Dead File (11 page)
Skimming quickly over Sandie Schaeffer’s medical information, she noted procedures, medication, prognosis, and the rest of it, then closed the chart and dropped it back into its holder. Amazing that the woman was even alive, having sustained a gunshot wound to the head. Her chart recorded that the bullet had been removed in surgery. It would now be in police custody, Maxi was sure.
Coming back around to the side of the bed, she reached down and took Sandie’s hand in hers. Leaning close to her ear, she spoke softly. “Sandie. How are you? It’s Maxi Poole. Do you remember me?”
No reaction.
“It’s Maxi, from Channel Six. … I met you with Gillian, several times.”
She thought she felt the slightest pressure from Sandie’s hand.
“Can you hear me, Sandie?”
She felt another bit of pressure, a little stronger this time. Then, to Maxi’s astonishment, Sandie’s lips parted. Then closed again.
“Do you want to tell me something, Sandie?” she whispered. The two words, from the patient on the hospital bed, were barely audible. “Help … me.”
Maxi looked up to see if anyone had heard, then bent her head back down to the patient. And again she became aware of the barest pressure on her hand that held Sandie’s, so slight that she wasn’t sure she’d really felt it. Then came more halting but unmistakable words from Sandie Schaeffer: “He tried … uhh … to kill me.”
“Who?” Maxi said in an intense stage whisper. “Who tried to kill you, Sandie?”
No reaction.
She tried again. “Sandie, tell me who tried to kill you. Who shot you, Sandie? Do you know who it was? Talk to me, Sandie. I’m here to help you. The person who—”
She was cut off by the brusque re-entry of Nurse Adams into the cubicle. “I’ve just been told by the duty nurse that you are not authorized to be in here,” she said briskly. “You’ll have to leave, Miss—”
“She spoke,” Maxi said to her. “Sandie said some words.”
Adams jumped to the bedside, crowding Maxi out of the way. Gently, she rubbed both the patient’s wrists as she spoke to her. “Sweetie?” she said softly. “Sandie? Can you talk to me, honey?” She kept it up for several minutes as Maxi silently stood by.
Nothing.
Finally, she ceased trying. Turning, she looked surprised to see Maxi still in the room.
“I was just leaving—” Maxi started.
“What did the patient say?” the nurse asked, all business.
“She said … she said … I’m not sure what she said,” Maxi responded.
M
onday morning, ten to nine. Maxi waved her ID card in front of the security panel to the right of the Channel Six newsroom door, triggering access. The cavernous work space was chaotic and noisy—business as usual.
“I’ve got news,” she called over to Wendy as she approached her producer’s desk.
“Me too,” Wendy said while batting out a story on her computer. “What’s yours?”
Maxi dropped into a chair next to Wendy’s desk and lowered her voice. “Sandie Schaeffer talked to me.”
“Uhh … in your dreams?”
“No. In the ICU at Cedars. Yesterday.”
“How did you—never mind,” Wendy said, knowing that Maxi had a way of getting in anyplace when she had a mind to. “What did she say?” she asked.
“I think she said, ‘He tried to kill me.’ ”
“Well, we
knew
somebody tried to kill her,” Wendy said.
“Yeah, but we didn’t know it was a
he.
”
“True. Did you call it in to the LAPD?”
“Of course. And I told her doctor. Dr. Wallace Stevens. He said Sandie actually talked a little bit a couple of times, later in the day.”
“A
coherent
little bit?”
“I don’t know. But she sounded semi-coherent to me.”
“Wow. If she can finger the person who attacked her, that could crack the Gillian Rose murder.”
“The police are still not saying Gillian Rose was murdered.”
“Yeah, right. What do
you
think?”
“My uneducated guess? I think she must have been, but it seems the LAPD have no wounds, no weapon, no evidence of foul play, no nothing.”
“What was the cause of death, do we know?”
“Just what the wires reported. Heart failure.”
“Yup, well, that’s what death is. Your heart fails, you’re dead.”
“Can’t argue with that. What’s
your
news?”
“I’ve got myself a literary agent! She loves my book, and she’s already got a marketing plan, she says. Can you believe it?”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Wendy!”
“First, she wants a doctor’s validation, a doctor who’ll collaborate with the nutritional information and put his name on the book. That’ll be easy; we’ve interviewed a zillion nutritionists—I’ve got a file full of them. Then she wants some rewrites, and some adds. More of my quick-fix low-fat, low-carb menus, and two additional chapters: one chapter on famous short women in history, and one on clothes that add the illusion of height. And she wants to include photos along with the diagrams.”
“Oooh, very exciting,” Maxi said. “Time to have a party, don’t you think?”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll bring the wine.”
“No way,” Maxi said. “It’s your party; I’ll get the wine. And some goodies from Bristol Farms. I’ll bring it all in tomorrow morning and we’ll party tomorrow after the Six. I’ll post it on the computer.”
“Okay. And pick up some more plastic wineglasses, will you? We’re almost out.”
“You got it,” Maxi said, and she gave Wendy a hug.
“Hi, Charlie. I need a favor.” Back in her office, Maxi was on the phone with Charles Strand, a longtime friend and contact in the coroner’s office.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You want me to purloin a copy of the autopsy report on a certain high-profile dead woman.”
“Can you do it?”
“I can. The question is,
will
I? Or, more precisely, the question is, are you buying lunch today? Long time no see, Maxi.”
“I can’t do lunch, Charlie. Would you settle for a glass of wine and some trail mix after the Six O’clock News tonight?”
“Sure. Let’s meet in the middle.” Charlie worked at the county morgue east of downtown L.A., and he lived in West Hollywood. Maxi would be coming from Channel Six in Burbank. Traffic all over would be a bear at that hour.
“Sullie’s at seven?” she asked. Sullivan’s was a popular bar and restaurant in the Silver Lake district.
“I’ll be there.”
“Bring a printout of the autopsy report,” she said.
Maxi had crossed the newsroom to Pete Capra’s office. She could see through the glass that he had a phone in his ear. As usual. She let herself inside and sat on his couch. Capra shot her a look of annoyance and turned his body away from her. Another Capra-ism: He got annoyed when the mail guy came around.
He hung up and squared himself toward her. “What?” he bellowed. His phone started ringing again. At least he had the grace to ignore it.
“Good morning to you, too, boss,” Maxi said sweetly. “So, Richard’s coming home.”
“Yah. So?” his usual charming self replied.
“So how come, and for how long?”
“I’m reassigning him. And he’ll be here for fifteen minutes.”
“Richard saved my life,” she mused.
“I was there, remember? The lesson is, don’t back yourself into that kind of stupid situation again,” he said. “So what do you need, Maxi?”
A civilized word. “Wendy just signed with a literary agent for her book, so we’re having a little wine-and-goodies thing to celebrate. Tomorrow, after the Six. I thought if you could reach Richard, you could tell him to come in to the station—”
“Of course he’ll come in to the station.”
“I know, but I mean if he could come in after the Six tomorrow, while everybody’s gathered, then we can toast him as well, and he can see all his pals at once.” She neglected to mention that she was having dinner with Richard tomorrow night. You could never tell what would majorly agitate Capra.
“Can’t reach him now. He’s on a plane. I can get ahold of him tomorrow morning. But he’ll probably be beat.”
“Okay. Thanks, boss.” He hadn’t told her anything she didn’t already know, but she wanted to include Capra in her plan to get Richard in to see everybody. Capra was weird about being left out of the loop on anything that went on at Channel Six News.
“Maxi—over here!” Charlie Strand called over the din. Sullivan’s Bar in the newly trendy Silver Lake district of Los Angeles was jammed three deep with the after-work singles crowd, and Maxi was jostling her way through it. Charlie was at the end of the bar; she saw that he was actually perched on a bar stool, a prime piece of real estate during happy hour at Sullie’s.
“How many phone numbers did you pick up while you were waiting for me?” Maxi asked when she got there, eyeing the plenitude of attractive young women in his immediate area. Charlie was in his mid-twenties, tall and rangy, with dark, spiky hair, crinkly blue eyes, and a killer smile. And single. And yes, Maxi noted, women were definitely checking him out.
“None,” Charlie answered, reaching out to give her a hug. “You know I’m saving myself for you, Maxi. We’re going to get married and have two-point-four kids. What are you drinking?”
“Cabernet. And that’s exactly what I dream of. Being married to a guy who works at the morgue and comes home smelling of formaldehyde.”
“We don’t use formaldehyde—we don’t embalm them.”
“Well, what
is
that smell at your workplace, sir?”
“Death. I’ll shower before I come home.”
“Did you bring it?”
“Wait, we’re not finished with the small talk. And we haven’t even started with the hot talk.”
Charlie got up to give Maxi his stool and the bartender slid her glass of wine across the bar. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Poole,” he said. “This one’s on Sullie.”
“Aha!” Charlie piped up. “The first one’s free. Just like drugs.” Maxi and the bartender laughed, and she tipped her glass to Charlie’s beer bottle.
“So,” she said again. “Did you bring it?”
“Yah, I brought it.” He patted the pocket of his loose-fitting corduroy jacket, then lowered his voice so Maxi had to draw closer to hear him over the bar din. “Listen,” he mumbled, “you never got this from me. I would be in exceedingly deep shit if I got nailed giving you this.”
“But isn’t it a matter of public record—”
“Not this one,” he interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “This one has a note attached. Which means it’s not completed, and not released yet.”
“What kind of note?”
“A standard ‘cause of death deferred pending tox and micros’ note.”
“Which means further toxicology testing is being done, right? But what’s micros?”
“They take very thin slices from multiple organs, thin as paper. Kind of like slicing a turkey. They slice up the heart, the liver, the brain, a bunch of organs, then they lay the slices out on micro slides, and—”
“Okay,
okay.
That’s
way
too much information, Charlie. So how long does all this take?”
“About six weeks.”
“That’s why they haven’t released the body yet.”
“Bingo.”
“So if the autopsy report hasn’t been completed what did you bring me?”
“A work in progress. Didn’t know that till I went in for it. But my ass is majorly chopped grass if—”
“Don’t even say it,” Maxi jumped in, putting a reassuring hand on his arm. Then, as if they’d never had the conversation, she sat back, took a sip of her wine, and smiled. “Wonderful to see you, Charlie. How have you been?”
He smiled back. “Hmmm. Is this the end of the small talk, or the beginning of the hot talk?”
“Both,” she said. She liked Charlie a lot.
“I’ve been great. My Forty-Niners are winning. And I’m dating a flight attendant. She’s marginally hot, and she gets us free tickets on American.”
“And how’s the job?”
“Oh, fabulous. I can swab down an autopsy room in four minutes flat now. You know I only work there because you call me three times a year. When are we gonna have a real date?”
“I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“Sure, if you had me when you were twelve.”
“Eight, actually.”
A pretty young woman in her early twenties with short-cropped magenta hair, big gold-flecked hazel eyes, and a wide, cheerful smile was making her way toward them.
“Heads up, Charlie … incoming! Redhead at two o’clock,” Maxi mouthed.
“You’re dreaming,” Charlie muttered.
The woman stopped squarely in front of Maxi. “Ms. Poole,
I’m a big admirer of yours,” she said, extending her hand. “My name is Lonny Haines. I’m a law student at Loyola. You are truly a role model for women.”
Maxi accepted her hand. “Thank you,” she said. Then Ms. Haines turned her thousand-watt smile on Charlie. “And who are
you?
” she asked him pointedly.
“I rest my case,” Maxi mumbled to Charlie.
S
ettle down, Yukon,” Maxi murmured. She’d been away since early morning and her big pup wanted some attention. Curled up on the couch in her study in black-watch-plaid flannel pajamas and fleece-lined slippers, a cup of steaming herb tea on the side table, she was reading over Gillian Rose’s autopsy report for the fifth or sixth time.
She and Charlie Strand had left Sullivan’s and gone over to the Sonora Cafe on La Brea for a light dinner. They talked and laughed a lot. When they were about to part in their separate cars from the restaurant parking lot, Charlie tried to kiss her, as usual. And Maxi wouldn’t let him, as usual. They both giggled and said good night. And Maxi had the autopsy-report printout in her purse.
She couldn’t wait to read it, was sorely tempted to pull over on Beverly Boulevard on the way home, park under a streetlight, and scan the report. But she didn’t. Since covering that seminal story six weeks ago that almost got her killed, she’d been working on curbing her obsessive personality. Not altogether successfully, but now and then she was able to squelch an urge to leap before she thought. Only now and then. Waiting to read the printout until she got home, like a normal person, was just an exercise in self-control. Sadly, she had actually been backsliding in this area over the past few weeks. Kind of like a diet: you start out in a blaze of glory. … Oh well, this time she’d made it.
