A Doctor-Nurse Encounter. Carol Ericson
door and shrugged into it. Then he crouched behind his desk, unlocking it, and pulled open the bottom drawer. He didn’t even check to see if the gun was loaded before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. He always kept a loaded gun with him. Old habits died hard.
“I’ll be right back.” He waved to Zoe on his way out the door.
His shallow breathing returned to normal when he saw Lacey talking to the cop in front of Dr. Buonfoglio’s office. She obviously had no clue about the types of surgeries her boss occasionally performed, but the surgical nurses knew.
How long before the remaining nurse, Jill Zombrotto, spilled the beans to the cops, or worse, the FBI? She’d be in hot water herself, so maybe she’d decide to take her chances with the other side. Nick couldn’t allow her to take any chances.
He might just have to pay a visit to Jill Zombrotto himself.
LACEY STACKED THE LAST of the dinner dishes for one in the dishwasher and dried her hands. She left the pot of chili on the stove to cool off. Lifting her tea bag from her cup, she watched the droplets splash into the amber liquid as she inhaled the cinnamon scent. She eyed the open books on her kitchen table, and then skirted the table on her way to the worn, comfy sofa. She had to do some advance reading for her next class, which started in a week, but had zero concentration.
Just like that, half of the people she worked with were dead. Why? What secrets did Dr. B have that warranted murder?
Lacey curled her legs beneath her on the sofa as she wrapped her hands around her warm cup. Dr. Nick Marino had secrets, too. His dark eyes told a different story from the attractive, easygoing, playboy bachelor about town. They held wariness and pain.
She snorted into her cup. Like Dr. Perfect needs tea and sympathy from you. The wariness probably came from being on guard against lusty, gold-digging women. Now that she’d met Nick and broke bread with him, she totally got those women—not the gold-digging part but the lusty part.
When he walked her to the parking garage this afternoon, he dipped his head, his lips hovering so close to hers she almost expected a kiss, and despite her previous disdain for him, she wouldn’t have minded one bit.
At lunch he showed more humility than she expected. He spent the entire lunchtime questioning her, and didn’t once mention his burgeoning practice or his graduation from Stanford Medical School at the top of his class.
He took his guardian angel duties seriously, too, sort of like a knight in a white coat instead of on a white horse. Before she ducked into her car, he held her shoulders in a caress and told her to be careful.
She shook her head and slurped her tea. He probably loved this new role, which gave him the chance to play hero to all his adoring female fans.
The ringing phone halted any further thoughts about the mysterious Dr. Marino. She placed her cup on the coffee table, bounded up from the sofa and scooped the phone from the counter. “Hello?”
“Hi, Lacey, it’s Jill.”
“I’m so happy to hear your voice.” Lacey sank back onto the sofa and grabbed a pillow. “I tried to call you earlier when I heard about Debbie.”
“I—I was out all day. It just seemed safer.” Jill’s husky voice almost whispered across the phone line, sending a chill creeping along Lacey’s flesh.
“What do you mean, safer? Are you in danger?”
“We’re all in danger, Lacey, even you.”
“What’s this about, Jill?” She dug her fingernails into the pillow. “Who killed Dr. B and Debbie?”
Jill sobbed. “I shouldn’t tell you anything, but I can’t do this alone. You see, I have the key, not Debbie, not Dr. B. I have it.”
“What key?” Jill sounded an inch away from total hysteria. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I could give the key to Lacey. She doesn’t know anything. They won’t hurt her. She can give the key to the FBI. The FBI won’t punish her. She didn’t assist in the surgeries.”
“Jill.” Lacey’s voice was as sharp as the pain in the back of her head. She had to bring Jill back from the brink of panic. “Where’s the key, Jill? What does it unlock?”
“I keep it with me always, close to my heart. Can I give you the key, Lacey? They won’t hurt you. I promise. Or you can go on the run with me. I always wanted a daughter, but they wouldn’t let me. I could never have a family. You don’t have a family, either. We could be a family, Lacey.”
Through her tears, Jill babbled about keys and families and daughters, no longer forming coherent sentences.
“Jill? Hang up the phone and lie down.” Lacey spoke with a calmness her trembling hands belied. “I’m on my way over.”
With frightening clarity, Jill answered, “They’ll kill us. Pack your bag. We’re leaving tonight,” and then ended the call.
Lacey sat clutching the phone in her lap for a moment, her hands clammy and her mouth dry. The murders of Dr. B and Debbie had hit Jill hard…that’s all. The three of them had been together for years. Jill and Debbie didn’t have families. They put everything into their work, and naturally Jill felt the loss down to her bones.
That had to be it. Lacey didn’t want it to be anything more sinister. After the turbulence of her childhood, she’d plotted and planned her life carefully to follow an even course. Fate couldn’t play such a cruel joke on her.
Tossing the pillow to the side, she pushed off the sofa. She replaced the phone in the kitchen and dumped her tea in the sink. Time to act like a nurse.
She grabbed her jacket and dropped the sample pack of Xanax Nick gave her last night into her pocket. Jill needed it a lot more than she did.
The moist air caressed her face as she stepped off the porch of the little house in Sunset her mom bought after she and Dad sold the more luxurious digs in Nob Hill. Dad enjoyed all the flash and image. That’s why he left Mom for that young pharmaceutical saleswoman.
The heavy fog rolled off the bay, creating a damp curtain around her as she moved toward the Jetta parked on the street. She’d been to Jill’s apartment just once, but she’d looked up the address in her phone book, and its location just up from Fisherman’s Wharf would be easy to find.
Thirty-five minutes later, Lacey’s car rolled to a stop across the street from Jill’s apartment building. The fog, thicker down here, smelled of fish and brine, and she moved into its embrace as she approached the pink stucco building lit by floodlights. She found Jill’s name on one of the labels next to the dull gold buttons, which she jabbed with her finger.
Damn, no answer. Had Jill fallen into an exhausted sleep? Maybe she’d been drinking and passed out.
She stepped back and a sliver of light fell across her shoes. Her gaze tracked the light to a crack in the door where someone had wedged it open with a magazine. So much for security measures.
Lacey pushed open the door, slick with moisture, and wiped her hands on her jeans. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the lobby, musty like old shoes. The elevator doors creaked open. She stepped inside, punching the button to the third floor over and over, as if that could make the old car move faster.
The threadbare carpet in the corridor muffled her steps as she trailed a hand along the wall, peering at apartment numbers etched into brass plates on each door. She reached number 329 at the end of the hallway and tapped on the door. Silence.
If Jill didn’t answer, maybe she could get the manager to open the door. She could always claim to be Jill’s daughter. After that hysterical phone call, Lacey wanted to check on Jill even if she was sleeping.
She rapped one knuckle on the door while trying the doorknob. The handle turned and Lacey glanced down, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. If Jill was worried about her safety, why’d she leave her door unlocked?
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