Jack thanked him and hung up, called and requested dubs of four of the surveillance videos, and called the hospital administration out in California.
“Is Doctor Vincent there?"
“Doctor Vincent? Randy Vincent?"
“Randy? We have a Vincent Johnson in Personnel."
“Don't you have a physician there named Dr. Randy Vincent?” A pause and then.
“Hold on, please.” Probably somebody who just started working there. A long ... deadly ... pause.
Minutes slowly ebb and flow. A syrupy tide measured by seconds that echo the heartbeat hammer of a headache briefly dormant, now thrumming below the surface as the seconds drag by on hold, receiver changed to the other ear.
The.... (tick).... long ... (throb).... deadly.... (tick).... pregnant.... (throb).... pause. Christ! He looks up at the clock and after four minutes he clicks the line. Gets a dial tone. Dials the number again. Same woman's voice.
“Yes"—an edge of steel hardens his voice—"this is the same long-distance party that was waiting on hold for Randy Vincent. This call is police business and I was disconnected while I was on hold.” He lies.
“One moment, ple-uhz, sorry we disconnected you.” Click. (Tick) ... (throb).... (tick).... (throb).
“Personnel?"
“Yes."
Good Christ above. “My name is Eichord, I'm with the Major Crimes Task Force and we're involved in an investigation of a Murder case.” Really laying it on. “It is vitally important that I reach Doctor Randy Vincent."
“One moment please.” (throb).... And, mercifully, a click and a woman's voice says, “Hi. Are you trying to reach Doctor Vincent?"
“Yes, I am. Is he there?"
“No. He hasn't been here for over a year. I'm not sure where he can be reached. Would you want me to check to see if we have forwarding information on him?"
“Yes, please. But wouldn't someone there know where he is? I mean, he's a nationally known physician.” Eichord was beyond any compunction. Just get it done somehow.
“It's the fact we're so big. This is a very large facility and so many people are new here. I remembered the name from an old personnel roster. If you'll hang on for half a minute I can check."
“Please. It's quite important.” Half a minute, he thought as the phone banged in his ear. At least she gave him an ETA. That was golden as far as he was concerned.
“Hello."
“Yes,” he said, holding his breath.
“I can't find any forwarding address.” (Siiiiiiiiiggghhhhh.) “But I've got a phone number. Would that help?"
He took the number and hung up, dialing with fingers mentally crossed.
“Hello,” a woman's voice on the seventh ring, a slightly foreign-sounding accent he couldn't place.
“I trying to reach Doctor Vincent. This is long distance.
“I'm berry chorry, he not here."
“May I ask with whom I am speaking?"
“Eh?"
“Who are you, please?"
“Dis is de maid. You call later, okay?"
“No, wait, DON'T HANG UP YET,” he yelled before he could catch himself. “Listen. This is very urgent. WHERE ... IS ... THE ... DOCTOR? WHAT HOSPITAL IS HE AT?"’ Throb.
“I teek he at the BA."
The VA hospital. Ah-ha. “What city is this I'm calling?"
“Eh?"
“This is long distance. I called area code six—” Click. “Oh, don't hang up, goddammit,” he swore at a dead phone. There was a long period of dialing, the woman again, United Nations-style translation ... tick ... throb ... Finally he had the city. Bonita, California. He dialed directory assistance. Got the offices of the VA hospital.
“Hello—Veteran's Administration.” They'd given him the wrong number. Back through the operators, obbing, ticking, the romance and excitement of policework, throb, tick, another switchboard, a VA hospital in California and a woman telling him, “No, I'm sorry, there's no Doctor Randy Vincent here to the best of my knowledge. Wait a second. Just, uh, hold on a second,” she promised him one second and she kept it quick, clicking back on crisply, saying, “Here's someone who can help you. I'm connecting you."
“Thanks.” THROB....
“Yes?"
“I'm trying to find a doctor named Randy Vincent. An idea where I can lo—?"
“Oh!” The woman laughed into the phone. “He has his own consultancy now, I believe. I think you can reach him this week at—you want to write this number down?"
“Yes, go ahead please."
“Country Code Forty-one. City Code Twenty-one.” She gave him a long and strange-sounding number which included an extension.
“Do you happen to know what this is?"
“I believe it's a clinic."
“No. I mean what country this is, what city?"
“That's Lausanne, Switzerland."
Fucking wonderful. He dialed direct. At least he wouldn't have it on his motel bill and have to use one of those cards he was always misplacing. The line rang fifteen times. He had the operator place it again.
“What time is it there, miss?” It finally occurred to him that it was after office hours.
“It is seven-forty-six there, now."
“Thanks. Cancel please. I'll replace the call tomorrow."
T H R O B.... T I C K. Lunchtime: 12:46. He'd have a little lunch and be all n’ lit in no time. This afternoon, one more call—Donna Scannapieco. Line her up for the house. He wasn't particularly looking forward to having to drag her through the experience but you never knew what it might shake loose from the trees.
Come back. Make one more call. Shuffle a few papers around. Go back to the motel and play with his mangy mutt. Or something.
Highland Park
The session had begun at one in the afternoon in the Jones-Seleska law offices in Garland. They had left about three-thirty at Noel's request (No, you won't be imposing) so that she could get this hunk out to her house again. How she managed to keep her hands off him she'd never understand, but so far it had been all business. Still. She could read his desire in those beautiful eyes.
Out in her house in North Dallas she kept up the questions for a while and kept it strictly business, and he kept the answers short and sweet, taking Ukie through the stages of his young life.
Noel wanted all kinds of documentation. She told him what she'd been able to obtain from the cops and from prosecution under “discovery” and what was missing. How it could help Bill if she could find even something—some vestige of the orphanage records.
“They were lost in the big fire, as Bill told you, I guess,” he said, softly.
“Yes. How about the foster parents who raised you? When did they pass away?"
And he took her step by step through all of that again, patiently, the when and how and who of it, and the fact of no neighbors, no next of kin, no relatives of the foster family surviving, and then the odd coincidence that all of the personnel at the now-defunct social-service agency in Branson were either deceased or they could not be located by trace. It was, as Noel told him, quite unfortunate.
“It's almost as if your personal histories had vanished off the face of the earth."
“I know,” he commiserated. “I don't know if you can understand the loneliness and feeling of alienation you suffer when you lose all your roots the way we have. I know it's just a series of coincidences, but even though we didn't have this big circle of close kinfolk the way most people do, you sure do get a sense of loss. A sense of losing whatever ties to a family you might have had. And I guess if you lost a real close relative, you know you'll never see that loved one again and..."
As he spoke to her she felt herself being drawn to him again. Falling under some wonderful spell created by his sensitivity and soft tones, that warm and gentle voice, that sexy voice of his lulling her, promising so much tenderness and loving, and she had to work to keep her mind on business.