Heart Failure (24 page)

McDonald continued to sit, silent as a statue. Carrie couldn’t tell from his expression if he was following the story. She hoped he was. “Naturally, the wife was devastated. She was a doctor. She should have picked up on the clues to her husband’s heart problem sooner. She should have insisted that he seek medical attention earlier. She should have been able to prevent the complication—maybe suggested a different doctor, even a different medical center for the procedure. She should have intervened to get her husband to surgery sooner, although she didn’t see how she could. She blamed herself every step of the way. She had the biggest case of survivor guilt in the universe.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” McDonald said quietly. “She did her best.”

“And so did you,” Carrie said. “I should know. I was that woman doctor. The man who died was my husband.”

What McDonald said next removed him from Carrie’s list of people who might try to kill her and placed him in a whole different category. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “I’ll pray for you . . . for both of us.”

Carrie brushed away tears. “So will I, Mr. McDonald. So will I.”

Adam really didn’t want to leave the safety of his office, not even for lunch. But he had to—not only because he was hungry, but also to give him the privacy necessary for an important phone call. Besides, it was unlikely the shooter would come
after him in broad daylight, and certainly not within sight of both the municipal courts and the police station.

The offices of Hartley and Evans were within walking distance of both those structures. And where lawyers and policemen gathered, there were sure to be eating places, little sandwich shops and cafés where people could snatch a quick lunch, a cup of coffee, a late-afternoon snack without having to go too far. It was to one of these Adam walked, not hurrying but not dawdling either.

Once inside the sandwich shop, he took comfort from the presence of no fewer than three uniformed patrolmen and a couple of plainclothes detectives. The latter didn’t have their badges on display, but they might as well have carried signs saying, “Police.” Adam ordered a glass of tea and a roast beef sandwich, then headed for the restroom. Behind a locked door he dialed the number he’d unearthed earlier.
Please pick up. Please be there
.

“This is Cortland.”

Adam wasn’t sure how three words could convey a Texas accent so well, but they did just that. He pictured “Corky” as he typically saw him in law school: dressed in an open-necked blue button-down shirt, Levis, and soiled New Balance running shoes. Adam hoped Corky had upgraded his attire since he graduated.

According to Adam’s online search, E. A. Cortland, Esq., had a law practice in Houston, Texas. Adam was banking on Cortland’s tendency to skip his noon meal, hoping Corky would answer the phone himself while his receptionist or secretary or whoever usually manned the phone at his office was at lunch. So far, he’d won the trifecta: this was the right
Cortland, the phone number was the one he wanted, and Corky was the one who picked up the phone.

“Corky, this is Keith Branson.” Adam had to guard his tongue to make it say his original name.

“Keith, you old dog. How are you?”

“Look, Corky. I have to keep this short, but I’m hoping you can fill in the blanks for yourself. If you do an Internet search, you’ll find that my testimony sent my father-in-law, Charlie DeLuca, to jail. Since then I’ve been on the run. I’m going to give you a number—it’s my cell phone. I’m calling in the favor you owe me for getting you through that course on torts. Will you do some digging and call me back?”

Corky acted as though this was the most natural request in the world. “No problem, Keith, although given what you’ve already told me I’d bet that’s not the name you’re using these days.”

Adam looked at the phone in his hand and discovered he’d pulled his throwaway phone from the brief case. It was just as well. He gave Corky the number. “What I need is more information than I can get from Google or LexisNexis. I need as much as you can give me.”

“Sure,” Corky said. “But why?”

“Somebody’s out to kill me, probably for testifying against Charlie DeLuca. I need whatever you can dig up on DeLuca, especially his associates and family.”

“If we both weren’t officers of the court, I’d think you wanted me to hack into some sites and circumvent the law.”

“Well—”

“Relax. Given enough time and resources, anyone could get this information quite legally. I’m just shortening the process.”

Adam chewed on that for a minute. Legal? Most likely it was a gray area, but one in which Corky had always enjoyed working. “Okay. So you’ll do it?”

Keys clicked in the background. “Sure. Sounds like fun.” More clicks. “I’m already into some sites you’d never penetrate. That was D-E-L-U-C-A, C-H-A-R-L-E-S? He’d be in his late fifties?”

“And he’ll never be any older. He died a few months ago.”

“Give me time to dig. Why don’t I call you back this evening?”

“Great. I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.” A low whistle overrode the background clatter of keys. “Just to be sure, which family of DeLuca’s do you want to know about? Or shall I check into both of them?”

SEVENTEEN

ADAM FELT THE TREMOR OF HIS CELL PHONE AGAINST HIS THIGH. His throwaway cell, the one he’d asked Corky to use, was in his briefcase. This was his regular number. He didn’t want to ignore a call, since it might be from Carrie or Dave.

He eased the phone out, held it shielded by his desk, and checked the caller ID. It was Carrie. Adam lifted the phone to his face, pressed the button, and whispered, “Yes?”

“Can we meet tonight? I have some things to tell you.”

“Hang on.” Adam rose from his desk and moved to the far corner of the little room. He turned his back to the door and pretended to be engrossed in the titles on a shelf of law books. “We need to make this quick. I should have some information tonight too, but it may be late.”

“Late’s fine. Shall I come by the Rancho Motel again?”

“No, I checked out before my trip. But I’d rather keep you away from my apartment.” He thought a moment. The
logistics were possible. “I’ll be at your back door about ten this evening.”

“Won’t you—”

“I’ll do what I did Sunday night when I came to your house. The shooter will never know I’m there. Trust me. Just be ready to open the door for me.”

“Are you going to call me on your cell when you arrive?” Carrie said.

“I thought I’d just knock.”

“Maybe we should have some sort of code so I don’t open the door and find myself staring down the barrel of a gun?”

Adam recalled Carrie’s special ring for her cell phone. “Sure. How about the opening rhythm of Beethoven’s ‘Fifth Symphony’? You know. Dah-dah-dah-dah. Four knocks in rapid succession.”

They ended the conversation and Adam hurried back to his desk, arriving just as Mary Delkus tapped on the frame of the open door. She looked like a million dollars today in a form-fitting burgundy dress. “Did I hear you talking with someone?”

“You caught me. I was talking to myself. Sometimes I like to present arguments out loud to see how they sound.” He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat. What’s up?”

Mary smoothed her skirt over the backs of her thighs and sat. “I need to get better acquainted with you,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I feel bad.” She gave him a look of apology. “I know that I took your job, and . . . well, I’d like to make it up to you by taking you out to dinner.”

Adam didn’t know what to say.

“How about tonight?” she said, giving him a glimpse of those perfect white teeth.

Adam hadn’t known what to expect from Mary’s visit, but it certainly wasn’t this. He needed to be free to take Corky’s call, he had to be at Carrie’s late tonight, and he really didn’t know enough about this woman to be comfortable going out with her. Maybe the last factor was pure paranoia, but he was taking no chances. “Mary, that’s really very kind,” he said, “but I have something on the schedule tonight. Maybe another time.”

She smiled. “Sure. Think about it and let me know.” Adam’s eyes followed her as she strode from the office. He had little difficulty understanding how Bruce Hartley was so taken with her. But looks weren’t everything. Beauty could be used in so many ways, some of them good, some bad. As for Mary, the jury was still out, but he was getting an idea of which way he’d vote.

When Carrie left Mr. McDonald, she felt somehow freer. For almost a year she’d carried with her a sense that the man hated her, somehow held her responsible for his wife’s death. Carrie couldn’t bring Bess McDonald back to life, but maybe she’d been able to give some quality to Calvin’s life for the years he had left.

Back in her car, after the call to Adam, she wished she’d taken something that morning for her headache. She knew why Phil hadn’t prescribed Vicodin or a similar narcotic for the headaches she was sure to have over the next few days. He wanted to avoid masking late symptoms of a complication
following her head injury. Carrie’s pain tolerance was pretty high, but right now her skull was throbbing.

She decided to stop for a cup of coffee and use it to wash down a couple of extra-strength Tylenol. Maybe the caffeine plus the pills would help stop the waves of pain bouncing around inside her head.

Jameson offered the usual options to those seeking a caffeine fix. The town even boasted a couple of Starbucks. It wasn’t Seattle, but still, Carrie had plenty of opportunities to get a cup of coffee and relax.

Her first thought was a small coffee shop near the hospital. After a moment’s consideration, she rejected the idea. The place was a frequent hangout for medical staff, and she didn’t want to answer a lot of questions about the shooting in the parking lot.

A banner on a building to her right caught her eye: “Now Open: Kolache Heaven.” Growing up in central Texas, she’d quickly become a fan of the doughy pastries with centers filled with fruit, cream cheese, or even a sweetened poppy seed mix. The thought of a kolache, together with a steaming cup of coffee, made her salivate. Besides, maybe hunger was contributing to her headache. She wheeled into the parking lot, then waited patiently in line to place her order.

The man in front of her looked familiar, and when he turned she realized why. It was Rob Cole. “Dr. Markham. Glad to see you’re able to be out and about. Come to get your kolache fix?”

“Actually, I didn’t know I was hungry until I saw the sign. That’s when I decided a kolache would be good.”

“And you’re right. If you’ve never tried one—”

“I have,” Carrie said. She wasn’t interested in a long
conversation, but she couldn’t figure out how to get rid of Rob without being downright rude. The register next to them opened, and Carrie stepped up and placed her order.

Rob reached into his pocket. “Please. Let me buy.”

“Thanks, Rob, but no. I’ll get my own.” She paid for her coffee and a raspberry kolache, dropped her change in the tip jar, and started to move away.

“Looks like there’s only one empty table,” Rob said. “Could we share it?”

Carrie resigned herself to prolonging the encounter. When they both were seated, she took a bite of her pastry and a sip of coffee. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a small vial, shook two Tylenol tablets into her palm, and washed them down with more coffee.

Rob watched with interest but didn’t comment.

Carrie had an urge to eat her pastry in three or four huge bites, then make her getaway to avoid a conversation with Rob. Instead, she nibbled at the kolache, alternating with sips of coffee while wondering what Rob’s conversational opener would be. She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Dr. Markham, do you have any idea why someone took a shot at you in the ER parking lot?”

She wasn’t sure whether he was naïve, rude, or truly interested. In any case, it was none of his business. “Rob, I think that’s a matter for the police.” She reduced the size of her kolache by one more ladylike bite and decided to turn the tables on him. “By the way—I’ve not had an opportunity to thank you.” She smiled warmly. “You and Adam saved my life. What were you doing there anyway? You weren’t on duty.”