The waiting was affecting her concentration. She had to resist the urge to call her answering machine every hour. The Guidelines committee started hearings in another week. Time was getting short.
True to her promise, though, she wasn't forgetting about looking into Lisa Lathram. The question was how. She had a feeling Oliver had said all he was going to say, and she couldn't very well ask Duncan.
Wouldn't the sudden death of the daughter of a prominent local warrant some newspaper coverage?
Yes, it would. She called the D. C. Public Library and they connected her with their periodicals section. They were most L cooperative but could come up with only one reference to Lisa Lathram.
In the August 17 issue of the Washington Post, her obituary. Gin stopped in the main branch on G Street and found it on microfilm.
No help there. Except for mention of the survivors, it might as well have been a high school yearbook entry.
Gin would have liked to surf through the microfilm but she was due at Lynnbrook to do her house-doctor thing, so she left that for another day.
She wasn't giving up on this. When Gin had left for medical school, Duncan was a top Virginia vascular surgeon with a wife and two children, when she returned from residency he was a divorced Maryland plastic surgeon with one child.
Something had happened in that interval to turn his life upside down.
Lisa's death? Maybe. Or maybe that was just a part of it. There had to be more. And Gin made up her mind to find out what it was.
While on Three North at Lynnbrook she passed Mrs. Thompson's room and decided to stick her head in the door to see how she was doing. She saw the old woman shuffling between the chair and the bed. She tottered forward and would have hllen if she hadn't caught hold of the metal footboard.
Gin stepped into the room as Harriet eased herself onto the bed.
"You should call for a nurse before you try anything like that, " Gin said as she helped her under the covers.
"I'm practicing. I've got to go home. I don't want to get Dr. Conway in trouble." Curious, Gin sat on the end of the bed. "What makes you think he's in trouble? " "I overheard two of the nurses talking.
They said the TRO and the hospital were on his back because of me. " "That's PRO, Physician Review Organization. And don't you worry about Dr. Conway. He can take care of himself. You just worry about getting stronger."
"Don't worry. I'll be strong enough to go home real soon. You can count on that. Real soon."
"Good for you, " Gin said. "And remember, Call the nurse when you need to get up. You fall and break a hip you'll never get out of here." "That will never happen. I'll not be a burden on anyone.
I'll be out of here sooner than you think."
"That's the spirit." Gin liked the old woman's determination. Maybe things would work out for Dr. Conway after all.
A September storm was drenching the city when Gin dragged herself into her apartment around half past eight. As she passed the bedroom she noticed the message light on her -. answering machine blinking.
Probably Gerry again. She'd been playing telephone tag with him since Taco Bell. Their schedules weren't meshing.
When he was free, she was moonlighting. But they'd managed to connect last Friday when Gerry delivered on his promise to take her out to 'a real restaurant for a real dinner." That turned out to be a delightful evening. A little French place on Massachusetts. Good wine, good food, and good conversation. They talked and talked, lingering over coffee until the maitre d' informed them that the place was closing.
She learned that Gerry Canney was not only a dedicated father, he was a dedicated FBI agent as well.
She yawned. Tired. This was no way to live. The rest of the city was up and about and starting the day while hers was just finishing.
Luckily she didn't have to assist Duncan today.
She sat in the bay window, watched the rain splatter and run down the panes, then sifted through her mail. Mostly "Occupant" fliers and the throwaway medical journals that had tracked her down and followed her from Tulane. The pile yielded two letters, both from medical headhunters looking for board-certified or board-eligible internists or family practitioners to fill primary-care slots. She averaged half a dozen offers a week.
"Tired of being on call? Need a change of scenery? " As a matter of fact, yes.
"Move to sunny Nevada." She read on. A new Las Vegas megahotel was opening an on-premises clinic for its ten thousand employees. No thanks.
The other letter played coy with the precise location, but guaranteed $ 1 20,000 plus benefits to start as the fifth member of a family practice group "located just ninety minutes from beach, mountains, and D. C. " Gin thought about $120,000 to start . . . wouldn't that be nice. The profession had been running low on primary-care docs for years, probably because they occupied the bottom rung in prestige and income. But The growth of managed care had created a sudden demand for the lowly generalist. Over twenty-three hundred dollars a week, probably for fewer hours than she was working now. Tempting.
But not yet.
She dropped the letters into her lap and gazed down at the street watching the fallen yellow leaves swirl as they floated down the gutter toward 18th Street. Was she kidding herself? Was this whole idea of hooking up with the Guidelines committee a fool's errand? Was Peter right? Wasn't she wasting her training by doing presurgical medical clearance on Duncan's patients when she could be in a real practice treating her own patients?
Maybe. But this wouldn't last forever.
She spoke silently to the city beyond her window.
I know it looks like I'm just treading water, folks, but trust me, I really do have a direction. It's just that lately the cgrrent always seems to be running against me. But don't worry. The tide will change.
At least she hoped it would.
I've got the blues, she thought. And why not? It's a damp, chilly, crummy morning, I've been up all night, my energy has bottomed out, and I'm overtired.
Not the best time to make big decisions.
She tossed the headhunters letters and occupant mail into the wastebasket, and put the journals aside to skim later. Then she hit the button on her answering machine. It would be good to hear Gerry's voice.
- But instead of Gerry it was an unfamiliar woman's voice. "Ms. Panzella. This is Senator Marsden's office. Mr. Blair asked me to call and inform you that Senator Marsden wishes to personally interview you tomorrow afternoon at four P. M. If you cannot make it at that time, the senator will not be able to reschedule. Please call to confirm that you will be there. ' She left a number and an extension.
Gin realized with a start that the message had been left sometime yesterday. "Tomorrow" was today.
She replayed it. She'd only met Joe Blair once, but she could smell him all over that message. "His. ", incapable of calling her "Doctor.
" The arbitrary time and no rescheduling. She could almost hear his voice, Do or die, Panzella.
She sensed some sort of a power struggle. What was it? The senator choosing new staff and his chief of staff resisting an intrusion into his bailiwick? That could make for a tense atmosphere. Did she want to get caught in the middle of that? Come in on the wrong side of Joe Blair and have to buck him from the get go?
She'd love it.
Smiling tightly, Gin reached for the phone and jabbed in the number.
After confirming her meeting, she strode back to the window and looked out on Kalorama Road.
See, fol/2s? What'd I tell you? The tide's turning.
DUNCAN M AMAZED, SAID SENATOR VINCENT. EVEN IN THE close confines of a doctor's examining room he spoke as if he was delivering a speech.
"I'd been told how incredibly rapid your surgery healed, but didn't appreciate exactly how rapid until I'd seen it with my own eyes.