David hadn't visited ICU since his full-time days, and he thought that the ambient technology was louder than he remembered-the buzzes, the rings, the snaps; and that the odors were more prickly-the antiseptics, the detergents, the hydrocarbons. Once again, he imagined he smelled ether there but knew ether was no longer used.
He greeted the staff huddled around a portable chart rack as one of four green-clad residents led a case discussion among students in short white jackets whose side pockets bulged with small manuals, tourniquets and lab slips. An older gentleman in grey slacks and green blazer leaned against the wall. David recognized him as an attending surgeon and the session as the obligatory and hallowed "rounds."
"How's the Bugles boy?" he whispered to the head nurse.
"Just came in from Imaging, Dr. Brooks. They said his MRI's okay. He's a little groggy but knows where he is. He's down in 520. Madeleine Curry's with him. She's `on float' and we grabbed her."
"Thanks, Annie. Good to see you again."
David proceeded quietly down an endless corridor, past rooms with curtains open or half-drawn or fully drawn; past patients artificially ventilated; patients invaded by drainage tubing; patients immobilized for fractured extremities, their legs and arms yielding to weights and pulleys and strange angles; cocooned skulls; moans and groans and sobs.
Room 520 was the next to last. David paused at the doorway.
"Hi, Madeleine, fancy meeting you here," he said softly. "The last I heard, you were a fixture on Men's Surge." She was blonde, full-figured, too sultry for her profession, and known for her scorching eye contacts.
"David! What have you been doing with yourself? Oh, wait, I take that back. It's house calls and that other love of yours, right?" She arose slowly from a chair, carefully closed the patient's chart and sashayed toward the door. One would have expected Madeleine, a little bird of a woman, to have been given to quicker movements. She raised up and David kissed her forehead, and, for a moment, her perfumed fragrance brought him back to the sizzle of the old days.
"Only the other love-and I assume you mean detective work," David stressed.
"What else would I … oh, I see, and then there's Kathy. Well that's a given, isn't it?" Her one-shouldered shrug connoted indifference tinged with contempt.
David squelched a frown, yet believed there was no subtext to the question. He left it unanswered.
Another of David's old flames, Madeleine had been one of his youngest and had made no bones about her displeasure at being cut off once Kathy reentered the picture. He still believed her sassiness enhanced her sex appeal but he felt now, more than before, that both were anathema to a hospital setting, particularly an intensive care unit. Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand, so he allowed the corners of his lips to turn up in a conciliatory smile.
David approached Robert who lay propped in bed between a sitting and supine position. His eyes were closed, the left a beefy lump, its lashes partly inverted. Dried blood caked his forehead and nostrils, and a padded bandage covered his left temple and ear.
"Robert, it's me, Dr. Brooks." David reached down to enclose Robert's crossed hands in one of his own, leaving it there.
Robert's right eye struggled open as the left side of his face creased and contorted upward.
"Don't try to open the other eye," David said. "You're going to be all right but you've got to rest it off."
Robert inched his head in David's direction and, prying his lips apart, mumbled, "Hello, Dr. Brooks."
"Who did this to you, Robert?"
Robert's eye appeared to blink uncontrollably. "My brother." He coughed and swallowed hard. "He got … mad. He, he … got … mad."
"Why?"
"I let you in … dad's place." Robert's eye clamped shut and tears seeped over his cheeks. Madeleine plucked a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and dried the tears.
"That's enough," David said, gently squeezing Robert's hands. "You rest, now." As an afterthought, he added in a lower voice, "Too bad you weren't better trained to defend yourself." He immediately regretted the statement, or at least making it at the wrong time. But he wasn't sure Robert even heard it.
David backed up a few steps before turning to leave. Although it had crossed his mind, he judged it best not to inquire about Madeleine's personal life for fear of resurrecting talk of their schism years before.
On the way to the elevator shaft in the basement, he puzzled over the attack and its ramifications. Questions came at him like ticker tape. What does Bernie know? Foster's medical training? The shipments? Whatever from wherever. Istanbul? Is Bernie in on it? And, didn't Robert say his brother was in Tokyo? What's going on there?
David found the usual crew milling around the elevator and control room area. Sparky flitted about taking photographs. The hospital's security force of a half-dozen was there, and uniformed officers stood mute and soldierly at each end of the hall. A sheet covered Tanarkle's corpse.
Kathy and Nick emerged from the control room and David motioned them aside.
"Foster's all yours," he said, "and did you hear about Robert Bugles' beating?"
"When did it happen?" Nick asked in a matter-of-fact tone, drowning out Kathy's gasp.
"This morning. I just saw him in ICU. He's got some superficial contusions and abrasions. They'll probably keep him overnight as a precaution, but he should be all right." David thought Nick looked somber.
"Who did it?" Kathy asked. "Were you able to talk to him?"
"Yeah, and he said it was his brother, Bernie. We should bring him in. He was supposed to be in Tokyo but apparently he's around."
"He's always supposed to be in Tokyo," Nick said.
The comment convinced David that Nick was more involved in the murder investigations than had been let on.
"And while we're at it," David said, "anyone know where Spritz is? He's got to be questioned, too." He didn't want to stare at Nick, instead alternating his gaze between him and Kathy, disguising his greater interest in the reaction of the Chief Detective.
Nick hurriedly left to talk to one of the security guards.
David turned to Kathy. "Something eating him?" he asked.
"It's not you, David, if that's what you're thinking. He's just feeling the pinch. Four murders here in one week. City Hall's on his back. Don't forget he's new to these parts and he's responsible."
"I guess you're right." David put his hands on his hips and looked up and down the hall, and up above the elevator shaft to a point he estimated would coincide with the clock outside. "Four murders here in one week" rung in his ears.
"I hate to sound bossy, Kath, but we've really got to locate those two guys."
She was about to speak when he stepped on her words, adding, "You said I'd have logistic support."
"And you will," Kathy said in a placatory manner. She took a step closer. "Darling," she said, "I know you're feeling the pinch, too, but it'll work out. We'll all keep doing what we've got to do. We've checked Spritz's home and his office, and we talked to his backup and the page operators. No one's seen hide nor hair of him. So we put out an APB."
"And Bernie?" David said, "you have his address in
Manhattan, right? Could we send one of your men down?"
"It's already been decided to do better than that."
"Meaning?"
"Nick wants to stake it out himself."
David knew his face turned to stone and his smile smarted as he responded, "Good, and maybe an APB on Bernie, too."
"You got it," Kathy said.
It took a moment for the stiffness to reach the back of David's neck. "Well," he said, "carry on. Let's contact each other if there's anything to report. Belle wants me at the Hole." It was an excuse to leave.