Dead Wrong Read Free

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.

2
     
D OCTORS H OSPITAL , S EATTLE
    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?