“Your levels can be explained by only one thing. In fact, they suggest you took two pills. You wouldn’t be the first woman to have thought of that, either. Still, it’s very, very dangerous.”
“No, that’s not what happened! I did not take the pill, any pill. I never would. I wanted this baby.”
“I’m merely telling you what your blood work reveals.”
“Then it’s not my blood work. There’s been a mistake.” She looked at his lined face, then the equally grave faces of the interns. “There must have been a mistake.”
“Look, Mrs. Perez, this is your business. I want to emphasize to you that it would be unwise to ever do this again.” Dr. Lehmann’s expression softened. “No judgment here. I’m concerned only for your safety.”
She tried to function. “How does it cause an abortion, this pill?”
“The bottom line is that after the pill is ingested, severe cramping occurs and the fetus is expelled. When medically unsupervised, as in your case, it necessitates a D & C to be complete.” Dr. Lehmann checked his watch. “We must be going. Grand rounds this morning. We’ll check on you, later.”
She watched them go in silence. After they had left, her thoughts tumbled over one another, fast and furious. She hadn’t taken an abortion pill, much less two. But she’d had cramping that night, so severe she’d doubled over from them. The cramps had started sometime after dinner.
She thought back to that awful night. She and Jack had had their typical Friday night dinner, which he routinely cooked as an end-of-the-week treat for her. He’d made chicken with rosemary and mashed potatoes, her favorite. He even shooed her from the kitchen when she’d tried to help and had served it to her at her seat, doling out extra mashed potatoes, over her protest.
The memory made her heart stop.
No.
She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense. The blood work had to be wrong. Any other possibility was unthinkable. Impossible. There had to be a mistake.
She tried to puzzle it out, turning the cell phone over and over in her hand. Its smooth metallic finish caught the light from the harsh overhead fluorescents, and she flipped it open on impulse. The tiny, multicolored screen showed the menu and on impulse, she pressed the button for the call logs. On the screen appeared a sharp-focus highlighting of the last call that had been received. It should have shown that it was her father, but the caller’s name didn’t read DAD or even HARRY.
Instead, it read: MOZART.
Huh?
Why would Jack call her father Mozart? Puzzled, she flipped through the menu to the address book and skimmed the address list. The names were in alphabetical order, and she skimmed them: BACH, BEETHOVEN, BRAHMS, CHOPIN, HANDEL, LISZT, MAHLER, MENDELSSOHN, SCARLATTI, SCHUBERT, SCHUMANN, SHOSTAKOVICH, SIBELIUS, TCHAIKOVSKY, VIVALDI.
What?
They were all composers. But Jack didn’t know anything about music; her father was the music expert. What was going on? It looked as if the names were some kind of code, on a cell phone she hadn’t even known existed.
What was happening? Who was Mozart? Had Jack heard from Harry? Had he lied about that? Why would he? Was Harry really okay? Suddenly, she didn’t understand anything. The miscarriage. The abortion pills. A secret phone with coded addresses. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her mouth went dry. She needed answers.
She pressed the button for MOZART, thumbed back to the call log, and pressed the button for the MOZART profile. It contained no real name, no email and no other information except for the phone number, which had too many digits. What did that mean? Then she realized there was a country code in front of the number. She didn’t know which country it was, but she knew it was an international number.
She pressed the buttons for two more profiles, HANDEL and LISZT. Both profiles were international calls, too, with no other information, like real name, email, or home phones. Why would Jack have a cell phone entirely — and solely — of international numbers? He’d never even traveled abroad; she was the world traveler of the two.
What about the baby?
She pushed the button and recalled MOZART, whoever the hell that was. The phone rang three times.
“Vukasin,” answered a man, in a thick accent she couldn’t identify.
She pressed End, her heart hammering. Who was Vukasin? What was going on? She couldn’t puzzle it out fast enough. Something was horribly wrong, and Jack would be back any minute. She didn’t know what to do. Confront him? Then she realized that this Vukasin guy could call back and blow her cover.
There was only one thing to do.
She hurled the cell phone to the hospital floor with all her might. The phone’s plastic back sprung open, and the slim orange battery flew out, skidding to the wall in front of the chair.
Just then Perez appeared grinning in the doorway. “Honey, I’m home!”
She arranged her face into a wifely mask and turned sheepishly to the door. “Please don’t be mad,” she said, willing herself to act natural. “The nurse gave me your phone but I dropped it.”
“Damn, Charley.” Annoyance flickered over his handsome features. “It was a new one.”
“I noticed. Sorry.” She eased back into bed, watching her husband with new suspicion. “Did you buy one of those insurance contracts for it?”
“No.” He strode to the chair, bent down, and began picking up the pieces of the cell phone. “Looks like all the king’s horses and all the king’s men…”
“…can’t put it back together again?” She finished his sentence with ersatz remorse.
“Nah, but that’s OK.” He slipped the plastic shards of the phone into his jacket pocket and turned to his wife with a smile she had loved so much it broke her heart.
Did you kill our baby?
Did you try to kill me?
But she wouldn’t ask him anything, just yet. She had to calculate her next move. Until she knew more, the best course was to keep her mouth shut and her eyes open.
She wasn’t Harry Middleton’s daughter for nothing.
Chapter Fourteen
P.J. Parrish
Kaminski stood at the window staring down at the inner harbor. A fog had rolled in and the lights of the buildings blinked back at her like eyes in the dark.
Her head was pounding — from bone-deep fatigue and the lingering effects of Faust’s Champagne. But also from fear.
She had never really felt fear like this before. Not when her parents disappeared and she was left on her own. Not when she had felt the press of the violin string against her neck when the man tried to kill her in Rome. Not even after she found out Uncle Henryk had been murdered.
But an hour ago, seeing the tattooed man bound in the closet, his bald head pouring blood, the cold, hammering fear began. It built as she heard him whimper as Faust whispered in his ear, as she saw his terrified tears, smelled the stench of his urine.
Shivering, she now moved away from the window, rubbing her hands over her arms. She scanned the suite’s living room, its oriental carpets and colonial furnishings. A mahogany bar dominated one corner, a gleaming baby grand piano the other. Off to the left, through open French doors, she could see one of the two bedrooms. Faust’s Vuitton duffle sat on the four-poster bed.
After the trip to the apartment, Faust had dropped her back at the hotel, and without another word, locked the door behind him and left. The man he called Nacho had been left to watch her. When he finally dozed off in the chair by the door, gun in hand, Kaminski had thought of running.
But where would she go? Faust had taken her passport, the one with the Joanna Phelps name on it, and her money. She knew no one in this country.