She'd worked closely with both Peter and Milton, yet was completely unaware of their extracurricular relationship. For a physician, she must be pretty dense. Even now, it was hard to comprehend the possibility that they'd been lovers, let alone murderers. Everyone had always been so professional. Milton was the epitome of decorum. She hadn't even suspected. Of course, when did she ever think about sex? She was only concerned with work.
She glanced at the notes and memos covering Grafton's desk. Her fingers traced along the blotter. A small lump stopped her progress. Picking up the blotter, she discovered a silver key underneath, taped to a folded piece of paper.
She examined it closely. She read aloud the words,
Steel case
, printed on the metal.
The journal
?
Unfolding the paper, she blinked at the strange writing. The entire letter was written in French. Was the journal, too?
She could've kicked herself. All those missed opportunities. How many times had she told herself to learn French, especially since it was closely related to Latin? Now, when she needed it, she drew a blank. She'd have to have it translated. A monumental task. Milton had a large grouping of Steelcase files in his lab, the one he shared with Peter Mueller. Perhaps the key fit one of them, but which one? She glanced around the room; he didn't have anything here. Was this a clue to his murder? Maybe his journal was in a file.
So many unanswered questions and a killer on the loose. She'd best step carefully. First thing on the agenda was to find out what the letter said.
She probably should contact Krastowitcz immediately and tell him about what she'd found, but he certainly didn't seem like he would know French, and he'd have to find a translator. Anyway, at least she could save him a few steps. He'd looked so exhausted this morning, it was the least she could do.
She glanced at her watch. Almost time for rounds. There'd be plenty of time to do that, later. First, she'd visit the lab and check if any file numbers matched the key. Then she'd figure out a way to search them.
It would be a good chance to observe Peter's behavior for anything strange. Of course, everything about him was odd.
THE LABORATORY was located on the lower seventh floor of the Medical School. The school was on the other side of the campus six blocks from the hospital, and Andrea didn't spend much time there. Patient care ate up most of her time. A big part of her responsibility for Grafton's research centered around the care of his active AIDS patients.
Andrea pulled into the parking lot at six-fifteen. The school was deserted except for a few other workaholics and the security guards.
Excitement hurried her steps. A locked file was so mysterious. Her breathing quickened, only this time it wasn't the asthma. She loved a good mystery. Read them voraciously. Now she faced the biggest mystery of all.
And she was smack-dab in the middle of it.
Grafton's laboratory was state-of-the-art. Amazing what a few million dollars could buy: computers, centrifuges, cell counters, refractors, laser fusion splitters. The only thing missing today was Milton commanding his many lab assistants. A pang of sadness sliced through her. There was no way he could've been a sadistic killer.
Entering through the security entrance, Andrea made her way past the coffee shop toward the bank of elevators. She pushed Sub 7.
The school-research facility utilized the latest concepts in energy efficiency, all fifteen stories below ground. Only a small bubble could be seen from the surface of the school's entrance.
Andrea hurried down the hallway, but hesitated, her hand on the door. Peter could be really ugly when his territory was invaded by outsiders. And to him, she was an outsider.
She had to chance it. She needed those locked files. Taking a deep breath, she turned the knob and pushed.
Peter Mueller looked up briefly and scowled at her. Silently, he bent down over his vials and ignored her.
"Hello, Peter."
He looked up again with a renewed glare. "What brings you to our laboratory, Dr. Pearson?"
"Look, Peter, could we have a truce? At least during the investigation? I know how devastated you must be."
"Do you? I doubt it. How could you? You only care about your own career and what everyone can do for you. Now, you're with that detective. You're not fooling anyone, especially me."
"What do you mean? We're only trying to find out who killed Milton."
Peter slammed a beaker against the counter. "You all killed him. He was close. So close."
"Close to what?"
"To the answer." His reaction frightened her. This might not be the time or the place to discuss guilt. Especially when he could be Milton's accomplice. Nevertheless, curiosity forced her to continue.
"Answer? Peter, what are you talking about? You're not making any sense. What was Milton getting close to?"
Peter picked up the pieces of beaker. One cut through his skin. Drops of blood dotted the counter. He put his finger in his mouth. "Don't act like you didn't know, Andrea. Milton had been using himself as a guinea pig for months. Testing the vaccines."
"What?"
"Testing his theory. In the normal patient there are two types of T-lymphocyte cells; T-helpers that activate specific disease fighting cells creating antibodies that destroy microbial invaders, and T-suppressors that alert the body when the invaders have been conquered and the threat is over."
"I understand, Peter, but what does that have to do with--?"
"Patients with AIDS have no T-cells at all and their bodies become the host for myriad infections."
"Yes. Of course." The discussion caught Andrea up, her purpose momentarily taking a back seat to work.
"Whatever it is that causes the total destruction of a human being's T-cells and virtually destroys the immune system has become the biggest mystery of all. Symptoms that are merely aggravating for a healthy person become deadly in the AIDS patient, because of the inability of the body to fight even a minor infection," he added. "That's what kept Milton working night and day to develop a vaccine." He shrugged. "Forget it. He's dead. Who'll carry on? I can only prepare what he told me to. I don't have the expertise--" His voice cracked.
Her heart softened. He'd been just as devastated by Milton's death. Maybe she'd been wrong about him after all.
"Peter, I'm sorry. I loved Milton too, but we've got to find out who did this and why. Where did he keep the journal for his research grant?"
"Which one?"
She pointed to the cabinets against the wall. "The NIH, I think."
"No, those files contain reprints; the grant files are either in his office or at the Dean's office. Maybe his journal is in there."
"There's nothing in Milton's office. Peter. Are you sure?"
"How could you lose his grant, Andrea?"
"I'm not looking for the--"
"I'm sure you got a copy of the grant. They're floating around everywhere. I can't understand why Milton thought you were so important to his work, if you can't even keep track of simple paperwork."
"I want the journal, not the grant," she said louder.
"Why should I have a copy?" Peter continued as if he hadn't heard a word. "I'm the assistant not the investigator. My name wasn't on the grant application; yours was."
During Peter's tirade, she'd inched toward the metal cabinets lining the west-wall of the room. There were three locked cabinets, but she couldn't make out the numbers unless she looked closer and she didn't want to be too obvious. Milton always said
Peter knew where everything belonged.
She'd go home, get a good night's sleep, come back tomorrow when he wasn't there. Find out what was in those file cabinets.
"--and besides," Peter said, "I don't know anything about a journal."
Her heart quickened. What was going on? Had Milton lied to her, or was Peter hiding something?
Like maybe the journal? That's what all this was about, wasn't it?
She hurried toward the door. "Thanks Peter. I won't bother you any more."
"Whatever." He hunched down over his slides unaware that his cut was still bleeding.
THE NEXT MORNING, Suzanne Latham's voice in her ear interrupted her dreamless sleep.
She stood shaking Andrea's shoulder. "Wake up, sleepy- head. You're late for rounds."
"Wha. . . huh. Suzanne? Suzanne!" Andrea bolted upright. "What time is it? Where have you been?"
"At Trent's, and it's seven o'clock. Listen, you'd better get moving or you'll be late. Today's Grafton's funeral.
"Seven o'clock? Oh, shit! Is it really?"
"Listen, Andrea, I think it's serious."
Andrea sat up and rubbed her eyes. "What's serious? Suzanne, slow down."
"Me and Trent." Suzanne plopped on her friend's bed. "I've decided to drop Jamison's class and spend more time with Trent. I'm going to meet him today."
"Trent?" Andrea swung her legs off the bed.
"No, silly. Jamison." Suzanne jumped up and glanced at her watch. "Oh, look at the time. I've got to run." Suzanne tossed her a kiss and headed toward the front door, Andrea trailed behind pulling on her robe.
"Suzanne, wait. Let's have supper tonight, so we can catch up on everything. Meet me around six o'clock at the office. We've got to talk."
Suzanne gathered up her bag. "Okay, okay. I'll fill you in later, just so you know. I'm disgustingly happy. He's the most wonderful man, and I think he feels the same about me. See you at six," Suzanne called and rushed out the door. Andrea was already in the shower.
"Well, I'm certainly glad somebody is so cheery."
Andrea turned her face into the steady stream of warm water. Only ten minutes to get herself together for what looked like an endless day.
Milton Grafton's funeral lay ahead, looming like a summer storm on the horizon. Warm water caressed her tired muscles, and she bent her neck toward the heat. A shower always made her feel better, no matter how bad things got. It gave her a second wind and she really needed it today.
There were morning rounds to get through before going to the mortuary. God! Was there no end?
THOROUGHLY AWAKE, she slipped into her navy suit and pumps, ran a comb through her hair, and rushed toward the elevator. In the underground parking garage, she scurried to her beat-up Volkswagen. It was old and badly rusted, but the engine ran like a Porsche. She tossed her briefcase through the passenger window, and slid in the other side.
With the morning sunlight, the familiar Omaha humidity slammed into her--solid, heavy, oppressive. Instinctively, she puffed on her inhaler and geared up into second. God, she hoped there wasn't much traffic today. She hated to keep people waiting. Andrea drove past the Mall wishing she was nestled on one of the benches underneath a tree contemplating her life.
So much had happened in such a short time. It seemed a lifetime ago since the Dean had told her her faculty appointment was being put on hold. He'd told her so much that day: Milton said she wasn't qualified; he'd suggested she not be hired; that she do another year of fellowship. All the direct opposite of what he'd told her in person. Then, when she'd asked to see the letter, the Dean declined, saying right of privacy or some such rot.
As if it happened all over again, her cheeks grew warm from the remembered humiliation. Dwight Hardwyn had promised to look into it, and now, Milton was dead.
She'd never understand any of it. Why had her mentor written such a letter? Maybe Dwight could throw it out. She made a mental note to talk to him about it.
At the hospital, she caught up with her rounding team of students and residents.
"Dr. Hardwyn, this is an unexpected surprise. What are you doing here?"
"I hope you don't mind, Andrea." He put his arm around her and they walked down the hallway leading the procession of physicians, students, and nurses. "But I thought you might welcome the break. Did you forget about the funeral?"
"No. I--I was planning rounds first. I guess I overslept."
"That's not like you, Andrea. You've been doing too much, but not anymore. I'm covering your service. You go to the mortuary and take a few days off. Get yourself straightened out."
"I can't thank you--"
"Don't worry about that. Just get some rest. Things will be fine. After all I
am
the Dean and this will give students something to really get shook up over." He turned around and glared at the apprehensive group.
"Andrea, after the service, let's meet in my office. Say, around ten o'clock? I'll go over everything with you, then."
"Of course, Dr. Hardwyn." Why had he done this? Did he believe Milton lied about her abilities? Or did he think she was inadequate? No. He'd made it very clear he was on her side.
Andrea couldn't help smiling. God was on her side, after all. In the past few days Hardwyn had taken her under his wing. She may have lost one mentor but she'd gained another. Hardwyn was a great and powerful man. It couldn't hurt to have academic politics on her side for a change.
"But what about you?" She frowned. "Weren't you planning to attend--?"
"For the present, Andrea, patients take precedence. They won't miss me at the funeral and I know how close you and Milton were. We'll talk later."
Hardwyn led the small white-coated group down the long hallway leaving Andrea shrouded in relief. He was a surgeon and an administrator willing to do the scut work of a resident. "Hardwyn, you're a regular saint," she whispered under her breath.
Another surgeon popped to mind. Her ex-husband, Mr. Precious Hands, himself. All glory, no guts Joshua. Compared to him, Hardwyn didn't fit the surgeon's traditional personality profile. He wasn't an asshole.
Chapter XI
I WILL GIVE NO DEADLY MEDICINE TO ANYONE IF ASKED NOR SUGGEST ANY SUCH COUNSEL . . .
Mandelsonn's was Omaha's most opulent mortuary. Dark wood and white satin was everywhere. Krastowitcz had asked Andrea to sit in the back to observe the mourners. Maybe she'd see someone strange, someone who triggered a memory, a clue to what might've happened.
Windowless, the room was large and lined in mahogany, which made it even darker. The shadows softly caressed Milton, warming him. It was as if he were only sleeping next to a small podium that stood in wait for the eulogist. Andrea expected him to rise and stretch, sleepily asking if he was the next speaker. Amazing how different he looked without that. . .