Fatal Reaction (16 page)

CHAPTER 40

Dorian used the reflection off the precinct’s personal-effects pickup window to straighten himself. The female officer on the other side—a frumpy, pear-shaped woman, wearing an androgynous uniform that did nothing to flatter her figure—double-checked her list and slid his things through the pass.

“Verify that this is everything you came in with, and sign here, please.”

Dorian collected his watch, wallet, and keys, accounting for his credit cards and the twenty-three dollars he had on him when he was arrested, and signed the release form.

“Is that everything?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I travel light.”

Colby stood by the door with her arms crossed and a look on her face that could have been annoyance or anger, he wasn’t sure which. Her reddish-blond hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, and she had less makeup on than usual. Her normally bright green eyes were puffy, as if she had been crying, and she looked exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, heading toward her with his arms outstretched.

Colby uncrossed her arms and took the keys from the pocket of her oversized parka. “Don’t even . . . The day I’ve had.”

Dorian took her incomplete sentences to mean he wasn’t the only glitch in her day. He slipped his watch over his wrist and braced for the cold.

“Don’t you have a jacket?”

He shook his head. “It’s in my car.”

“And where’s your car?”

“My guess, the impound lot.”

A few short hairs fell from her ponytail, and when she went to brush it back, Dorian stopped her. “Don’t. It looks good.”

“Ripped-up jeans, a T-shirt, and a ponytail. It doesn’t take much to please you. All this time I was trying too hard.”

He would never tell her, but she could make an outfit made of garbage bags look good. “You want to get out of here?”

“And go where?”

They walked down the steep steps toward Colby’s car, parked a half block up.

“Do you trust me?” Dorian held out his hand.

“As much as I trust anyone these days.” Colby handed him her keys and got in the passenger’s side.

Dorian moved the driver’s seat back and adjusted the mirrors. The car was still warm, and when he started it up, heat poured from the vents. He turned on his directional and merged into traffic, headed for the interstate.

“Want to talk about it?” He glanced over at Colby, who was fixing her hair in the vanity mirror.

She shrugged. “I got served with divorce papers this morning.”

He smiled. “At least you didn’t get arrested.”

She dabbed a bit of pink lip gloss on her lips and put up the visor. “Want to talk about
that
?”

“No. Not really.” Dorian reached across the center console to hold her hand. “I’d rather talk about this divorce.”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“What comes after?”

Colby’s smile looked forced, almost fake. “That’s a good question. I don’t suppose you need a nurse for your office, do you?”

Dorian chuckled, thinking about Noreen, their fight, and how she threw him out of her house. The woman was a master of mixed signals. “I might, yeah. If I still have a medical license.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So where are we headed? Can we talk about that?” Colby interlaced her fingers with his.

“I’d rather surprise you.”

Dorian took I-490E toward the Bristol Mountain Ski Resort, an hour outside of town. Colby had gnawed her fingernails and then the inside of her cheek, when Dorian pulled her finger out of her mouth.

“That noise is driving me crazy. When did you start biting your nails?”

“In the second grade. Nervous habit.” For as long as their affair had lasted, they were very much in the “dating” phase, hiding their flaws and bad habits.

“What’s there to be nervous about?”

“Getting caught.” Conceptually, Colby knew that being with “the other man” while about to face infidelity charges in divorce court was the worst course of action. Emotionally, she didn’t care. She kept her eyes on the cars around them, noting one in particular, a silver Lexus, which seemed to be traveling their same route. Not wanting to seem paranoid, she let it go without mention.

Dorian turned onto NY-64, a much less populated road, and smoothed Colby’s hand with his thumb. “Once we’re past the ski resort, there won’t be anyone for miles, trust me.”

He was right.

The Lexus continued down the highway, reassuring Colby that she had, in fact, been paranoid.

Dorian turned onto Lakeside Lodges Road, a private road, which looked like it hadn’t been plowed in some time. Colby was thankful for the Nissan’s all-wheel drive as they made their way past the half-completed log cabins toward desolation.

Situated on a treed lot, acres from the nearest residence, Dorian’s place had Adirondack-style charm and homelike warmth about it.

Dorian hopped out of the Rogue, punched the combination into the keypad, and drove into the garage. “Voilà, privacy. And no one knows you’re even here.”

“I’m sorry. I’m acting kind of nuts, right?”

“
Eh
, a little. Ready to put this day behind us?”

“Am I ever.”

Dorian led her through a storage area and up the stairs to the main house. He pushed the door open and let her inside ahead of him. “After you.”

He hit a switch on the wall and not one, but two fireplaces, at either end of a great room, roared to life, illuminating a masculine, well-appointed room, heavy with the smells of wood, leather, and pine.

The open-concept floor plan was breathtaking. Dark wooden beams spanned the length of a vaulted ceiling, which opened to a loft. The walls were a mix of rich cream and wood, the accents a hunter green. The built-in wine rack left of the kitchen was fully stocked, and an assortment of glasses hung from it, glistening in the soft glow of recessed lighting.

“Dorian, it’s beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as the company.” He gathered her in his arms and lowered his head to kiss her. “I assume this is okay, in here, where no one can see us?”

Colby slipped her arms around his neck. “It’s better than okay,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

CHAPTER 41

Dorian Carmichael.

Jared shook his head at the coincidence. Ana could be looking to implicate anyone else in wrongdoing, but that it happened to be his arch nemesis was almost a gift. Jared finished his shift around 12:30 a.m. and called home to tell Colby he was working late. The machine answered on the fourth ring. He checked his watch, noting the time, and decided Colby was either ignoring him, or asleep. He left a brief message and hung up.

Two nights in the hospital’s on-call room and one at the Comfort Inn had him making mental notes of the things he wanted most from the house before he could no longer get in, or before Colby destroyed them in a fit of spiteful rage.

After almost twenty years of marriage, Colby knew what he valued most.

Jared knew
her
well enough to know those were the things she’d go after first.

Two unanswered calls to Wendell, his lawyer, left it unclear whether Colby had been served with divorce papers.

The fact that she hadn’t called him, irate, indicated she most likely still had no clue.

“Dr. Monroe?” Cecelia lumbered toward the nurses’ station, one hand on her low back and the other supporting her stomach.

“Cecelia, what are you still doing here?”

“Hurting, if we’re being honest. I don’t have too many of these shifts left in me. I need you to sign off on this last patient, and then I’m headed home.”

Jared signed the discharge orders and handed them back to her. “Good idea. You should rest.” She started to walk away, and he stopped her. “Hey, Cecelia. Quick question. Have you seen Dr. Prusak today?”

Cecelia shrugged. “No, I don’t think he’s here, or at least, he’s probably not after what happened.”

Of the ways to spread news at County, Cecelia was the most efficient.

“What happened?” he said.

“You didn’t hear this from me.”

Jared smirked. “Of course.”

Cecelia leaned against the counter and stretched. “Dr. Carmichael was arrested earlier, taken out in handcuffs.” Her eyes went wide when she said it. “He ransacked Dr. Prusak’s lab and nearly attacked Brenna.”

“Really? How did I miss this?”

“You were in Radiology reading the film on that little girl’s broken arm. I bet it has something to do with that protest.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Jared said, though he knew better.

“Anyway, I’m going to get this patient home and get out of here. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.” Cecelia rubbed her stomach. “I’m either starting contractions, or I have the worst case of indigestion ever.”

“Four kids and you’re still not sure which?”

She smirked. “I’ll blame the curry I ate for lunch until my water breaks. Good night, Dr. Monroe.”

“’Night, Cecelia, and good luck.”

“I’ll need it.”

Jared made sure he was alone before logging into the computer. He searched for Sydney Dowling by name, recalling her records, including her operative and lab reports, almost immediately.

He read the background information, gleaning from the brief history that Sydney’s life before her operation was on the verge of falling apart. Social history mentioned a trial separation from her husband.

The procedure was a routine hysterectomy, but there was no mention of cancer, margins, or intraoperative biopsies to verify whether or not the disease had spread. Jared searched for pathology, filtering the labs by date, and rather than finding the usual gross and histology reports—documents that identified the type and extent of the cancer—he found tissue typing and antibody screens.

What the hell?

He checked the files, figuring maybe there had been a mistake, that the pathology reports were mislabeled, but they weren’t. Nothing in Sydney’s records indicated that she had cancer. Suddenly, he knew what Ana was onto.

There was only one way to be sure.

Physicians at County were assigned user IDs, and those IDs were associated with everything from transcription to lab results. The system was designed to streamline the administrative end, and Jared spent more than his share of time signing off on labs for his own patients.

Everything needed to be verified, meaning Dorian couldn’t have acted alone. Someone higher up had turned a blind eye, at the very least.

The user ID was the first four letters of the physician’s last name and the number “1.” He typed “CARM1” into the orders section and searched for every test Dorian had ordered in the past five months.

There were dozens of attempts at matching donors to recipients; it was a fact that wouldn’t normally raise suspicion, except that Sydney’s name was on the list.

He printed off several reports linked to her account and tried to access the transplant files for the most-recent patients.

The records were locked.

He retyped his password and hit “Enter.”

Still, nothing.

As far as he knew, his was unrestricted access. The most private portions of patient records, psychiatric evaluations and reports pertaining to HIV status, were critical when assessing ER patients. He would have thought transplant status was as well.

Someone was covering something up.

The question was who, and why.