Wonders Never Cease (5 page)

“I'm serious. Seven years at Johns Hopkins. So what if I didn't finish my residency? I'm as intelligent as anybody around here, and I deserve to be making as much money.”

She didn't reply.

“Don't you think I'm brilliant?”

“Kemp—”

“Say it, babe. I need to hear it sometimes.”

She hesitated. “You're not really going to move out, are you?”

“Tell me.”

“You're brilliant, honey. You should be making as much as anybody here.”

“Thank you. At least somebody has some sense around here.”

The door opened once again and the charge nurse poked her head inside. “Kemp, you were supposed to take a fifteen-minute break. Would it inconvenience you too much to return to work? They just brought a new patient up from Trauma, and I'm assigning her to you.”

“I'll be right there,” he said, then held up the paperback.
“Hey, Shanice—you forgot your book.”

4

M
ort Biederman rushed off the elevator on the sixth floor of UCLA Medical Center and spotted the sign on the opposite wall. It read Neuro Trauma ICU with an arrow pointing to the right. He hurried down the hallway until it suddenly veered left; through a set of double doors he could see a nurses' station and he headed directly for it. In his left hand he was gripping a forty-dollar bouquet of roses with a few sprigs of baby's breath that he had just purchased from a vending machine in the lobby.
Good thing it took credit cards
, he thought.
I wonder if the gift shop will give me a receipt—this
is deductible
.

The double doors slid open for him, and as he entered he called out to no one in particular, “I'm looking for Olivia Hayden!”

“Hold your voice down, sir,” a nurse behind the desk called back. “You're in an ICU.”

Biederman stepped up to the nurses' station. “Who are you?”

“Uh-uh. Question is, who are you?”

He took a business card from his jacket pocket and slid it across the counter.

The charge nurse ignored the card. “How 'bout you just tell me.”

“I'm Morton Biederman,” he said. “Liv Hayden—what room is she in?”

“That all depends. What relation are you to Ms. Hayden?”

“Why?”

“We have strict visitation policies, Mr. Biederman—blood relatives only.”

“I'm her agent, for crying out loud. I own ten percent of her—if that's not blood, I don't know what is.”

“I'm sorry. You need to be a husband, a brother, or a son—that's what we call ‘blood' around here. Immediate family only.”

“Look—Olivia has no family, no children. She's been married four times, and four times it didn't work out. The first husband, Larry, he was basically a parasite. He got the house on Melrose next to Jack Nicholson and also the residuals from three of her pictures—I figure that's about eight percent of her. The second husband, Antonio, he thought he could take her to the cleaners, but his lawyer was in over his head and Antonio lost big-time in court—he got maybe one percent. Now the third husband, Travis, I figure he got about seven percent, and Stan—Stan was the last one—I figure him at about nine percent. Now me, I own ten percent of her free and clear—that gives me controlling interest.”

“Mr. Biederman—”

“I love her like a father, but I pray to God no kid of mine ever turns out like her. I love her like a husband, but she's got some real issues with men. I'm like a son to her, though the woman doesn't have a maternal bone in her entire body.”

“Mr. Biederman—”

“Fifty percent of her I can't stand, forty percent of her I respect and admire, and ten percent of her I worship and adore. Now doesn't that sound like family to you?”

“Mr. Biederman, please.”

“What I'm saying is, I'm the closest thing to family she's got. And I want her to have the best, do you understand? A private room, the best doctors. Money is no object—she has insurance.”

“This is UCLA, Mr. Biederman—believe it or not, Ms. Hayden is not our first celebrity. We understand her special privacy needs. She was assigned to a private room.”

Biederman looked impressed. “UCLA Medical Center is the number-three-ranked hospital in the entire United States. Do you know how I know this?”

“Because of the gigantic banner on the side of the building?”

“No—because of people like you. Now, may I please see my family?”

Shanice looked at him dully. “I will allow you to sit with Ms. Hayden for a few minutes—but only until I check with her doctor to make sure it's all right. Do you understand? This way, please.”

She led him down the hallway to an isolated room at the far left. Most of the doors they passed were made entirely of glass with only a thin curtain blocking the view of the patient's bed. Not this room; it had a solid wooden door that was obviously designed with prying eyes—and cameras—in mind.

She opened the door for him. “Sit there,” she said, pointing to a chair. “And don't touch anything. I'll page her doctor.”

“Can she hear me?”

“There's no way to know for sure, Mr. Biederman. Go ahead and talk to her if you want to—we do.” She quietly shut the door behind him.

Biederman approached the bed and looked down at the figure lying motionless under the single sheet. Her blonde hair lay matted against her head; there were purple and red bruises under both eyes but no other signs of structural damage. Her nose didn't seem to be broken.
Good thing
, he thought,
that
was an expensive nose
. Her arms lay extended on top of the sheet; they were covered with bruises as well. A bluish plastic tube projected from under a bandage on the back of her left hand, winding back along the bedrail until it branched into two other tubes—one attached to a dangling sack of clear fluid, and the other attached to a boxlike device that held a large syringe. There were monitors everywhere displaying undulating sine waves and flashing numbers. Biederman wasn't sure what any of it meant, but he figured it was at least a good sign that the waves weren't flat and the numbers were all above zero.

He sat down in the chair across from the bed.

“So, Liv, how's it going?”

There was no answer.

“I just heard about the accident an hour ago—I don't think the hospital knew who to contact. They said they went through the numbers on your cell phone. Good thing you keep your agent on speed dial.”

Biederman watched for signs of movement or recognition; there were none.

“Got a call from that director this morning,” he went on. “Looks like
Lips of Fury
isn't going to pan out. Look, about that—I just wanted you to consider the part, okay? You know, like an outfit in a clothing store—I just wanted you to try it on to see how it felt. I knew if I told you up front you would have turned it down flat.”

He looked at her lying perfectly still, almost as if she were stuffed and on display in some museum.
She might as well be
, he thought.
Twenty years . . . that's a pretty good run in a business
like this—hey, that's a terrific run. For most of those years
she was at the top of the food chain and everybody else was
lunch. But that was then and this is now, and neither one of us
is getting any younger—or richer
.

There was a quiet knock on the door and then it opened. “Mr. Biederman?”

Biederman stood up and shook hands with the physician.

“I'm Dr. Smithson—the neurologist in charge of Ms. Hayden's care. I understand you're Ms. Hayden's agent.”

“How is she? What can you tell me?”

“Ms. Hayden was involved in an automobile accident on the 405 early this morning. Her car was smashed up pretty bad; it took them a couple of hours just to cut her free. The EMTs who brought her in said she must have been going very fast.”

“Sounds like her,” Biederman said.

“Apparently she lost control.”

“That sounds like her too.”

“She's lucky to be alive, Mr. Biederman. Fortunately UCLA is a level 1 trauma center. They transferred her up here as soon as she was stabilized. They say her car rolled several times; whenever that happens there's a high risk of injury to the brain, neck, and spinal cord. Ms. Hayden was extremely fortunate. We've done a full body scan and an MRI on her head and neck, and aside from abrasions and contusions she seems to have no significant injuries.”

“Then what's she doing in an ICU?”

“When a car rolls over a body gets thrown violently from side to side—the head is snapped like a whip and the brain actually bounces against the inside of the skull. When that happens the brain can swell; it's what we call
intracranial hypertension
. Fluid accumulates in the brain, and the skull can't allow the brain to expand, so the brain becomes compressed—then brain tissue begins to die, resulting in permanent brain damage or even death.”

“Is that what's happening?”

“No—that's what
can
happen, and that's why I'd like to keep her here for a few days. I want to keep her immobilized to give her brain a chance to rest and heal—just as a precautionary measure. We'll do that by inducing a coma.”

“A
coma
?”

“Don't worry—it's a common procedure and it's not as bad as it sounds. See that little box with the syringe inside? That's an infusion pump. It's giving her a steady dose of a drug called
propofol
—it's a short-acting anesthetic agent that will make sure she remains unconscious until the risk of swelling has passed. That's all we're doing, really—making sure she stays asleep so she doesn't move.”

“How long will she have to be in here?”

“About a week—just to be sure. Believe me, this is the best place for her right now.” The neurologist crossed to the side of the bed and looked down at his patient. “Liv Hayden,” he said. “She hasn't made a picture for a while, has she?”

“None worth remembering. Her accountant's still trying to forget.”

“She looks the same as always. A timeless beauty, I suppose.”

Timeless beauty
, Biederman thought.
Now there's a contradiction
in terms
. “By the way, what's that thing on her forehead?”

“This?” The neurologist pointed to a white plastic strap that circled her forehead like a headband; in the center was a rectangle the size of a large Band-Aid bearing two round circles. “That's called a BIS sensor. It registers her brain activity—it tells us her level of consciousness. It's connected to that monitor over there—see the number on the front? The number ranges from 0 to 99. A fully conscious person is a 99; we'll try to keep her at about 60—that lets us know she's fully sedated.”

“Is it okay if I sit with her for a while?”

“She's in good hands here if you've got other clients to take care of.”

“She
is
my client,” Biederman said.

The neurologist smiled down at her. “You know, I can remember seeing her first picture—
Six Weeks of Thursdays
. I was a big fan of hers.”

“I'll tell her you said so. It'll mean a lot to her.”

“Yeah—I was in middle school at the time.”

Biederman paused. “I'll leave that part out.”

5

N
ow this is more like it
, Kemp thought.

Most of his patients in the ICU were older and in a lot worse shape—and not nearly as pleasant to look at. But this woman—she was a knockout. In fact, aside from the bruising around her eyes and some minor fluid retention, she was drop-dead gorgeous. Kemp rechecked her chart to verify her age: forty-four, it said. He whistled in admiration.
Definitely the deep end of the gene pool
. He leaned over the bed and studied her face more closely. He could just barely detect a telltale line hidden along the bottom of each eyebrow and a similar line carefully tucked away under the curve of her jaw.
This is very nice work
, he thought.
Very
expensive—either she's got a sugar daddy or this woman's got
money
.

Just then there was the sound of a toilet flushing and the door to the restroom opened. Mort Biederman stepped out and found Kemp bent over his client's bed.

Kemp straightened. “Who are you?”

“Mort Biederman. Who're you?”

“I'm a nurse.”

“Oh. Thought you might be a doctor.”

“Yeah, me too. We ask visitors not to use the patients' restrooms, Mr. Biederman—it increases the risk of infection.”

“Sorry. You know what they say: You only rent coffee.”

“So I've heard. Are you family?”

“I'm her agent. I own ten percent of her—just enough to get me visitation rights and an ulcer.”

“Her agent?” Kemp looked at the chart again. “
Olivia
Hayden
—I thought that name sounded familiar. Is this
the
Liv Hayden?”

“How many are there? I made the name up myself.”

“Son of a gun—Liv Hayden, in the flesh.” He glanced at Biederman. “Is she married?”

“From time to time. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Forget it, kiddo, she's way out of your league. Besides, she's buried four husbands already.”

“They all died?”

“Who said died? She just buried them. So you're a nurse?”

“I think we've covered that.”

“How many patients you got? Because I want Olivia to have your full attention.”

“This is an ICU, Mr. Biederman. At UCLA it's usually two patients per nurse, but for high-visibility patients like your client it's one-to-one. I've been assigned to Ms. Hayden, and I'll be her night nurse until she leaves the hospital.”