Hajjar turned her attention to Micelli.
“So, what are we after here?”
“The truth,” Micelli said.
He gave her a quick capsule.
“No chance,” she said. “The only thing we are more short of than nurses is storage space. There’s a little closet over there where we keep some supplies and cleaning stuff, but I go in there all the time, and I’d have to be as deaf, dumb, and blind as the Pinball Wizard to miss a clothing bag with Dr. Grant’s name on it.”
“Is there any other possible place? Wedged way up under the bed Dr. Grant was in?”
Without debate, Hajjar entered the cubicle where Grace was sleeping, knelt down, and peered under the bed. She returned shaking her head.
“No go.”
“Can you think of any other possible space besides that closet?”
Hajjar gave Will a prolonged look. Then, perhaps reflecting on the way things once were between them, she went to the other cubicles and looked under each of the other beds.
“Nada,” she reported.
“Could we check the closet?” Micelli asked.
“Suit yourself. Just you, though. The rest of you will have to wait over there. A couple of our patients are touch and go right now. I don’t want any commotion.”
Will watched as Hajjar led the Law Doctor to the far end of the unit and a supply closet that Will knew wasn’t any more than six-by-six. The inspection took less than a minute. Without a word, Hajjar returned to her patient, and Micelli came back grinning sheepishly.
“Nothing I didn’t expect,” he said. “Even if we don’t find anything here or in the ER, I have documents drawn up for each of you to get notarized stating that fact.”
“Stop by my office after we’re through,” Leary said, “and I’ll notarize whatever you need.”
Almost subconsciously, she glanced down at her watch. Will, who was again feeling deflated and peeved with himself for getting so enthusiastic over Micelli’s theory in the first place, felt his spirit sink another notch. Jill Leary could and probably should be at home with her kid right now, not offering to notarize worthless documents for him. She was a genuinely caring soul, but there was no way this fruitless expedition was going to supply the hard evidence he needed to free up the board, the hospital, and the Society to reinstate him. Absolutely no way.
“So,” Micelli said, pumping his fists to demonstrate that his bravado was intact, “this setback is not totally unexpected. Next we go to the ER, unless any of you has another thought.”
How about we all go home, Will was thinking.
“Ms. Leary,” Micelli continued, “if you would lead the troops, I have a matter to go over with Dr. Grant.”
He waited until Will had dropped back, then lowered his voice.
“Sorry about the strikeout in the ICU,” he said.
“I didn’t expect any different.”
“Maybe the ER will come through.”
“Maybe.”
“Listen, if I’m going to adjust my attitude, the least you can do is to stay in this game until it’s over.”
“Sorry, Augie, really I am. All of a sudden I just started overthinking-projecting like hell, getting myself all tied up in knots over things that haven’t happened and might not ever happen.”
“Been there, done that,” Micelli said.
“For so long, I just took being a doc for granted.”
“I understand. You know that I do.”
“I’ll pull it together.”
“Good. So, what’s the deal with Patty Moriarity?”
Will snapped around to face him.
“What about her?”
“She’s on our side, right?”
“Right. I told you a little about her. She’s the detective who got taken off the managed-care case.”
“Well, she called my office while I was on my way here, but I had the line on call forwarding to my cell phone.”
“Why didn’t she call me?”
“She said something about not being able to get through to your cell and not wanting to call you at home. She said to tell you she was off on business and would be in touch either late tonight or tomorrow. She said another thing, too. She doesn’t want you to go home until you speak with her.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Don’t go home tonight.”
“But why?”
“No idea, but she made it sound as if you might be in some danger if you do.”
“This is crazy.”
“I asked her if you should stay with me tonight and she thought that would be a good idea.”
Why not with her? Will wondered.
“You have room?” he asked.
“I do.”
“I have some business to attend to tomorrow morning, but I suppose I can go from your pad as well as mine. She give you any idea what’s going on?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Listen, you’ll come to my place tonight. I’ll fix you up with a toothbrush and a set of purloined scrubs, and we’ll talk.”
They had arrived at the ER. Leary motioned Micelli to the head of the line and he led the expeditionary force into the waiting room. The ER seemed surprisingly calm, especially considering the miles of rain-slicked roadways outside. The waiting room could probably hold twenty-five, but at the moment there were just a mother and her baby, neither of whom seemed particularly ill, and a grizzled man with a hard hat on the seat beside him and an ice pack on his wrist.
“Good news,” Micelli said after a brief trip to the inner sanctum of the ER. “We can all go in.”
What interest Will had left in the fruitless search for his shoes had been shoved aside by the news of Patty’s call and her insinuation that he would be in some sort of danger should he return home tonight.
Barbara Cardigan, the charge nurse, had two decades of experience in the ER and a carefully maintained gruff exterior that Will knew would crack for almost anyone with a legitimate illness or injury. She met the five of them by the nurses’ station.
“How are you doing, Will?” she asked, her concern genuine.
“It’s been hell.”
“I’m sorry. Well, much as I’d like to, I don’t think we’re going to be able to help you out. We’ve certainly had clothing bags left around, but not for more than a day or two. You were brought down from the OR to the Crash Room and intubated there. I wasn’t here that day, but Renee Romanowski was. I just called her. She’s certain that you were stripped down here, not in the OR, and that someone put your clothes in a bag.”
Will visualized the scene and found himself feeling embarrassed in front of the others.
“I was in scrubs,” he said, for no particular reason.
“Well, I certainly hope so,” Cardigan said, “given that you came from the OR. Mr. Micelli, how would you like to proceed?”
“How many rooms do you have?”
“Altogether, fifteen. Two of those have four beds. Five of them have two.”
“And how many of those have closets?”
“I think about half of them do. The rest just have shelves.”
“And there’s a closet in the Crash Room?”
“Yes, the largest one.”
Will saw the muscles in Jill Leary’s face tighten. Seven or eight closets to inspect followed by a notarizing session in her office to document that they had found nothing. Coming off a long workday, and with her husband and child waiting at home, she had to be desperate to have the safari disbanded.
“I’ll tell you what,” Micelli said, as if reading Leary’s mind, “I’m assuming the Crash Room’s empty right now.”
“It is.”
“Well, let’s all go there together, and if we have no luck, we can split up and each of us can check a closet in the rooms where there are no patients. Perhaps Ms. Cardigan can check the others.”
The nurse nodded her agreement, and the six of them trooped into ER 4, the Crash Room, which was reserved for major emergencies, both medical and trauma. Will, still distracted, was brought back to the moment by the sight of the room where he had so often been one of the central players in a life-and-death medical drama. He was again captivated by the vivid image of himself, lying naked, vulnerable, and unconscious, endotracheal tube down his throat, IVs in his arms, a catheter draining urine from his bladder into a plastic bag, his career as a physician about to slip away.