“Are you?” Jack asked incredulously.
“We ought to be,” Isabel said with a laugh. “One of the nurses started the club as a humorous support group for divorced and dumped women, on the theory it’s better to laugh than to cry.”
“Is it love or hate for you?”
“A little of both,” Isabel confessed, sobering.
“Would you mind if I ask you some specific questions about the little girl whose parents are suing Dr. Hollander for malpractice?” he asked.
“Shoot.”
“What do you remember about Laurel Morgan?”
Isabel didn’t have any trouble remembering the case, but Jack was surprised at what she recalled first.
“She liked Winnie-the-Pooh,” Isabel began. “Her parents brought her a stuffed Pooh bear, but of course she couldn’t have it in the ICU. So Mrs. Wainwright sat beside the little girl for hours reading Pooh story after Pooh story, even though Laurel never regained consciousness after the operation.”
Jack’s heart was thumping hard. “Maggie did that?”
Isabel shook her head. “No, I meant Victoria Wainwright.”
Jack was taken aback. “What was Victoria Wainwright doing in the ICU?”
“The lady goes pretty much where she wants, when she wants,” Isabel replied.
“Why is that?” Jack asked.
Isabel laughed. “You haven’t looked at many of the signs around here, have you?”
Jack turned and looked where Isabel pointed. “Wainwright Cafeteria.”
“Wainwright Trauma Center, Wainwright Pediatric Wing—” she recited.
“I see what you mean,” Jack said. “What made Mrs. Wainwright come in and read to this particular little girl? Did she know the family?”
“Victoria Wainwright is a regular volunteer reader in the pediatrics ward,” Isabel explained. “Once in a while she’ll come up to spend some time with a kid who’s stuck in the ICU.” Isabel took a sip of coffee and asked, “Is any of what I say going to get back to her?”
Jack shook his head.
“Then I’ll be honest and tell you she’s arrogant and condescending with the nursing staff. Like her money makes her a better person than the rest of us. The nurses do the best they can to keep their distance when she’s around. But to be fair, I’ve never seen anyone more sympathetic and loving toward children,” Isabel conceded.
That behavior didn’t fit Jack’s first impression of Victoria Wainwright. He couldn’t imagine Victoria having the patience to read to a child, much less a child who probably couldn’t even hear her. She struck him as the self-centered, selfish type. What made her so attentive to the children? he wondered.
He would have to ask her and see what she said.
“What can you tell me about Laurel’s injuries?” Jack said.
“She was hit by a car while riding her bicycle and ended up with a fractured skull. Dr. Hollander did everything he could to save her. He’s a brilliant surgeon, but there was just too much damage to her brain.”
“She had no chance of survival?” Jack asked.
“If Laurel had survived the swelling in her brain, she probably would have lived, but it’s questionable how much of a real recovery she would have made.”
“Then it’s a blessing she died of heart failure?” Jack said, watching Isabel’s face closely.
Without blinking she replied, “It’s never good when a child dies. But sometimes it is a blessing.”
Jack drew several conclusions from his conversation with Hollander’s surgical nurse. First, Isabel Rojas was a smart, funny woman. Second, she idolized—even loved—Roman Hollander. And third, she shared the doctor’s feelings about quality of life.
By the time Jack went looking for Maggie in the conference room shortly before noon, he discovered she was gone. No one at the nearest nursing station had seen her leave, but Jack figured the obvious place to look for her was at the offices of Wainwright & Cobb, a couple of blocks away on Travis. From the front door of the hospital, he could see the Texas flag flying all alone atop the Milam Building on a tall brass pole.
Jack smiled. Texans put Texas first, with God running a close second, and the United States of America a distant third. But after all, from 1836 to 1846, Texas had been an independent nation, a republic with its own president and vice-president and army and navy, something no other state could boast.
Jack discovered Wainwright & Cobb took up the entire top floor of the Milam Building, a yellow-brick and glass structure with hand-carved Corinthian columns in the lobby and cherry-wood railings in the Mexican-tiled stairways. Built in 1927 as the first air-conditioned high-rise in the country, the Gothic structure had aged gracefully, maintaining its dignity and charm.
Jack decided the attractive blond receptionist who greeted him at the entrance to the Wainwright & Cobb offices had been chosen as much for her good looks and fashion sense as for her ability to answer a bank of telephones. She gave Jack a friendly smile and said she’d locate Ms. Wainwright for him.
Ninety seconds later Jack found himself headed down a wall of doors toward the southeast corner office, which belonged to Maggie Wainwright.
The center of the twenty-first floor was taken up with secretarial cubicles, while the lawyers’ offices ringed the building. Considering where she was situated, Jack figured Maggie had a great tourist’s view of downtown from her windows, including Hemisfair Plaza, with its revolving restaurant at the top of Hemisfair Tower, the Alamodome—the godawful wired-up stadium built for the Spurs that was sometimes described as “a riverboat on a freeway,” and the city’s famous River Walk.
The River Walk was fifteen feet below the downtown street level but visible from the twenty-first floor as a reflective silvery ribbon lined with colorful red, blue, and yellow dots that Jack knew were umbrellas at outdoor dining tables. Tourists could walk the flagstone that meandered along both sides of the thirty foot-wide San Antonio River or take red motorized flatboats—which looked like floating toys from where Jack stood—to get to outdoor restaurants, souvenir shops, and hotels.
When Jack reached Maggie’s office, he found her sitting behind a stylish, glass-topped desk with marble supports at each end, deep in conversation with a petite woman in a tailored suit. He leaned a shoulder against the door jamb and crossed his booted feet at the ankles, waiting for the two of them to come up for air.
He had time to examine the other woman, whom the receptionist had identified as Lisa Hollander, his primary suspect’s wife. She had short sable hair and bangs that emphasized her immense brown eyes. Lisa Hollander’s face reminded Jack of the winsome, doe-eyed children painted on cheap black velvet and sold to tourists at border towns like Juarez and Piedras Negras and Nuevo Laredo. There was something infinitely and inexplicably sad about her countenance.
He wasn’t sure what gave him away, but Maggie suddenly looked up. She didn’t seem altogether pleased to find him there. “Jack. You should have said something. I didn’t realize you’d already found your way here.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt. Go ahead with what you were doing.”
Maggie rose, suggesting the meeting with her colleague was at an end.
Jack uncrossed his legs and entered her office, his boots sinking into thick oatmeal carpet. He stopped behind one of the black leather wing chairs intended for clients and glanced at Lisa Hollander, who was eyeing him curiously.
“Jack Kittrick, I’d like you to meet Lisa Hollander,” Maggie said.
Lisa extended her hand, and Jack reached out to shake it. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hollander.”
She smiled, and her face changed completely. Jack decided she should smile more often. The large, liquid eyes exuded warmth as she said, “Call me Lisa, please.”
Her voice was raspy, as though she were just getting over a case of laryngitis, and with her soft Texas drawl, unbelievably sexy. Considering the whole package, Jack could see why Hollander, a confirmed bachelor, had suddenly decided to marry four years ago.
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“I’ve heard so much about you from Maggie, Mr. Kittrick, I feel like I already know you,” Lisa said. “I hope you’re feeling better.”
“Make it Jack,” Jack said. “Thanks to your husband and some nursing from Maggie, I’m fine.”
Lisa shot Maggie a questioning sideways look. “Nursing?”
Even though he’d obviously been a topic of discussion between the two women, it was plain Maggie hadn’t told Lisa everything. “Maggie was kind enough to keep me company for a while on Saturday night,” Jack said.
“So you’re returning the favor by keeping her company this Saturday night,” Lisa quipped.
Jack returned her irresistible smile. “Right,” he said.
From the vexed look on Maggie’s face, Jack figured she wasn’t used to being teased. Too bad. The lady needed to lighten up, and he was just the man to help her do it.
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I couldn’t resist teasing you,” Lisa said. She turned to Jack and said, “Roman and I will be joining you at Mr. Cobb’s table.”
The gods sometimes did smile on the wicked, Jack thought. “I’ll be looking forward to talking more with you,” he said.
“I’ve got a pleading to write, if you’ll both excuse me,” Lisa said. “Nice meeting you, Jack.”
“You, too, Lisa.” Jack made a point of closing the door behind her. “She seems like a nice person.”
“She is. And so is Roman. I hope you found that out for yourself this morning.”
“I didn’t have much chance to speak to the doctor. He got called away on an emergency.” Jack crossed to Maggie and settled himself on the edge of her glass desk where the marble supported it.
“There are two perfectly good chairs behind you,” she said.
“I can see your eyes better from here.”
She rose abruptly but had nowhere to go, since Jack had put himself between her and the door. He stood and took the steps to close the distance between them, so they were toe to toe, breast to breast. “Good morning, Maggie.”
She hissed in a breath as he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers once, then again, lips catching, tongue teasing, before he captured her mouth in a searing, bone-melting kiss. As he released her mouth, she made a grating sound in her throat, as though she couldn’t bear for him to let her go.
Her kiss was everything Jack had hoped it would be. It felt as if some giant empty place inside him had begun to fill. But he wasn’t ready to stop there. He wanted, desperately needed, more.
He studied Maggie’s face, wondering whether she had been as moved by the experience as he had. Her eyes were heavy-lidded when she finally opened them and looked up at him.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered.
Jack felt a tight place ease inside him. Yeah. She’d felt it, too.
He brushed his thumb across her still-damp lower lip and said, “That’s what I wanted to do when I saw you come out of that stairwell this morning with your hair still damp from the shower and your skirt halfway up your legs.”
She cleared her throat, eyeing him warily. “My skirt is down now, Jack. And it’s staying down.”
His hands were already in her hair taking out the pins, and he lowered his mouth to hers in a gentle caress meant to convince her she was safe with him. The kiss quickly evolved into something more than a meeting of lips. He felt her heat, her passion, her need . . . and the inner struggle she waged, unwilling to surrender completely to him.
She wrenched her face aside, breaking the kiss, panting as though she were running for her life. “I thought you understood this can’t happen, Jack.”
“It already has, Maggie.”
She started to back away, then hesitated. Maggie hadn’t struck him as the kind of woman who backed away from anything, and sure enough, she stood her ground.
“All right, Jack. You’ve had your kisses. You’ve made your point—you can flip a switch and turn me on. Now, can we get down to business?”
Jack let go of her and settled himself back onto the edge of the tempered glass desk. He was going to have to find out what made her so leery of men. He meant to have her, and he wasn’t going to let any obstacles—like her reluctance to get involved—stand in his way.
“All right, Maggie. Let’s do business,” he said. “I’ve got some good news for you.”
Once he wasn’t crowding her, she put some space between them, crossing to the window, giving him the chance to look around.
Besides her desk and the two leather wing chairs, the only furniture in her office was a glass-topped credenza with a black and gold wooden Egyptian cat sitting on it. A single file was scattered across her glass-topped desk, but everything else was apparently tucked away in the floor-to-ceiling black cabinets behind her desk. All that clear glass and marble, and the complete lack of vibrant color, made the place feel cold and sterile—not at all like the Maggie he was coming to know.
Maggie leaned back against the window ledge, crossed her arms, and said, “All right, Jack. I’m listening. What’s your good news?”
“I’ve got another suspect,” he announced.
She raised an inquisitive brow.
“Isabel Rojas, Hollander’s surgical nurse.”
She made a derisive sound and shook her head. “What makes you think Roman’s nurse is a killer?”
“I only said she’s a suspect.”
“What makes her a suspect?” Maggie asked.
“She’s been with Hollander as his nurse for the past seven years. Like him, she worked at the hospitals in Houston and Dallas where the other five suspicious deaths occurred. She had the same opportunity as the doctor to commit the crimes.”
“Surgical nurses often transfer along with a doctor. That doesn’t make her a suspicious character. What’s her motive supposed to be?”
“The same as the doctor’s—easing the pain and suffering of the patient.”
Maggie shook her head. “It’s not enough, Jack.” She crossed back to her glass-topped desk, but it wasn’t much to hide behind. He noticed she was careful not to get within arm’s reach of him. “People don’t commit murder for reasons like that,” she said. “They let the patient die a natural death.”
“What if the patient isn’t going to die on his own?”
“People who dedicate themselves to saving lives aren’t purposely going to murder someone, especially not a child, just because that someone might be suffering.”
“You’re wrong, Maggie. Doctors and nurses do it all the time.”
“I suppose you have statistics,” Maggie retorted, pacing agitatedly behind her desk.
“Studies have been done.”
She stopped and stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“When I got assigned to this case, I looked at a lot of literature on the subject. Twenty percent of the critical care nurses in one study admitted they had hastened the death of a terminally ill patient, usually by giving an overdose of painkillers.”
Maggie pointed an accusing finger at him. “There’s the flaw in your reasoning.”
“What?”
“You said they helped ’terminally ill’ patients to die. The kids in question weren’t going to die. Ergo your study doesn’t fit.”
Trust a lawyer to find the flaw in his logic. “Maybe not precisely, but—”
“Not at all,” Maggie insisted. “You need to find another reason for the murders besides mercy killing. Like a life insurance policy or selfish parents who don’t want to care for an invalid or—I’ve got it,” she said excitedly, “the money they’d get suing Hollander for malpractice.”
“A conspiracy of parents killing their children for malpractice settlements?” Jack said dubiously.
“It makes as much sense as believing Roman Hollander is killing patients so they won’t have to live a difficult life!”
Jack sighed. “Mercy killing made sense when Captain Buckelew suggested it to me.”
“You hadn’t met Roman then. Can you really believe he’s a murder
er, now that you’ve seen him in action at the bioethics committee meeting? Now that you’ve spoken to him personally?”
“Neither of those meetings has changed my mind about the doctor, Maggie. Besides, I’ve heard of parents killing their children rather than watching them suffer,” Jack said. “Why not a doctor, especially a compassionate one, or his nurse?”
Maggie shoved an agitated hand through her fallen hair.
Jack was distracted when the sunlight caught it, turning wheat to gold. He imagined it spread across his chest or tangled in his hands as he angled her head for his kiss.
She looked up, caught his hungry stare, and rolled her eyes.
He flushed like a teenager caught with his zipper down and realized he’d lost his train of thought. “Where was I?”
“Saying some very disturbing things about Roman and Isabel.”
“Oh. Yeah. Closing your eyes to the truth isn’t going to make it go away, Maggie. If Roman Hollander or his nurse is playing God, I intend to find out and stop it.”
A phone call interrupted them, and Jack fiddled with a toy on Maggie’s desk—a bed of headless nails that took any shape he pressed into it—waiting for Maggie to finish.
She put the call on hold and said, “This is going to take a while.”
“How about dinner tonight? We can finish our conversation then.”
“I have to work late tonight. And every night this week,” she added.
“You’re avoiding me,” Jack said.
“I’m a busy woman,” she countered.
“I guess I won’t see you again until Saturday.”
“I guess not.”
Jack backed off. He could read a No Trespassing sign when he saw one. He was tempted to ease himself out of the picture by reneging on the Saturday invitation, but as he watched Maggie’s hands fidget, he realized she wasn’t as unaware of him, or as unmoved by his presence, as she wanted him to believe.
“What time should I pick you up on Saturday?” he asked.
“Eight o’clock.”
He turned and headed for the door. “I’ll be there.”
“Jack,” she said, catching him before he could leave. “It’s black tie. You can rent a good tux at Anthony’s.”
Heartbeat Page 8
