“I don’t know,” Susan said. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Police are always going on stakeouts and clandestine operations and such and-”
“Ah no, young sir. You are too simple. You might have said a great many things about this proboscis of mine.
The bellowing was coming from the waiting room.
“. . For example, thus: Aggressive: Sir, if that nose were mine I’d have it amputated on the spot!. .”
There was no question the voice was Gordo’s, yet it wasn’t.
“. . Friendly: How do you drink with such a nose. You ought to have a cup made specially. . ”
Will and Susan hurried through her office door and down the hall to the waiting room entrance.
“. . The descriptive: ’Tis a rock, a crag, a cape!. .”
Cameron, gleaming epee in hand, darted about the deserted waiting room with surprising grace, furiously fencing against an invisible adversary. He was sartorially quite subdued this day-tan slacks, white dress shirt, sedate suspenders, blue tie. A navy blazer lay over one of the chairs.
“. . A cape? Nay! Say rather a peninsula. The curious: What is that receptacle-a razor case or a portfolio?. .”
Amused and astounded as much by Cameron’s deftness with the sword as the recital, itself, his two partners stood by the wall, arms folded, and watched.
“. . The kindly: Ah, do you love the little birds so much that when they come to sing to you, you give them this perch to sit on?”
Cameron noticed them and lowered his sword, his head tilted back haughtily.
“Cyrano?” Will asked.
“Very good, lad,” Cameron replied, his brogue now returned, richer than ever. “Believe it or not, I’ve won the role of de Bergerac in my local community theater’s upcoming production.”
“That’s wonderful, Gordo,” Susan exclaimed. “Cyrano de Bergerac is a marvelous play.”
“Yes, bravo,” Will said. “You surely seem to have the skill and the voice. But wasn’t Cyrano. . um. . I mean, wasn’t he. .”
“Thin?” Cameron said, instantaneously changing his accent from Robert Burns to Olivier. “I, sir, am the consummate actor. I can do British, I can do French-
He switched accents facilely as he spoke and was right on with each of them. Will suddenly remembered a number of times over the years when Gordo had regaled a cocktail party with stories requiring accents and even impressions. The man was good.
“Well, Gordo,” he said, “if anyone can pull off a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Cyrano, my money’s on you.”
He smiled and patted his partner on the back, but something had started gnawing at him. When he was retracing his steps through the hospital, searching for the way someone could have gotten fentanyl into his body, and trying to tie the frame-up to the serial killer, he wondered about Gordo simply because he was around that fateful morning. Now another piece had fallen into place-the OR shoes. Gordo had ready access to his locker, and Will kept the key to it on the ring with his car keys. If the man really wanted to, there were any number of ways he could have gotten the key to make a duplicate. In fact, Will felt certain, within recent weeks Cameron had borrowed his car at least once-maybe even twice.
Troublesome, though, in linking Gordo to the phone calls was that even with his voice electronically distorted, the killer had absolutely no accent, and certainly no brogue. There was no way Will could believe the caller was Gordo-no way until now. Opportunity, method-all that was missing to close the circle was motive.
“We should get going,” Susan said. “In an hour I have some varicose veins to make magically disappear. Hey, Cyrano, knees slightly bent, head more erect, and keep your tip up.”
“Since when did you become interested in my tip, lass?”
“Come on, Will, this is Cyrano de Pigsty.”
With a flourish Will thrust a phantom sword deep into Cameron’s gut.
“Keep your tip up, Gordo,” he said.
Over the short drive to the Excelsius Cancer Center, Susan had Will fill in the rest of last night’s story, including more about the unsettling call from Patty to Augie Micelli.
“If you’re worried, then I’m worried,” she said, “but I certainly sense that this is a very capable woman who almost surely can take care of herself. If she hasn’t called, it’s probably because whatever operation she was involved in simply isn’t over yet.”
“I hope you’re right, and I appreciate your listening to me.”
“Hey, I’m all for young love. Like The Boss sang at the Fleet Center last night: ‘I wanna die with you Wendy on the streets tonight in an everlasting kiss.’ ”
“‘Born to Run.’ ”
“Exactly.”
“So he
“Just don’t let Yo-Yo find out.”
The parking lot of the mammography unit of the Excelsius Cancer Center was largely deserted.
“How should we do this?” Susan asked.
“Carefully, that’s how. Very carefully. The man’s sanity seemed to be hanging by a thread. I know it would probably go smoother if just you went in, but the truth is, Newcomber and I have some unfinished business, and I really do want to face him again. I didn’t leave his office easily or without comment, even with that gun waving at me. It was clear that something was terrifying him. The man was screaming at me like a banshee. When I first called him about changing his referral from you to me, he sounded angry way out of proportion to the situation. Same deal yesterday. The thing is, even though I was the one who was there, I’m not at all sure it was me he was frightened of. I tried to calm him down, to convince him I wasn’t a threat. I told him Grace’s story-how she made it all the way back from the gutter. I begged him to get in touch with me, to let me help him with whatever was wrong, but he just got more and more agitated until it really did seem as if he might pull the trigger.”
“And you want
Will turned her to him by the shoulders and perched her chin up on his fingertips.
“Maybe that’s not such a good idea after all.”
“No, it’s okay,” Susan said. “I’ve met him before, remember? Besides, who could shoot someone with such an angelic face as this?”
The entrance to the mammography wing of the Excelsius Cancer Center was on the south side. The waiting room was empty save for two women in their fifties and the silver-haired receptionist who had let Will visit Newcomber on his last visit.
“Dr. Davidson,” she said, “nice to see you again.”
Will nearly corrected her, then remembered making up the name. He made a major upward revision of his initial impression of the woman’s sharpness. Susan’s expression said that she had caught on immediately.
“Thank you for remembering me, Mrs. . ”
“Medeiros. Martha Medeiros. I have a thing about remembering names and faces. Sort of a hobby.”
She tried for a coquettish smile that missed by about four decades.
“This is-”
“I know, I know, Dr. Hollister,” she said proudly. “Sandra?”
“Susan,” Susan said. “That’s remarkable. Absolutely amazing. It’s been about a year since I was here.”
“Thank you. I enjoy shocking people.”
“Consider me shocked.”
“Mrs. Medeiros, we’re here to see Dr. Newcomber.”
“Was he expecting you?”
“No, but we just need to pick up a set of mammograms from him.”
“Well, Dr. Newcomber isn’t here.” Will and Susan exchanged disappointed glances. “He never comes in on Thursdays until after one. It’s like his day off, only it’s just half a day. Dr. Debra Grossbaum is here. Can she help you?”
