Bad Doctor Page 15
“Of course it was Cameron,” I say. “She was practically a scarecrow.”
“It’s not that big a deal. Cameron was sick, but had no credit. As Willow, I had built an excellent credit rating. I let her use Willow’s name and social security number for the credit check. Once it was on the medical records, it stayed there.”
I clench my fists.
“What’s Plan B?”
“I should probably start by explaining Plan A,” she says.
“Please do.”
“Okay, so here’s the thing. Plan A was to come here, make you feel sorry for me, and talk you into giving me a hundred thousand dollars.”
“For cancer treatment.”
“No. I was planning to work on you, get you to take me on a nice vacation. My last one, while I could still enjoy it, you know? Pity for you we didn’t, since I was going to let you seduce me. Plan A called for me falling in love with you. Then I’d refuse the treatment, and…oh well, it doesn’t matter. You had to spoil it all by hiring a private investigator.”
Something crosses my mind. I don’t believe it, but I toss it out anyway.
“You killed Cameron.”
Willow frowns. “What can I tell you, Gideon? Cameron was dying, and wanted to come clean about something we’d done. I couldn’t let her do that.”
“When we were at the hospital she kept mumbling something about needing to confess.”
“She said it after she got shot, too. Before you stitched her up.”
“What did you and Cameron do?”
“None of your business.”
“How’d you kill her?”
“I’m not admitting I did.”
“Her cause of death is being investigated.”
“They won’t look too deeply. She had Hodgkin’s. She’d been gunshot!”
I nod my head. “Bingo!”
“Bingo?”
“Before we took the twins home you went in Maggie’s house to pee.”
“So?”
“I’ve never met a grandmother yet who didn’t have a spice rack with nutmeg in it.”
She smiles. “So?”
“You saw what the nutmeg did when it hit Bobby’s bloodstream. What did you do, inject it in Cameron’s IV somehow?”
“Where on earth would I get a syringe.”
I think about it.
“You stole one from my medical bag when you got it out of the trunk.”
Willow smiles and says, “Let’s don’t dwell on Cameron right now.”
“Okay. What’s Plan B?”
Willow reaches into her handbag and pulls out two zip lock plastic bags and places them on the table in front of me.
What’s inside them is the last thing I would have expected.
Just as she planned.
49.
THE PLASTIC BAGS are identical, as are the contents.
“Two more garage door openers?” I say.
“You can have them,” Willow says, smiling.
“You’ve given me three so far. And none are Kathy’s, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve been playing with me.”
She shrugs.
“You gave me the first one to win my trust.”
“I thought it appropriate.”
“Where’s Kathy’s garage door opener?”
“In a safe place.”
“How can I get it?”
“By paying me a quarter million dollars. Your number, not mine.”
I nod. My fists are no longer clenched. I’m too impressed to be angry.
“It’s nothing to you,” she says. “One operation, right?”
She’s right. A quarter million is nothing to me. The money I make means nothing to me. I’m all alone. No friends, no love. By hiring Dani Ripper I missed out on a fun vacation and lots of sex.
“You’re good,” I say.
“Thanks.”
“How do I know you’ll release the evidence after I pay you?”
“You’ll have my word on it.”
I cough out a derisive laugh. “That’s it?”
“When you give me the cash, I’ll go someplace safe. When I get there, I’ll call and tell you where to pick up the garage door opener.”
“What’s stopping you from never making the call?”
“My promise.”
I shake my head.
She says, “Look, Gideon. I’m not going to soak you. I’ve got nothing left but my future. I would have settled for a hundred grand, but since you were willing to pay more than twice that, I’ll never have to worry about how much more I could have gotten.”
“I wish I had more confidence in your promise.”
“You really have no choice.”
I sigh. “You were willing to go on a trip with me and have sex?”
“I was.”
“Would you still?”
She laughs. “What do you think?”
“I think Plan B sucks. We could’ve had a great trip, you would’ve been happy with a hundred grand, and I would have gotten laid.”
“Such is life.”
“Please?” I say. “It would make me feel a helluva lot better about this.”
“Don’t beg, Gideon.”
“I’m not begging. Remember the advice you gave me? I’m being persistent. If necessary, I’ll be relentless!”
She thinks a minute. Then smiles and says, “I’ll make you a deal.”
50.
“TELL ME,” I say.
“I like the idea of this being a civil transaction,” she says.
“Me too.”
“You’ve got a safe in your bedroom closet.”
“No I don’t.”
“It’s built into the floor, under the carpet.”
“I’ll say it again. Damn, you’re good.”
“How much cash is in it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Rough estimate.”
“Thirty-five.”
“Thousand?”
I nod.
“Wow,” she says. “Okay, so the number’s still two-fifty, but it’ll take time to gather that much cash without raising suspicion.”
“I agree.”
“I’m told the bank won’t report checks you cash for transactions under ten grand.”
“I think that’s right.”
“I’ll take the thirty-five up front and put it in a safe deposit box. You’ll open new accounts at five different banks and write three checks a week for nine thousand each, spread among the different banks. That’s twenty-seven grand. Once a week we’ll go to the track and you’ll piss away up to five thousand dollars. The balance of the money will go in my safe deposit box. When that amount hits a hundred grand, I’ll have sex with you once a week until we hit two-fifty.”
“Really?”
“I think it’s fair.”
“Why do we have to go to the track?”
“The banks will wonder what you’re doing with all that cash. People will see us at the track, you’ll tell them your new girlfriend loves the ponies, and the word will spread.”
“I’d rather go to Atlantic City and shoot craps.”
“Bad plan.”
“Why?”
“Casinos keep detailed records.”
“I’ll say it a third time.”
“I’m good?”
I nod.
She looks at me with interest.
“You’re taking this awfully well,” she says.
I shrug my shoulders. “What can I say? I’m lonely.”
She nods. “Lonely’s tough.”
“Would you consider living with me while I’m raising the money?”
“I’d be honored.”
“That’s pretty civil of you.”
“I’m not an unreasonable person,” she says.
“Can I have anal?”
“Did you seriously just ask me that?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Epilogue
&
nbsp; I
IT SHOULD HAVE taken ten weeks to siphon a quarter million into Willow’s safe deposit box, but I managed to stretch it to fourteen by pretending the banks were asking too many questions.
Willow remained true to her word.
She lived with me and gave me sex once a week after receiving the first hundred grand. When she left, she hugged me and said she’d be in touch about the garage door opener. I figured to spend a very nervous couple of weeks waiting, but she surprised me by calling a few hours later.
“You’re already safe?” I said.
“I’m in the air, flying somewhere far away,” she said. “So yes, I feel safe.”
“Maybe when you get settled I could come visit you.”
She laughs. “I don’t miss you that much.”
“Where’s Kathy’s garage door opener?”
She waited for me to get a pen and paper, then gave me a phone number.
“Who am I calling?”
“I want it to be a surprise.”
“Okay.”
“Gideon?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
I pause.
“Take care, Willow.”
“You too, Gideon.”
A quiet moment passes.
Willow says, “You didn’t hang up.”
“Neither did you.”
“Why is that, do you suppose?”
“We’re wondering if we’ll ever talk to each other again.”
“Yes.”
“You think we will?” I say.
“No.”
II
THE PHONE NUMBER belonged to a lady who had twin boys. She put them on the line.
“Hi Dr. Box!” Carlos said.
“Hi handsome!” Charlie said.
“Hi guys. You’ve got something for me? A garage door opener?”
They did.
Turns out Willow swung by their place after killing Cameron. The twins don’t know that, but I do. She gave them five grand for their gun and their promise to keep the garage door opener safe until she called to tell them what to do with it.
So I took a quick trip to Dayton, intending to get the evidence and catch the next plane back to NYC. But the return trip was delayed when the twins made me take them out to dinner at a fancy restaurant with white linen tablecloths and candles.
I didn’t mind. After all, how often do I get to go out with friends?
Our dinners were prepared tableside, and Charlie fairly swooned watching the waiter fuss over us. The wine flowed freely, and when I ordered the boys a flaming desert, Charlie cried.
They gave me the door opener and never asked the first question about it.
I liked that about them.
III
ROSE AND MELBA assisted me on the Addie Gray surgery, which went perfectly. Afterward, Kathleen found me in my office and asked if there was anything she could possibly do to repay me. I asked for a blow job and she obliged, right on the spot.
I’m kidding.
Kathleen did ask what she could do, and I said nothing, it was all part of the job. But she insisted on taking me to lunch, so I let her, thinking this could lead to something.
“How is it a beautiful, young woman like you is still single?” I asked.
And wished I hadn’t.
She droned on and on about some CIA guy she loved.
“Donovan Creed,” she said, wistfully.
They were planning to get married and raise the little girl she adopted, the one who was burned so badly in a house fire years ago.
Addie.
“What happened with you and this Creed character?”
“The agency claimed he was killed.”
“You sound like you don’t believe them.”
“I don’t.”
“Maybe you’re in denial.”
“He’s living in Las Vegas,” she says.
“You’re sure?”
“I Googled him. He recently purchased property there.”
“Have you called him?”
“Of course not!”
“Why?”
“He abandoned us.”
“He’s an asshole,” I said.
She smiled. “You’re right. He’s a complete and utter asshole.”
“But you love him?”
“Hopelessly,” she said. “And I always will.”
“You never dated again? Never fell in love?”
“I actually married a guy. But it didn’t work out.”
“Why not?”
“My heart wasn’t in it.”
“Before or after you Googled Creed?”
“After.”
When the waiter brought the check Kathleen leaned over to reach for it and I caught a down-blouse. The view was nice enough to give me the confidence to see if I could exploit a possible opening.
“Here’s a coincidence,” I said. “Every woman I’ve ever dated told me I was the world’s biggest asshole.”
She shook her head and said, “Nice try.”
IV
MY TIME WITH Rose is winding down. She’s determined to leave, and no amount of money will convince her to stay. I have no idea what she plans to do in five months and hope whatever it is, she’ll tell me, because maybe I’ll be able to do it, too. With her capable help I’ve saved seven boys and four girls the other doctors gave up on, and I’ve been forced against my will to grace several magazine covers. Money’s flowing into the hospital, and I’m back to working only the hopeless cases, which of course, makes me crazy. I take some comfort from the giant velvet Elvis painting that hangs on the wall of my living room where my shoe photos used to be, but there’s only so much art can do to calm me down, you know?
I keep asking Security Joe how he’s feeling, and tell him he doesn’t look so good. He thinks I’m busting his balls, so he ignores me, which is his way of busting mine. He thinks we’re friends because I got him this job as head of hospital security. I doubt he remembers beating me up and pissing on me all those years ago. I continue to bide my time, waiting for him to get ill so he can take advantage of his free hospital health care.
The pressure’s building up inside me like a volcano.
I’m going to do something bad soon.
Something really risky, to get my head straight.
I’m going to Dublin Devereaux’s house party in a few weeks. Only I’m not going to leave. I’m going to sneak into their basement and camp out a few days if I can, and spy on them, eat their food, drink their liquor, and maybe try to steal something of value. It’ll be tricky because they have all sorts of security and alarms and such. So I’m studying up on home security systems. I called five companies before finding the one who installed their system. Told them I wanted a system identical to the Devereaux’s. Asked them what a burglar could possibly do to defeat it. Got all sorts of information.
But it’s still exceedingly dangerous.
Just the way I like it.
But like I said, that’s weeks from now, and I need a quick fix. I was about to do something really stupid this morning, but when I checked the new patient list I hit the jackpot.
The president of Deer Springs Country Club checked into the hospital last night.
Grady Sanders.
V
MOST DOCTORS PLAY golf.
I don’t.
Nor am I a member of a country club.
But I used to be.
Ten years ago I paid twenty-five thousand dollars to join Deer Springs Country Club in Woodhaven. Though I never played, I faithfully paid my dues for three years. Then one day I decided to cancel.
I’d been told I could sell my membership back to the club at any time for eighty percent of what I paid. In other words, they owed me twenty grand.
Imagine my surprise when club treasurer, Penny Caulfield, informed me I’d been misled by their overzealous sales team three years ago.
“You’re joking,” I said.
“Don’t give up,” Penny said. “This isn’t the
first time we’ve heard this.”
“What should I do?”
“Call Grady Sanders and tell him what happened. I’m sure he’ll refund your membership fee.”
“You can’t refund it?”
“No. The board agreed only the president can make the decision to refund on a case-by-case basis. I can’t guarantee he’ll say yes, he’s said yes to everyone else.”
“That sounds promising,” I said.
Imagine my surprise when Grady Sanders refused my request.
“What’s twenty grand to you?” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“You know what’s funny Dr. Box?”
“Please enlighten me.”
“It’s always the wealthiest members who look for loopholes.”
“You’re refusing to refund my money because I’m wealthy?”
“I’ve got a club to run, Doc. Twenty grand is gnat shit to you. To us, it’s crucial.”
“That’s it?” I said.
“That’s it.”
“Have a nice day,” I said.
And he did.
Grady Sanders had lots of nice days over the past ten years.
But a few days ago he began experiencing chest pain. And last night he was admitted to our heart center for tests.
Today he’s scheduled for a heart catheterization, which means he’ll be sleeping soundly tonight. His wife, Becca, will probably be in his room. No problem, I can work around her. It’ll be dark, and she’ll be in the recliner, trying to sleep.
Night time is the right time.
Like all hospital patients, Grady will be hooked up to a series of tubes. Hospitals use millions of tubes every year. To save money, all are the same shape and color, and none are labeled.
You might be surprised to know sixteen percent of all hospital patients experience tube mix-ups, resulting in hundreds of deaths each year. We could avoid these senseless deaths by color-coding or labeling them, but that would add a few bucks per patient to our expenses.
A simple tube switch would kill Grady, as would a well-placed injection into his drip, what I like to refer to as Willow’s Way.
So these are good possibilities.
Unless I want him to really suffer.
I’ve got hours to think about it.
Grady Sanders became a dead man the moment he checked into the hospital.