The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [88]
Whatever the goals of the interior decorators, David decided, making clients who looked like drowned rodents feel less conspicuous was not one of them. The sterile opulence featured thick gold carpeting, original oils on the walls, and a jungle of bamboo palms and huge ferns. A well-stocked library was prominently displayed behind glass walls. Even more impressive to him was the fact that several people were actually using it.
Ben popped around a corner, smiled at David’s appearance, then extended both hands. “Either you walked over or this is autumn’s answer to the Blizzard of Seventy-eight,” he said.
“Both.” He took the lawyer’s hands in his and squeezed them tightly. Ben was a thin break in the clouds—an island in the madness and confusion.
“Had lunch yet?” he asked as they walked to his office.
“Yesterday. But please, nothing for me. You go ahead if you want.”
“Meatloaf à la Amy?” He produced a brown bag from his desk. “There’s plenty here. You sure?”
David shook his head. “No thanks. Really.” He looked around the room. Ben’s cluttered office was in sharp contrast to the rest of the austere suite. Books and journals were everywhere, many of them open or marked with folded sheets of legal paper. The walls were overhung with framed photographs and pen-and-ink drawings. “Your partners let you get away with all this earthiness?” he asked, gesturing at the disarray.
“They think I’m camp.” Ben grinned. “One of my partners once called my office ‘funky.’ A thousand a month just for this room and he calls it funky.” He took a bite of sandwich, then spoke around chews. “Even soaked, you look better than yesterday. Are you holding up all right?”
David shrugged. “I got suspended from the staff at the hospital,” he said flatly.
“What?”
“Suspended. I had a visit this morning from Dr. Armstrong—she’s the chief of staff and the only one at that place who really seems to give a shit about what happens to me. Anyhow, she called and asked to stop by. I knew what she had to say and suggested she tell me over the phone, but she insisted on doing it in person. That’s the kind of woman she is.”
“So?”
“So, last night the executive committee voted, over her objection, to ask me to voluntarily suspend my staff and O.R. privileges until this whole business is cleared up.”
Ben shook his head. “Not ones to waste any time, this executive committee of yours.”
“According to Dr. Armstrong, Wallace Huttner, the chief of surgery, led the push. He’s also helping the murdered woman’s husband put together a malpractice case against me. If I’m found guilty, they want to be ready to move right in and sue. Dr. Armstrong said they made my suspension voluntary as a favor to me—to keep me from having an enforced suspension on my record. I think they did it because it’s less paperwork for them.”
“Shit,” Ben muttered.
“It’s probably just as well. Even before I was arrested the place became instant iceberg the minute I set foot in the door. It’s all crazy. I … I don’t know what the hell to do. I’d fight back if I had even a faint idea of who or what I was fighting, but …”
“Hey, easy,” Ben urged. “The fight’s just starting. For now I’ll throw the punches, but you’ll get your chance. This afternoon we share ideas about who and why. Tomorrow we’ll start planning what to do. Somewhere out there is an answer. Just be patient and don’t do anything rash or crazy. We’ll find it.”
David nodded and managed a tense smile. “Hey, I almost forgot this.” He pulled a soggy envelope from his pants pocket. “Good thing pencil doesn’t run,” he said, passing it over. “Dr. Armstrong didn’t want me to get into any more trouble at the hospital, so in exchange for my promise to stay put, she did some checking for me. There are four names on the sheet inside. She got them from the hospital personnel computer. Two orderlies with prison records, a nurse with a drug-use history, and another nurse who is