Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter

by Lee Goldberg

  When they returned to the Côte d'Azur that evening, his room was ready, as was a full set of identification documents to use at the hotel. He was now officially "Dr. Douglas Ross," at least within the confines of the resort complex.

  His room was a lavish second-floor suite with a view of the hotel's massive wave pool, the four swimming pools, and the freshwater lake. The interior was opulent, with an elegantly appointed living room full of French antiques, a projection room with theater seating and a collection of classic films on DVD, a study lined with leather-bound first editions, a master bedroom with a four-poster bed and a flat-screen TV, and an elaborate bar fully stocked with vintage wines, fine Scotch, and assorted spirits.

  Since Mark had a few hours to spare before Mannering showed up at the casino, he was tempted to stay in the room and read one of the fine first editions or watch a movie in his private theater. Instead, he decided Dr. Ross should probably make an appearance at the Côte d'Azur's medical center.

  So he showered and changed into a nice shirt and slacks, clipped his Côte d'Azur ID to his leather belt, and wandered over to the medical center.

  When he walked through the door he stopped in amazement. He'd never seen a medical facility like it before. It was to hospitals what the Côte d'Azur was to hotels. The waiting area, elegant, softly lit, with fine art on the paneled walls and plush leather furniture, felt more like a fine private club than the lobby of a hospital. There wasn't anything the least bit sterile-looking or cold about the place. It didn't even smell like a hospital.

  He approached the front desk and introduced himself to the receptionist, a beautiful and perfectly poised young woman with a bright, warm smile.

  She told him the director of the hospital, Alexis Bratton, would be right down to meet him and asked if he'd like a latte or an espresso while he waited.

  Mark declined the refreshments but was impressed that he'd been asked. A patient at Community General would be lucky if the receptionist pointed out the drinking fountain—and even luckier if the drinking fountain actually worked.

  There was a lot he could learn here. Unfortunately, without Standiford's deep pockets, he wouldn't be able to apply much of that knowledge at Community General.

  Mark had heard about places like this, but had never before visited one himself. Specialty surgical hospitals were booming nationwide and were seen by general hospitals to be a serious threat to their continued existence.

  He could see why.

  If he had a choice between staying at the Côte d'Azur facility or at Community General, he'd pick this one—and he hadn't even gotten past the lobby yet. But if Standiford's attention to detail and extravagant spending extended to his surgical facilities and patient suites—and Mark was sure that they did—there was no way a full-service hospital could compete.

  Alexis Bratton was even more stunning than the receptionist. She wore her lab coat as if it were an evening gown, looking professional, elegant, and sexy at the same time. It was clear to Mark that Standiford used the same standards in hiring his medical personnel that he did in hiring the hostesses on the casino floor. Mark hoped the medical personnel, at least, had qualifications beyond their measurements.

  She welcomed him to the facility and expressed her delight that a doctor who had once served as the personal physician to the Saudi royal family had chosen their facility to care for his current patients during their stay in Las Vegas.

  Mark just smiled and nodded. He didn't want to be asked any questions about Saudi Arabia, a place he knew nothing about, or the details about his new patients, whom he also knew nothing about, mainly because they didn't exist.

  Instead, as Bratton showed him around the facility, he asked lots of questions. What he learned was that the Côte d'Azur facility specialized primarily in elective and preplanned surgeries, as well as any assorted mishaps or ailments that might befall the hotel's guests.

  Because the facility focused primarily on orthopedic, cardiovascular, and plastic surgery, it was more efficient and had more state-of-the-art equipment than a traditional hospital. Because it offered a better work environment and higher pay, the Côte d'Azur also attracted superior surgeons and nurses. The ratio of nurses to patients was much lower than in community hospitals.

  In specialty surgical hospitals like the Côte d'Azur, Brat ton said, patients were twenty times less likely to become infected by other patients, so they weren't hospitalized as long and their medical bills were substantially lower, while at the same time they enjoyed a higher level of care. The length of time patients were hospitalized at specialty surgical centers was twenty-five percent less than at community and teaching hospitals.

  As impressed as Mark was by the Côte d'Azur's medical center, he understood the risk that specialized hospitals like it posed to community hospitals, which offered emergency care and basic treatment for a wide variety of medical conditions, as well as outpatient services, anatomical pathology services, clinical laboratory services, and pharmacy services. Those necessary programs were funded, in part, from the revenue generated by the profitable surgeries that the specialized hospitals were luring away. Without that revenue, many general-service hospitals, vital to the well-being of their communities, might be forced to shut down.

  But Mark also realized the limitations of the traditional hospital model, which contributed to the soaring costs of health care. Perhaps the increased competition would lead to better medical care for everyone, though for now, facilities like the Côte d'Azur were restricted to only the rich and powerful.

  Bratton told Mark that all of the center's services were at his disposal and that the security, privacy, and anonymity of his patients would be assured. Mark knew that his nonexistent patients would rest easier knowing that.

  The tour was an eye-opening experience for Mark. He left the Côte d'Azur medical center wishing he had the financial resources to provide the same comfortable, elegant atmosphere and exceptional level of care at Community General.

  He returned to his room, had a shrimp salad delivered for dinner, and then changed into his tuxedo. It was time to meet Robin Mannering face-to-face.

  As Mark descended the grand staircase into the casino in his tuxedo, the brassy score of Goldfinger playing on the speakers, he couldn't help but feel like James Bond himself.

  He'd never felt so cool, so suave, so self-confident, so ready to gamble. The world was his for the taking and he was going to take it.

  Mark desperately wanted to play baccarat, 007's game. It didn't matter that he'd never played it before and had no idea what the rules were. He was wearing a tuxedo, he was in a casino, and he looked great. That was all that really mattered.

  An impossibly beautiful woman with radiant eyes, lush lips, and bottomless cleavage was standing behind the red velvet rope at the entrance to the high-rollers room. She seemed very glad to see him.

  But who wouldn't be, the way he looked, the way he felt? Women would be helpless in his presence tonight

  "The name is Ross, Douglas Ross." Mark cocked an eyebrow and flashed a grin. "Dr. Douglas Ross. Licensed to practice medicine."

  "Yes, of course, Dr. Ross," she said. "We've been expecting you. If there's anything I can do to make your evening more pleasant, don't hesitate to ask."

  "I can assure you I won't, he said.

  She unfastened the rope and motioned him in. As he walked past her, he caught a reflection of himself in a mirror, saw the ridiculous expression on his face, and immediately snapped out of his 007 trance.

  What had gotten into him?

  He blushed with embarrassment, recalling how foolishly he'd acted with the hostess. How could he face her again after that?

  It was amazing the powerful effect that the right clothes, the right music, and the right atmosphere had on a person, Mark thought. All sorts of psychological, emotional, and cultural buttons were pushed all at once. Insecurities washed away and wish-fulfillment fantasies took over.

  Maybe when other men saw their reflections
as they strode into the high-roller room, it simply reinforced the fantasy. Not for Mark. He was almost disappointed that he'd been jarred back to reality.

  But he was grateful to have his wits about him again, because sitting at the poker table behind several large stacks of chips was Robin Mannering.

  It would have been a mistake for Mark to confront Mannering with anything less than his full wits about him. Two other men also sat at the table, behind towers of poker chips, waiting for the dealer to begin dealing the cards.

  Mark handed his Côte d'Azur ID card to the pit boss. "A hundred thousand dollars in chips, please."

  He tried to sound casual when he said it, but all he really managed to do was mumble. The pit boss heard him anyway, ran his card through a scanner, then nodded to the dealer, who counted out the chips and slid the stacks across the table to Mark.

  Everything Mark knew about poker he'd learned from watching old Maverick reruns. He hoped that would be good enough.

  The game was no-limit Texas hold 'em. Every player is dealt two cards facedown. After a round of betting, five shared cards are dealt faceup. The player with the best five-card hand from the seven cards available wins the pot.

  In addition to the thousand-dollar ante, there are two forced bets in each hand, called the small blind and the big blind. Before each hand, the dealer slides a button, in turn, around the table. The person to the left of the button pays the small blind bet, the player to his left plays the big blind, which is double the amount of the small blind. The next person to the left is known as the first position, and he must, at the very least, call the bets. That keeps the pot rich and the action hot for every hand. The blinds in this game were three thousand and six thousand dollars.

  The ante and blinds alone made Mark's heart palpitate before a single card was dealt.

  Just as the dealer was preparing to deal the hand, Roger Standiford walked into the room, and all the action at the various tables stopped to acknowledge his kingly presence. He wore a white tuxedo, which made him stand out from the crowd even more. Anyone else would have looked like a waiter.

  The hotel magnate shook a few hands, patted some backs, then made his way to the poker table, where he embraced Mark as if they were old, dear friends.

  "Doug, it's so good to see you," Standiford said. "How are the cards treating you tonight?"

  "It's too soon to tell," Mark said.

  "Try not to bankrupt me, okay?"

  "That's why I'm playing poker, Roger." Mark said. "To give the house a break. Just wait until I sit down at the blackjack table."

  Standiford forced a smile, then turned to the other men at the table. "Gentlemen, let me introduce you to my old friend Dr. Douglas Ross, a medical genius. He holds the patent to the key technologies behind several medical breakthroughs, including the artificial heart."

  "You thinking about getting yourself one, you heartless bastard?" Mannering asked Standiford with a grin.

  "Hell no," Standiford said. "A heart, even an artificial one, would be a liability in this business. Maybe when I retire."

  Standiford introduced Mark to the other players, but he didn't really pay attention. All he cared about was Mannering, who selected a Cohiba from a silver tray offered to him by the hostess.

  "You won't retire until you own every hotel on the Strip," one of the men said.

  "Why would I set my sights so low?" Standiford said. "Good luck tonight, my friends."

  And with that, Standiford walked out and the cards were dealt. The pot was at $13,000. Everyone folded except Mannering, who raised the ante for Mark to $36,000. Mark glanced at his two cards. A pair of kings. It seemed like a strong hand.

  Mark studied Mannering, who was going through the elaborate ceremony of lighting his cigar. He used the first wooden match to simply warm the tip, then struck another, which he held under the cigar until the heat, not the flame, ignited the tobacco.

  Mannering was completely relaxed, as if he were betting pennies.

  Mark was sweating through every pore in his body and it wasn't even his money at stake. He wondered if he would have been less anxious if he was wagering his own cash, but he doubted it.

  A pair of kings was a strong hand, and he'd be a fool not to ride it. He slid $40,000 worth of chips into the pot, enriching it to $76,000.

  Mannering puffed on his cigar and studied Mark. "Are you a gambling man, Dr. Ross?"

  "I'm here," Mark said.

  "That's not what I'm asking," Mannering said.

  "You don't go into a profession where you cut into people's hearts, spines, and brains unless you enjoy risk and playing for the ultimate stakes," Mark said. "By comparison, these table games are mere child's play."

  "Once you've played for the ultimate stakes, as you put it, it's hard to find something else that even comes close to thrilling you as much." Mannering said.

  "You talk as if you're speaking from experience." Mark said.

  Mannering smiled enigmatically and tossed in $20,000, raising the pot to $96,000. "I call."

  Mark showed his pair of kings. Mannering flipped over his queen and an eight Mark was relieved to see he possessed the superior hand, but his opponent didn't seem the least bit rattled.

  "Sounds to me like you'd both get a kick out of Russian roulette," said one of the other players.

  "But where's the profit in that?" asked another.

  "Betting on which one of them lives, of course."

  On the flop, the dealer laid out an eight, a four, and another queen, giving Mannering two pairs. Mark felt his stomach roll.

  The dealer flipped the turn card, a six. No help there. Mark needed another king. The dealer turned the river card, a seven.

  Mannering won the pot.

  Mark glanced up at the ceiling, almost apologetically, to the unseen eyes he knew were watching him.

  If he kept playing like this, his $60,000 in chips could be gone in the next ten minutes.

  Much to Mark's surprise, he was able to hold his own for the next few hours, ending up ahead with $132,000, thanks to very conservative play that didn't pit him directly against Mannering again. He was sure Standiford was relieved. But Mark wasn't concentrating too hard on the game. Most of his attention was devoted to sizing up his opponent.

  Mannering seemed to rely less on bluffs than on his unwavering faith in his own good luck. His faith seemed to be well placed. He wiped out another player's pair of aces with a pair of nines that turned into three of a kind on the flop. It earned him $250,000.

  "It's unbelievable. You are the luckiest man I know," said the busted player as he rose from the table.

  But Mark was certain that Mannering's streak was coming to an abrupt end.

  When Mannering discarded the stub of his cigar in his ashtray, the hostess was quick to take it away. Mark knew Grumbo was waiting to bag the stub for the crime lab. The DNA drawn from that cigar would send Mannering to prison.

  In the grand scheme of things, Mannering's luck had run out. He just didn't know it yet

  But Mark did. And he took it as a sign that the cards would fall his way, too.

  The blind bets had increased to $4,000 and $8,000. The other player folded, leaving Mark and Mannering to compete over a pot that now stood at $15,000. Mark didn't touch his cards, leaving them as they were dealt, facedown.

  Mark called Mannering's bet

  "You didn't look at your cards," Mannering said. Mark shrugged. "Wouldn't change anything. I have what I have."

  "What about strategy? Aren't you interested in playing the odds?"

  "Where's the risk in that?" Mark asked. "Poker is as much about instinct as anything else."

  "Don't rule out human nature," Mannering said. "That's where the bluff comes in."

  "Bluffs play on your opponent's fear," Mark said. "How afraid are you, Mr. Mannering?"

  Mannering looked down at his cards, which he hadn't turned yet either. He looked back up at Mark and smiled, leaving his own cards untouched as well.

 
; They were both playing blind.

  The dealer dealt three cards faceup. A five, a six, and a seven.

  Mark bet $12,000.

  "Not a very daring bet. Almost tentative. I didn't think you were a tentative man, Doctor. Perhaps I misjudged you. I'll see your bet and raise everything you've got." Mannering slid $110,000 in chips into the center of the table.

  "You're crazy," said the player who'd bowed out.

  "And you haven't won a single hand, Ernie," Mannering said. "Looking at the cards didn't help you much. Besides, it's just child's play, isn't it, Doctor."

  Mark could feel the security camera zooming in on him, Standiford and Grumbo watching anxiously to see what he'd do next. This was, after all, Standiford's money that he was recklessly gambling with. He hesitated, until he saw the hostess use a napkin to take Mannering's empty glass and replace it with a fresh drink.

  She was preserving Mannering's prints for the crime lab. They had what they needed to prove who Mannering really was. Jimmy Cale's five-year winning streak was over.

  Knowing all of this, Mark had to bet.

  Mark smiled. "I believe your luck has turned."

  He slid all his chips into the pot, bringing it to $265,000, and turned over his cards.

  Mark had a queen and an eight. Even with the three community cards, he had nothing.

  "Are you sure?" Mannering flipped his cards, revealing a seven and a two, giving him a pair of sevens. It was almost as if he had known all along he had the better hand.

  It was unnerving.

  It was meant to be.

  There were only two more cards to go. Mark needed a queen or an eight or he would lose everything. The odds were not in his favor.

  Was Mannering's luck holding?

  No, Mark thought, it couldn't be.

  The dealer dealt the turn card, an ace. Mark's odds of winning plummeted. He was one card away from giving Mannering $100,000 of Standiford's money to squander during his last day or two of freedom.

  What kind of luck was that?

  The dealer flipped the river card onto the table.