The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [6]
“Okay, I’ll phone Joey and get a raincheck,” David said, relieved that he was able to put the matter to rest without a major confrontation.
“That would be fine. Really.” It was Lauren’s way of thanking him for his restraint. “I do have to work. In fact, I’m flying to Washington this morning. The President’s going to announce details of his latest economic program and the service wants me to cover it from the personal, human side. I’ll probably be there for a couple of days.”
“In that case, you’ll need all the nourishment you can get.” He nodded at her untouched breakfast. “Want seconds on the eggs?”
Lauren glanced at her watch, stood up, and stretched as high as she could reach. “Just leave them there until I get back from Washington.” She walked halfway toward the bedroom before adding, “They can only improve with age.” She giggled and dashed down the corridor as David sprang up to give chase. She waited until he had nearly reached the bedroom door before pushing it closed and flipping the lock.
“You’ll live to regret this,” David called out through the door. “Someday I’m going to become a famous chef and marry the Countess of Lusitania. Then I’ll be lost to you forever.”
Twenty minutes later, Lauren emerged from the bedroom, breathtaking in a burgundy suit and beige blouse. A silk scarf was draped loosely about her neck. “No caveman stuff, David,” she said, anticipating his hug and blocking it with an outstretched hand. “This outfit has to last me at least a day. Listen, I almost forgot. You might be able to help me out.”
“Only in exchange for caveman stuff.”
“David, this is serious.”
“Okay.” He motioned that he was ready to listen.
“Senator Cormier’s office announced that he’s entering your hospital in the next day or two for an operation. Gall bladder, I think.”
“You sure? Cormier seems more the White Memorial than the Boston Doctors type.”
Lauren nodded. “Could he be coming in as Huttner’s patient?”
“No chance. Huttner would never go away with that kind of prestige coming in on his service.”
“Do you think you could get in to see him? Or even better, get me in to see him? His campaign for a stiff windfall profits tax against the oil companies has made him really big stuff. An exclusive interview would be an ostrich-sized feather in my cap.”
“I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee any—”
“Thanks, you’re a dear.”
Lauren wished him luck with his new responsibilities, squeezed his hands, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Then, with a final, “Be a good boy, now,” she walked out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator.
For several minutes David stood silently by the door, breathing in her perfume, but feeling only a strange emptiness. “At least she could have tasted them,” he said as he began to clear the table. “In spite of what they looked like.”
* * *
The night watchman was fat. Fat and agonizingly slow From a recessed doorway, the nurse, a fragile-looking woman with hair the color of pale sun, watched and waited as he lumbered down the hallway. Now and again he stopped to poke at the door of a storage room or to check one of the bank of staff lockers lining the wall. B-2 West, the subbasement of the west wing of Boston Doctors Hospital, was, but for the two of them, deserted.
The nurse looked about at the grime, illuminated by bare ceiling light bulbs, and her skin began to itch. She was a petite woman, impeccably groomed, with makeup so meticulously applied it was almost invisible. Impatiently, she rubbed her thumbs across her fingertips. The watchman was taking forever. She glanced at her watch. Forty-five, maybe fifty minutes of safe time—more than enough, provided she could get moving and avoid any other unanticipated delays. A roach crawled over the tip of her shoe and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. She forced herself to relax and waited.
Finally, the watchman was done. He keyed the security box, began whistling the “Colonel Bogey March,” and, after a few in-place steps, strutted