even likely, that you are coming apart from all the hours you spend working?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. What are you going to do now?”
“Find a lawyer, I guess. I don’t intend to hand over my life without a goddamn good fight.”
The words were there, but they were belied by the dazed, vulnerable look in his eyes.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said.
“You just don’t expect this kind of stuff when you sign up.”
“Maybe not, but it’s all there in the fine print that nobody ever reads.”
For a time, Patty gazed across the room at nothing in particular. How much she wanted to believe him-that he didn’t create the mysterious phone call as a means of setting up a public platform for his views on managed care; that he didn’t accidentally overdose on a powerful narcotic; that he would never even consider killing anyone. She wanted to believe him because, at the moment, she needed him. Her first major case, and she was being shoved out the door. Unless she came up with something, and quick, she would be back to chasing down shoplifters full-time.
What would Tommy Moriarity think if he knew she was contemplating joining forces with their chief suspect in a series of vicious murders?. . What were all those women thinking the moment they opened the door to let in charming, handsome, vulnerable Ted Bundy?. . How much denial was she in about her attraction to this man?
“Dr. Grant,” she suddenly heard herself saying, “I need your help.”
“At the moment I can’t believe anyone needs my help for anything,” he said.
“Your career is on the line if you can’t prove you’re innocent of taking any drugs. Well, mine is on the line unless I get a break in this managed-care case, and soon. The truth is, it’s the first one of any consequence that I’ve gotten since I joined the force. A lot of people, including your friend Brasco, think that the only reason I’m still on the case is because my father is second in command of the state police.”
“How can I help?” Will asked.
“First, I want permission to tap your phones-here, your cell, even the one in your office.”
“If you think you need to.”
“For a while you won’t have much privacy.”
“When the media gets ahold of what happened this morning, I don’t suspect I’ll have much privacy anyway. Besides, if you’ve been investigating my life you must have learned that outside the hospital, my kids, and the soup kitchen, I don’t really have one. It’s been months since my last date.”
“I’ll give you my home number and my cell. If the killer calls, day or night, I need you to contact me immediately. If you have any ideas about who could be doing this or why, I need you to call me. If you can connect anyone to this drug business, anyone at all, that’s important, too. I’ll even take any theories that might come to you.”
“I suppose I could do that.”
“One last thing. I would really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone we have this arrangement.”
“I wondered about that, given that I’m still a suspect.”
“To Brasco you are, but I’ve pretty much decided to believe you-at least for the moment.”
As Patty spoke the words, the reality of what she was doing hit.
“I. . I’ve got to go,” she said, standing abruptly. “Here are forms for the wiretaps. Sign them in front of a notary and get them to me at the address on my card. I’ll let myself out.”
“Wait, you don’t have to go. Stay for just a little while. Maybe we could brainstorm.”
Somewhere in the midst of Will’s second sentence, she closed the door behind her.
Patty knew that in addition to her own vulnerability and feelings of isolation, she had just blatantly gone against policy and procedure because of the admiration and attraction that were building inside her for Will. Angry with herself and more than a little embarrassed, she hurried to the Camaro. She was unlocking her door when a photographer stepped out from between two parked cars and snapped off three quick shots.
“Hey!” a female reporter called from somewhere behind the man. “How about an interview?”
“Go screw yourself!” Patty shouted back.
The stench of burning rubber filled the car as she screeched out of Wolf Hollow Parking Lot 10.
CHAPTER 14
With the abruptness of a racing car hitting a wall, every aspect of time had changed for Will. Just six days ago, hours had passed like minutes. With surgical consults to visit, notes to dictate, patients to see, cases to do in the OR, exercise to squeeze in, and evenings and weekends with the kids to arrange for, to say nothing of the mundane aspects of running his life and continuing his work at the Open Hearth, he had wistfully prayed for just an extra couple of hours each day, just an extra day or two each month. Now, the days that had followed the unfathomable events at Fredrickston Hospital had seemed interminable.
It was ten in the morning when the phone rang for the first time that day. After waking at six, Will had scrambled a trio of eggs and served them to himself with a toasted bagel and some OJ. He had rinsed what few dishes there were, put them in the washer, and failed on his third attempt to get into a Michael Crichton novel, usually a sure thing for him. Finally, he had taken a tube of caulk to the bathroom off the kitchen to tack down a small block of tiles that had been loose for at least a year. It was a good bet that Michelangelo didn’t work more meticulously on the Sistine Chapel ceiling.
Over the past six days, caller ID and the bathroom window overlooking the parking lot and front stoop had become his staunchest allies. Initially, the reporters had been merciless in their attempts to get at him. Only in the past two days had their calls and visits begun to die away. Now, expecting yet another BLOCKED on the display, he checked the ID on the phone in the kitchen. AUGUST MICELLI, 617-483-5300. Will snatched up the receiver.
“This is Dr. Grant.”
“Dr. Grant, this is Gladys from Attorney Micelli’s office speaking. I know your appointment isn’t for three more weeks, and this is short notice, but we’ve had a cancellation for noon today, and Mr. Micelli thought you might want to come in.”
“I can be there,” Will said, hearing a small jet of enthusiasm in his voice for the first time since that moment in the OR.
“However,” the woman added, “he asked me to tell you not to get your hopes up and to remind you that he really just takes the cases of people
“I understand.”
“You know where the office is?”
“Park Street in Boston. Right down the street from the State House.”
“We’ll see you at noon.”
The recommendation to try August Micelli, MD, LLD, had come from Susan Hollister, who did not know the man well but did know that his intelligence was respected by physicians, even though the nature of his law practice was reviled. It was while Will was turning his practice over to her that Susan had suggested he might call the man, who was widely advertised as “the Law Doctor.” The patients Susan inherited from Will included Grace Peng Davis, on whom she had operated the following day, and several others whose surgery needed doing.
After being turned down for legal support by his malpractice carrier as expected, Will had tried two attorneys-one local and one in Boston. Emotionally and intellectually, he failed to connect with either, and the retainers and fees each demanded would have virtually broken him even before the game of saving his professional,
