Code 15 (25 page)

“That doesn’t make any sense. He had no gripe with your father,” Ben pointed out.

“Not directly, anyway.”

Ben paused for a few moments. He cupped his chin between his thumb and fingers as he spoke. “So you’re suggesting Mason Kaine is Gideon and that he killed your father to get even with you.”

“Before you dismiss the idea as ridiculous, just think about something for a second. I don’t have any children. If Kaine wanted me to feel the same devastating emotional trauma he had suffered from the loss of his sons . . . well, it’s possible he would have gone after my father instead of me.”

“What are you basing this theory on?”

“The science of psychiatry. It’s a well-described phenomenon that an overpowering and unremitting grief reaction can drive an otherwise normal person to act in a bizarre manner.”

“You’re not just talking about boys behaving badly—you’re talking about homicidal insanity,” Ben said.

“Just hear me out. We know that Kaine was consumed with anger over the deaths of his sons. He hits a stone wall looking for retribution from a hospital administration that’s doing nothing more than politely appeasing him. Becoming more enraged, and with no resolution to the conflict, he has a psychotic breakdown and decides to take matters into his own hands, which—”

“Which led him to believe that he was some kind of modern-day avenging archangel?”

“Maybe that’s why he signed the note
Gideon
,” Morgan suggested.

“I think Gideon was just a regular angel.”

“I’m being serious, Ben.”

“There’s just one hole in your theory. Do you remember telling me you suspected there was a connection between your father’s death and the Code Fifteens?”

She agreed with a nod.

“Assuming you’re right—why would Gideon . . . or Kaine . . . a man who hated you so much that he killed your father, feel the need to murder innocent cardiac patients? What would be his motive? Why would he want to sabotage an open-heart operation? Even if he could pull it off, which is highly unlikely, why would he do that?”

“You’re asking me to explain the actions of a deranged individual. I can’t do that . . . not yet, anyway.” Morgan’s intense gaze suddenly drifted down. “And, by the way, I don’t think it would be as hard as you think.”

“What wouldn’t be?”

“Tampering with the open-heart medications. Have you ever been in the heart surgery suite at three in the morning?”

“Not lately. But it sounds like you have.”

“It’s empty and pitch-black. I did a hypothetical walk-through.”

“When was this?” he asked.

She glared at him. “What difference does that make?”

“What were you going to offer up as an excuse if you got caught?”

“I didn’t have a plan B. What you should be asking me is what I found out.”

“What?” he inquired with a noisy sigh.

“That it would be no big deal for somebody dressed in OR scrubs, especially if they had a hospital ID, to inconspicuously find his or her way back into the cardiac surgery suite, fill the nitroglycerine bottles with protamine, and sneak out again. The whole thing would take about three and a half minutes.”

Rather than debating the plausibility of Morgan’s hypothesis any further, Ben decided to try a different approach.

“You mentioned to me that Bob Allenby and the hospital board are really feeling the heat from AHCA regarding the Code Fifteens.”

“That would be an understatement,” she said.

“I’m just wondering what the board’s reaction would be if they learned that their chief of Emergency Medicine told AH-CA’s investigative team that her father’s death and the recent rash of Code Fifteens were being intentionally perpetrated by a psychotic killer who called himself Gideon?”

“Your point being that I should do the politically correct thing and roll over and play dead.”

“I’m not saying you should abandon the problem. I’m simply suggesting you tap on the brakes a little. You have your career to think of.”

“Give me a little credit for having some political instinct. As long as I stay outside of the hospital, I’m sure I’ll be okay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean exactly?”

“I was thinking about going to see Jason and Andy’s mother. I know where she works.”

“In the first place, she probably won’t speak to you. In the second, even if she does, she’ll tell Kaine and get him all fired up again,” Ben countered.

“I don’t think so. They’re divorced.”

“How would you know that?”

“It’s public information.”

“So now you’re spending your days in the courthouse going through divorce records?”

“Of course not. I had somebody do it for me.”

“Have you talked to Detective Wolfe about all this?”

“I called him yesterday. He listened politely and told me he’d look into things and get back to me.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“No comment,” she told him.

“It’s obvious you’ve made up your mind. Just be careful,” Ben warned. “If there’s anything I can do to help you . . .”

“I appreciate the offer.”

“On a lighter note,” he began. “There’s a special production at the Broward Center next week. It’s called
Fifty Years of Broadway
. I know how much you love Broadway musicals so I thought you might like to go.”

She looked at him with affection. “I’m shocked. I had no idea you were a patron of the arts.”

“I’m not a graduate of the Paris Conservatory, but I enjoy a good musical from time to time.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Name one.”

Sporting an easy smile, Ben answered, “I loved
Inherit the Wind.
”

“No doubt one of the great Broadway musicals of all time.”

“Are you in or not?” he asked, getting up and extending his hand.

“Totally in,” she told him.

“C’mon. I’ll walk you back to the elevator. I have to get back to the airport.”

It took a few seconds for Morgan’s grin to fade. Ben was certainly putting on the full-court press. She thought about how quickly their relationship was changing. It was exciting, but she had known more than one couple who had wonderful platonic relationships capsized forever by allowing romance in. There was no reason to be unnecessarily pessimistic but at the same time she would remain cautiously positive about her burgeoning relationship with Ben.

DAY TWENTY-ONE

 

 

Before submitting the coffee from her near-fatal flight for chemical analysis, Morgan made sure to locate a private laboratory that didn’t do business with Dade Presbyterian.

She was familiar with these types of labs, which catered largely to local physicians and smaller businesses that drug tested their employees. After a number of phone calls, she finally settled on a small facility in west Hialeah. For the first time since purchasing her Thunderbird, she was relieved that the salesman had convinced her to buy the navigational system. Without it, she never would have found the tiny lab, which was sandwiched between a chiropractor’s office and a delicatessen.

A three-note chime sounded when Morgan pushed open the front door. Standing behind the counter, a chunky man with a solitary eyebrow looked up from his morning newspaper.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His nametag read Gordon Bowen.

“I’d like to drop off this specimen for evaluation,” Morgan answered, handing him the plastic container.

With an indifferent look on his face, Bowen held it up to the light. After studying it from every conceivable angle, he removed the cap and took three quick sniffs from a safe distance. Following an indiscernible grumble, he replaced the cap and placed the container on the counter.

“I’m sorry, missy, but I’ve only been doing laboratory analysis for twenty years so you’re going to have to help me with this one a little.”

“Help you?” Morgan asked.

He pointed to the container. “What bodily fluid might this be, because if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was stale coffee.”

“It is stale coffee.”

After a fleeting look, he asked, “What am I testing this for—more caffeine than the manufacturer claims should be in there?”

“I’d like you to run a complete toxicology panel on it.”

He picked up the container again.

“Let me guess. You’re on the outs with your boyfriend and you want to know if he’s trying to poison you.”

“Does my reason really matter?”

“Listen, missy. We’re not here to—”

“It’s doctor. You may call me doctor.”

“Excuse me,” he said mockingly, raising his hands. “Just so I have this right; you’re requesting that we analyze your morning cappuccino for lethal substances. Is that correct, Doctor?”

“You got it. When will you have the results?” Morgan asked, seeing no reason to enter into a battle of the wits with somebody who was obviously unarmed.

Bowen pushed an order pad across the counter.

“If you’ll just fill this out, we should have the results early next week.”

Feeling Bowen’s eyes all over her, Morgan quickly filled out the forms and headed for the door.

The ride back to her high-rise seemed to go by much faster than the trip down.

Once inside her condominium, Morgan leafed quickly through her mail and then went into her living room. Through a bay window, she gazed north along A1A. On the opposite side of the street, a large American flag atop a bank building waved outstretched in a sturdy ocean wind.

Morgan walked over to a leather recliner her father had given her for Christmas. She sat down and hoisted her legs up on the footrest. She wasn’t positive, but for the first time her ankles seemed a little swollen to her. Even without the lab’s official report, she was convinced that the coffee would contain some type of tranquilizer. The mysterious phone call she received from Ben’s flight school no longer seemed so mysterious. Luring her away from her plane for a few minutes was all the time somebody would have needed to drug her coffee.

The dilemma now facing her was what to do if her suspicions regarding the coffee proved to be correct. Reporting the information to the police or Eileen Hale would almost certainly backfire. They both doubted her mental stability and would probably assume she had tampered with the coffee herself to prove her conspiracy theory wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

Morgan closed her eyes. She wasn’t prone to midday naps but when she felt herself becoming heavy-eyed, she surrendered and allowed herself to drift off to sleep.

DAY TWENTY-TWO

 

 

Located in Coral Springs, the Argosy Travel Agency was tucked away in a small but fashionable strip mall.

Standing in the agency’s entranceway, Morgan gazed at a large grouping of extravagantly framed serigraphs of exotic destinations that adorned the light beige walls. She felt invisible among the dozen or so preoccupied agents who sat behind identical desks fiercely pecking away at their keyboards.

After a couple of minutes, and with no apparent hope of being helped, Morgan strolled over to an elderly woman at a small desk who appeared less frenzied than her colleagues.

“Excuse me,” Morgan began. “I’m looking for Adele Kaine.”

The woman removed her reading glasses from the tip of her skeletal nose and let them drop on their eyeglass cord. With an exaggerated effort, she rotated her chair around and peered down the long central aisle.

She gestured toward the back of the office and in a scratchy voice said, “That’s her at the second-to-last desk on the right.”

“Thanks.”

Adele was talking into a headset but looked up immediately when Morgan approached her desk. She covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “I’ll be off in a sec. Have a seat.”

From the multitude of files, brochures, and pamphlets scattered across her desk, it looked as if her work area had been decimated by a major windstorm. Smartly dressed and sporting a French manicure, Adele wore a pricey diamond-and-ruby tennis bracelet but no rings. From the soft and wrinkle-free appearance of her face, Morgan surmised she had availed herself of a good plastic surgeon.

“How can I help you?”

“My name’s Morgan Connolly,” she said, extending her hand.

“Have you used our agency before?”

“Never.”

“What type of trip are you planning?”

“Actually, I’m not here about a vacation. I work at Dade Presbyterian. I’m an emergency room physician.”

Adele’s pleasant smile faded into a circumspect stare. “I remember your name, now. You took care of my sons the night they died.”

Morgan nodded. She had spent considerable time rehearsing for this moment, but now all of her preparation seemed woefully inadequate. In spite of her effort to appear calm, she suspected Adele sensed her apprehension. Dismissing the idea of being aloof any longer, she said, “I apologize for not calling first, but it’s rather important that I speak with you.”

“I’m a little confused, Dr. Connolly. My sons died well over a year ago. Why would you come see me now?”

“Because I need your help.” Morgan answered.

“I don’t think I understand.”

She then took an unhurried breath before explaining her predicament to Adele. “I’m being harassed. I have reason to believe you may know the man responsible.”

Adele set her pen down.

“I know what happened between you and my ex-husband the night my boys died. My question is, if you think you’re being harassed, why aren’t you talking to the police?”

Morgan was a little taken back by Adele’s candor but still wanted to proceed as gingerly as possible.

“I have spoken with them. Let’s just say I’m having difficulty convincing them of my concerns.”