Side Effects

Wednesday 12 December

Coronary strikes out Bobby. Kate cringed at the Boston Herald headline on her office desk. The story was one of the rare events that managed to make the front page in both that paper and the Boston Globe. Though the Globe's treatment was more detailed, the lead and side articles said essentially the same thing in the two papers.

Bobby Geary, beloved son of Albert and Maureen Geary, son of the city itself, had been taken without warning by a clot as thin as the stitching on a baseball. The stories, many of them by sportswriters, were the heart-rending stuff of which Pulitzers are made, the only problem being that they weren't true. The storm, which had begun the evening before, had dumped a quick eight inches of snow on the city before skulking off over the North Atlantic. However, neither the columns of journalistic half-truths. nor the painful drive into the city could dampen the warmth left by the C talking and the sharing that had followed the candlelight meal Kate had i prepared for her husband.

For the first time in years, Jared had talked about his disastrous first marriage and the daughter he would, in all likelihood, never see again.

"Gone to find something better" was all the note from his wife had said.

The trail of the woman and her daughter had grown cold in New York and finally vanished in a morass of evanescent religious cults throughout southern and central California. "Gone, to find something better."

Jared had cried as he spoke of the Vermont years, of his need then to break clear of his father's expectations and build a life for himself.

Kate had dried his tears with her lips and listened to the confusion and pain of a marriage that was far more an act of rebellion than one of love. Kate was finishing the last of the Globe stories when, with a soft knock, a ponderous woman entered carrying a paper bag. The woman's overcoat was unbuttoned, exposing a nurse's uniform, pin, and name tag.

Kate read the name as the woman spoke it. "Dr. Bennett, I'm Sandra Tucker. Ginger Rittenhouse was my roommate."

"Of course. Please sit down. Coffee?"

"No, thank you. I'm doing private-duty work, and I'm expected at my patient's house in Weston in half an hour. Dr. Engleson said that if I remembered anything or found anything that might help you understand Ginger's death I could bring it to you."

"Yes, that's true. I'm sorry about Ginger."

"Did you know her?"

"No. No, I didn't."

"We had shared the house only for a few months."

"I know."

"A week after she moved in, Ginger baked a cake and cooked up a lasagna for my birthday."

"That was very nice, " Kate said, wishing she had thought twice about engaging the woman in small talk. There was a sad aura about her-a loneliness that made Kate suspect she would talk on indefinitely if given the chance, patient or no patient. "We went to the movies together twice, and to the Pops, but we were only just getting to be friends and …"

"It's good of you to come all the way down here in the snow, " Kate said in as gentle an interruption as she could manage. "Oh, well, it's the least I could do. Ginger was a very nice person. Very quiet and very nice. She was thinking about trying for the marathon next spring."

"What do you have in the bag? Is that something of hers? " A frontal assault seemed the only way. "Bag? Oh, yes. I'm sorry. Dr. Engleson, what a nice man he is, asked me to go through her things looking for medicines or letters or doctors' appointments or anything that might give you a clue about why she… why she…"

"I know it was a hard thing for you to do, Miss Tucker, and I'm grateful for any help."

"It's Mrs. Tucker. I'm divorced."

Kate nodded. "The bag?"

"My God, I apologize again." She passed her parcel across the desk.

"Sometimes I talk too much, I'm afraid."

"Sometimes I do, too." Kate's voice trailed away as she stared at the contents of the bag. "I found them in the top of Ginger's bureau. It's the strangest way to package pills I've ever seen. On that one sheet are nearly two months worth of them, packaged individually and labeled by day and date when to take each one. Looks sort of like it was put together by a computer."

"It was, " Kate said, her thoughts swirling. "Pardon?"

"I said it was put together by a computer." Her eyes came up slowly and turned toward the window. Across the street, its glass and steel facade jewellike, was the pride of Metropolitan Hospital of Boston. "The pharmacy-dispensing computer of the Omnicenter. The Omnicenter where Ginger Rittenhouse never went."

"I don't understand."

Kate rose. "Mrs. Tucker, you've been a tremendous help. I'll call if we need any further information or if we learn something that might help explain your friend's death. If you'll excuse me, there are some phone calls I must make."

The woman took Kate's hand. "Think nothing of it, " she said. "Oh, I felt uncomfortable at first, rifling through her drawers, but then I said to myself, If you're not going to do it, then…"

"Mrs. Tucker, thank you very much." One hand still locked in Sandra Tucker's, Kate used her other to take the woman by the elbow and guide her out the door. The tablets were a medium-strength estrogen-progesterone combination, a generic birth control pill. Kate wondered if Ginger Rittenhouse had been too shy to mention to her roommate that she took them. Computer printed along the top margin of the sheet were Ginger's name, the date six weeks before when the prescription had been filled, and instructions to take one tablet daily.

Also printed was advice on what to do if one dose was missed, as well as if two doses were missed. Common side effects were listed, with an asterisk beside those that should be reported immediately to Ginger's Omnicenter physician. Perforations, vertical and horizontal, enabled the patient to tear off as many pills as might be needed for time away. The setup, like everything at the Omnicenter, was slick-thoughtfully designed, and practical-further showing why there was a long list of women from every economic level waiting to become patients of the facility. Kate ran through half a dozen possible explanations of why she had been told Ginger Rittenhouse was not a patient at the Omnicenter, then she accepted that there was only one way to find out. She answered,

"Doctor Bennett, " when the Omnicenter operator asked who was calling, emphasizing ever so slightly her title. Immediately, she was patched through to Dr. William Zimmermann, the director. "Kate, this is a coincidence. I was just about to call you. How are you? " It was typical of the man, a dynamo sometimes called Rocket Bill, to forgo the redundancy of saying hello. "I'm fine, Bill, thanks. What do you mean coincidence'?"

"Well, I've got a note here from our statistician, Carl Horner, along with a file on someone named Rittenhouse. Carl says he originally sent word to you that we had no such patient."

"That's right."

"Well, we do. Apparently there was a coding mistake or spelling mistake or something."

"Did he tell you why I wanted to know?"

"Only that this woman had died."

"That's right. Does your Carl Horner make mistakes often? " The idea of an error didn't jibe with Marco Sebastian's description of the man.

"Once every century or so as far as I can tell. I've been here four years now, and this is the first time I've encountered any screw up by his machines. Do you want me to send this chart over to you?"

"Can I pick it up in person, Bill? There are some other things I want to talk with you about."

"One o'clock okay with you?"

"Fine. And Bill, could you order a printout of the record of a Beverly Vitale."

"The woman who bled out on the inpatient service?"

"Yes."

"I've already reviewed it. A copy's right here on my desk."

"Excellent. One last thing."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to meet Carl Horner. Is that possible?"

"Old Carl's a bit cantankerous, but I suspect it would be okay."

"One o'clock, then?"

"One o'clock." + Ellen Sandler clutched her housecoat about her and sat on the edge of her bed staring blankly at a disheveled blackbird foraging for a bit of food on the frozen snow beyond her window. She was expected at the office in less than an hour. The house was woefully low on staples. Betsy's math teacher had set up a noontime conference to investigate her falling interest and grade in the subject. Eve needed help shopping for a dress for her piano recital. Darcy had come home an hour after weekday curfew, her clothes tinged with a musty odor that Ellen suspected was marijuana. So much to do. So much had changed, yet so little. The silence in the house was stifling. Gradually, she focused on a few ongoing sounds, the hum of the refrigerator, the drone of the blower on the heating and air conditioning system Sandy had installed to celebrate their last anniversary, the sigh that was her own breathing.

"Get up, " she told herself. "Goddamn it, get up and do what you have to do." Still, she did not move. The hurt, the oppressive, constricting ache in her chest seemed to make movement impossible. It wasn't the loneliness that pained so, although certainly that was torture. It wasn't the empty bed or the silent telephone or the lifeless eyes that stared at her from the mirror. It wasn't even the other woman, whoever she was. It was the lies-the dozens upon dozens of lies from the one person in the world she needed to trust. It was the realization that while the anguish and hurt of the broken marriage might, in time, subside, the inability to trust would likely remain part of her forever.

"Get up, dammit. Get up, get dressed, and get going."

With what seemed a major effort, she broke through the inertia of her spirit and the aching stiffness in her limbs, and stood up. The room, the house, the job, the girls-so much had changed, yet so little. She walked to the closet, wondering if perhaps something silkier and more feminine than what she usually wore to the office would buoy her. The burgundy dress she had bought for London caught her eye. Two men had made advances toward her the first day she wore it, and there had been any number of compliments on it since. As she crossed the room, Ellen felt the morning discomforts in her joints diminish-all, that is, except a throbbing in her left thigh that seemed to worsen with each step. She slipped off her housecoat, hung it up, and pulled her flannel nightgown off over her head. Covering much of the front of her thigh was the largest bruise she had ever seen.

Gingerly, she explored it with her fingers. It was somewhat tender, but not unbearably so. She did not know how she had gotten it. She had sustained no injury that she could remember. It must, she decided, have been the way she slept on it. She selected a blue, thin wool jumpsuit in place of the dress, which, it seemed, might not cover the bruise in every situation. She dressed, still unable to take her eyes off the grotesque discoloration. Her legs had always been one of her best features. Even after three children, she took pride that there were only a few threadlike veins visible behind her knees. Now this. For a moment, she thought about calling Kate for advice on whether or not to have a doctor check things out, but she decided that a bruise was a bruise.

Besides, she had simply too much else to do. A bit of makeup and some work on her hair, and Ellen felt as ready as she ever would to tackle the day. The face in her mirror, thin and fine featured, would probably turn some heads, but the eyes were still lifeless. She was leaving the room when she noticed the note tacked to the doorjamb. Each day it happened like this, and each day it was like seeing the note for the first time, despite the fact that she had tacked it there more than a year before. "Take Vit, " was all it said. Ellen went to the medicine cabinet, took the sheet of multivitamins plus iron from the shelf, punched one out, and swallowed it without water. Half consciously, she noticed that there was only a four-week supply remaining, and she made a mental note to set up an appointment with her physician at the Omnicenter. Although she was limping slightly as she left the house, Ellen found the tightness in her thigh bearable. In fact, compared to the other agonies in her life at the moment, the sensation was almost pleasant. The sign, a discreet bronze plate by the electronically controlled glass doors, said, "Metropolitan Hospital of Boston, Ashburton Women's Health Omnicenter, 1975." Kate had been one of the first patients to enroll and had never regretted her decision.

Gynecological care, hardly a pleasant experience, had become at least tolerable for her, as it had for the several thousand other women who were accepted before a waiting list was introduced. The inscription above the receptionist's desk said it all. "Complete Patient Care with Complete Caring Patience."

Kate stopped at the small coatroom to one side of the brightly lit foyer, and checked her parka with a blue-smocked volunteer. She could have used the tunnel from the main hospital, but she had been drawn outdoors by the prospect of a few minutes of fresh air and a fluffy western omelet sandwich, spetcialite' de la maison at Maury's Diner. The receptionist signaled Kate's arrival by telephone and then directed her to Dr. Zimmermann's office on the third floor. The directions were not necessary. Zimmermann had been Kate's Omnicenter physician for four years, since the accidental drowning death of Dr. Harold French, his predecessor and the first head of the Omnicenter. Although she saw Zimmermann infrequently-three times a year was mandatory for women on birth control pills-Kate had developed a comfortable patient-physician relationship with him, as well as an embryonic friendship. He was waiting by his office door as she stepped from the elevator.

Even after four years, the sight of the man triggered the same impresi sions as had their first meeting. He was dashing. Corny as the word was, Kate could think of no better one to describe him. In his late thirties or early forties Zimmermann had a classic, chiseled handsomeness, along with an urbanity and ease of motion that Kate had originally felt might be a liability to a physician in his medical specialty. Time and the man had proven her concerns groundless. He was polite and totally professional. In a hospital rife with rumors, few had ever been circulated regarding him. Those that had gone around dealt with the usual speculations about an attractive man of his age who was not married. Active on hospital and civic committees, giving of his time to his patients and of his knowledge to his students, William Zimmermann's was a star justifiably on the rise. "Dr. Kate." Zimmermann took both her hands in his and pumped them warmly. "Come in, come in. I have fresh coffee and… Have you had lunch? I could send out for something."

"I stopped at Maury's on the way over. I'm sorry for being so thoughtless. I should have brought you something."

"Nonsense. I only asked about lunch for your benefit. I have been skipping the meal altogether-part of a weight loss bet with my secretary."

Even if the bet were concocted on the spot, and considering the man's trim frame that was quite possible, his words were the perfect breeze to dispel Kate's embarrassment. Zimmermann's office was the den of a scholar. Texts and bound journals filled three walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and opened or marked volumes covered much of a reading table at one end of the room. On the wall behind his desk, framed photographs of European castles were interspersed with elegantly matted sayings, quotations, and homilies. "The downfall of any magician is belief in his own magic."

"There are two tragedies in life, One is not to get your heart's desire, the other is to get it." And of course, "The Omnicenter, Complete patient care with complete caring patience." There were several others, most of which Kate had heard or read before. One, however, she could not recall having seen. Done in black Benedictine calligraphy, with a wonderfully ornate arabesque border, it said, "Monkey Work for the Monkeys."

Zimmermann followed her line of sight to the saying. "A gift from Carl,

" he explained. "His belief is that the energy of physicians and nurses should be directed as much as possible to areas utilizing their five senses and those properties unique to human beings-empathy, caring, and intuitiveness. The mechanics of our job, the paperwork, setting up of appointments, filling of prescriptions, and such, he calls 'monkey work.

His machines can do those jobs faster and more accurately than any of us ever could, and it seems Carl teaches them more almost every day."

"So, " said Kate, "he's named his computers… the Monkevs." Zimmermann said the last two words in unison with her. Kate sensed a letup in the uneasiness she had developed toward Carl Horner and began looking forward to meeting the man. "Now, " Zimmermann asked, "can you brief me on what you have found in these two patients of ours? I have reviewed their records and found little that might be of help to you."

In the concise, stylized method of case presentation ingrained in physicians from their earliest days in medical school, Kate gave a one minute capsule of each woman's history, physical exam, laboratory data, and hospital course. "I've brought sections from the ovaries of both patients. I think there's a decent microscope in the lab downstairs," she concluded. Zimmermann whistled softly. "And the only link to this point is that both were patients here? " Kate nodded. "Well, I can't add much. Miss Rittenhouse had been an Omnicenter patient since nineteen seventynine. Nothing but routine checkups since then, except that she was within one missed appointment of being asked to go elsewhere for her gynecologic care. The contract we have our patients sign gives us that option."

"I know. I signed one, " Kate said. The contract was another example of the patient-oriented philosophy of the Omnicenter. Fees were on a yearly basis, adjusted to a patient's income. There was no profit to be made from insisting on compliance with periodic routine visits, yet insist they did. "What about Beverly Vitale?"

Zimmermann shrugged. "Six years a patient. Abortion here five years ago by suction. Had a diaphragm. Never on birth control pills or hormones of any kind. Always somewhat anemic, hematocrits in the thirty-four to thirty-six range."

"She was on iron."

"Yes. Dr. Bartholomew has had her on daily supplements since the day of her first exam."

"Who was Ginger Rittenhouse's doctor? " Kate was grasping for any connection, however remote. "Actually, she was cared for by the residents, with the help of a faculty advisor. In this woman's case, it was me. However, there was never any need for me to be consulted. She became a patient just after I arrived. I saw her once, and she has had no trouble since." He grimaced at what he considered an inappropriate remark. "Excluding the obvious, " he added. DEAD END. Kate's mind's eye saw the words as she had written them. She glanced at her watch. There would be a surgical specimen processed as a frozen section in half an hour. Her reading would determine whether the patient underwent a limited or extensive procedure. Still, she felt reluctant to let go of the one common factor she had found. "I'm due back for a frozen in a short while, Bill. Do you think Voll could take me by to meet Carl Horner and his trained Monkeys?

"Certainly, " Zimmermann said. "He's expecting us. By the way, I understand congratulations are in order."

"For what?"

"Well, word has it that you are to be the next chief of pathology."

Kate laughed ruefully. "Welcome to the new game show, I've Got No Secrets. Actually, I don't even think my name has formally been presented for consideration yet, so you can hold the congrattllations.

Besides, with the financial mess the department is in, I'm not sure condolences wouldn't be a better response. You don't suppose that Ashburton Foundation of yours has a few extra hundred thousand lying around, do you?"

"I have no idea, Kate. Norton Reese handles that end of things. I am just one of the barge toters and bale lifters. You might talk to him, though. The foundation certainly has taken good care of us."

Kate stepped into the carpeted, brightly lit corridor. "I'll say they have, " she said. The chance that Norton Reese would put himself out on behalf of her department was less than none. "Monkey Work for the Monkeys." The message was displayed throughout Carl Horner's computer facility, which occupied an area at the rear of the first floor several times the size of Marco Sebastian's unit. Ensconced in the midst of millions of dollars in sophisticated electronics, Carl Horner looked to be something of an anachronism.

Beneath his knee-length lab coat, he was wearing a plaid work shirt and a pair of farmer's overalls. His battered work boots might just as well have received their breaking in on a rock pile as in the climate-controlled, ultramodern suite. Horner greeted Kate with an energetic handshake, thotlgh she could feel the bulbous changes of arthritis in every joint. Still the man, stoop shouldered and silver haired, had an ageless quality about him. It emanated, she decided, not only from his dress, but also from his eyes, which were a remarkably luminescent blue. "Dr. Bennett, I owe you my deepest apology. The error regarding the Rittenhouse file was nothing more-nor less-than a spelling mistake on my part."

Kate smiled. "Apology accepted. Incident forgotten."

"Have you found the explanations you were looking for?"

"No. No, we haven't. Mr. Horner, could you show me around a bit?

I'm especially interested in how the machines work in the pharmacy."

"Carl, " Zimmermann said, "if you and Dr. Bennett don't mind, I'm going to get back to work. Kate, I plan to review those slides later tonight and to do some reading. Together, I promise that we shall get to the bottom of all this. Meanwhile, enjoy your tour. We're certainly proud of Carl and his Monkeys."

Patiently, the old man took Kate through the filling of a prescription.

"These cards are preprinted with the patient's name and code number and included with the patient's chart when she has her appointment.

The doctors tear em up if they're not needed. As you can see, there are twenty-five separate medications already listed here, along with the codes for dosage, amount, and instructions. The machines dispense only these medications, and then only in the form of a generic — as good as any brand-name pharmaceutical, but only a fraction of the cost. The machines automatically review the patient's record for allergies to the medication prescribed, as well as any interaction with medications she might already be taking." Horner's presentation had all the pride of a grandmother holding court at a bridge party. "If there's any problem at all, the prescription is not filled and the patient is referred to our pharmacist, who handles the matter personally."

"What if the physician wants to prescribe a medication other than the twenty-five on the card? " Kate asked. "Our pharmacy is fully stocked.

However, because of the Monkeys, we need only one pharmacist on duty, and he or she has more time to deal with problems such as drug interaction and side effects."

"Amazing, " Kate said softly. "Have the Monkeys ever made an error?"

Horner's smile was for the first time somewhat patronizing. "Computers cannot make errors. There are programs backing up programs to guarantee that. Of course, human beings are a different story."

"So I've learned." Kate's cattiness was reflex. There was something about Horner's limitless confidence in the wires, chips, discs, and other paraphernalia surrounding them that she found disquieting. "Tell me, where do the generics come from that the machines dispense?"

"One of the drug houses. We hold a closed-bid auction each year, and the lowest bidder gets the contract."

"Which one has it now? " Horner's answer had been somewhat evasive, hardly in character with the man. She watched his eyes. Was there a flicker of heightened emotion in them? She couldn't tell. "Now? Redding has it. Redding Pharmaceuticals."

"Ah, the best and the brightest." Kate was not being facetious. In an industry with a checkered past that included thalidomide and many other destroyers of human life, Redding stood alone in its reputation for product safety and the development of orphan drugs for conditions too rare for the drugs to be profitable. "Well, Mr. Horner, I thank you.

Your Monkeys are truly incredible."

"My pleasure. If there's anything else I can do, let me know."

Kate turned to go, but then turned back. "Do you have a list of the companies that have held the contract in years past?"

"Since the Omnicenter opened?"

"Yes." For the second time, Kate sensed a change in the man's eyes.

"Well, it won't be much of a list. Redding's the only one."

"Eight auctions and eight Reddings, huh?"

"No bids have even been close to theirs."

"Well, thanks for your help."

"No problem."

Horner's parting handshake and smile seemed somehow more forced than had his greeting. Kate watched as he ambled off, feeling vaguely uneasy about the man, but uncertain why. She glanced at her watch. The frozen section was due in ten minutes, and the patient would be kept under anesthesia until her diagnosis was made. Aside from alerting Bill Zimmermann as to what was going on, her Omnicenter visit had accomplished essentially nothing. Still, the clinic remained the only factor common to two dead women. As she walked through the lobby to retrieve her coat, Kate ran through the possible routes by which the ovarian and blood disorders might have been acquired. Finally, with time running short, she stopped at the reception desk, and wrote a note to Zimmermann. Dear Bill-Thanks for the talk and the tour. No answers, but perhaps together we can find some. Meanwhile, I'm sending over some microbiology people to take cultures, viral and bacterial, if that's okay with you. They will also check on techniques of instrument sterilization-perhaps a toxin has been introduced that way. Let me know if you come up with anything. Also, check your calendar for a night you could come north and have dinner with my husband and me. I'd enjoy the chance to know you better. Kate She sealed the note in an envelope and passed it over to the receptionist. "Could you see to it that Dr. Zimmermann gets this?

" The woman smiled and nodded. Kate was halfway to the tunnel entrance when she stopped, hesitated, and then returned. She reclaimed the note, tore the envelope open, and added a PS. And Bill… could you please get me ten tablets of each of the medications dispensed by the Monkeys.

Thanx. K.

"Well, what do you say, Clyde. Can I count on you or not?"

Norton Reese set aside the paper clip he was mangling and stared across his desk at the chief of cardiac surgery. Clyde Breslow was the fourth department head he had met with that day. The previous three had made no promises to help block Kate Bennett's appointment, despite delicately presented guarantees that their departments would receive much-needed new equipment as soon as her nomination was defeated. In fact, two of the men, Milner in internal medicine and Hoyt, the pediatrician, had said in as many words that they were pleased with the prospect of having her on the executive committee. "Bright new blood, " Milner had called her. Breslow, Napoleonic in size and temper, watched Reese's discomfort with some amusement. "Now jes' what is it about that little lady that bothers you so, Norton? " he asked in a thick drawl that often disappeared when he was screaming at the nurses and throwing instruments about the operating room or screaming at the medical students and throwing instruments about the dog lab. "She refuse to spread those cute little buns of hers for ya or what?"

"The bitch made me look bad in front of the board of trustees, Clyde.

You should remember that. It was your fucking operating microscope that caused all the trouble. I'll be damned if I'm going to have her on my executive committee."

"Whoa, there, Norton. Your executive committee? Now ain't you gettin' just the slightest bit possessive about a group you don't even have a vote in?"

"Look, Clyde, I've had a bad day. Do you back me on this and talk to the surgical boys or don't you?"

"Now that jes' depends, don't it?"

"The extra resident's slot? Clyde, I can't do it. I told you that."

"Then maybe you jes' better get used to seeing that pretty little face of Katey B.'s at the meetin's every other Tuesday."

Reese snapped a pencil in half. "All right. I'll try, " he said, silently cursing Kate Bennett for putting him in a position to be manipulated by a man like Breslow."

"You do that. Know what I think, Norton? I think you're scared of that woman. That's what I think. A looker with smarts is more than you kin handle."

Without warning, Reese exploded. "Look, Clyde, " he said, slamming his desk chair against the wall as he stood, "you have enough fucking trouble remembering that the heart is above the belly button without taking up playing amateur shrink. Now get the hell out of here and get me some support in this thing. I'll do what I can about your goddamn resident."

With a plastic smile, Clyde Breslow backed out of the office. Reese sank into his chair. Frightened of Kate Bennett? The hell he was.

He just couldn't stand a snotty, do-gooder kid going around trying to act grown up. She ought to be home keeping house and screwing that lawyer husband of hers. "Mr. Reese, there's a call for you on two." The secretary's voice startled him, and lunging for the intercom, he spilled the dregs of a cup of coffee on his desk. "Tlammit. Bettv. I told you no calls."

"I know you did, sir. I'm sorry. It's Mr. Horner from the Omnicenter. He says it's very important."

Reese sighed. "All right. Tell him to call me on three seven four four."

He blotted up the coffee and waited for his private line to ring. It was unusual for Carl Horner to call at all. Omnicenter business was usually handled by Arlen Paquette, Redding's director of product safety. In the few moments before 3744 rang, he speculated on the nature of a problem that might be of such concern that Horner would call. None of his speculations prepared him for the reality. "Mr. Reese, " Horner said,

"I'm calling on behalf of a mutual friend of ours." Cyrus Redding's name was one Horner would never say over the phone, but Reese had no doubt whom he meant. "How is our friend?"

"A bit upset, Mr. Reese. One of your staff physicians has been nosing about the Omnicenter, asking questions about our pharmacy and requesting Dr. Zimmermann to send her samples of the medications we dispense."

The word "her" brought Reese a bone-deep chill. "Who is it? " he asked, already knowing the answer. "It's the pathologist, Dr. Bennett. She's investigating the deaths of two women who were patients of ours."

"Damn her, " Reese said too softly to be heard. "Horner, are you.. I mean, is the Omnicenter responsible for the deaths?"

"That appears to be negative."

"What do you mean appears to be? Do you know what's at stake?

Paquette promised me nothing like this would happen." Reese began feeling a tightness in his chest and dropped a nitroglycerine tablet under his tongue, vowing that if this discomfort was the start of the big one, his last act on earth would be to shoot Kate Bennett between the eyes. "Our friend says for you to remain cool and not to worry.

However, he would like you to find some effective way of… diverting Dr. Bennett's interest away from the Omnicenter until we can fix up a few things and do a little more investigating into the two deaths in question."

"What am I supposed to do? 7' "That, Mr. Reese, I do not know. Our friend suggests firing the woman."

"I can't do that. I don't hire and fire doctors, for Christ's sake."

"Our friend would like something done as soon as possible. He has asked me to remind you that certain contracts are up for renewal in less than a month."

"Fuck him."

"Pardon?"

"I said, all right. I'll think of something." Suddenly. he briohtened.

"In fact, " he said, reaching into his desk drawer, "I think I already have."

"Fine, " Carl Horner said. "All of us involved appreciate your efforts.

I'm sure our friend will be extremely beholden when you succeed."

Reese noted the use of when' instead of if, but it no longer mattered.

"I'll be in touch, " he said. Replacing the receiver, he extracted a folder marked "Schultz/Geary." Inside were a number of newspaper articles, the official autopsy report, signed by Stanley Willoughby and Kathryn Bennett, MDS, and an explanatory note from Sheila Pierce. Also in the folder were a number of laboratory tests on a man named John Schultz-a patient who, as far as he or Sheila could tell, never existed in Metropolitan Hospital. While the chances of some kind of coverup weren't a hundred percent, they certainly seemed close to that. Sheila, he thought as he readied a piece of paper in his typewriter, if this works out, I'm going to see to it that you get at least an extra night or two each month. "To Charles C. Estep, Editor, The Boston Globe."

Reese whispered the words as he typed them. He paused and checked the hour. By the time he was done with a rough draft, the pathology unit would be empty. A sheet of Kate Bennett's stationery and a sample of her signature would then be all he needed to solve any number of problems.

The woman would be out of his hair, perhaps permanently, and Cyrus Redding would be-how had Horner put it? — extremely beholden. "Dear Mr.

Estep…"

As Norton Reese typed, he began humming "There Is Nothing Like a Dame."