Lethal Measures

by Leonard Goldberg

  “I guess he told us.”

  “And if that were the case, you would have referred him to Memorial to have the diagnosis verified. He would have had X rays taken. He would have been seen by an oncologist. And just maybe the oncologist would have requested a specimen of Ramon Gonzalez’s osteogenic sarcoma from the Mexican hospital where the leg was amputated.”

  Wales made a mocking sound.

  “That’s a real stretch, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll find that out when we see the chart, won’t we?”

  Wales slowly reached for the phone.

  “The people in our records room may have left for the day.”

  Jake smiled thinly.

  “That’s no problem. We can have them picked up and brought back.”

  Wales’s eyes narrowed, his dislike for Jake obvious. He was about to say something, then changed his mind. Picking up the phone, he turned his back to the others.

  Jake looked over at Joanna admiringly, impressed with the way she’d handled the arrogant physician. And even more impressed with her medical insight. Jake had just assumed that all the information on Ramon Gonzalez was stored in the computer. Joanna knew otherwise. She knew there had to be a larger chart somewhere. And the more comprehensive chart might tell them a lot of important things. Like where he worked and what his occupation was and whether it involved the use of explosives and on and on. All of that information could be on a chart that Jake had overlooked. In the field he knew his way around. In the hospital he needed a Joanna Blalock.

  Wales placed the phone down.

  “They’re pulling his chart now. You, of course, realize that the chart can’t leave this building.”

  “But a photocopy of it can,” Joanna said promptly.

  “We’ll need two copies.”

  “Is that an order?” Wales asked curtly. “It’s a request,” Joanna said evenly.

  “But if you like, we can get a court order.”

  Wales grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, but the last word sounded like bitch.

  Jake gave the doctor an icy stare.

  “Would you like to repeat what you just said?”

  Wales stared back, but only for a moment. Then he turned away.

  “Must not have been too important,” Jake muttered as he took out his notepad and began flipping pages back to his earlier interview with the rehabilitation doctors.

  He looked down at Bremmer.

  “So you do all the measurements for the prostheses, right?”

  “Just about.”

  “So you’d see all the patients referred here for artificial limbs?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And every one of the patients would first be seen by the receptionist?”

  Bremmer nodded.

  “That’s where they check in.”

  “And then they see the therapist?”

  “Correct.”

  “Do you see them every visit?”

  “No, but the therapist does.”

  “How many therapists do you have here?”

  “Four.”

  “I’ll need their names,” Jake said.

  A pudgy, middle-aged woman came to the door and cleared her throat audibly.

  “Here’s the chart you wanted, Dr. Wales.”

  Wales pointed to Joanna.

  “Give it to her.”

  Joanna placed the chart on top of the computer and quickly thumbed through it.

  The medical record of Ramon Gonzalez was thin, consisting of only twelve pages.

  The information in it matched the data stored in the computer. Gonzalez’s leg had been amputated because of an osteogenic sarcoma, and the disease had recurred a year later. He was fitted for a prosthesis by Dr. Timothy Bremmer.

  Joanna glanced up at Jake.

  “Gonzalez was seen in the clinic here on a regular basis. His last visit was six weeks ago.”

  “Who did he see on those visits?” Jake asked.

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “It was probably a therapist,” Bremmer informed them.

  Joanna asked, “Does the same therapist always see the patient?”

  Bremmer nodded.

  “Always.”

  Joanna went back to the chart. Gonzalez had been seen by an oncology specialist at Memorial. His malignancy had recurred and spread. There were now pulmonary metastases. The oncologist had suggested a biopsy be taken to confirm the diagnosis. Gonzalez had refused, not wanting further treatment. He was told his life expectancy was less than a year.

  Joanna turned back to the front sheet of the chart and studied Ramon Gonzalez’s personal history. He was twenty-eight years old, a part-time gardener, married, his spouse’s name Maria. He lived at Joanna quickly looked up.

  “Do we know whether he had children?”

  “If it was listed anywhere, it’d be on the front sheet,” Bremmer said.

  “I don’t see it.”

  The pudgy woman at the door said, “We don’t require that information. The front sheet is primarily for billing purposes.”

  Right, Jake thought sourly. No need to list kids. They couldn’t pay the bill.

  “Why are Ramon Gonzalez’s children important here?”

  “Because they can tell us whether the osteogenic sarcoma found at the bomb site belonged to their father,” Joanna answered.

  Jake squinted an eye.

  “You’ve got to explain that one to me.”

  “It would work like a paternity blood test,” Joanna explained.

  “If you know the DNA types of the parents and children, you can state for certain who the father was. So it would just be a matter of doing DNA typing on the mother and children and comparing it with the DNA type of the osteogenic sarcoma. If it fits, Ramon Gonzalez is our man. No its, ands or buts.”

  Jake made a note in his pad and placed a big asterisk by it.

  “Let’s hope he has kids.”

  Joanna handed the chart to the woman at the door.

  “We’ll need two copies of this.”

  The woman glanced over to Wales, who hesitated briefly before nodding.

  Joanna watched the woman leave, her mind concentrating on the evidence that indicated Ramon Gonzalez was in the West Hollywood explosion. The osteogenic sarcoma and the prosthesis found at the bomb site were probably his, as well as the rose tattoo. But the writing underneath

  the tattoo may or may not have read “Monterrey.” Although he was in all likelihood their man, they didn’t have absolute proof.

  Joanna sighed wearily and turned to Bremmer.

  “Did the studies on the piece of prosthesis we gave you reveal anything?”

  “Only that it was made here sometime over the past three years.”

  “How did you determine that?”

  “We changed to our current model three years ago,” Bremmer explained.

  “It’s an acrylic that is less likely to chip and crack.” He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully.

  “Maybe you should send a piece of it over to Bioengineering to see if they find anything unusual.”

  “There’s no more left,” Joanna said.

  “The remaining fragment was destroyed when they bombed my laboratory.”

  Bremmer shook his head.

  “What kinds of animals bomb a hospital?”

  Jake said, “The same ones who would bomb a federal building in Oklahoma City.”

  “But this is a hospital filled with sick people,” Bremmer told him.

  “That makes it somewhat different.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Jake said hoarsely.

  “Premeditated murder is premeditated murder, no matter where you do it or who you do it to.”

  “Of course,” Bremmer said defensively.

  “I was just thinking that a hospital would be more of a sanctuary.”

  “Not to terrorists,” Jake said.

  “They couldn’t give a damn less.” He took Joanna’s arm and turned away.

  “Le
t’s get those photocopies.”

  They left the office and walked across the workshop. Behind them they could hear Wales and Bremmer arguing in low voices. Jake slowed and concentrated, trying to overhear. He couldn’t make out anything.

  “I wonder what they’re squabbling about.”

  “Whatever it is, you can bet Bremmer is on the short end of it,” Joanna said.

  Now they could hear Wales yelling a profanity.

  “They don’t get along too well, do they?” Jake asked.

  “Can you imagine anybody getting along with Wales?”

  “You got a point.”

  They entered a large clinic area. There was only one patient remaining, and he was heading out the door, limping badly on his

  artificial leg. “Muy bien, Miguel,” the black therapist called after him.

  “Hasta la vista.”

  “Buenas noches.” The Mexican waved back.

  Joanna stopped in her tracks.

  “What?

  “Jake asked.

  “The therapist speaks Spanish.”

  “So?”

  “Let’s see if he treats all the Spanish-speaking patients.”

  Joanna strolled over to the therapist, Jake a step behind. The name tag on the man’s scrub suit read lucas.

  “How are you doing, Lucas?”

  “Real good.” Lucas was a big, mustached man with a square jaw and hands the size of hams.

  “I’m a little tired now though.”

  “I’m Dr. Blalock, and this is Lieutenant Sinclair from the LAPD,” Joanna said.

  “Do you have time to answer a few questions for us?”

  “Sure,” Lucas said pleasantly. If he was intimidated by them, he didn’t show it.

  “Do you speak Spanish well?” Joanna asked.

  “I get by.”

  “Well enough to converse with the Mexican patients.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Lucas said easily.

  “It makes them more comfortable when we talk in their native tongue. You know, they can express themselves better.”

  “So you look after the Spanish-speaking patients?”

  “Most of them.”

  “Do you know Ramon Gonzalez?”

  “Yeah,” Lucas said, then wrinkled his brow in thought.

  “But I haven’t seen him for a good six weeks. Is he okay?”

  “We’re trying to find him,” Joanna lied.

  “Do you recall if he had a tattoo?”

  “He had a big one. On his arm,” Lucas said promptly, narrowing his eyes as he tried to envision it.

  “I think it was red roses.”

  “Was there any writing on it?”

  Lucas nodded.

  “The word “Monterrey.” It was his hometown, you see. He talked about it all the time.”

  Joanna and Jake exchanged knowing glances.

  Lucas tried to read their expressions but couldn’t.

  “I hope Ramon is all right.

  I know he was really worried about his cancer coming back.” moved in closer.

  “Did he talk to you a lot about his illness?”

  Lucas nodded again.

  “He was plenty worried, knowing he was going to leave a young wife behind and all. But he told me he planned to leave her well off.”

  “How was he going to do that?”

  “He was going to strike it rich,” Lucas said.

  “His exact words were, “There’ll be enough money to last her a lifetime.”

  ” “And where was this money coming from?”

  Lucas shrugged.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “You figure he was telling the truth?”

  Lucas nodded a third time.

  “A man don’t lie about things like that.” Tuesday, April 6, 6=30 p.m.

  joanna hurried into her condominium and checked her answering machine for phone messages. There was one call. A new bank wanted to send her a credit card. She switched on her computer to see if there was any E-mail. Nothing.

  She kicked off her shoes, reminding herself that it was 9:30 p.m. in New York and that Paul might still be in a meeting. She again wondered if she should try to reach him. No, she quickly decided.

  “Long day, huh?” Kate asked, walking into the library.

  “Too long,” Joanna said and slumped down onto a sofa beside the desk.

  “Were there any calls?”

  “Not while I was here.” Kate studied her sister’s face, seeing the sadness and knowing there was nothing she could do about it.

  “I guess he’s not going to call.”

  “I guess,” Joanna said quietly.

  “Jean-Claude insisted on having chili dogs for dinner. Would you like to join us?”

  “I really don’t have much appetite.”

  “Starving yourself isn’t going to help.”

  “I know,” Joanna said.

  “I’ll get something later.”

  Jean-Claude burst into the library, riding a broomstick for a horse. He had on cowboy boots and a toy pistol in a holster.

  “Hello, Jean-Claude,” Joanna said and reached out to him.

  “May I have a kiss?”

  The little boy carefully placed the broom against the wall in the far corner of the library. He came over to Joanna and kissed her on both cheeks.

  Kate said, “Jean-Claude thinks America is full of cowboys, and he wants

  to be one.” Joanna kissed her nephew on the nose, again struck by his resemblance to her father. The face. The eyes. All Blalock.

  “I think you’d be a fine cowboy.”

  Jean-Claude smiled broadly.

  “Okay, my little buckaroo,” Kate said, turning her son toward the door and playfully patting his behind, “go watch television until I call you for dinner.”

  Jean-Claude hesitated, glancing at his broom against the wall.

  “I think you’d better let your horse rest for the night,” Kate said.

  Jean-Claude was almost to the door when he turned and waved to Joanna and threw her a kiss. Then he galloped out of the room.

  Joanna began crying the moment the library door closed. She tried to sniff the tears back, but they kept coming. Kate rushed over and held her close.

  “I can’t stop thinking about him.” Joanna sobbed.

  Kate hugged her closer.

  “Time will take care of it.”

  “I know. But I keep remembering the good things and the wonderful moments.”

  “Have you thought about calling him back?”

  “A thousand times. I even dialed the New York number a few times, but hung up before there was an answer.” Joanna reached for a Kleenex and blew her nose.

  “It’s over. Deep down I know it’s over.”

  “Maybe you should give it another chance,” Kate suggested.

  “Maybe he acted so abruptly and coldly because he was in a very difficult situation.”

  “That’s when you find out about a person,” Joanna told her.

  “All the facades and pretenses come down during tough times. That’s when you find out what someone is really made of.”

  “So there’s no hope?”

  “Not after the second phone call,” Joanna said.

  “His voice was so cold and unforgiving. It was all business, like I was some deal that didn’t come through for him.”

  “He sounds like a first-class bastard to me.”

  “That’s how he turned out. It’s too bad I didn’t find out sooner.”

  “So it’s over and done?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then don’t waste your tears over him.” Kate grinned.

  Joanna smiled back. That was something their father used to tell them

  when they cried unnecessarily. “That’s better,” Kate said, giving Joanna a wink and heading for the door.

  “Now you fix your face while I see how our chili dogs supreme are doing.”

  Joanna tilted her head back on the sofa, wondering if her luck with men w
ould ever change. She always seemed to involve herself in no-win relationships. The men were usually good-looking and bright and exciting, but they never lasted over the long term. She considered the possibility that the flaw was really hers, that she subconsciously searched for men she would eventually clash with.

  Or maybe it was her profession. Maybe she was not capable of putting her career on hold for men or anything else. Hell, she decided Rnally, we’re all flawed one way or another. A picture of Paul du Maurier came into her mind. He was smiling at her. With effort she pushed the image aside.

  Joanna walked over to the computer and checked her Email again. There were still no messages. Using an index finger, she typed a message to herself that appeared on the screen.

  DON’T WASTE YOUR TEARS

  Joanna smiled, remembering her father’s face and voice and wishing he was still here. He was so wise and kind and patient. Not a day went by that she didn’t think about him and the things he used to tell her. But she hadn’t thought about his instructions on tears for a long time. And there was more to it than what Kate had just said. What else did he say about tears? What else? Slowly it came to her, and her smile faded. She typed in the last part of her father’s words.

  DON’T WASTE YOUR TEARS YOU WILL NEED THEM LATER

  Thursday, April 8, 3=30 p.m.

  Eva and Rudy wore Los Angeles Dodgers baseball caps with the bills pulled over their brows. They were sitting in a parked car directly across the street from the apartment building where Maria Gonzalez lived. The sun visors in the car were both pulled down so that pedestrians passing by couldn’t see their faces.

  “Are all the others accounted for?” Eva asked.

  “Yeah,” Rudy said, keeping his hands under the dashboard while he inserted a clip of ammunition into his semiautomatic pistol.

  “The Hernandez and Espinoza families are somewhere down in Mexico. The Reyes have disappeared. According to neighbors, they’re headed for southern Arizona.”

  “So the cops can’t get to them, right?”

  “Not unless they’re magicians.”

  “What about the fifth guy?” Eva asked, snapping her fingers as she tried to remember his name.

  “You know, the guy who spoke English so well.”

  “Alvarez,” Rudy said.

  “His wife moved. Nobody knows where to, although the people I talked to still think she’s in East Los Angeles.”

  “Keep tracking her,” Eva ordered.

  “And when you find her, kill her.”