Both Nick and Jillian were impressed with the scene below them. It was impossible not to be. If plastic surgery were a religion, the Singh Medical Spa and Cosmetic Surgery Center was the Mother Church.
Jillian turned and headed back to the elevator. Nick was about to follow when he saw movement through the small glass window in the door to the operating room just below him. A moment later, the door opened and in came a tall, thin figure-a woman, it appeared-with a hair cover, surgical mask, maroon scrubs, shoe covers, and latex gloves. Nick pulled back from the edge of the balcony so he was probably out of her line of sight, and watched as she went directly to a floor-to-ceiling steel cabinet against one wall, retrieved a large, sterilized, cellophane-wrapped instrument tray, and quickly made her way back out of the room.
Nick waited a few seconds for her to return and then gave up and followed after Jillian. His thoughts were spinning. The woman might have had something to do with a central equipment supply room, but why would she be coming-rushing was a more appropriate word-into an unoccupied OR, dressed as if she had just left an active OR? And why would she need a sterilized instrument tray if, as Daintry had said, there were no operations taking place that day?
More likely, she was a nurse-possibly a circulating nurse, specially trained to oversee all aspects of patient care and nursing performance during an operation. There was a haste and purposefulness to her movements that suggested she needed to get the tray back to an ongoing procedure.
But there were no surgeons in the building… and no operating rooms in use-at least not on this floor.
“THE SECOND floor is the gym,” Jillian said, studying the brochure as they walked on excessively plush carpeting past the closed mahogany doorways of the offices of Paresh Singh, the nursing supervisor, and the business manager. “And the lap pool is also on two. At the end of this hallway is the family waiting area. Pretty amazing place.”
“Pretty amazing,” Nick echoed.
He scanned the corridor, noting the security cameras at each end. The medi-spa, for all of its elegance, gave him the creeps. There was something cold and lifeless about the place. He was anxious to share with Jillian what he had seen in the OR, and the conclusions he had drawn, but he sensed that they hadn’t really been alone for a moment.
They took the elevator to the sixth floor. Suites 6A and 6B were locked, but at the end of the corridor was a sitting area enclosed by huge plate-glass windows. The vista was an unobstructed panorama over the treetops to Washington. The view, including the back of the Lincoln Memorial, was spectacular, but hardly unexpected. They had seen something almost identical on Reggie’s computer screen.
Nick’s jaw was clenched.
He felt almost certain that Daintry Calnan had lied to them when she said there were only two operating rooms and no surgery going on. He wanted more than anything to get down to level B-2 and see if there were other operating rooms, and if one or more of them were in use. More likely, judging by the size of the two operatories they saw, there was a B-3 floor, probably accessed by one of the key slots in the elevator. Of course, he thought, there also had to be a stairway down from B-2. Maybe he could find it somehow.
The image of the broad-shouldered security guard, plus the plethora of monitoring cameras they had passed during their tour, argued for restraint. Any unusual movement in the building would be noticed immediately. Bad idea.
“Can you imagine either of our two friends basking in this place?” Jillian asked.
Nick wanted to warn her to say as little as possible, but she seemed to have picked up on his concern, and conveyed that fact to him with her eyes.
“Only as our guests,” he replied.
“Can you think of anything else we should be looking for, darling?”
“Just our car.”
The security guard in the lobby looked as if he hadn’t budged since their arrival. Daintry appeared to be expecting them.
“Quite a place,” Nick said.
“I’m pleased you like it.”
Jillian took the woman’s hand. “All we need to do is meet the doctor and plan the surgery,” she said.
Daintry seemed pleased.
Once at the car in the rear parking lot, Nick stood beside his door, and then asked Jillian to join him and gaze back at the medi-spa.
“What’s the deal?” she asked.
“The deal is that this is a bad place.”
“Daintry Calnan is certainly a bit on the chilly side, I’ll give you that.”
“More like an iceberg. But there’s more. She’s also a liar-either a liar or the most uninformed receptionist imaginable. I’ll tell you about what I saw in the OR when we’re on the way home, but suffice it to say that I believe Dr. Paresh Singh is not only in the building, but performing surgery at this very minute.”
“Performing where?”
“When we’re away from here we can speculate. First, take a look at the place. Gaze at it lovingly.”
“Okay. I’m doing lovingly.”
“How many floors do you remember from the elevator, not counting the basement ones?”
“Seven, counting the lobby.”
“Okay, now count up starting from L. Quickly, though. I’m certain the Dragon Lady is watching, and I don’t want her to suspect what we’re doing.”
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. But-”
“Exactly. I counted on the way in. I’m quirky about numbers. There are two floors that no one, not even the elevator, wants to acknowledge even exist. Let’s talk on the way home, Mrs. Collins.”
“I don’t think I want to trust this place with my body,” Mrs. Collins replied.
CHAPTER 27
The psychiatric wing of Shelby Stone Memorial Hospital was overcrowded and understaffed, which for Jillian meant it was business as usual. She was halfway through a grueling twelve-hour shift, the second in as many days. Still, for her, work had always been a refuge, and getting outside of herself, taking on the challenge of caring for the sick, the sad, and the confused had almost always given her strength. Since Belle’s death, it seemed that she needed work and her patients more than ever.
This had been an especially challenging afternoon. Beds on the psych unit, and throughout the hospital, for that matter, were filled. The interns and residents on the ER were nearing the end of their training year, and were shipping patients up to the wards with minimal workups. Jillian’s feet had begun swelling beyond what her white canvas work shoes could comfortably contain. And now she had been assigned a new admission for whom there would not be a bed available for several hours, if that. A somnolent, jaundiced, alcoholic man, probably in his sixties, he should have been admitted to a medical floor. His right eye was discolored and swollen almost shut. Diagnosis: Acute and chronic alcohol intoxication. Possible impending delirium tremens.
Typical. The diagnosis of alcoholism of any kind would not have gotten the fellow past the managed care gatekeepers and off the ER, but “impending DTs” would, despite the fact that the condition only occurred after cessation of drinking. Technically, every active drinker had impending DTs. Now, instead of offering him privacy, Jillian had no choice but to treat the poor guy in the hallway. It was not that Shelby Stone was a bad hospital. The nursing service had won many awards and national acclaim. It was more that the sprawling institution was just unwieldy much of the time, and the patient population was so ill.
She had taken the man’s vital signs and was in the midst of changing his IV bag when Nick, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a plaid Western shirt, appeared at her side. He reminded her of Trapper John, M.D., from M*A*S*H, with his bushy reddish brown hair that seemed extra wild today. Actually, she acknowledged, she liked that look. A lot.