“And this one…?”
“Josie was on the ER in October of ninety-three when a patient who had sustained bad lower-body burns in an auto accident was brought in. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in an emergency room or watched any of the TV shows set there, but when trauma victims arrive, it can get pretty hectic. They were starting an IV, and Josie grabbed a bag of dextrose, rather than saline. The patient went into cardiac arrest and they couldn’t bring him back.”
“And she resigned.”
“Yes. She was deeply shaken by what she’d done, told me she’d never get over it, and that she didn’t deserve to be a nurse anymore.”
“And soon after that, she moved away.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see her before she left?”
“Once. We met for a drink at a motel bar on the highway. Not one of the places that the folks from Sutter Coast frequented. She didn’t want to see any of them.”
“What happened at that meeting?”
“We talked about what was going on in my life. She said she was leaving town. I asked her what she’d do; she said she didn’t know, but it wouldn’t be nursing. She didn’t even know where she was going, she was just planning to get in her van and drive. She had a garage sale the following weekend and got rid of everything that wouldn’t fit in the van, and then she was gone.”
I was listening to her, and yet I wasn’t, trusting the tape to do my job while I entertained a frightening possibility. I reached for my glass, drained the iced tea left there.
I said, “I won’t take up too much more of your time, Mrs. Jansen, but I wonder if you remember anything about the patient who died because of Josie’s mistake?”
“I’m not likely to forget. The man’s wife was litigious, and it took the hospital’s lawyers a long time to reach a settlement. They were a couple traveling through on their way to a family reunion in Seattle. Collingsworth, was the name.”
“And where were they from?”
“Somewhere down south. He was a retired chief of police, as I recall.”
“Was his full name Bruce Collingsworth?”
“That sounds right.”
Bruce Collingsworth-Roy Greenwood’s tennis partner, who had been chief of the Paso Robles force when Laurel disappeared.
I was willing to bet his death was no accident.
I was speeding toward Sacramento on Highway 99 when my cell rang. I fumbled the unit out of my purse, which lay on the passenger seat.
“Yeah, Shar. What d’you need?” Derek, returning the call I’d made to him before leaving Grass Valley.
“A couple of things. Seems Laurel Greenwood was living in Klamath Falls, Oregon, under Josie Smith’s name, in December of ninety-four. Will you see if there’s a current address for her in that area?”
“Closing in, huh? Sure thing. What else?”
“This is a lower priority, but still important. See if you can come up with any information on a death at Sutter Coast Hospital in Crescent City in October of ninety-three. The deceased’s name was Bruce Collingsworth.”
“You want I should call you, or e-mail the info?”
“Neither. I’m on my way back to the office, should be there in two, two and a half hours.”
“See you then.”
I broke the connection, dropped the phone on the passenger seat. Checked my rearview mirror for highway patrol cars and, when I didn’t see any, pressed harder on the accelerator.
It was after six when I got to the pier. Traffic on Interstate 80 had been brutal in both Sacramento and the East Bay, and I’d hit a major snag in Vallejo as well. As I passed Ted’s office, he called out to me, but I kept going to Derek’s. Mick was the only one there.
“If you’re looking for your top research man,” he said, “he’s waiting for you in your office.”
Mick looked a little sullen, and the absence of his usual cheerful greeting told me I was at the root of his displeasure-probably because I’d cut him out of the investigation. Normally I would have asked him what was wrong and talked the problem through, but right now I was in too much of a hurry. Let him stew for a while; maybe he’d work it out on his own.
“Thanks,” I told him, and headed for my office.
Derek was in my armchair, staring out at the fog. When he heard me come in, he started and got up, looking guilty.
I said, “Usurping my place, are you?”
“Shar, I’m sorry-”
“That chair’s not sacrosanct, you know. And it’s not even all that comfortable.” I dumped my purse and briefcase on the desk, dragged another chair over, and motioned for him to reclaim his place. “You get an address for Josie Smith?”
“My property search for Klamath Falls shows she’s owned a house at one-thirteen May Street since March of nineteen ninety-five. Taxes’re current. The stuff on that death in Crescent City is in the top file in your in-box, and I also e-mailed it, just in case. It’s pretty routine. The guy was badly burned in a freeway crash, and then he was accidentally administered the wrong IV by a nurse in the ER. No follow-up on the story, except a brief item saying the hospital had settled with the widow for an undisclosed amount.”
“Thanks. I want you to keep on that one. The widow may still be alive; check the Paso Robles area first.”
“You’re close to solving this one, huh?”
“No-
“He spoke with Ted this morning and said he’d be in tomorrow. Told him a wild story involving a woman and a pool cue.”
“It
“Then it’s true. Ted thought he’d made it up.”
“It’s true, all right.” I went to the desk and buzzed Ted. “Will you check with the airlines and find out when the next flight to Klamath Falls, Oregon, leaves? And while you’re at it, ask about the current regs about bringing a firearm on board.”
Disapproving silence.
“Just do it. Lecture me later.”
When I turned back to Derek, he was standing. “You taking off now?” I asked.
“If you don’t need me. I’ve got a dinner date, but I’ll keep my cell on in case you have to get in touch.”
“You seeing Chris?”
He shook his head. “New lady.”
So Chris and Derek’s involvement wasn’t serious. Well, that meant I didn’t have to worry about Jamie getting her tender young feelings hurt.
“Have fun,” I said.
“Thanks.”
The intercom buzzed as Derek left the office.
“The last flight for Klamath Falls on any airline left at five-thirty,” Ted said. “Your next option is Horizon Air, at six-thirty tomorrow morning. Arrives at eleven-oh-four.”
“Why so long?”
“Stopover in Portland.”
Damn! I didn’t want to wait till morning. But it was a long, difficult drive, and I couldn’t fly myself, since Hy had phoned earlier to say he’d picked up Two-Seven-Tango in Paso Robles and gone back to San Diego for a few days. Not that I could have flown anyplace, given this thick fog. Oh well, at least this way I could drop off the car I’d rented in Grass Valley at SFO tomorrow.
“Okay,” I said, “book the six-thirty, please. What did they tell you about the firearms regs?”
