Anna sucked at her fingers until they stopped burning."What do you think?"
"I think this is the part where I tell them that if they have anything solid, show me a warrant for your arrest. If they don't, then back off, give you a new DEA permit, and let you get on with your life."
"Should you push them like that?"
"Did you tell me the truth when you said you had no knowledge of or involvement with those false narcotics prescriptions?"
"Yes."
"Then it's time to bring it to a head." Donovan's voice took on an edge. "At your first meeting, if they really had something, they'd have brought you in for questioning at their offices. Instead, they came to you and gave you the obligatory nudge, the one they always hope results in a confession. It didn't. Now they're letting you twist in the wind while they check out other leads. It's time that came to a halt."
"Tell me where to meet you."
"Come by my office at nine-thirty this morning. We'll talk some more and drive over there together."
Anna was about to hang up when she thought of another question. "What about the Dallas police?"
"They haven't returned my calls. Let's deal with the DEA first. That'll get you back to your practice."
An hour later, Anna was seated in Ross Donovan's office. She remembered how good the coffee had smelled on her last visit, so she accepted his offer of a cup. Her first sip convinced her that taste and smell weren't always linked. This coffee was so strong she checked the spoon to make sure it hadn't melted after she stirred in the sweetener.
"Coffee a bit strong for you?" Donovan asked.
Anna wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "I thought I'd had some strong coffee at the hospital, but this tops it. But tastes vary, I guess."
"It's alcoholics' coffee."
She took a cautious sip, but couldn't taste anything but bitter, strong brew.
Donovan smiled. "No," he said. "Not alcoholic coffee. It's like the coffee you find at AA meetings everywhere. Hot, strong, and lots of it. When you're trying to avoid one addiction, you tend to find a replacement. A lot of alcoholics smoke. Some get hooked on sweets. Most guzzle coffee. I decided there was no reason to kick alcohol only to get lung cancer or diabetes, but I was willing to risk an ulcer."
"If you don't mind my asking, how can an alcoholic practice law?"
"Well, as it turns out, not very well. I managed never to drink before I met with clients or had to be in court. But I made up for it by drinking at other times. And, as my ex can attest, I combined that with running around on her. She tried to straighten me out, but finally she'd had enough. She filed for divorce."
"I'm sorry," Anna said.
"Me too. She'd been practicing law under her maiden name, so a lot of people didn't even notice a change. But the divorce was the slap in the face I needed. A few months after it was final, I went into rehab."
"Do you miss drinking?"
Donovan's laugh was far from mirthful. "Would you miss breathing? Sure I miss it. It was what kept me alive. I made sure there was always a bottle of Jim Beam right here." He pointed to the bottom drawer of his desk. "Every day, as soon as my assistant left-that was back when I had an assistant-I unscrewed the top of that bad boy and had a few belts. That held me until I could get to the bar."
"Are you… do you think you're okay now?"
"Do you mean is your lawyer going to show up drunk sometime? I hope not. But I take it one day at a time. You learn that in AA, because if you don't learn it, you're back drinking."
Anna looked at her watch and Donovan took the hint."Well, enough about my sordid past," he said. "Let's get ready for our meeting with the Federales."
Anna wasn't sure how to take this man. He seemed almost jovial at times. Was this a coping mechanism? Or had he reached the bottom of life's barrel so completely that nothing caused him any fear or worry? Despite it all, she found herself trusting him. Even if his ex-wife had qualified her referral with the words "liar" and "cheat."
Ross was seated alongside Anna in straight chairs across the table from Kramer and Hale. He recognized the room; he'd been in dozens like it, usually in a jail or police station, with his client sitting across the scarred metal table in shackles and a guard standing right outside the door. The agents had probably chosen to meet in an interview room simply to scare Anna. Judging from what he'd seen so far of his client and her Irish temper, they weren't going to get far with that maneuver.
This was Ross's first time to meet the two DEA agents, and they weren't what he'd imagined. Hale was a week past needing a haircut. His suit looked like he'd slept in it. Kramer, on the other hand, looked like a million dollars. For an instant Ross wondered why she was working in law enforcement, instead of acting or modeling. Then he saw her eyes and revised his estimate.
Agent Hale leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. His coat dropped open, showing an automatic holstered on his hip, something else Ross figured was meant to intimidate his client.
"Counselor, let's cut to the chase," Hale said. "We don't have to share the results of our investigation with you until we file charges against your client."
Ross sat a bit straighter and planted both hands on the table. He fixed Hale with a gaze he hoped was laser-like. "Agent, speaking of cutting to the chase, why don't you admit that you confronted my client and accused her of a crime you knew full well she didn't commit, hoping she might give you some bit of information that would help you in an investigation where you were totally lost?"
Hale came halfway out of his chair. "Now wait-"
"Hang on, there," Kramer put a restraining arm on her partner's shoulder. Her voice had steel behind the softness. "Maybe it's time to put our cards on the table." She looked at Anna."We recognize that the signatures on the prescriptions bearing your DEA number were forged. So far, we've found no evidence of involvement on your part. You're not totally in the clear yet, but we're willing to cut you some slack if you'll help us. If we issue you a new DEA permit so you can go back to work at the medical center, we'd expect you to keep your eyes and ears open. If you discover something that might help us find the person behind this, can we depend on you to pass it on to us immediately?"
Ross held up a warning hand to Anna. "Don't answer." He turned back to Hale. "You'll call her chairman and tell him you haven't turned up anything to incriminate my client? And you'll communicate that to the Dallas Police Department?"
The expression on Hale's face suggested he'd just dined on a lemon. After a moment, Hale nodded.
Ross suspected that the interview was being taped, and nods don't go into a transcript. "Say it, Agent. Say it for the tape."
Hale swore under his breath. "Yes, we'll do that. I'll make the calls today. It'll probably take us a week to get you a new DEA permit. But I can't promise the DPD will back off. I've talked with Dowling and Green a couple of times. They really believe that the doctor here is mixed up in this some way."
"Thank you for the information," Ross said. "Just make the call."
Hale wasn't through, though. "And Doctor, you'll keep us informed of anything you learn that would help our investigation?"
Ross figured it was time to say "yes" and end the interview. He nodded at Anna, who gave her head a quick up-anddown.
This time it was Hale's turn. "Dr. McIntyre? Get it on the record, please."
"Fine, I'll pass on anything I find out," she said.
There were no handshakes to end the meeting, just the scrape of chairs and the rustle of papers gathered into briefcases and folders. Ross worked to maintain a poker face. This wasn't a total victory, but it was at least a small one. It was nice to be back in practice again, and especially nice to be doing it sober-and for such a lovely client.
Outside, on the sidewalk, Anna turned and offered her hand. "Thank you for your help."
"Just doing my job," Donovan said. "Now, how about some lunch?"
"I'm… uh-"
Donovan patted the air. "Easy there. I'm just offeri
ng to buy you a sandwich. Besides that, we can talk. The fact that the DEA's let up a bit doesn't mean you're out of the woods. And I get the impression there's more to this than what you've told me so far." He ticked offthe points on his fingers. "Never lie to your lawyer. Never withhold information from your lawyer. Always trust your lawyer. And-" He pointed his finger at her."Always accept an invitation to eat with your lawyer, so long as he agrees to pay and not charge it back to you."
The Irish have a saying: "He could charm the birds out of the trees." That fit Ross-at least a sober Ross. Anna relented."All right. Just a quick sandwich. I have some things I need to do today."
10
Nicklooked at the sandwich on his desk and wrinkled his nose.
Mondays were always busy, so he generally brought lunch from home and ate at his desk. Today, though, he hadn't done so well as a chef. He lifted the top slice of bread and sniffed at the lunch meat, wondering if he should slice offthe green rind or toss the whole thing. The chips he'd sealed in a sandwich bag had been reduced to a greasy mass of shards. The apple, the last one in his crisper, was dry, wrinkled, and totally unappetizing.
He shoved everything back into the brown bag and heaved it into his wastebasket, where it settled with a satisfying clunk. Nick looked at his watch. One o'clock. Wonder if Anna's already eaten. He picked up the phone, punched in her home number, counted the rings, and felt his heart sink when the answering machine picked up. "Anna, this is Nick. Just calling to invite you to have a late lunch with me. I'll try your cell." He did, only to have his call roll over to voicemail on the second ring. He repeated the message with appropriate variations and hung up.
In the cafeteria, the chicken potpie on his plate tasted like sawdust, although all around him people were shoveling it in with great gusto. He managed to eat about half of it before he pushed it aside. Maybe some coffee and a piece of pie? No, he wasn't really that hungry, something so foreign to him that he toyed with the idea of asking one of his internal medicine colleagues to give him a checkup. Then again, maybe what he felt wasn't due to a bug. Maybe the cause was a certain redheaded surgeon.
How long had he known Anna McIntyre now? A week? Two? Surely not long enough to feel this serious about her. Maybe this wasn't love at first sight, but at the very least it was "strong liking in less than two weeks."
The beep of his pager roused him from his self-analysis. He thumbed the button and checked the display: Dr. Wetherington-probably fuming because Nick hadn't finished his professional resume for the promotions committee. Somehow, Nick didn't think his chairman would accept the excuse that he'd been too busy spending time with his new girlfriend. Maybe he'd have time to think up a good story on his way to the chairman's office.
"I've only spoken with these guys on the phone. You've seen them in person. What are your impressions of Green and Dowling?" Ross put down his chicken sandwich to listen.
Anna dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and tried to think of the right way to describe these men. "Green frightens me a bit. Remember the football player, Mean Joe Greene, who was supposed to be such a terror? Well, Mean Joe would be a pussycat compared with Lamar Green."
"What about Dowling?"
"So pale you'd think he never saw the sun. Lean and sinewy, losing his hair. Quiet, but I have this mental image of a snake ready to strike at any time."
"Which one would you rather deal with?" Ross asked.
Anna couldn't suppress a shiver. "Neither one. Green would come right after me. Dowling might stab me in the back. They scare me."
"Okay, we'll let that rest," Ross said. "Time to talk about something else."
Anna was surprised to learn that Ross liked the same kind of music she did, enjoyed the same movies she did, and in general was a real person. As he paid the check, she decided her first lunch with a lawyer hadn't been as bad as she'd feared, especially considering the precipitating circumstances.
They parted in front of the restaurant, with Ross promising to keep Anna posted on any new developments and extracting the same promise from her. She ransomed her car from the parking garage and pulled out onto Pacific Street. The laboratory where the pseudo-Anna McIntyre had received her HIV workup was on Grand Avenue, only a couple of miles in distance but light-years in economic status from downtown Dallas. Anna pulled up a mental map of the streets involved and set a course for the Metro Clinical Lab. She didn't recall the exact street address, but it shouldn't be too hard to find.
When Anna turned onto Grand, the neighborhood changed, and she locked her doors. Ahead, on the corner, she saw a onestory, red brick building bearing a sign in faded black letters: Metro Clinical Laboratory. The parking area at the side of the building resembled a road in Afghanistan after a mortar attack. Holes in the concrete threatened her wheels and suspension as she dodged right and left. She brought the car to a halt in the one empty parking space, the farthest from the building.
Anna checked that the car doors were still locked before retrieving her purse from under her seat. Maybe she should check her messages at home before she went into the building. She flipped open her cell phone and noticed the icon that indicated one new voicemail message. Then she remembered.
She'd turned offthe ringer before going into conference with the DEA agents. She changed the setting and pushed the button to retrieve the message.
"This is Nick. Just calling to invite you to have a late lunch with me. Guess you're tied up. Call me when you get this message. I. .. uh, I… hey, I really enjoyed our picnic."
Anna leaned back in the seat and wondered how this had happened. A month ago she'd been totally focused on her career. Not much of a social life beyond an occasional date that almost never led to a second one. Now her professional and personal life were on the verge of ruin, but she had two men in her life, either of whom could turn out to be the Mr. Right she'd always hoped would come along.
She started to punch the number to call Nick, who had made it onto her speed-dial list soon after their first meeting. Then she stopped. She really ought to go inside and get this out of the way. She could call him from home or at least from the car after she was safely out of this neighborhood.
Anna unzipped her purse, dropped in the phone, and rummaged around until her fingers identified the tiny canister of pepper spray she'd carried since moving to Dallas. She'd never used it, but today she felt better knowing it was there. She moved the canister toward the top of the purse and left the zipper partly open. Then she unlocked her doors, looped the strap of her purse securely over her head and across her body, and stepped out. She beeped the doors locked once more and looked around her.
A half dozen homeless men crouched against the chain-link fence that formed the far end of the parking lot, next to where she'd left her car. They represented a veritable United Nations of colors and ethnicity, but they shared one characteristic: redrimmed eyes that seemed to stare right through her. The man on the end had a firm grip on the neck of a bottle protruding from a brown paper sack. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he drank, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and passed the bottle to one of his companions.
Anna dreaded turning her back on these men to walk the seventy feet to the front door. Don't run, she told herself. Just move along. They won't hurt you. She dropped her hand inside her purse and grabbed the pepper spray. Keys in one hand with her thumb on the panic button of the remote, pepper spray canister in the other. Take a deep breath. Start walking.
The walk to the door seemed to take an hour, but she reached it with no consequences worse than a cramp between her shoulder blades from muscles taut as a violin string. Once inside the building, she dropped keys and canister into her purse and looked around for a receptionist.
"Help you?" The Hispanic girl sat behind a scarred desk against the back wall of the foyer. Straight chairs with ripped vinyl seat cushions lined the walls on either side of the room. A coffee table held several tattered magazines and out-of-date copies of two newspapers, the Dallas News and El
Sol.
"I'm Dr. Anna McIntyre. I need to speak with your laboratory director."
"May I ask why?" The girl was civil enough, but apparently used to deflecting questions. She probably had her orders. A routine was in place, and any departure from it would present a problem.
"I'd rather discuss it with the director. Is he or she available?"
The girl shook her head. Anna could almost see the gears turning as the receptionist pulled up the appropriate response from her memory bank. "Our medical director is Dr. Gaston. His office is in Fort Worth, but he makes a visit here once a week. He was here yesterday. Would you like to come back next week?"
"Who's in charge here? I mean, right now, on the premises."
"I guess that would be our chief technician."
Anna took a calming breath. "And that would be?"
"Rhonda Brown."
"May I speak with her?"
"May I ask why?"
The dialogue continued like a bad imitation of an Abbott and Costello routine, but eventually the receptionist waved Anna through the door and into the laboratory. She was met there by a stout African American woman dressed in a flowered scrub top and navy scrub pants, the ensemble covered by a crisp white coat.
"Ms. Brown, I'm Dr. Anna McIntyre." Anna extended her hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Doctor. And it's not Ms. It's Miss. Anyway, you can call me Rhonda." She took Anna's hand and gave it a brief, firm shake, while never taking her brown eyes offher visitor. "How can I help you?"
"Is there somewhere we can sit down? This won't take long, but there's a bit of explaining that goes with it."
"Sorry, but I've got tests going and two other techs to supervise. If I can't do it right here, right now, you'll have to come back."
Anna sighed. She'd have to keep it simple, leave out the details, and hope Rhonda went along with her request. She told her about the lab report she'd received and asked if there was any way to identify the woman on whom the test had been run.
"Doctor, more than fifty patients come in here every day."Rhonda pointed to the open door to the waiting room. "Most mornings every one of those chairs is filled. As soon as somebody comes in here for us to draw blood, somebody standing along the wall takes the vacant seat. We check their paperwork, ask them to verify their name and birthday, take the sample and move on. So far as we're concerned, you are who your lab slip says you are."
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