My best friend was a gay homicide detective but that didn’t translate to frequent contact with the man he lived with. In the course of a year, I might chat with Rick half a dozen times when he picked up the phone at their house, the tone always light, neither of us wanting to prolong. Toss in a few dinners at celebratory times-Robin and I laughing and toasting with the two of them-and that was it.
When I reached the sliding glass doors, I put on my best doctor swagger. I’d dressed for court in a blue pin- striped suit, white shirt, yellow tie, shiny shoes. The receptionist barely looked up.
The E.R. was quiet, a few elderly patients languishing on gurneys, no electricity or tragedy in the air. As I approached the triage bay, I spotted Rick walking toward me, flanked by a couple of residents. All three of them wore blood-speckled scrubs, and Rick had on a long white coat. The residents wore badges. Rick didn’t; everyone knows who he is.
When he saw me, he said something to the others that made them depart.
Detouring to a sink, he scrubbed with Betadine, dried off, extended a hand. “Alex.”
I’m always careful not to exert too much pressure on fingers that suture blood vessels. Rick’s grip was the usual combination of firm and tentative.
His long, lean face was capped by tight gray curls. His military mustache held on to some brown but the tips had faded. Smart enough to know better, he still frequents tanning salons. Today’s bronze veneer looked fresh- maybe a noontime bake instead of lunch.
Milo stands between six two and three, depending on how his mood affects his posture. His weight fluctuates between two forty and way too high. Rick’s six feet even but sometimes he appears just as tall as “the Big Guy” because his back’s straight and he never tops one seventy.
Today, I noticed a stoop I’d never seen before.
He said, “What brings you here?”
“I dropped in to see you.”
“Me? What’s up?”
“Patty Bigelow.”
“Patty,” he said, eyeing the exit sign. “I could use some coffee.”
We poured from the doctors’ urn and walked to an empty examining room that smelled of alcohol and methane. Rick sat in the doctor’s chair and I perched on the table.
He noticed that the paper roll on the table needed changing, said, “Scoot up for a sec,” and ripped it free. Wadding and tossing, he washed his hands again. “So Tanya did call you. The last time I saw her was a few days after Patty died. She needed some help getting hold of Patty’s effects, was running into hospital bureaucracy, but even after I helped with that I got the feeling she wanted to talk about something. I asked her if there was anything else, she said no. Then about a week after that, she phoned, asked if you were still in practice or were you doing police work exclusively. I said from what I understood, you were always available to former patients. She thanked me but once again, I got the feeling she was holding back. I didn’t say anything to you in case she didn’t follow through. I’m glad she did. Poor kid.”
I said, “What kind of cancer got Patty?”
“Pancreatic. By the time she was diagnosed, it had eaten her liver. A couple of weeks before, I noticed her looking worn down, but Patty on two cylinders was better than most people on full-burn.”
He blinked. “When I saw she was jaundiced, I insisted she get it checked out. Three weeks later she was gone.”
“Oh, man.”
“Nazi war criminals make it to ninety, she dies.” He massaged one hand with the other. “I always thought of Patty as one of those intrepid settler women who could hunt bison or whatever, skin, butcher, cook, turn the leftovers into useful objects.”
He pulled at one eyelid. “All those years working with her and I couldn’t do a damn thing to change the outcome. I got her the best oncologist I know and made sure Joe Michelle-our chief of anesthesiology-managed her pain personally.”
“Did you spend much time with her at the end?”
“Not as much as I should’ve,” he said. “I’d show up, we’d make a little small talk, she’d kick me out. I’d argue to make sure she meant it. She meant it.”
He plucked at his mustache. “All those years she was my main RN, but apart from occasional coffee in the cafeteria, we never socialized, Alex. When I took over, I was an all-work, no-play jerk. My staff managed to show me the error of my ways and I got more socially oriented. Holiday parties, keeping a list of people’s birthdays, making sure there were cakes and flowers, all that morale-boosting stuff.” He smiled. “One year, at the Christmas party, Big Guy agreed to be Santa.”
“That’s an image.”
“Ho, ho, ho, grumble, grumble. Thank God there were no kids to sit in his lap. What I was getting at, Alex, is that Patty wasn’t at that party or any other. Always straight home when she finished charting. When I tried to convince her otherwise it was ‘I love you, Richard, but I am needed at home.’”
“Single-parent responsibilities?”
“Guess so. Tanya was the one person Patty tolerated in her hospital room. Kid seems sweet. Premed, she told me she’s thinking psychiatry or neurology. Maybe you made a good impression.”
He got up, stretched his arms over his head. Sat back down.
“Alex, the poor kid’s not even twenty years old and she’s alone.” He reached for his coffee, stared into the cup, didn’t drink. “Any particular reason you took the time to come over here?”
“I was wondering if there was anything about Patty I should know.”
“She got sick, she died, it stinks,” he said. “Why am I thinking that’s not what you’re after?”
I considered how much to tell him. Technically, he could be thought of as the referring physician. Or not.
I said, “Tanya’s wanting to see me has nothing to do with grief. She wants to talk about a ‘terrible thing’ Patty confessed on her deathbed.”
His head shot forward. “What?”
“That’s as much as she’d say over the phone. Make any sense to you?”
“Sounds
“That could be it.”
He thought for a while. “Maybe this ‘terrible thing’ was Patty’s guilt about leaving Tanya. Or she was just talking nonsense because of how sick she was.”
“Did the disease affect her cognition?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me, but it’s not my field. Talk to her oncologist. Tziporah Ganz.” His beeper sounded and he read the text message. “Beverly Hills EMTs, infarc arriving momentarily…gotta go try to save someone, Alex.”
He walked me through the glass doors, and I thanked him for his time.
“For what it was worth. I’m sure all this melodrama will fizzle to nothing.” He rolled his shoulders. “Thought you and Big Guy were stuck in court for the rest of the century.”
“The case closed this morning. Surprise guilty plea.”
His beeper went off again. “Maybe that’s Himself giving me the good news…nope, more data from the ambulance…eighty-six-year-old male with subterranean pulse…at least we’re talking a full life span.”
He stashed the beeper. “Not that anyone makes those value judgments, of course.”
“Of course.”
We shook hands again.
He said, “The primary ‘terrible thing’ is Patty’s gone. I’m certain it’ll all boil down to Tanya being stressed out. You’ll help her come to grips with that.”
As I turned to leave, he said, “Patty was a great nurse. She should have attended some of those parties.”
CHAPTER 3
