Dead Wrong (2 page)

“Oh my God, oh my God …”

Mouth dry, heart ready to explode, she hobbled to the kitchen, propped the phone on the granite counter and punched in 9-1-1 with her good hand.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Help, please help me. My baby boy—someone’s kidnapped my baby boy.”

“Okay, ma’am, now calm down and tell me what happened,” the dispatcher said in a calm, unemotional tone.

Calm down? Jesus!
“Someone just kidnapped my baby. Please, help me.”

“Is anyone with you?”

Bobbie glanced around in spite of having just checked the house. “No. I’m all alone.”

“An officer will be there shortly. Please stay on the—”

She punched off and hit speed dial. A moment later she blurted, “Trent? Oh my God, Trent, come home right now. Jordan’s been kidnapped.” Sobbing uncontrollably, she dropped the phone and slid slowly to the floor.

B
OBBIE BECAME AWARE of pounding on the front door struggled to her feet, then opened the door to a tall uniformed police officer on the porch. He stared at her a beat before asking, “You the one called in a missing child?”

Slightly confused but relieved to see help, she opened the door wider. “Yes. Come in. Come in. Please.”

He leaned forward to peer in but did not step across the threshold. “You look distressed, ma’am. Anyone inside threatening you?”

“No, no one. I laid down to close my eyes for a moment, and when I woke up Jordan was gone.”

After scanning the living room, the officer stepped inside. He said, “Jordan?” while craning his neck to see into the interior hall.

Why didn’t he understand? She just told him. “Yes. My son.”

“Uh, ma’am, you sure no one else is on the premises? Your husband, a friend?”

Weeping, she dropped into an overstuffed chair. “Now you! Why won’t anybody believe me?”

“Ma’am, let me see if I understand the situation. You say someone entered your home and took your son from you?”

Bobbie felt she was about to explode from anger. “No, nothing like that! He was here and now he’s gone.”
Why won’t he listen?
“Please, why won’t you do something? It just happened. I was napping.”

“I understand, ma’am, but I need more information before I can do anything. Go on, finish telling me what happened.” He sounded less guarded now.

Unable to curb the frustration from her voice, she began deliberately, as if talking to a child. “I fell asleep. When I woke up Jordan was gone. All his toys are gone too. That’s what I don’t understand.” She swept her good hand toward the rest of the house. “His red fire engine … his toys … they’re gone.”

Trent Baker, Bobbie’s husband, came trotting through the open front door. He stopped at the sight of the officer.

“What the hell?” Gasping for breath, he glanced at the cop, then at Bobbie, then calmly walked to her. “Bobbie, you okay?” Dropping onto his haunches, he grasped her right hand in both of his. “Honey, what happened?”

When she didn’t answer he looked up at the police officer. “She okay? What happened?”

With a shrug he answered, “Don’t know, sir. I’m trying to determine that myself. She called 9-1-1, claimed your son’s been kidnapped.”

Trent shook his head. “My son?”

“That’s my understanding.”

Trent Baker sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, officer.” He shook his head again. “We don’t have children.”

F
RIDAY AFTERNOON BEFORE Labor Day weekend—three blessed days without call. Having just signed out to another partner ten minutes ago, Tom McCarthy yawned and checked his watch: 1:07
PM
. Maybe put in four hours of paperwork before heading home for a beer and some much-needed rest.

Yeah, a beer. He deserved it. Especially after last night. He’d rolled out of bed at 2:31
AM
for an emergency case in the ER that ended up in surgery until 8:30
AM
, dictated the operative report, checked on the still-unconscious patient in the recovery room, and rounded on three inpatients before enduring two back-to-back administrative meetings. The second one, the one he’d just finished, not only stretched on too long, but also included a buffet of crusty, dry lasagna and green salad drowned in a bad Caesar dressing. Which might’ve been tolerable except he was so hungry from missing breakfast that he scarfed down two helpings, which he now regretted.

“Afternoon, Maria.” He entered his empty waiting room and closed the hall door, Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand.

His office manager glanced up from behind the reception counter and smiled, her flawless white teeth a contrast against her rich Filipino skin. Her desk radio softly played golden oldies, her favorite station. “Good afternoon, Dr. McCarthy. You must be tired after such a busy night.”

“The good news is I have three days to rest up. How’s your day been?”

“Slow. I let the others go at noon. Hope that’s okay. I thought, give them an early start, this being a long weekend and all.”

“Perfect. I’d take off early too, if I could. But hey, why don’t you go ahead, get out of here?”

She glanced at the computer screen. “Maybe a little early, but I still have a few things to finish up. But now that you’re here, you mind if I run downstairs to grab a sandwich before they close?”

“No problem. I’ll be in my office.” He headed that direction, thought about something, and turned to her. “Doesn’t your family have a picnic this weekend?”

“We do.” She pushed back her chair and reached underneath the counter for her purse. “Oh, almost forgot. Two men came by to see you this morning.”

“Oh?” Odd, he wasn’t expecting anyone. “They say what they wanted?”

She brushed strands of glossy black hair off her forehead. “No, but they sounded like it’s important.”

Who could that be? A process server? No, most of those snakes worked solo. Not a drug company salesman because the office didn’t allow drop-ins. “What’d you tell them?”

“The truth, of course,” she said, flashing a conspiratorial smile. “That you were in surgery and by the time you got out, you would be tied up the rest of the day.” She started for the door, slipping the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

Part truth, part white lie: her way of protecting his time, especially from two men without an appointment or a good reason to see him. She knew he’d want to leave as soon as possible, maybe spend the weekend readying his boat for fall. He hadn’t told her about Caroline yet.

“I appreciate that. Now go get some lunch before you starve to death.”

H
E SET THE coffee on his desk, dropped into the chair, and eyed the stack of paperwork. Quarterly reports, budgets, productivity figures: information essential for managing a major department in a medical center. Maria strategically had the charge sheet for this morning’s surgery on top, her not-so-subtle hint to fill it out first. He leaned back in the chair and sipped his coffee. Boring bureaucracy wasn’t the career he had envisioned when working his ass off in med school.

Strange, the turns our lives take, and for what reasons. Two years ago—six months after Anne’s death—he had accepted a headhunter’s offer to interview for the chair of neurosciences. Moving from his married-life environment might provide a new start for him. And it did. Along with an increase in obligatory social functions, the kind more comfortably attended as a couple. He quickly became involve with Caroline.

But that turned out to be a huge mistake. A classic trap, he realized two months into the relationship. She was Anne in too many ways: her sense of style, humor, taste in movies, and a thousand other attributes. Caroline had resurrected memories of his dead wife instead of being a fresh start, making it a situation that was grossly unfair to them both. The right thing to do to was end the relationship before expectations and assumptions blossomed into regrets. So last week he tried to explain that he was involved with her for the wrong reasons, that it was a rebound thing and he felt a rebound wasn’t the right basis for a relationship. She argued that they were good together, that she felt he genuinely cared for her. Feeling cornered, he disagreed and said that he wasn’t going to continue seeing her. The conversation ended in bitterness and harsh words when she called him an asshole.

A man with a gruff voice said, “Put your hands on the desk and stand up.”

Startled, McCarthy snapped out of his reverie and looked up to see a gun aimed at his head.

S
ARAH HAMILTON’S EMOTIONS whipsawed between pissed and anxious. The lousy thing was she didn’t know why. She slapped the large red button harder than necessary, causing a bang as loud as a gunshot. Embarrassed, she glanced around to an empty hall, thank God. The clock on the wall showed 1:07
PM
.

Calm down, girl. Get a grip.

The heavy doors to Cardiac Intensive Care Unit whooshed open. She entered, heading straight to the nursing station. With her mother’s black hair and delicate graceful features, Sarah was often mistaken for Italian rather than the child of a “mixed couple.” She hated the expression, as if the union between her Cuban mother and African American father came out of a Waring blender rather than a Catholic marriage.

The charge nurse saw her approach and smiled. “Afternoon, doctor.”

“Afternoon. Any inquires about 621?” she asked, referring to the patient admitted last night.

With a raised eyebrow, he asked, “You asking about the family or Dr. Witherspoon?”

“Witherspoon.” Witherspoon was the code word used by staff to refer to a man impersonating a doctor who’d recently attempted to gain access to patient information.

The nurse leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Well, he’s not been in here. But you heard, didn’t you, a guy fitting his description tried again last evening in the Neuro ICU?” He pronounced the acronym “nick you.”

A jolt of adrenaline tingled down her arms to her fingertips. “Oh? NICU? As in neuro, not neonatal?”

He nodded. “Right, neuro.”

Her initial excitement morphed into a glow of vindication for having spent almost an hour at 2
AM
convincing administration to break the rules and admit Bobbie Baker under a false name and Social Security number. Not only that, but to also place her in the cardiac ICU instead of the neurology intensive care. On second thought, panic hit. Maybe Bobbie wasn’t paranoid after all. Maybe someone really
was
really out to get her. She asked, “What exactly happened?”

“Not much fortunately. I mean, no scenes or anything. Apparently a security guard recognized him from description and confronted him. He turned and walked away. Wasn’t much the guard could do by then.”

Tom needs to hear about this. Now
. “And he’s not shown up here?”

The nurse gave a sideways glance of suspicion. “No, but now I get the distinct impression you’re part of this drama. Mind telling me what it’s about?”

Tell him? Why not? As long as she didn’t divulge Baker’s true identity, what harm could it do? “What do you know about her history?”

The nurse studied his palm computer a moment, then slid it back into the breast pocket of his scrubs. “She’s an overdose. She was admitted here because neuro is full.”

Perfect. That was the fabricated cover story exactly. “This isn’t—” she caught herself before using Bobbie’s real name, “—Leslie’s first admit. During a prior admit to Nine West a man claiming to be Dr. James Witherspoon tried to access her chart. You know Diane Halvorson?”

The nurse nodded. “Charge nurse on psych?”

“Yup. She’s been here longer than God and knows just about everyone on staff. Anyway, this Witherspoon shows up on her ward asking for Leslie’s chart. Diane doesn’t recognize him so she asks him for his ID. He pulls one out of his pocket. It looks okay, but something just doesn’t sit right so she digs in and says no. You know how most docs would be—they’d go bat shit on her. But this Witherspoon guy just walks away without a word.