picture.”
For a moment she imagined that he had a whole wardrobe of Ferrari outfits—blazers, polo shirts, Windbreakers, hats—probably even had rearing stallion undies. “Sorry to hear that,” she said, but found it hard to feel sympathy for a guy who was down to his last Ferrari. “I collect Honda Civics.”
Carr turned his face toward her. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“I guess not.” The guy seemed devoid of humor. Or maybe he wasn’t used to teasing from underlings. Whatever—she decided that this was not going to be a long and tedious night.
They came to a stoplight and Dr. Carr turned full-face toward her. “I think if we’re going to have a pleasant evening, it might be a good idea to clear the air.”
“Fine,” she said, feeling as if a valve had opened up. “Then maybe you can tell me what exactly is going on in Broadview Nursing Home, since that is what this is all about.”
Carr stared at her, no doubt offended that an inferior in the medical Great Chain of Being had spoken to him with such bluntness. “You
“And I think you’re playing coy with me, Dr. Carr.”
“Do you always say what’s on your mind?”
“I guess I do.”
He nodded. “Okay, fair enough, but over the wine. And it’s Jordan.”
Silence filled the car as they headed toward the restaurant, while Rene kept wondering what this was all about, why Chateau Dominique and escort service by this high-powered neurologist who collected Ferraris.
To break the tension, Jordan looked over at her. “So, how did you end up in a profession like yours? I mean, really, you’re an attractive, bright young woman, yet you chose to work with geriatrics and dementia patients.”
The question was as familiar as the answer was boring. “I like the elderly. And I guess it’s because I’ve always had an interest in caring for those who get overlooked or scorned by society. Before pharmacy school, I worked at a homeless shelter and then at a substance-abuse clinic. That put me in touch with what it feels like to be a social outcast.”
“And now it’s geriatric nursing home residents.”
“Yes. There are plenty of people in the medical professions who care for babies and the middle-class Americans with health insurance.”
“Thus you’ve chosen the underserved.”
“That or I’m suffering some kind of psychopathology. I’m also comfortable with the elderly. I grew up in a small Maine farm town that was impoverished and that didn’t have a lot of young people. All around me were older folks—grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles, and neighbors who were surrogate grandparents to me. The only doctors I remember were those who cared for older people. In fact, I grew up thinking that all doctors were gerontologists. Besides, somebody has to take care of them, right?”
“That’s hardly psychopathology.”
She was silent for a moment. “Well, there’s a personal motive, I suppose. My father died of Alzheimer’s.”
“I see. So you’re trying to help others cope with the dragon.”
“Something like that.”
In the lights of the other cars she could sense him turn something over in his head that was making him grin slightly. “Was it bad—your father’s demise?”
“Ever treat a
“I meant, in the severity of the disease.”
“It was fast toward the end, and worse on us than him.”
“How old was he when he was diagnosed?”
“Seventy-two.”
“Not very old.”
“He died seven years later.”
She could still hear the gentle, consoling voice.
“Well, I hope I didn’t upset you, but it’s what we’re trying to do something about.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “What about your becoming a doc?”
“Well, my father was a physician in Singapore. So I guess it’s in the blood. Also, it’s not a bad life.”
“Originally, yes. My mother was Chinese, my father Canadian, but originally from London.”
That explained his exotic appearance. Maybe even his aristocratic demeanor.
Jordan looked over at her when they approached the restaurant. “You’re very attractive. Just wondering why someone like you is unattached.”
“Thank you, but who says I am?”
“Well, you caught me. I was talking to Nick Mavros.”
Nick was a mentor, perhaps a father figure, and a friend, but there was a strain of village matchmaker in him. “I see. Well, I’m fairly busy. And frankly I’m downsizing.”
“Downsizing. Ahh, a recent parting of ways?”
“Something like that.”
“Clearly bad judgment on his part.”
“Thanks. And what about you?”
“Divorced, two children, and paying dearly because her attorney’s a velociraptor.”
They turned into the restaurant parking lot.
13
THE HOSTESS GREETED DR. CARR BY NAME and led them to a private candlelit table in a far corner.
While Carr read the wine menu, Rene studied his face. In the soft candlelight he was very handsome, with long-lashed quasi-Asian eyes, smooth fine features, hair that closed over his brow like a leather flap, and an absence of beard shadow. Adding to the effect was the silky voice and manner. And despite his obvious avoidance of the issue at the forefront of Rene’s mind, Jordan Carr was very charming—another lesson for her that people aren’t what they seem. He ordered a sixty-dollar merlot.
Awkward silence filled the air after the waiter left. Rene studied the menu just to fill the gap. Then she looked up. “So … ,” she said. “Clara Devine.”
Carr lit up. “Ahh, the wine.” And almost by magic the waiter appeared and filled the glasses. Jordan raised his glass. “To a better future through medicine.”
“Sounds more like a slogan than a toast.”
“Maybe a little of each.” And he took a sip and settled back in his chair. “So, what do you want to know?”
Rene leaned forward. “Okay. You are not Clara Devine’s primary physician.”
A bemused smile spread like an oil slick across Carr’s face. “Correct.”
“Why have her medical charts not come back to me?”
“I believe the police have impounded them.”
“Next question.”
