Breach of Ethics Page 2

I noticed Quinn didn’t try to eat cake. He was having enough trouble talking without wincing, and I suspected his jaw was hurting like a son-of-a-gun. I gestured toward my desk and mouthed, pain pills? He shook his head, pointed to his mouth and held up four fingers. He was already loaded up.

  The cake disappeared down to the last crumb, and the volunteers left, including Lola, whose shift was over. She walked out of the library on the arm of Oslo Swanson, an elderly gentleman volunteer. I suspected he might be her date to the Stockwell concert. From the crestfallen face of one of the other male volunteers, I could see that someone else had hoped to be Lola’s chosen escort. Love triangles can be problematic at any age, I thought.

  Quinn and I were left alone in the library with the specter of the morning meeting hanging over us. I waited for him to either bring it up or be on his way.

  “So, have you had time to write up this morning’s minutes?” He got the words out, but the way he moved his jaw reminded me of a ventriloquist.

  “I have a draft,” I said. “Dr. Snyder is coming by later to have a look.”

  “Want to let me see what you have so far?” The slurring got worse each time he spoke.

  His request posed a problem. There was a fine line between my loyalty to Quinn, who signed my paycheck, and my loyalty to the doctors who served on the medical staff committees. Quinn was an ex-officio member of the Ethics Committee, and I wasn’t sure he had the same rights as full members. I knew for sure that it wasn’t his place to dictate what went into the minutes. That was Dr. Snyder’s job. I hesitated for an awkward moment.

  “Well?” Quinn said.

  “I’d rather wait until Dr. Snyder comes by.”

  “She left before Lowe and I made peace. She doesn’t know the whole story.”

  “But that happened after she adjourned the meeting. It won’t be in the minutes.”

  Quinn formed a word on his lips that looked like it started with an F, but it must have hurt, because he winced. Instead he said one that started with an S, making me wonder if I would ever get up the nerve to start a swear jar.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I asked Cleo about the minutes, and she said I was to include only what happened up until the adjournment.”

  “You told Cleo?”

  “I sort of had to. When you promoted me, you said to use Cleo as a mentor, and I needed her advice. She’s not going to spread it around.”

  “I know. And you stepped in just in time, but it’s still damned embarrassing. Those security guards probably had a good laugh later. What do you suppose they thought when they saw you sitting on Lowe with his arm twisted behind his back?”

  “They probably thought you were rescued by a woman, but so what? Someone had to do something. Everyone else sat there like they’d been turned to stone.”

  “True, but they don’t have your trained reflexes, and I’m pretty damned sure none of them hold black belts in any form of martial arts.”

  My phone rang, the noise jarring both of us. Quinn waited while I answered. It was Dr. Snyder’s appointment clerk letting me know the doctor couldn’t meet with me after all. She had a patient who needed to be worked in at four thirty. I said we could reschedule and hung up without explaining to Quinn.

  “Was there anything else you wanted?” I asked.

  Quinn cautiously touched his hand to his cheek. “Yes. I wanted to thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but you know he caught you with a sucker punch.”

  Quinn smiled. “No need to protect my male ego, but I happen to agree. If he tries a stunt like that again, I’ll be ready for him.”

  His comment was not like the even-tempered Quinn I had come to know, but under the circumstances, it was understandable. I made a mental note to check the bylaws and to ask Cleo about ex-officio members. The issue had never come up in CME Committee, but clearly, Ethics Committee was a whole different ball game.

  Quinn’s last words to me came back to haunt him the next morning. It was Cleo who broke the news as soon as I opened my email.

  CALL ASAP. URGENT.

  That message jump-started my pulse. I called.

  “Jeez, Aimee, have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Oh, God. It’s so … you should come over to my office.”

  “Cleo, just tell me. How bad can it be?”

  “Gavin Lowe’s dead. Shot. When Varsha unlocked Quinn’s office this morning for the woman from Housekeeping, they discovered Lowe’s body.”

  I gripped the edge of my desk for a moment to keep my balance. After managing my initial shock, I closed the library and ran across the hospital complex through the windy, overcast morning to Cleo’s office in the main tower.

  “The whole fourth floor is off-limits,” she said. “A forensic unit is already up there. Lowe is still … I mean, his body is still in Quinn’s office where they found him. It. Damn.”

  “Where’s Quinn?”

  “It’s only seven thirty. He hasn’t come in yet. Varsha says he has a Kiwanis Club meeting this morning.”

  “Quinn must know about it. Varsha would have called him right away.” Quinn relied heavily on Varsha Singh, his executive assistant. If anyone knew where to find him, she would.

  “She tried. Couldn’t reach him on his cell or home phone, so she told Security to call the police. Then she called me to see if I’d heard from Quinn. I hadn’t, so we had no choice but to let Sanjay take charge.”

  Sanjay D’Costa, TMC’s assistant administrator, was a recent hire fresh from grad school and still wet behind the ears.

  “Is Sanjay up there with the crime scene people?”

  “Yes.” Cleo got up from her desk and put her arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry about Quinn. The police will get to the bottom of this.”

  Worry about Quinn? It was Lowe who was dead. Then I realized what she meant. Someone must have mistaken Lowe for Quinn. Someone who wanted Quinn dead. Why else would Lowe be shot in Quinn’s office? But why would Lowe be in Quinn’s office after hours? Finally my brain stopped spinning, and like the ball that drops in a pocket on a roulette wheel, I landed on the truth of what Cleo meant.

  “My God, Cleo. Quinn’s going to be a suspect. We have to do something.”

  Cleo’s phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. “It’s him.” She grabbed it up.

  “Jared, where are you?” She maintained eye contact with me while she listened to him, then said, “Sanjay’s in your office with the investigators.” She listened again, said, “Okay,” and hung up.

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s at the police station, but he hasn’t been arrested or charged. He didn’t know about Lowe until he checked his calls after the Kiwanis meeting. He said he volunteered to be questioned.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Our jobs.” Cleo sat at her desk, picked up a pen, then put it back down. “He said do our jobs and try not to worry.”

  I hurried back to the library and found the door unlocked, which was wrong. It was Tuesday. Lola had recently gone back to working only on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. No one should be in there. I was sure I had locked the library when I left. Spooked by Lowe’s death and by the police presence, I stepped inside cautiously, wondering who my intruder might be.

  Dr. Sybil Snyder stood by my desk, leafing through my appointment calendar. She looked up at me, seemingly untroubled by being caught snooping. She had to be at least fifty, but her forehead was unwrinkled by surprise or any other emotion. There was no flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. Every hair on her head held its proper place in a smooth, champagne-blond cap. I couldn’t help thinking she looked expensive.

  “Aimee, there you are. I took the liberty of asking Security to let me in.” She walked toward me and reached out to touch my arm. “I’m sure you’re as upset as I am about what happened at yesterday morning’s meeting.”

  “Of course.” When she didn’t mention Dr. Lowe’s death, I wondered if she had heard. If not, I wasn�
��t eager to give her the news. I decided to wait. “Let’s sit down.” I took the chair behind my desk, leaving her to use a visitor’s chair. After the liberties she had taken in my domain, I wanted the power position. She pursed her lips for a moment, but she sat and leaned forward, drumming her fingers on my desk.

  “I’ve come by to review your draft of yesterday’s minutes.”

  I opened the locked file cabinet where I stored confidential committee minutes and pulled the file. Back at my desk, I slid the single sheet across to Dr. Snyder, who leaned in and read it.

  “This won’t do.” She pushed it back to me. The diamond ring on her hand looked expensive, too.

  “It’s just a draft, Dr. Snyder. I wasn’t sure how much detail you would want. This is my first time taking minutes for this committee.”

  “You think an assault on the hospital administrator is an insignificant detail? That meeting lasted all of ten minutes. I’d say it was the only thing worth mentioning.” She stood up and jabbed at the page with her finger. “Get that abysmal scene recorded in the minutes and let me know when they’re ready to sign.” She headed for the exit, but I couldn’t let her leave.

  “Please wait, Dr. Snyder.” I followed her to the door. “Did you know they made up after you left? Have you talked to Mr. Quinn since the meeting?”

  “No, and that’s not relevant. I haven’t talked to either of them, and they certainly didn’t make up before I adjourned the meeting, did they?”

  “No, but after that they did agree to forget about it. I thought we might be able to leave it out of the official record.”

  “Look, your job is to prepare agendas and see that minutes are recorded at the discretion of the committee chairs. My signature will be on the bottom line, so I’d better see what I want to see on that page.”

  It occurred to me that she hadn’t said a word about the drama unfolding in Quinn’s office at that moment. I had to ask if she knew.

  “Dr. Snyder, I wonder … have you heard the news about Dr. Lowe?”

  “No. What news is that?”

  “Varsha Singh and one of the staff from Housekeeping found Dr. Lowe’s body in Mr. Quinn’s office early this morning. He’d been shot. I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

  She blinked rapidly several times. “Did you say Dr. Lowe is dead?”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you might already know.”

  The pitch of her voice rose. “How on earth would I know about that?” A shaky hand flew to her chest.

  “Word got out right away. It’s being talked about all over the hospital.”

  “Well, this is quite a shock.” Snyder stiffened her spine and took a deep breath. “Under the circumstances, it’s all the more important that we document the altercation that took place in the Ethics Committee meeting.” She checked her watch. “I’m going over to the main tower to check on a patient. I’ll be back in half an hour. Please have the minutes rewritten and ready for me to sign.”

  I did as she asked, including the blows that followed the verbal argument between Quinn and Dr. Lowe. When Dr. Snyder returned, she quickly signed the revised minutes, offered a curt “Thank you,” and hurried away.

  The rest of the day was spent answering phone calls and emails from curious employees. A rumor had started about what happened at the Ethics Committee meeting. In the aftermath of Lowe’s shocking death in Quinn’s office, speculation was running wild. I didn’t dare say a word about the events in the meeting. The medical staff’s committee business was legally protected, unless someone spoke about it outside committee. If that happened, the minutes could be subpoenaed and anyone present could be required to testify in court.

  My last call of the day was from Quinn, who had not appeared at the hospital all day. I wondered if he’d been released after being interviewed by the police. He asked if I could meet him that evening. Good. He wasn’t in jail.

  “Where?” I said.

  “Someplace where we won’t be noticed.”

  “How about my apartment? Do you remember how to get there?”

  “I do if you’re still in Coyote Creek. The llama barn, right?”

  “Right. I’m going home now. What time?”

  “I can be there by eight. Will that work?”

  “That’s fine. When you pull into my grandparents’ driveway, come down the lane to the barn. I’ll leave a light on for you.”

  “Do I need to check in with your grandparents?”

  “No. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

  On a better day, Quinn would have teased me about living in a studio apartment above my grandparents’ llama barn. He had been there a couple of times in the past. Once when I needed a ride home, and again when a murder suspect attacked me. This time, it looked like he was the one in trouble. I wasn’t sure why he was asking to meet me, but I couldn’t refuse.

  Chapter 3

  When I pulled into my grandparents’ driveway to take the access lane to the barn, Amah stepped out her front door and waved at me from the porch. I stopped and rolled down the window. A few drops of light February rain sprinkled the passenger seat of my car. My brother, Harry, called the green hand-me-down Buick coupe my old lady car, but not in front of Amah, who had given it to me when she bought her Prius. Until I managed to pay down my grad school loans and credit card debt, it was all I could afford.

  “Jack made sweet and sour venison,” Amah called. “Do you want to have dinner with us?”

  “Sounds wonderful. What time?”

  “See you at six.” She blew me a kiss and stepped back inside. Now in her early seventies, Amah had silver threads in her short, dark hair, but she was still as petite and energetic as a hummingbird.

  I drove down the lane alongside an empty llama pasture. The rain had driven the woolly herd into the shelter of the barn. After parking in the barnyard, I ran up the outdoor steps to the covered deck that surrounded my little apartment. Inside, I checked the time. Five thirty. I considered texting Harry to see if he was invited to dinner but decided against it. Instead, I changed into jeans and a turtleneck sweater, poured a glass of Merlot, and turned on the TV. The last half of the local news reported Gavin Lowe’s body being found in the administrative offices of Timbergate Medical Center. Police were calling it an apparent homicide. No mention of anyone being questioned or charged.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that the murder would be on the news so soon. Amah and Jack would pepper me with questions. So would Harry, if he showed up.

  I turned off the TV and looked out my window. The rain had intensified from a sprinkle to a fairly ambitious shower. In waterproof boots and a rain slicker, I sprinted to the main house. Amah met me at the back door.

  “I was watching for you.” She took my slicker and hung it on a peg in the mud room. “You can leave your boots here, too.”

  I slipped them off and set them on the floor. “Is anyone else coming to dinner?”

  “No, it’s just the three of us.” She looked down at my stocking feet. “Are you going to be warm enough? I have a pair of slippers you can borrow.”

  “No thanks, I’m good.” I followed her into the kitchen, where Jack stood at the stove, tall and straight in boot-cut Levis and a blue-plaid shirt. His close-cropped sandy gray hair, parted on the side and slicked back, always reminded me of pictures I’d seen of forties movie idols. I helped Amah with salad and cornbread, while the tantalizing aroma of the venison dish filled the room.

  We traded news over dinner about my parents’ latest Skypes from the Azores, where they had been living for the past year. When Dad inherited property on the island of Faial from one of his elderly relatives, he and Mom felt the time was right to turn the reins of their construction business over to Harry. They missed us, of course, but they were still happy about their decision to retire.

  “They’re coming for a visit in early summer,” Amah said, “but they’ll stop in New York first to visit your Grandpa Machado and Tanya. Amah and Grandpa Machado had divorced amicably befo
re I was born when they realized their goals and ambitions were at odds. Grandpa longed for city life. Amah loved nature and animals and trekking in the wilderness. They remained good friends, but each had found a more compatible spouse.

  Grandpa Machado had worked as a doorman in a luxury condo building in Manhattan, where he met his second wife, a character actress named Tanya Tremont. She was a widow when they met, and only a few years younger than Grandpa. A comfortable-looking woman, she used minimal makeup and wore her light-brown hair in a simple shoulder-length cut. When Grandpa brought her to California for a visit a few years ago, the whole family took to her. Especially Amah. She seemed to feel no awkwardness at meeting the woman who had married her ex. Instead, she and Tanya seemed to have an instant rapport and got along like BFFs.

  When Grandpa retired, Tanya talked him into auditioning for a few off-Broadway plays. With his dark brown eyes, silver hair, and handsome Portuguese features, he had been cast in several roles calling for a distinguished character actor.

  “Are Mom and Dad going to stop in Virginia to visit Auntie Maria?” I asked.

  “I think so. She said they had to check Maria’s concert schedule.”

  My mother and her sister were born in India, daughters of a Chinese merchant. Their parents died very young, and the girls were adopted by an American family from Sacramento. Dad and Mom met in college at UC Davis. Auntie Maria attended a music conservatory in Baltimore, became a concert violinist, and married a dentist from Roanoke.

  The conversation about concerts brought me around to the drama playing out at Timbergate Medical Center. Little Natasha Korba, a piano virtuoso at the age of ten, was in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, while the doctor who saved her life might still be lying in the TMC holding morgue. And my boss, Jared Quinn, could very well be facing a murder charge.

  The three of us sat down at the glass-topped wrought-iron table in their dining room. Jack served the sweet and sour venison over a bed of rice. Amah’s green salad and cornbread muffins rounded out the menu. I was about to bring up my news about Dr. Lowe’s death when their doorbell rang. Amah looked across the table at Jack, whose mouth was already full. He put his napkin on the table and started to stand.