Blind Spot. Nancy Bush
he should be on Side A, either. But he was remanded to Side B, no matter what spin anybody wants to put on it.”
“You’re overstepping your bounds,” he said with a shake of his head.
“I’m always overstepping my bounds.” His look of surprise was almost comical. “It’s what you’ve always thought about me,” she said. “Maybe I am a mind reader after all. Avanti was wrong.”
He was staring at her as if she’d grown horns. Figuratively, she supposed she had. Good girl Claire Norris had left the building.
“What happened to your professionalism?” he demanded.
“Is it missing?”
He shook his head. “Channel Seven’s going to be here today. I don’t know whether you should be available or not.”
“Jane Doe’s not my patient. Go ahead and take care of it.”
“There’s something else, too. The police want to interview her, and I’ve allowed it.”
“Cat?”
“Jane Doe, yes.”
Claire was blindsided by this turn of events. “But she’s not awake.”
“They don’t care. Just wanted to let you know not to panic.”
Not to panic. “What good is this going to do?”
He shrugged. “You don’t say no to the police.”
She shook her head, disbelieving. “If you think this is right for the patient, then I guess it is.”
He peered at her hard. “I think there’s an insult in there somewhere.”
“I’d like to be there for Cat’s interview, too, if it’s all right.”
“With the police, but not with Channel Seven…?”
Claire made a sound of annoyance. “For both,” she said, though she really wasn’t looking forward to another round with Pauline Kirby.
The elevator doors opened onto the second floor and Freeson held them back from closing with his hand. Instead of getting out of the car, Claire punched the button for floor one again.
“You’re going back down?” he asked.
“I’m going to check on Cat.”
“Why?”
“Part of the personal patient care we give on Side A.”
“She’s my patient,” he reminded her.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“I’ll go with you.” He let go of the doors and they whispered shut once more. Claire had had about as much as she could stand of the man, but there was nothing much she could do to get rid of him.
They entered room 113 together. The blond woman stared straight ahead, not acknowledging either of them. The mound of her belly drew Claire’s gaze and she walked up to her and touched her hand lightly.
“Nurse Maria will be on duty tonight. If you need anything, press this.” Claire leaned across the bed, grabbed the remote call button, and laid it beside Cat’s blanketed left leg.
The girl’s eyes shifted. A flicker, side to side. Claire saw it and so did Freeson. He stroked his beard and said, “She’s in there.”
“When are the police coming?”
“Later today, I think. After Pauline Kirby.”
“Make sure I’m called for both, okay?”
“Fine.”
Claire turned away from him, knowing Freeson would do whatever he felt like in the end. He had no compunction in conveniently forgetting promises.
Heading for her office, Claire went back up the elevator, then passed by Glenda, the general receptionist for the medical office building, who was talking into her headset. She motioned for Claire to wait up, so Claire slowed her steps and stopped.
“A package was dropped off for you,” she said, reaching behind the counter. She handed Claire a silvery box from Promise’s Bakery, the size that might hold a two-layer cake.
“Who sent it?”
“Tony brought it.”
Tony was an orderly who was a general errand boy for the hospital.
Claire carried the box to her office, set it on her desk, slid off the top. It was indeed a cake. Fudge frosting. She felt strangely light-headed as she pulled it from its box and stared at it. There was a card but she didn’t have to read it.
She recalled the day Heyward III had asked her what her favorite cake was. She’d told him she preferred pies. Tarts. Something with fruit. They were in session and he was fixated on the idea. Wouldn’t talk about issues he was facing. Didn’t care that she liked pies. Was obsessed with knowing what Claire liked in a cake.
“I guess I’d say chocolate. Fudge, actually. With raspberry filling.” And a glass of red wine, she’d thought, but kept that to herself.
“I’m going to get you one,” he said with sudden vigor, rising from his chair.
“No, Heyward. Not now.”
“Soon,” he said. And then forgot the idea in the next moment.
But here it was….
She didn’t have a knife in her office. Carefully she ran her index finger down the edge of the cake, encountering the raspberry filling between the two layers. Heyward couldn’t have done this on his own. She would bet he’d told his grandfather what she liked, and Heyward Senior sent it to her. The card read, “Wanted to get you your favorite.” It was Heyward III’s writing, but she could visualize his grandfather hovering over him. They wouldn’t trust him with a pen.
A bribe, in its way.
She thought back on the meeting. Had she done enough to make herself heard? It was a moot point; they would do as they liked. They had before. They would again. But this time she’d really wanted to take a strong stand. No hedging. No trying to keep everybody happy. That hadn’t worked. Spectacularly hadn’t worked.
Carefully she carried the cake to the vending machine room. There was a small counter with a sink and a few haphazard chairs. Not really much of a meeting place, but then it was for the medical office staff only. She placed the cake on the counter and washed her frosting-covered finger in the sink. Gazing at the cake for a long moment, she felt her stomach growl.
Tightening her lips, she backed out of the room and headed back to her office for her purse and some change. She returned a few moments later and plunked coins into the vending machine, slamming a palm against a button for peanut M&M’s. Protein. And sugar. If she had a multivitamin it would be a complete meal.
She hoped somebody would enjoy the cake. It just wasn’t going to be her.
Cat was sitting in the other chair as Gibby claimed his, one eye on the lookout for Maribel, but she wasn’t around. Gibby scooted his chair closer to hers and was amazed when she said, clear as a bell, “I need to get out of here.”
“Out of the morning room?”
“Yes. And out the door.” She leaned toward the front of the building, past the desk and the sofas where Big Jenny liked to sit, though Darlene always told her she couldn’t sit there, and to the big glass windows that slid back and forth if you knew what numbers to push. Gibby didn’t know the numbers. He didn’t want to know the numbers. You had to have a square thing, too, or get the lady at the big desk to let you out.
“I’m scared out there,” he admitted, though it was hard. He wanted the blond lady to like him. “Your name is Cat…like cats…and dogs…?”
“Help