She produced a notebook and handed it over. Twelve men and women had visited including the neurologist, the twins, two of their Aunt Marys, and the group Thea had begun thinking of as the big three—Amy Musgrave, Sharon Karsten (twice), and Scott Hartnett (three times). There were no unexpected names on the list except possibly for Hayley Long, who had been wheeled down by an aide and had stayed in the step- down unit from three o’clock until ten minutes of four. Hayley’s visit came as no surprise at all to Thea. During their nightly talks it had become clear what a genuinely caring person she was.
“Keep your eyes open whenever he has a visitor, Marlene. I especially want to be sure that no one is giving him any medications.”
“Medications?”
“I can’t explain . . . well, actually, I can explain, but I don’t want to. Please, Marlene, just keep your eyes sharp for anything unusual and call me on my cell if you see anything at all that doesn’t seem right.”
Thea stopped at the nurses’ station and read the neurologist’s note, which stated that he saw no change, but would have an ultrasound and MRI done tomorrow. He also suggested that as soon as the orthopedist felt Petros’s shattered pelvis could handle it, transfer to a rehab facility should be considered.
