The Second Time Around (18 page)

I
'd stopped at the office after leaving the hospice, but both Don and Ken were out. I made some notes of things to discuss with them in the morning. Two heads are better than one, and three are better than two—not always true, of course, but it's definitely applicable when you include these two knowledgeable guys in the equation.

There were a number of questions I wanted to discuss with them. Was Vivian Powers planning to join Nicholas Spencer somewhere? Were Dr. Spencer's early records really missing, or were they mentioned merely as a smoke screen to cast doubt on Spencer's guilt? Was someone else in the mansion that night, only minutes before it was set on fire? And finally, and breathtaking in significance, did Nick Spencer test the vaccine on a terminally ill patient who later was able to leave the hospice?

I was determined to learn the name of that patient.

Why would he not shout to the skies that he was in remission? I wondered. Was it because the patient wanted to see if the remission would last or because he didn't want to be the subject of an intense media frenzy? I could only imagine the headlines if news leaked out that the Gen-stone vaccine worked after all.

And who was the other patient Dr. Clintworth was sure had been given the vaccine? Was there some way I could persuade her to give me that patient's name?

Nicholas Spencer had been on a championship swim team in high school. His son was clinging to the hope that he was alive because he had been a stunt flyer while he was in college. It wasn't too great a leap to imagine that with that kind of background he might have been able to stage his own death a few miles from shore and then swim to safety.

I longed to be able to talk over all these points with the guys while they were still fresh in my head. But I made copious notes, and then, since it was nearly six o'clock and it certainly had been an eventful day, I went home.

There were a half-dozen messages on my answering machine—friends suggesting we get together, a call from Casey instructing me to call back by seven if I was in the mood for pasta at Il Tinello. I was, I decided, and tried to figure out if I should be flattered to be called twice for dinner within seven days or if I should consider myself a “she'll-do-in-a-pinch” date because he had run through the people who required more notice.

Be that as it may, I stopped the answering machine
and called Casey on his cell phone. We had our usual brief telephone conversation.

His abrupt “Dr. Dillon.”

“Casey, it's me.”

“Pasta tonight good for you?”

“Fine.”

“Eight o'clock at Il Tinello?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Great.” Click.

I asked him once if his bedside manner was as rapid-fire as his phone personality, but he assured me that wasn't the case. “Do you know how much time people can waste on the phone?” he'd asked. “I've made a study of it.”

I was curious. “Where did you do the study?”

“At home, twenty years ago. My sister, Trish. A couple of times when we were in high school, I clocked her on the phone. One time she spent an hour and fifteen minutes telling her best friend how worried she was that she wasn't prepared for the test she was having the next day. Another time she spent fifty minutes telling another friend that she wasn't half finished with a science project that was due in two days.”

“Nonetheless, she managed to muddle through reasonably well,” I'd reminded him during that conversation. Trish had become a pediatric surgeon and now lived in Virginia.

Smiling at the memory, and slightly concerned that I was so ready to fall in with Casey's plans, I pushed the button on the answering machine to hear the final message.

The caller's voice was low and distressed. She did not identify herself, but I recognized her—Vivian Powers. “Carley, it's four o'clock. Sometimes I brought work home. I was clearing out my desk. I think I know who took the records from Dr. Broderick. Call me, please.”

I had written my home number on the back of my card, but my cell phone was printed on the card. I wish she had tried to reach me on that. By four o'clock I had been on my way back to the city. I'd have turned around and gone straight to see her. I grabbed my notebook out of my purse, found her phone number, and called.

The answering machine picked up on the fifth ring, which said to me that Vivian had been home until fairly recently. The way most answering machines work is that they give you four or five rings to get to the phone if you're home, but after one message is recorded, they pick up on the second ring.

I carefully worded my response to her: “I was glad to hear from you, Vivian. It's a quarter of seven. I'll be here until seven-thirty and then back around nine-thirty. Call me, please.”

I wasn't even sure myself why I didn't leave my name. If Vivian had caller ID, my number would have been recorded on her phone screen. But just in case she happened to check the machine while someone else was with her, it seemed a more discreet way to go.

A quick shower before going out for the evening always helps to relieve the tensions that build up when I'm working. The shower I have in my minuscule bathroom
is a combination tub-shower setup, a little cramped, but it does the job. As I played games with the hot and cold knobs, I thought of something I'd read about Queen Elizabeth I: “The queen takes a bath once a month whether she needs it or not.” She might not have had so many people beheaded if she'd been able to relax in a hot shower at the end of the day, I decided.

I prefer pantsuits for daytime wear, but at night it does feel good to put on a silk blouse, slacks, and heels. I feel satisfyingly taller when I'm dressed like that. The temperature outside had started to drop by the time I came in, but instead of a coat, I grabbed a woolen scarf my mother had bought me on a trip to Ireland. It is a deep cranberry shade, and I love it.

I glanced in the mirror and decided I didn't look half bad. My grin turned into a frown, though, as I thought how I didn't like the fact that I was dressing up so carefully for Casey, and that I was so pleased he'd called me so soon after the last date.

I left the apartment in plenty of time but absolutely could not get a cab. Sometimes I think that all the cabdrivers in New York City send a signal out to each other and put their “out of service” signs on simultaneously when they see me standing out in the street looking for one of them.

As a result, I was late—fifteen minutes late. Mario, the owner, took me to the table where Casey was settled and held out my chair. Casey looked serious, and I thought, Good God, he's not going to make a big deal of this, is he? He stood up, brushed a kiss against the side of my cheek, and asked, “Are you okay?”

I realized that he was so used to my being on time that he'd been worried about me, which pleased me too much. A good-looking, smart, successful, unattached doctor like Dr. Kevin Curtis Dillon is bound to be in great demand among the many unattached women in New York City, and I worry that my role is to be the comfortable friend. It's a bittersweet situation. I kept a diary when I was in high school. Six months ago, when I bumped into Casey in the theater, I dug it out. It was embarrassing to read how rapturous I'd been about going to the prom with him, but it was worse to read the subsequent entries of bitter disappointment when he never called after that.

I reminded myself to throw away that diary.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Just a major case of taxicabitis.”

He didn't look all that relieved. Something was clearly troubling him. “Something's wrong, Casey. What is it?” I asked.

He waited until the wine he'd ordered had been poured, then said, “It's been a tough day, Carley. Surgery can do just so much, and it's so damn frustrating to know that no matter what you do, you can only help a little. I operated on a kid who hit a truck with his motorcycle. He's lucky he still has a foot, but he'll have only limited movement in it.”

Casey's eyes were dark with pain. I thought of Nick Spencer who wanted so desperately to save the lives of people suffering with cancer. Had he gone beyond the limits of safety trying to prove he could do it? I couldn't get that question out of my mind.

Instinctively, I put my hand over Casey's. He looked
at me and seemed to relax. “You're very easy to be with, Carley,” he said. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“My pleasure.”

“Even though you were late.” The moment of intimacy was gone.

“Taxicabitis.”

“What's going on with the Spencer story?”

Over Portobello mushrooms, watercress salad, and linguine with white clam sauce, I told him about my encounters with Vivian Powers, Rosa and Manuel Gomez, and Dr. Clintworth at the hospice.

He frowned at the suggestion that Nicholas Spencer was experimenting on patients at the hospice. “If true, that's not only illegal but also morally wrong,” he said emphatically. “Look up the case histories of some of these drugs that seemed to be miraculous but didn't prove out. Thalidomide is a classic example. It was approved in Europe forty years ago to relieve nausea in pregnant women. Fortunately at the time Dr. Frances Kelsey of the FDA put the kibosh on approving it. Today, especially in Germany, there are people in their forties with horrendous genetic deformities, such as flippers instead of arms, because their mothers thought the drug was safe.”

“But haven't I read that thalidomide is proving to be valuable in the treatment of other problems?” I asked.

“That's absolutely true. But it isn't being given to pregnant women. New drugs have to be tested over an extended period of time, Carley, before we start handing them out.”

“Casey, suppose your choice is to be dead in a few months or to be alive and risk terrible side effects. Which would you choose?”

“Fortunately, it's a question that I haven't faced myself, Carley. I do know that as a doctor I wouldn't violate my oath and turn anyone into a guinea pig.”

But Nicholas Spencer was not a doctor, I thought. His mindset was different. And in the hospice he was dealing with people who were terminally ill, who had no alternative except to be a guinea pig or die.

Over espresso, Casey invited me to go with him to a cocktail party in Greenwich on Sunday afternoon. “You'll like these people,” he said, “and they'll like you.”

I accepted, of course. When we left the restaurant, I wanted him to put me in a cab, but this time he insisted on riding with me. I offered to fix him the after-dinner drink we'd both refused at the restaurant, but he had the cab wait while he saw me to the door of my apartment. “It occurred to me that you really should be in a place with a doorman,” he said. “This business of letting yourself in with a key isn't safe anymore. Someone could push in behind you.”

I was astonished. “Whatever put that in your mind?”

He looked at me soberly. Casey is about six feet two. Even when I'm wearing heels, he towers over me. “I don't know, Carley,” he said. “I just wonder if you're not getting into something bigger than you realize with this Spencer investigation.”

I didn't know how prophetic those words were. It was nearly ten-thirty when I entered my apartment. I
looked at the answering machine but saw no blinking light. Vivian Powers had not called back.

I tried her number again, but there was no answer, so I left another message.

The next morning the phone rang just as I was leaving for work. It was someone from the police department in Briarcliff Manor. A neighbor walking his dog that morning had noticed that the door of Vivian Powers's home was ajar. He rang the bell and on receiving no answer had walked inside. The house was empty. A table and lamp were knocked over and the lights were on. The police had been called. They had checked the answering machine and found my messages. Did I have any knowledge of where Vivian Powers might be or if she was in some kind of trouble?

K
en and Don listened with sober concentration when I told them about my meetings in Westchester and the call I'd received that morning from the police in Briarcliff Manor.

“Gut reaction, Carley?” Ken asked. “Is this an elaborate performance to convince everyone that something else was going on? The housekeeping couple tell you that it was obvious Nick Spencer and Vivian Powers were lovebirds. Is it possible you were getting too close to the truth? Do you think she was planning to go to Boston for a while, live with Mommy and Daddy, then start a new life in Australia or Timbuktu or Monaco once the heat was off?”

“Absolutely possible,” I said. “In fact, if that's the way it is, I have to tell you that I think leaving the door open and a table and chair knocked over was a bit much.” Having said that, I hesitated.

“What is it?” Ken asked.

“Looking back, I think she was frightened. When Vivian opened the door for me, she kept the safety chain on for a couple of minutes before she let me in.”