by Gary Birken
“I’m a little surprised.”
“I was too, at first. But once I found out how much she detests her ex-husband, I understood. I think she actually welcomed this or any other opportunity to bash him.”
“Is she still in touch with him?”
“She’s only seen him once in the last few years.”
“Does she share his opinion regarding the care her sons received?”
“Not at all.”
“What did she tell you about him?”
“Kaine fits the profile to a T of somebody who might be capable of psychotic behavior if stressed enough.”
“What are you basing that on?”
“Everything I’ve read about abnormal stress reactions.”
“Did you ask her about his teeth?”
“While she was married to him, his teeth were normal. But she told me he was an avid rugby player. A couple of years ago, he got kicked in the face. Evidently, the trauma to his mouth and facial bones was pretty significant. She didn’t know a lot of the details but she had heard he needed emergency surgery. I assume that would have included extensive dental reconstruction that might require some kind of bonding process to close any spaces.”
“Not to state the obvious,” Ben said, “but that would leave him without a gap, not with one.”
“Assuming he went through all that dental work.”
“Does he have any money?”
“He’s loaded,” she said.
“So why wouldn’t he have had his teeth reconstructed?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he decided it was too much of a hassle and there are worse things than going through life with a gap between your teeth. Or maybe he did have them repaired and then had the bonding removed.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“According to the police, the man who killed my father went to extreme means to disguise himself. If Kaine was the one responsible and he had already decided there would be other victims . . . well, maybe he had the bonding removed.”
Ben cleared his throat. “That’s pretty far out there, Morgan.”
“Maybe,” she said. “I guess what I need is a recent picture of the guy. I’ve been on the Internet trying to track down anything I can about him. There’s no property in his name that I can find. He obviously has an unlisted phone number. I’m not even sure he still lives in the area.”
“You could get a private eye involved,” Ben suggested. “They might even be able to get a photograph.”
“I thought about that, but I didn’t know where to begin to find someone.”
“I can take care of it,” he said. “One of my longtime students owns her own agency. E-mail me everything you know about Kaine and I’ll give her a call. If she can’t figure out where he is and get a picture of him, nobody can.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Are you going to call Detective Wolfe about all this?” he asked.
“If I do, I suspect he’ll listen politely and then tell me he’ll get back to me. And since I’m still waiting for him to get back to me on a number of other things, why bother?”
“I thought you might say that,” he told her. “Look, I’m just pulling into the airport. It’s only about a thirty-minute flight back down to Hollywood. I want to talk to you more about this. I’ll call you as soon as I land.”
“Just come over. I’d rather talk in person.”
“Fine,” Ben said. “Listen, we worked right through dinner. Do you have anything to eat?”
“I have three-day-old baked ziti and a half-eaten apple crumb cake. Take your choice.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I’ll just pick something up on my way over.”
“Call me when you get here.”
Morgan set her phone down and within a few seconds was again deep in thought. If she assumed it was Kaine who had orchestrated both her father’s murder and the Code 15s, the assumption begged a key question, which she had no answer for. What was the common link between these individuals? What could her father, Faith Russo, and possibly even Tony Wallace all have in common that infuriated Kaine enough to take their lives?
Morgan had no rosy illusions about her situation. More than anything, if there were a way out of this predicament . . . if there was any hope of vindicating herself, she needed to know more about Mason Kaine—much more.
CHAPTER 55
DAY TWENTY-THREE
The past twelve hours had been one of the more grueling shifts Morgan could remember.
She had treated everything from an embedded splinter in a five-year-old’s foot to an insulin overdose in a brittle diabetic. The only saving grace was that she’d been so totally immersed in caring for her patients that she hadn’t once thought about her father’s death or the Code 15s. With her morning sickness subsiding, her only problem approaching her second trimester was feeling more tired than usual.
After finishing her charting, Morgan signed out to the night-shift physician, gathered her things together, and left the emergency room. Crossing the lobby, the only thing on her mind was getting home and falling into her recliner. Morgan was within steps of the exit when she noticed Bob Allenby coming toward her. Their eyes met simultaneously, making it impossible for her to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Bob was the first to wave.
Burying an exasperated sigh, Morgan smiled and waited for him at the revolving glass doors. Watching him approach, she couldn’t help but notice an uncharacteristic swagger in his step.
“Are you on your way to the parking garage?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Good, I’ll walk you to your car.”
They kept the conversation light as they made their way beneath a canopied breezeway and past the valet parking. Morgan noted immediately that Bob’s demeanor was particularly upbeat. She knew the team from AHCA had been in the hospital for the past two days.
Morgan was debating the wisdom of bringing up the topic when he said, “The folks from AHCA finished up. We had the exit interview about an hour ago.”
“How did we do?” she asked as they emerged from under the canopy.
“They weren’t very happy, but fortunately we were able to convince them that the Code Fifteens resulted from a combination of unavoidable events and system breakdowns.”
“That’s great news. I guess congratulations are in order,” Morgan said, concealing her dismay that AHCA had decided against undertaking a more thorough investigation.
“It may be a little early for an end-zone celebration. We’ve still got our work cut out for us. AHCA’s giving us six weeks to submit a detailed action plan itemizing specific safety nets that we’ll implement to prevent similar errors from ever happening again.”
“Your staff obviously did a great job.”
“I haven’t slept in three nights wondering if they’d close down the Cardiac Care Center. All I can say is, thank God, they didn’t.”
The last car passed and they started across the street.
“Did the investigation team say anything specific regarding the Faith Russo case?” Morgan inquired.
Bob covered a dry cough with the side of his fist. “They completed a detailed study of the case.”
“And?”
“They found no fault or deficiencies in Miss Russo’s care from the hospital’s standpoint.”
Hardly surprised, Morgan said, “I assume their vindication doesn’t include the physicians involved.”
“They didn’t say specifically, but I would assume it doesn’t.”
“I guess we both have a pretty good idea who they’re going to hang for this case.”
“Don’t be so paranoid, Morgan. AHCA’s a responsible government agency. They’re not in the business of conducting witch hunts.”
“Responsible government agency?” she asked in a cynical voice. “A couple of weeks ago you referred to them as the second coming of the gestapo.”
“I think you’re taking what I said out of context.”
“You
also called them an unpredictable bunch of squirrels. Am I taking that out of context too?”
They walked up to the glass-enclosed elevator that ran along the outside wall of the parking garage.
“My opinion of AHCA’s not the issue. My advice to you is to stay focused on what’s important and try not overreact.”
“With all due respect, Bob, it’s not your neck that’s centered on the chopping block.” Morgan slapped the up button repeatedly. “I’m being investigated by the state medical board. That’s not exactly the same as appearing in front of Judge Judy.”
“All I’m saying is that if you handle things correctly, you’ll be fine.”
“That’s what everybody keeps telling me, but they’re not facing disciplinary action. They act as if this is some minor setback and that I have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
“I didn’t say you don’t have a problem. I’m just trying to point out you simply keep—”
“It sounds to me like—”
Bob held his hand up. “Let me finish. You’re a bright and politically savvy woman. I would expect someone of your insight to know which battles to fight and which ones to back away from.”
“It’s easy for everybody to—”
Bob raised his hand for the second time. Struggling to remain silent, Morgan stared at the digital display atop the elevator frame. The doors rumbled open and they stepped on.
“I’ll echo what Eileen told you. You’ve got your whole career in front of you. If the folks at AHCA think you’re being cooperative and forthright, you’ll probably just wind up with a letter of guidance.”
“Just a letter of guidance?” she asked, wondering if his response would be so cavalier if an official Florida agency sent him a letter pointing out his incompetence.
“It’s a slap on the wrist, Morgan—a two-minute penalty. It doesn’t even count as a black mark against you. They’re just telling you that they feel you could have handled the case better. It’s not personal.”
“All that means is that it’s not personal to them. To me it doesn’t get any more personal than this. They’re playing with my life and everything I’ve worked for.”
With a discouraged face, he said, “They’re just doing their job.”
“They weren’t in the emergency room the night Faith Russo came in.”
“Unfortunately, Florida law doesn’t require them to be.”
The elevator slowed to a stop at the fourth floor. Morgan stepped off first. Bob stopped and smiled at a chatty gaggle of nurses who strolled by.
“Listen, Morgan. Don’t let a misplaced ego cloud your usual good judgment. The fact is you did miss the diagnosis.”
“You mean according to Everett Canfield.”
“He’s the pathologist of record.”
“Unfortunately,” she said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said, having no interest in elaborating on her disdain for Canfield.
“You’re letting this thing get the best of you. The AHCA investigators know that doctors are human and even the best ones make mistakes—especially when they work in busy emergency rooms.”
“I don’t have a God complex. I’m well aware that I’m not infallible, but in the case of Faith Russo, I didn’t make a mistake.”
“All evidence points to the contrary according to the autopsy findings. It’s a pretty damning report. You might want to consider that before you start spouting off to AHCA about murder conspiracies.” Bob stopped long enough to take a quick look around. “Where are you parked?”
“Right over there,” she answered, pointing down the nearest row of cars.
“I hope you realize that if AHCA decides you’re emotionally unstable and labels you an impaired physician . . . well, a letter of guidance will seem like an hour of sixth-grade detention compared to what they’ll probably do.”
Morgan took the time to choose her words carefully. “I’m not going to self-destruct, Bob. I know how to play the game. I know you think I’ve become a grief-stricken paranoid, but give me a little credit for having some common sense.”
He finally smiled. “I never doubted it for a moment. Now, as soon as this Faith Russo affair is wrapped up, give me a call. We need to talk about getting things back to normal.” He started to walk away. “We still feel you’re an important part of Dade Presbyterian’s future.”
“I appreciate that.”
Instead of getting into her car, Morgan looked out over the concrete wall at the brightly lit emergency room entrance. A pair of ambulances, with their backing-up alarms filling the night, backed into the receiving bay.
In spite of his reassurances, Morgan harbored serious doubts whether Bob Allenby or any member of the hospital’s board of directors would ever again consider her a key member of the medical staff.
CHAPTER 56
DAY TWENTY-FOUR
There were probably several ways Jack Casto could have made his living, but being a thug came naturally to him, and it never occurred to him to try his hand at anything else.
Casto was a bullnecked, hulking man of thirty-five who prided himself on never allowing his emotions to interfere with his work. A native of Miami, he had no particular knowledge or training in the martial arts or any other combative science, relying instead on his monstrous size to do his talking for him.
The moment Morgan pulled out of the doctor’s parking lot, Casto, driving a rented white Taurus, fell in behind her. After following her for three miles, she turned down a narrow palm-lined street and then into the parking lot that served a small cluster of stores. The largest one, which was flanked by a Cuban café and a hair salon, was a high-volume dry cleaner.
Casto watched her park and then took a space at the far end of the lot. When he saw her disappear into the dry cleaner, he stepped out of his car, opened his second pack of cigarettes of the day, and packed them hard against his palm.
Five minutes passed before Morgan emerged from the store with her cleaning slung over her shoulder. Taking a lengthy final drag, he flipped the butt between the grids of a rusted-out sewer grate and started across the lot.
He reached Morgan as she was about to lay her cleaning across the passenger seat.
“Excuse me, Dr. Connolly. I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
Morgan stopped and studied Casto’s face for a few moments.
“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to place—”
“We’ve never met, Doctor. I was hoping to speak with you briefly about your husband.” Morgan pulled the tethered hangars around to the front and held her dry cleaning folded over her arms. “Let me get those for you,” he offered, taking the hangars from Morgan before she could protest.
“I was hoping you might help me locate Kevin.”
“Are you a friend of his?”
“Let’s just say I represent a group of businessmen who are interested in getting in touch with him.”
“Businessmen?” Morgan asked with a pretty good idea of why the man holding her dry cleaning was looking for Kevin.
“He’s out of town,” she said directly. “I don’t know where he is or how to reach him.”
Jack looked away for a moment, smiled as if somebody was trying to lure him into a shell game, and then shifted his gaze back to Morgan. His grin faded.
“You’ll have to excuse me for saying this, Doctor, but it’s a little hard for me to believe that your husband’s out of town and you have no way of contacting him?”
Seeing no reason to offer a lengthy explanation to the polite stranger, Morgan said, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
She reached for her dry cleaning. Casto made no effort to hand it over to her.
“Dr. Connolly, your husband made some bad business decisions and now he owes my associates a great deal of money. If you help me collect on this bad debt, things will be a lot easier for everybody involved.”
In mounting desperation, Morgan looked around hoping to spot somebody who might
help her. There was nobody. Standing in the middle of a parking lot in broad daylight should have offered her some sense of security, but her unchecked fear continued to soar. The only thing working in her favor was a combination of her better judgment and instinct—both of which were crying out not to make a scene.
“How much money does he owe you?”
Casto coaxed his wraparound sunglasses higher on his nose. “Ninety thousand dollars.”
“My God,” she muttered.
“The men I represent are anxious to recover their money as quickly and as painlessly as possible. So I ask you again, Doctor, do you know where I might find your husband?”
Her options narrowing, Morgan said, “All I know is that he’s out of town. Kevin and I are separated. We barely speak to each other. He has a new cell phone and I don’t know the number.” She again reached for her dry cleaning. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to—”
Jack passed Morgan her clothes, but as he did he curled his squat fingers around her wrist. His grip was strong but not painful.
“Dr. Connolly, your deadbeat husband’s into us for ninety large, and it sounds like we’re not the only ones he’s run out on. I think we both know he’s nothing but a degenerate gambler. You’d be doing us both a big favor if you’d just tell me where he is.”
“I’ve already told you. I don’t know where he is or how to reach him.”
Casto sighed, released his grip, and handed Morgan her dry cleaning. He took a step back.
“I like your style, Doc, but feisty can get old after a while. My boss is a civil guy, but it would be a big mistake to confuse his courtesy with weakness.” He then added, “If I can’t find your husband, I’ll be back to talk to you again.” He started to turn and walk away but stopped in mid-step. “By the way, I wouldn’t mention our little conversation to the police or anybody else.” He then tapped the brim of his Florida Marlins cap and, without as much as a backward glance, walked away.
Until she saw his car pull out of the parking lot, Morgan didn’t move. Her mouth was as dry as cotton and her fingers were still quivering. After another minute or so, she climbed into her car. The man had left no ambiguity regarding the measures he would take to recover the money Kevin owed. Morgan put the key in the ignition and started the Thunderbird’s engine. Driving home, she barely took her eyes off of the rearview mirror. When she was sure he wasn’t following her, her fear quickly became overwhelmed by anger. She reached into her purse, yanked out her phone, and dialed Kevin’s number.
