Next he looked at the sections of the lungs. Except for some extra fluid, which was expected with pulmonary edema, and a few extra red blood cells, they were unremarkable. Same with the rest of the organs of the body.
When he was finished looking at the slides, he closed the tray, returned the rubber band around it, and put it aside. He felt unnaturally becalmed, which for Jack in his current life was a totally foreign mental state. He was accustomed to constant action and, if anything, a strong tailwind pushing him to greater efforts. It was a lifestyle and mindset he’d developed to pull out of the paralyzing depression the loss of his first family had caused. As a result, Jack had become averse to standing still or, as he called it, vegetating. He found himself lamenting that Ronald Cavanaugh worked the night shift because it meant he’d probably be sleeping all day.
Glancing at his watch, Jack tried to imagine what time he might hear from the nurse, as he distinctly remembered him saying he’d call sometime today. Since Ronnie’s shift went from 7:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., it stood to reason that he’d sleep at least to the middle of the afternoon, so it probably wouldn’t be until 3:00 or even 4:00. He sighed. As keyed up as he was, he was at a loss for how he was going to weather the wait. His line of sight moved to the stack of autopsy folders and the unexamined trays of slides on his desk. He could easily spend the hours completing multiple cases, and he probably should, but he realistically doubted he’d be able to concentrate, and if he couldn’t concentrate, he reasoned that he might not perform at the level he required of himself.
Instead of signing out cases, Jack picked up his phone and stared at the text Ronnie had sent him during the night: Here’s my number. I look forward to continuing our conversation. He typed out a reply. Thank you for your contact. I look forward to continuing our conversation as well. I’m available as soon as it is convenient for you.
Only a moment after Jack had hit the send button, his phone rang, making him start. In a mild panic he looked back at the screen, wondering if in some weird technological way Ronnie was responding instantly. But it wasn’t Ronnie calling. It was Laurie.
Jack let his phone ring for several cycles just to allow his brain to readjust, then answered.
“Where are you?” she demanded. Her tone was insistent, angry, and incriminating.
“I’m back at the St. Regis for more French toast,” he said, but then regretted it just as he’d done yesterday. The problem was that such sarcasm had become reflex over the years as a kind of defense mechanism. Often it was effective, but with Laurie it rarely worked, and he knew it would only serve to aggravate her more than she clearly already was. Sometimes he was his own worst enemy.
“I’m not even going to respond to that,” Laurie said. “Are you in the pit?”
“No, I happen to be up here in my palatial office. You sound a bit out of sorts.”
“I am out of sorts!” she snapped. “Get your ass down here! I want to talk with you! You, my friend, are again in the doghouse.”
“Can we put it off for an hour or so? I’m expecting the pope to stop by shortly.” Jack winced, knowing he was undoubtedly making the situation worse. But he couldn’t help himself. She was pushing his buttons, acting like the Laurie he’d come to dislike: boss Laurie.
“Get down here!” she yelled before disconnecting.
“Now what?” he questioned as he tossed his phone onto the desk and went back to staring up at the ceiling. He wanted to give himself a moment to let his irritation subside. He tried to think of what she was now angry about, but he couldn’t imagine unless it was about his playing detective. That morning everything had been hunky-dory. He’d even managed a pleasant conversation with Dorothy, who had gotten up uncharacteristically early.
When he felt he was reasonably under control and able to deal with whatever it was that Laurie was upset about, he grabbed his jacket. As he walked down the hallway to the elevator, he put it on. He didn’t rush
Chapter 27
Wednesday, December 8, 10:30 a.m.
Arriving at the administrative office, Jack approached Cheryl’s desk. As per usual, she was on the phone with headphones fitted with a small microphone. Although she wasn’t at the moment speaking, it was clear to him that she was listening, as she was also scribbling some notes. When Jack was about to pass, she raised her left hand and motioned with a thumbs-down, meaning Laurie was currently occupied, and he’d have to wait.
For Jack, waiting under such circumstances was like adding insult to injury, but he dutifully went over to the outer-office couch and sat down. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes her office door opened, and the deputy chief, George Fontworth, emerged. His expression was glum.
“Is she in a bad mood?” Jack questioned, getting to his feet as George passed.
“The worst,” George whispered back. “Good luck! You are going to need it. Something happened that has made the incoming mayor’s support a little rocky. She wouldn’t tell me what it was.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Jack mumbled. He looked over at Cheryl, who now gave him a thumbs-up. Progressively curious as to why he was being called on the carpet, he walked into Laurie’s cheerfully decorated domain. In sharp contrast to the décor, her expression was somber as she drilled Jack with her intense blue-green eyes. Her flushed cheeks reflected the bright red silk dress she was wearing. She was standing behind her large desk, leaning forward on her fingertips with her arms straight. It was apparent she had been again closely examining the morgue architectural plans, which were still spread out on the desk.
“I got a most disturbing phone call a few minutes ago from a member of the mayor-elect’s transition team,” Laurie said while straightening up. She folded her arms in a way that reminded him of his hard-nosed sixth-grade teacher.
“Oh, good,” Jack said brightly. “Were they calling to compliment you anew on your presentation yesterday?”
She shook her head. “Always the wise guy,” she said irritably. “Quite the opposite! The person I spoke with said that she had gotten an angry call from Marsha Schechter, who was a big donor to the campaign and has the incoming mayor’s ear. Schechter called to lodge an official complaint that a medical examiner by the name of Jack Stapleton had been caught at the hospital, going into locked offices without permission, and, worst of all, looking into hospital papers that he had no clearance to be reading and was escorted off the campus. Is all that true?”
“No, it is not!” he said with authority.
“It’s not?” Laurie questioned, momentarily taken aback.
“I never got to look at the hospital papers, much less read them,” Jack explained.
She rolled her eyes and waited a beat before responding to try to calm herself down. “Okay, smart aleck. The critical fact here is that you went over to the MMH one time. Is that true, yes or no?”
“I did not go one time,” Jack said.
“No?” Laurie again questioned with equal surprise.
“I went twice,” Jack confessed. “In the early afternoon and in the late afternoon.” He was now as irritated as Laurie for unfairly being attacked for doing his job.
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed. “You are impossible. You know you are not supposed to go out on site visits. It’s been a major policy here for years, which I am now responsible for enforcing. Can you imagine, just once, what kind of message it sends to everyone if I allow my husband to break such an established rule? On top of that, what if I lose the mayor’s support for the new morgue building over something like this?”