Critical Conditions

Twenty-one

I woke still missing Lauren and still worried about Madison. It was too early to call Washington, but I phoned Miggy Monroe to check on her daughter before I left for the office to see my eight-fifteen patient.

“Ms. Monroe? Miggy? It’s Dr. Gregory. Did you hear anything from Madison overnight? Did she come home?”

“No, not a word. I haven’t slept a wink; I’m worried sick. The police won’t help me at all. Some of her clothes are gone, I’m pretty sure. I checked real carefully, like you said. Why would she run away? She and I do okay. I’m not a bad mom. Why would she leave me? Do you think it’s the boy? I have to think it’s him. I bet it’s the boy.”

I asked if there was anything I could do to help. She said there wasn’t.

“Would you please call me when you hear from her? I’m concerned about her, too, and would like to know that she’s okay. Would you do that?”

She said she would call.

Diane Estevez came into my office at nine-forty-five, after I had seen two morning patients and she had seen one. She said, “You want coffee? I made a fresh pot.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

She disappeared for a moment and returned with two mugs. Handing me one, she said, “You saw the news.”

“Thanks for the coffee. Yes, I saw the news.”

“They’re not releasing her name to the news media. How am I supposed to get John Trent’s custody eval thrown out if I can’t tell the court what the hell the kid is supposed to have done?”

“It’s not your problem, Diane. It’s a lawyer problem. Let your patient’s lawyer worry about it. You know it’s all going to come out in the wash eventually. You know what I think? I think you just don’t like being out of the loop.” I raised my mug. “Good coffee, is it something new?” The coffee tasted the same as always to me, but Diane had a predilection for trying exotic blends and was scornful of me when I didn’t notice her efforts.

She nodded about the coffee being novel. I could tell she also knew I was right about what would happen with the custody eval. The question was merely one of following form. For Diane, that meant protesting.

“Why are you so sure? And what do you mean I don’t like being out of the loop?”

“Being right isn’t good enough for you, you know that. You always want to be sure that you can influence the universe whenever and however you see fit. You should find a red cape to wear to work.”

“I have a red cape. It’s cute.”

“There you go, then.”

She adopted a civilized tone and asked, “How’s your patient?”

“Same, thanks for asking. You know anything you can tell me about Edward Robilio? Other than the basics, I mean. I’m still trying to figure out how this whole crazy situation came down the way it did.”

“What happened to ‘Dead Ed’? Raoul thought it was a hilarious nickname, by the way. Said it fit dear Dr. Robilio in real life, too.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“Raoul met him a few times on the hundred-dollar-a-plate muckety-muck circuit. Says he was a total boor. Tedious, always talking about his money, or his toys, or both. Big toys. He had an airplane, some big ski boat, and condos here and there and a-”

“Big freaking RV.”

She laughed. “Yeah, that too. How did you know about the RV?”

“Mitchell Crest lives in the low-rent end of the same neighborhood where Dead Ed lived. Mitch said the RV is like the size of a nuclear submarine or something. Caused a neighborhood uproar when Ed tried to park it semipermanently in the driveway. Apparently it’s bad form in Boulder’s new suburbs.”

“Raoul said that Dead Ed loved the thing, had pictures of it in his wallet. Had a name for it, too, oh, oh, I can’t remember. You have any idea what it cost?”

“No. No clue.”

She paused for effect. “After he gilded it, three-ninety. That’s what he told Raoul over cocktails. Raoul says Ed lowered his voice reverentially when he said the number.”

“No way. Three hundred and ninety thousand dollars? For a Winnebago? That’s more than my house. That’s more than two of my houses.”

“You don’t have two houses; the other one belongs to Lauren. And your one house is not exactly a yardstick by which wealth is measured.”

“True, but-”

“Apparently the thing has a marble bathroom and cherry cabinetry and leather everywhere and a surround-sound home theatre and gold-plated this and that. If you can believe it, it even has a satellite dish on the roof that automatically rotates to find its signal.”

I thought about an RV like that and wondered aloud, “What do you do with one, Diane? I mean, sure, you can drive it around to pretty places, but at the end of the day, you have to plug it in somewhere, right? For water and power and sewer, correct? Which means, half a million or no half a million, you end up spending the night in a trailer park. Am I right?”

“Raoul would probably tell you that spending the night in a trailer park would make Dead Ed feel right at home. And that it’s right where he belonged.”

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

“No. He wasn’t popular, even among his peers. He apparently wasn’t much of a physician when he was practicing-I think he was a dermatologist-and he didn’t do much to endear himself to others in the health care industry after he founded MedExcel. Pissed off a lot of other doctors and the other insurers. He sounds ruthless, in a business sense.”

“You have him diagnosed?” I knew she had. For Diane it was a hobby, like presumptive astrological forecasting for a hairdresser. The fact that she had never met Dr. Robilio wouldn’t impede her musings for even a moment.

“Narcissistic personality with borderline features.”

Tough assessment. You don’t go through life with those diagnostic characteristics without pissing people off. Plenty. “So he had enemies?”

“Going fishing for alternative suspects, Alan? Well, not to worry, the pond is probably well stocked. Half the doctors in Colorado wanted him dead. The trouble is that none of the other fish swimming around have Dead Ed’s bloody clothes stashed under their bed.”

She had Merritt’s dilemma a little wrong, but still I was impressed. “How do you know about the clothes? It hasn’t been in the news.”

“I have my ways.” She pointed at the little light on my wall indicating my next patient had arrived. “Time to get back to work, Doctor.”

I surfaced again at eleven-thirty. I was hungry, was concerned about Madison, and was continuing to feel some nagging curiosity as to why the DA’s office was procrastinating about arresting Merritt.

Madison’s mother wasn’t at home and I had been stupid in not getting her work number, or even asking at which of Boulder’s many libraries she worked, so I couldn’t reach her. I paged Sam and waited ten minutes for him to call back. He didn’t, which I found interesting. Finally I called the adolescent psychiatric unit at The Children’s Hospital to get an update on Merritt’s condition.

The mental health aide said Merritt was the same. And he said “Cool” when I told him I’d be in to see her close to six o’clock, depending on traffic.

I walked over to the Mall to grab some lunch.

My pager went off as I was walking back in my office door after a clear-my-head stroll to the east end of the Mall. Sam Purdy had left a voice mail message.

“Brad, the boy you told me about, didn’t return to his frat last night. By the way, he’s a Phi Delta Theta. That’s what those little symbols stand for. Hasn’t been to class this morning; his roommate doesn’t have any idea where he is. Lucy ran him for me. He has a juvenile prior for car theft. Just one. I’m checking on reports of missing vehicles from last night to see if I can link anything up to these two. My guess is that they’re joy-riding someplace, or that they ran. I’ll keep you posted.”

I arrived at McNichols Arena for the hockey game before Sam did. The evening was mild. While I waited for Sam to arrive, I stood at the top of the east stairs and turned down five offers to sell my ticket.

Sam was running late because he had stopped for dinner, which he was carrying in a brown McDonald’s bag that he knew the ushers would absolutely not permit him to carry into the arena. While he ate, we stood at the railing at the top of the stairs, enjoying the lights of the Denver skyline.

His meal was one of those super-size things that come with a drink large enough to convert the emptied cup into a children’s wading pool. He pulled out two fish sandwiches and then he rummaged around in the bottom of the bag as though he were trying to find the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks. He said, “Yep, there it is.”

“There what is, Sam?” I was looking around; I didn’t see anything worthy of my attention.

“A french fry. When you get fast food there’s always a french fry in the bottom of the bag. You ever noticed that? It’s reassuring to me; it’s kind of the way I look at hard times.”

I smiled and glanced at him. “That’s like what, your philosophy of life? That’s how you keep going when things look this bleak? A french fry?”

Sam raised one eyebrow and held it there. I could only see the one eye, but I had to admit it looked pretty philosophical. “Given current events, it’s an optimistic point of view for me to have, don’t you think?”

I had to consider it. I said, “Yeah, I guess.” I was trying to find some common ground between Ronald McDonald and Heidegger.

“Anyway, that’s how I keep going some days. After everything seems to be settled, after you think you’re all done, that you’ve done all you can do, there’s always something more. There’s always that one last fry. You eat fast food, ever? Or do you still count fat grams?”

“I eat more fast food than I should, probably.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it. It’s human of you. Then you know about the renegade fry phenomenon. The one in the bottom of the bag? The damn thing is almost always cold, and sometimes it’s ugly-you know, kinda pointy and brown and dry, like this one.” He held up the current suspect for my examination. “But after I finish my burgers and my pie and everything, I always look in the bottom of the bag. There’s always a french fry there, and-I don’t know about you-I’m always kind of glad there’s a french fry there. This time, too. It was right down there where it’s supposed to be.”

I thought more about what Sam was saying. I was forced to admit he had a point. “You know, sometimes it’s more than one fry, Sam. Sometimes it seems like they spill half of the order down there.”

Sam’s face softened into a private smile, as though he were recalling a special sexual experience. “I don’t know if it’s just me, but I sort of appreciate it when they do that. It’s like a bonus. No matter what, though, there’s always at least one fry in the bag. That’s the rule, the one you can count on.”

Wanting to believe we were really discussing more than portion control at McDonald’s, I said, “So what you’re saying is that you’re going to keep looking for answers?”

He swallowed, looked toward the new aquarium under construction in the Platte Valley. “You mean even if Merritt doesn’t start talking?”

“Yeah. But I guess I mean especially if Merritt doesn’t start talking.”

“Of course. Absolutely, I’ll keep looking.” He balanced his drink on the railing and leaned it against his abdomen. He was searching the bag, fervently hoping for another renegade fry. “Throw away the napkin, look under the ketchup packet, it’s always there someplace. One more fry. Yeah, I’m going to keep looking. I’ll find something.”

Something found him.

His pager went off at 11:06 of the second period while the officials were assigning major penalties to four different players after a brawl. I was surprised by the number of minutes the penalties earned; it didn’t really seem like the players’ hearts had been in the fight at all.

Even though Sam had a portable phone with him, he went out the tunnel to the concourse to make his call. He was back in three minutes, max.

“Grab your coat. We’re out of here.”

“What?”

“Come, come, I’ll fill you in.”

I followed him down the stairs to the concourse. He led me to the men’s room. “I should pee first. It’s a long drive, apparently.”

I unzipped, too. “What’s a long drive? Where are you going?”

“Do you ever have trouble peeing in stadiums and arenas? I don’t know what it is, but it’s like there’s a kink in the hose sometimes. Just doesn’t work. Only in arenas and stadiums, though; I’m fine in theaters. I don’t get it.”

“Want to make an appointment to talk about it? Probably has something to do with job stress. Maybe I can get you a disability pension.”

He grunted a little, trying to get his flow going.

“Or I could call my urologist friend, Adrienne, for you, arrange a consult. I’m sure she’d have some ideas about what’s wrong with your dick.”

He exhaled, and I heard his urine begin to splash into the trough. The thought of discussing his privates with Adrienne had apparently been therapeutic.

He said, “We’re going to the mountains to see Lucy Tanner.”

Lucy was Sam’s partner. “Now?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t think so, Sam. I have patients early in the morning. I’ve had to shuffle half my schedule around to make time to get to Denver to see Merritt every day. I’m even seeing some people on the weekend.”

“Oooh, guilt.” He stabbed his chest with his free hand. “Nice touch-elegant-but it won’t work. Not with me. One of the things Sherry doesn’t like about me is that I’m highly resistant to guilt.” He had initiated the shaking and rezipping routine. “Someone, an intruder, has apparently been camping out in Dead Ed’s mountain cabin. Lucy is up there checking it out for the department. Wondered if I would like to be an unofficial observer.”

“Are you sure it’s wise getting involved? You should let her handle this, Sam. Stay out of it. You’re too close to it. Anyway, the hockey game is tied. You don’t really want to leave.”

“Just like you let all of us law enforcement types handle Lauren’s little problem last fall? Like that kind of staying out of it? That’s what I should do?”

I zipped up and said, “Guilt works both ways. Only I’m not immune.” I looked at my watch. “Can’t you go up alone? Why do you need me?”

“I want you to be there. That’s all. Is that sufficient?”

“Why?”

“You repeat what I’m about to tell you and I’m dead, and so’s the cop who told me this. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Merritt wasn’t just in the basement of Dead Ed’s house.”

“What?”

“That’s right. She looked around. Prints on the banister going from the basement to the first floor, and a few locations in the kitchen.”

“What the hell was she doing wandering around his house?”

“I don’t know. The detectives don’t know. The DA doesn’t know. They figure they know how all this ended, but they’re not sure how it began, and that makes them less sure about the wherefores and the whys. Merritt’s not talking. So Dead Ed’s going to have to tell us what happened. That’s why we’re going to the mountains.”

“Okay, where’s the cabin?”

“Summit County, north of Dillon someplace. Lucy called it a ‘ranchette.’”

I looked at my watch. It was only eight-twenty. With luck, we could reach the accessible parts of Summit County in ninety minutes. “Whose car?”

“You kidding? You’re driving. My car’s getting new brakes. I took RTD to Denver. Anyway, I need to grab some sleep. I have a funny feeling it’s going to be a long night. Ever get those feelings?”

“Only when I’m with you.”

Dead Ed’s ranchette turned out to be adjacent to Highway 9, not more than five miles north of I-70. With the new rural speed limits on the interstate and with the assurance that the sleeping hulk leaning against the door next to me in the front seat was a peace officer who would put in a generous word for me with the Colorado State Patrol, I made good time on the ride up. We reached the town of Dillon on the other side of the Continental Divide at 9:45.

I said Sam’s name a couple of times to try to get him to stir. No luck. I decided to wake him by sliding the passenger door window down until his head started to fall out into the breeze.

It worked. His hair started blowing in the wind and then his whole big head just kerplunked into the night. He stiffened his neck with a jerk and pulled himself back inside.

I said, “You awake? I need directions. We’re in Dillon already.”

He said, “Shit, what the hell?” and looked at his watch. “What were you doing, ninety? Couldn’t you have driven the speed limit? This barely qualifies as a nap. I wasn’t asleep until we got to Idaho Springs.”

I scoffed, “Sam, you were snoring before I turned onto Sixth Avenue.” Which he knew was only three minutes from McNichols Arena. “Where’s the ranchette? Which way do I go?”

He flicked on the dome light and held a little piece of crumpled paper close to it. He couldn’t read it without his Kmart glasses. “Go north. Mark your odometer carefully. Lucy said the road is approximately four-point-three miles from the exit ramp.”

The cold air had refreshed me; I was feeling feisty. “Isn’t that incongruent, Sam? Wouldn’t it be approximately four miles or exactly four-point-three?”

Sam rubbed his face, trying to get some circulation going. I could hear the stubble of his beard crackle beneath his fingers. He said, “If I knew you were going to be an asshole, I would have left you in Denver.”

Four-point-three was accurate. The dirt road that led east off the highway was in good repair and after a hundred yards or so led to a gated entry below a carefully clumsy wooden sign that read, THE NOT SO LAZY 7 RANCH. From the fences that were visible, I guessed that the property comprised maybe twenty fenced acres that extended from close to the banks of the Blue River up to the borders of the Arapahoe National Forest. Maybe a quarter of the land was sparsely wooded with ponderosa pine and aspen. Dead Ed had probably been able to cross-country ski on his land much of the winter and fly-fish the Blue River all summer long. The ski and golf resorts of Keystone, Breckenridge, and Copper Mountain were only minutes away.

I found myself thinking that if I had a few extra million like Dead Ed, I might have been tempted to buy this little ranchette, too.

It was too dark to determine what animals, if any, Dead Ed had kept on his ranch, but he had strung enough barbed wire to contain quite a few head of something. We followed the dirt road up the steep slopes of the hillside, past a big red barn, through a thick stand of woods to a clearing.

Sam said, “That’s Lucy’s car,” pointing to a red turbo Volvo parked next to a Nissan something.

I parked between Lucy’s car and a four-by-four from the Summit County Sheriff’s Office, pulled myself from the driver’s seat, and stretched. Sam got out even more slowly than I. I watched him raise his arms above his head and suggested he might want to tuck in his shirt.

He suggested I might want to fuck myself.

Dead Ed’s ranch house may have been made of logs, but it was definitely not a log cabin. The two-story V-shaped house sat on a prominent rise with exposures to the south and west. I guessed it contained in the neighborhood of four thousand square feet-larger than a cabin, smaller than a mansion.

The black sky above was speckled by a billion stars. I said, “Incredible view up here, don’t you think?”

Sam said, “Yeah. Where is everybody?”

“Maybe Lucy’s inside rustling you up a sandwich. You disappointed? You expected maybe she’d be waiting for you on the porch with a cocktail?”

He ignored me and lumbered up some wide front steps. He pounded on the door with a door knocker that had been constructed from an ice ax.

Lucy answered the door and smiled.

Lucy Tanner was classy, which distinguished her from her partner. Although Boulder had many law enforcement officers who did their job professionally, the city had few cops who could walk the corridors of power and be mistaken for a member. Lucy oozed confidence and grace. Although I’d never asked her, I assumed she chose to be a cop only after ruling out other options available to her, like law firm partner, investment banker, or CEO of some prominent company.

I said, “Hi, Lucy. Nice outfit.” Lucy liked clothes the way Dead Ed liked diesel-powered toys. I knew Sam wouldn’t notice how she was dressed and I knew Lucy felt good when people noticed.

The outfit I was admiring was a one-piece bodysuit of some soft flannel-looking fabric. The places where it might be too tight for a police officer on duty were hidden under a long mustard-colored four-button blazer.

“You really think it works? Sunny and I just went into Dillon to grab some dinner and we stopped at the Donna Karan outlet to look around. I wasn’t sure about this when I first saw it, but she convinced me the colors are good for me. So I picked it up. Can’t beat the price.”

“It works, Lucy. You look lovely. Don’t you think she looks great, Sam?”

Sam grunted.

She turned to face her partner but spoke to me. “He’s hopeless, Alan. Don’t bother. You guys made good time, Sam. Sunny and I just got back here a few minutes ago.”

“Alan mistook I-70 for the Bonneville Salt Flats. Listen, I appreciate the call about this, Luce,” Sam said. He hesitated, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You know I can’t have been here.”

“I know that, Sam. Don’t worry. Everybody’s cool about you being here.”

“Who is everybody?”

“A Summit County deputy named Larsen. He’s the one who called us; he’s on the ball. And the Robilios’ oldest daughter, Helen. Says everybody calls her Sunny.”

“And she doesn’t know I’m Merritt’s uncle?”

“She thinks you’re a specialist in this kind of thing. You know, like a consultant.”

“And exactly what is ‘this kind of thing,’ Luce?”

Lucy was already walking toward the back of the house. Without turning, she said, “Wing it, Sam. I’m not sure what we have yet.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“You’re Sam’s driver. Hang around the back of the room and act bored. It should be easy for you.”