Stealing Time

CHAPTER 22

J

ason finished his patient day, had dinner with his wife, Emma, then returned to Roosevelt Hospital late in the evening. April had left instructions with the nurses and the officer on duty to let him into Heather's room, so he had no difficulty gaining access. After talking to her nurse, he went in to see her, pulled up a chair, and sat close to the bed. She was in the same position on the bed and looked much as she had earlier in the day. He took her hand and squeezed it.

"Hi, Heather. It's Dr. Frank. The nurses tell me you're beginning to come around."

Her hand remained impassive, and she didn't say anything. There was an ice pack on her black eye, but the good one seemed to move a little in his direction. On the bed tray was a cup of water with a straw in it. "They tell me you asked for water." Jason offered the cup to her, but she didn't take any now. He went on.

"Somebody beat you up pretty bad. Do you remember what happened?" He massaged the hand gently.

Such a long silence followed that he'd almost given up hoping for an answer when the word "Clinton" came out of her swollen lips.

"What? Clinton?" Jason caught his breath. "Did

you say Clinton?" He waited for her to clarify. She didn't.

"Someone hit you on the head. The police say you were hit with a broom. Do you remember that?"

Then she said it again. "Clinton."

"Clinton hit you?" Jason's brow furrowed. This particular accusation was a first for the president. Heather must be pretty confused.

"Bill Clinton is president." She looked at him as she said it, not confused at all. Then her eye closed.

Jason's heart pounded. He realized she wasn't aware that any time had passed since his last visit. She was responding to the first question he'd asked her.

"That's right. Bill Clinton is president." Jason praised her. "Who are you?"

"I'm a piece of shit." She said this so softly that Jason had to lean close to hear her.

"That may be how you feel. It's not your name. What's your name?"

"Heather Rose."

"That's right. What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"No, it's Wednesday night."

The eye popped open. "Wednesday? I must have—"

"You've been asleep for almost thirty hours. Heather, everybody is looking for the baby. Where is he?"

Her eye wandered around the room as if looking for him.

"He's not here. Where is he?"

"Paul?"

"Yes, Paul."

A tear formed and spilled over. "I told him I wanted to be good. I only wanted what was right for him." These words came out with great difficulty. Heather's voice was cultured but hoarse. She hadn't

spoken for a while. It wasn't easy for her to speak now.

"What does that mean, Heather? Where is he? You can tell me."

Her hand came alive and gripped his. He could feel her trembling.

"Who beat you up, your husband?"

She shook her head.

"Someone else?"

She shook her head again.

"I'll make a deal with you. I'll help you if you help me."

Heather's eye traveled to the little window in the door. She became upset. Jason turned around and followed her gaze to a face peering in. When he looked back at her, her eye had closed and her hand had gone limp again.

"Heather? Heather? Come on, wake up." He squeezed and patted her hand. "Come on." The face in the window was gone, but so was she. Finally he got up and went out in the hall to find out who had frightened her.

The hefty nurse at the desk identified the densely built dark-haired man with a prominent forehead and soldier's rigid bearing. "That's the husband."

He was in deep conversation with someone of a similar stocky build but softer around the edges. This man had thick black hair sticking out here and there like a half-tamed fright wig. Unlike Heather Rose's husband, who was wearing a suit, the second man had several days' growth of grizzled beard on his face and was casually dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt.

"Thanks." Jason went to talk to them. "Mr. Popescu."

Anton spun around angrily and quickly evaluated

Jason from haircut to loafers. "How do you know who I am? Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Frank, one of your wife's doctors."

Anton snorted. "You guys don't know fuck." He glared at Jason. His companion put a hand on Anton's shoulder, whistling softly under his breath. Anton shook off the hand. "Fuck you."

Jason didn't pick up the gauntlet. The silence forced Anton to go next.

"What were you doing with her? What did she say?" he demanded after a pause.

"I'd like to talk to you for a few moments, if you don't mind." Jason was coolly professional.

"What for?" Popescu took a challenging step into Jason's space.

Calmly, Jason retreated, taking a quick look at the man in the sweatshirt to see how he was reacting. He was now standing there with a vague air of detachment, looking away and scratching the extended belly under his shirt as if this was just another in a lifetime of Anton Popescu-generated embarrassing moments.

"Maybe I can help you," Jason suggested.

"Whose side are you on?" Anton said suspiciously.

Good question. "I have no stake; I'm just interested in finding the baby and helping your wife," Jason murmured. He turned toward a lounge area at the end of the hall, where there were some unoccupied chairs.

Anton stiffened. He glanced at his companion who offered a little shrug of encouragement. "Fuck you," Anton said again; then, to Jason, "So, what do you have to say to me?"

"I thought we might say a few things to each other."

"All right, all right." Anton marched down the hall to the chairs and indicated the one he wanted Jason to take.

Jason sat in a different one. "I can see you're very upset."

"Of course I'm upset. The police have fucked this whole thing up. There's someone watching me all the time. Look at that guy. They think I had something to do with this." He pointed at the uniform in front of his wife's room.

"It might be useful to get a little insight into what was going on in your life before this happened."

"I told the police everything I know," Popescu said, a little uneasily. He glanced quickly at his companion, then turned back to Jason. "What do you want to know?"

"There is some speculation that Heather may have harmed the baby—" Jason said.

"I know, I know. That's bullshit," Anton burst out.

"We need to rule it out as a possibility."

"This is making me nuts."

"You have some question about it?" Jason asked.

"No, no, absolutely not."

"She has a number of bruises and scars on her body that predate this incident—"

Anton nodded, gloomily. "Yes, she has some problems. This goes back a long way. She's a clumsy person." He shook his head. "It really worries me. Some people are just dangerous in the kitchen."

"What do you mean?"

"She just"—he rolled his eyes up to the sky as if only God could explain it—"knocks into things. Trips and falls. I swear to God, I've never seen anything like it. She could be humming along just fine, and suddenly—

bam.

She's on the floor, tripped over her own feet. I'm a busy man and I can't tell you how much time I have to spend mopping up after her. Icing her wounds." He made a noise. "But I don't want a medal for it. Somebody has to take care of her." He made another noise. "I swear the woman should have a nurse." He raised his shoulders, shaking his head fondly. "But what can you do?"

"Would you say you have a good relationship?"

"With Roe?" He laughed as if it were a ridiculous question. "Of course, she's my wife."

"What's she like?"

Anton shook his head some more. "She gets distracted."

"How would you describe that behavior?" Jason took a notebook out of his briefcase and opened it.

"It's damn difficult is what it is. The woman doesn't pay attention to what she's supposed to be doing and gets herself in trouble. I think she got kind of depressed when she found out she couldn't have children."

"What do you mean?"

Anton glanced at his companion again. Jason looked at him, too. The man started nibbling on his thumbnail, didn't say a thing.

Jason prompted. "You were saying—"

"She wanted children, couldn't have them. You heard me." He said this angrily, as if the infertility were Jason's fault.

"Was this an area of conflict for you?"

"What does that mean?"

"Do you fight about it?"

He looked surprised. "Fight, with Roe?" He laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Didn't I tell you how much time I have to spend trying to help her, nursing her damn injuries? I give her everything, anything she wants, and I take

so

much shit from her." He shook his head. "She wanted a baby, I got her one. What more could I do?"

"Do you ever get mad enough to pop her one?"

"Hell, no. I don't hurt her. She hurts

me.

Look at this whole thing she's—"

"You think she somehow engineered this?"

Anton shot him a look, raising his hands to his face.

"You mean these injuries could be self-inflicted?" He seemed interested in the theory.

So did his buddy, who now spoke for the first time. "Could be that."

"Shut up. Marc."

"She has some burn scars on her arms," Jason prompted. Anton shook his head, didn't want to talk about that.

"They look as if they must have hurt her pretty bad."

Anton clicked his tongue. "I shouldn't have brought her here. Now she's an exhibit, on trial. That has nothing to do with this."

"Who knows? Maybe the two are connected."

"What are you, some kind of shrink?"

"Yes."

"What!" Anton exploded. "Now I'm talking to a fucking shrink? I thought I was talking to a doctor. I shouldn't have to put up with this. Somebody kidnapped my baby."

"Since there aren't papers for the baby, I gather the police have widened their investigation. They're looking for the birth parents now," Jason murmured.

"I know." Anton shook his head some more. "Isn't this something?"

"What's the problem about telling them?"

"I don't deserve to suffer like this. I've given this woman everything. Do you know what her family is like . . . huh? You know where she comes from? These people are primitive. They didn't have a pot to piss in."

"Where did you meet?"

Anton's chest puffed up. "At Yale."

"She must be pretty smart to go to Yale."

"I wouldn't marry a dummy, would I?—This is my brother, Marc," he said suddenly.

"Hi," Marc said to Jason. "Heather's smart as a whip," he added helpfully. "She's not just a dumb Chink."

"No one ever implied that. You told me there are some problems in the marriage, though, and Heather has scars on her body. Let's not beat around the bush here. Either she scarred herself, or someone else has been burning her repeatedly."

Anton looked at his brother, then dismissed it. "She fries things in hot oil. You know how they like fried food."

"You told me she's been depressed, you couldn't have children."

"I said she couldn't have children. But she was

not

depressed. She lives in luxury, gets everything she wants. I gave her a baby, didn't I?"

"Do you think she might have killed the baby because it wasn't hers?"

"No, absolutely not ... I don't know." Anton lowered his voice.

"Is there anything else she might have done with the baby? Do you think she might have given him to someone, a family member, a friend—"

Anton interrupted. "Not possible. Her family is in California. She doesn't have any friends. I can't think. . . ." Miserably, he sought help from his brother.

Marc leaned over and gave him a reassuring hug. Anton pushed him away roughly. "Get off me."

"What other options do we have? How about the baby's biological mother?"

"No, she doesn't even know about—" His face purpled. "I've had enough of this."

"Well, thank you for talking with me." Jason rose from his chair and put his notebook back in his briefcase.

"What do you think you're doing? Give me that."

"Come on, Anton. Let's not fight with a doctor."

"He's a shrink. The man's a fucking shrink."

"Yeah, so what can he do?" "Without your help, not much," Jason told them. "What about my wife? What did she tell you?" Anton was nearly in tears.

"Oh, she's still unconscious. She hasn't said a thing yet," Jason told them.