Under the Knife Page 8

  “Yeah. A murderer.” Pokie took a pickle slice out of his sandwich and tossed it disgustedly on a mound of napkins. “What’s with all the questions, anyway? I thought you left the prosecutor’s office.”

  “I didn’t leave behind my curiosity.”

  “Curiosity? Is that all it is?”

  “Kate happens to be a friend of mine—”

  “Hogwash!” Pokie shot him an accusing look. “You think I don’t ask questions? I’m a detective, Davy. And I happen to know she’s no friend of yours. She’s the defendant in one of your lawsuits.” He snorted. “Since when’re you getting chummy with the opposition?”

  “Since I started believing her story about Ellen O’Brien. Two days ago, she came to me with a story so ridiculous I laughed her out of my office. She had no facts at all, nothing but a disjointed tale that sounded flat-out paranoid. Then this nurse, Ann Richter, gets her throat slashed. Now I’m beginning to wonder. Was Ellen O’Brien’s death malpractice? Or murder?”

  “Murder, huh?” Pokie shrugged and took another bite. “That’d make it my business, not yours.”

  “Look, I’ve filed a lawsuit that claims it was malpractice. It’s going to be pretty damned embarrassing—not to mention a waste of my time—if this turns out to be murder. So before I get up in front of a jury and make a fool of myself, I want to hear the facts. Level with me, Pokie. For old times’ sake.”

  “Don’t pile on the sentimental garbage, Davy. You’re the one who walked away from the job. Guess that fat paycheck was too hard to resist. Me? I’m still here.” He shoved a drawer closed. “Along with this crap they call furniture.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight. My leaving the job had nothing to do with money.”

  “So why did you leave?”

  “It was personal.”

  “Yeah. With you it’s always personal. Still tight as a clam, aren’t you?”

  “We were talking about the case.”

  Pokie sat back and studied him for a moment. Through the open door of his office came the sound of bedlam—loud voices and ringing telephones and clattering typewriters. A normal afternoon in the downtown police station. In disgust, Pokie got up and shoved his office door closed. “Okay.” He sighed, returning to his chair. “What do you want to know?”

  “Details.”

  “Gotta be specific.”

  “What’s so important about Ann Richter’s murder?”

  Pokie answered by grabbing a folder from the chaotic pile of papers on his desk. He tossed it to David. “M.J.’s preliminary autopsy report. Take a look.”

  The report was three pages long and cold-bloodedly graphic. Even though David had served five years as deputy prosecutor, had read dozens of such reports, he couldn’t help shuddering at the clinical details of the woman’s death.

  Left carotid artery severed cleanly…razor-sharp instrument…. Laceration on right temple probably due to incidental impact against coffee table…. Pattern of blood spatter on wall consistent with arterial spray….

  “I see M.J. hasn’t lost her touch for turning stomachs,” David said, flipping to the second page. What he read there made him frown. “Now, this finding doesn’t make sense. Is M.J. sure about the time of death?”

  “You know M.J. She’s always sure. She’s backed up by mottling and core body temp.”

  “Why the hell would the killer cut the woman’s throat and then hang around for three hours? To enjoy the scenery?”

  “To clean up. To case the apartment.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  Pokie sighed. “No. That’s the problem. Money and jewelry were lying right out in the open. Killer didn’t touch any of it.”

  “Sexual assault?”

  “No sign of it. Victim’s clothes were intact. And the killing was too efficient. If he was out for thrills, you’d think he would’ve taken his time. Gotten a few more screams out of her.”

  “So you’ve got a brutal murder and no motive. What else is new?”

  “Take another look at that autopsy report. Read me what M.J. wrote about the wound.”

  “‘Severed left carotid artery. Razor-sharp instrument.’” He looked up. “So?”

  “So those are the same words she used in another autopsy report two weeks ago. Except that victim was a man. An obstetrician named Henry Tanaka.”

  “Ann Richter was a nurse.”

  “Right. And here’s the interesting part. Before she joined the O.R. staff, she used to moonlight in obstetrics. Chances are, she knew Henry Tanaka.”

  David suddenly went very, very still. He thought of another nurse who’d worked in obstetrics. A nurse who, like Ann Richter, was now dead. “Tell me more about that obstetrician,” he said.

  Pokie fished out a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray. “Mind?”

  “Not if you keep talking.”

  “Been dying for one all morning,” Pokie grunted. “Can’t light up when Brophy’s around, whining about his damned sinuses.” He flicked off the lighter. “Okay.” He sighed, gratefully expelling a cloud of smoke. “Here’s the story. Henry Tanaka’s office was over on Liliha. You know, that god-awful concrete building. Two weeks ago, after the rest of his staff had left, he stayed behind in the office. Said he had to catch up on some paperwork. His wife says he always got home late. But she implied it wasn’t paperwork that was keeping him out at night.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “What else?”

  “Wife know any names?”

  “No. She figured it was one of the nurses over at the hospital. Anyway, about seven o’clock that night, couple of janitors found the body in one of the exam rooms. At the time we thought it was just a case of some junkie after a fix. There were drugs missing from the cabinet.”

  “Narcotics?”

  “Naw, the good stuff was locked up in a back room. The killer went after worthless stuff, drugs that wouldn’t bring you a dime on the streets. We figured he was either stoned or dumb. But he was smart enough not to leave prints. Anyway, with no other evidence, the case sort of hit a wall. The only lead we had was something one of the janitors saw. As he was coming into the building, he spotted a woman running across the parking lot. It was drizzling and almost dark, so he didn’t get a good look. But he says she was definitely a blonde.”

  “Was he positive it was a woman?”

  “What, as opposed to a man in a wig?” Pokie laughed. “That’s one I didn’t think of. I guess it’s possible.”

  “So what came of your lead?”

  “Nothing much. We asked around, didn’t come up with any names. We were starting to think that mysterious blonde was a red herring. Then Ann Richter got killed.” He paused. “She was blond.” He snuffed out his cigarette. “Kate Chesne’s our first big break. Now at least we know what our man looks like. The artist’s sketch’ll hit the papers Monday. Maybe we’ll start pulling in some names.”

  “What kind of protection are you giving Kate?”

  “She’s tucked away on the North Shore. I got a patrol car passing by every few hours.”

  “That’s all?”

  “No one’ll find her up there.”

  “A professional could.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Slap on a permanent guard?” He nodded at the stack of papers on his desk. “Look at those files, Davy! I’m up to my neck in stiffs. I call myself lucky if a night goes by without a corpse rolling in the door.”

  “Professionals don’t leave witnesses.”

  “I’m not convinced he is a pro. Besides, you know how tight things are around here. Look at this junk.” He kicked the desk. “Twenty years old and full of termites. Don’t even mention that screwy computer. I still gotta send fingerprints to California to get a fast ID!” Frustrated, he flopped back in his twenty-year-old chair. “Look, Davy. I’m reasonably sure she’ll be okay. I’d like to guarantee it. But you know how it is.”

  Yeah, David thought. I know how it is. Some things about police work never changed. Too many demands a
nd not enough money in the budget. He tried to tell himself that his only interest in this case was as the plaintiff’s attorney; it was his job to ask all these questions. He had to be certain his case wouldn’t crumble in the light of new facts. But his thoughts kept returning to Kate, sitting so alone, so vulnerable, in that hospital bed.

  David wanted to trust the man’s judgment. He’d worked with Pokie Ah Ching long enough to know the man was, for the most part, a competent cop. But he also knew that even the best cops made mistakes. Unfortunately cops and doctors had something in common: they both buried their mistakes.

  * * *

  THE SUN SLANTED down on Kate’s back, its warmth lulling her into an uneasy sleep. She lay with her face nestled in her arms as the waves lapped at her feet and the wind riffled the pages of her paperback book. On this lonely stretch of beach, where the only disturbance was the birds bickering and thrashing in the trees, she had found the perfect place to hide away from the world. To be healed.

  She sighed and the scent of coconut oil stirred in her nostrils. Little by little, she was tugged awake by the wind in her hair, by a vague hunger for food. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and already the afternoon had slipped toward evening.

  Then another sensation wrenched her fully awake. It was the feeling that she was no longer alone. That she was being watched. It was so definite that when she rolled over and looked up she was not at all surprised to see David standing there.

  He was wearing jeans and an old cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up in the heat. His hair danced in the wind, sparkling like bits of fire in the late-afternoon sunlight. He didn’t say a thing; he simply stood there, his hands thrust in his pockets, his gaze slowly taking her in. Though her swimsuit wasn’t particularly revealing, something about his eyes—their boldness, their directness—seemed to strip her against the sand. Sudden warmth flooded her skin, a flush deeper and hotter than any the sun could ever produce.

  “You’re a hard lady to track down,” he said.

  “That’s the whole idea of going into hiding. People aren’t supposed to find you.”

  He glanced around, his gaze quickly surveying the lonely surroundings. “Doesn’t seem like such a bright idea, lying out in the open.”

  “You’re right.” Grabbing her towel and book, she rose to her feet. “You never know who might be hanging around out here. Thieves. Murderers.” Tossing the towel smartly over her shoulder, she turned and walked away. “Maybe even a lawyer or two.”

  “I have to talk to you, Kate.”

  “I have a lawyer. Why don’t you talk to him?”

  “It’s about the O’Brien case—”

  “Save it for the courtroom,” she snapped over her shoulder. She stalked away, leaving him standing alone on the beach.

  “I may not be seeing you in the courtroom,” he yelled.

  “What a pity.”

  He caught up to her as she reached the cottage, and was right on her heels as she skipped up the steps. She let the screen door swing shut in his face.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he shouted from the porch.

  In the middle of the kitchen she halted, suddenly struck by the implication of his words. Slowly she turned and stared at him through the screen. He’d planted his hands on either side of the doorframe and was watching her intently. “I may not be in court,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m thinking of dropping out.”

  “Why?”

  “Let me in and I’ll tell you.”

  Still staring at him, she pushed the screen door open. “Come inside, Mr. Ransom. I think it’s time we talked.”

  Silently he followed her into the kitchen and stood by the breakfast table, watching her. The fact that she was barefoot only emphasized the difference in their heights. She’d forgotten how tall he was, and how lanky, with legs that seemed to stretch out forever. She’d never seen him out of a suit before. She decided she definitely liked him better in blue jeans. All at once she was acutely aware of her own state of undress. It was unsettling, the way his gaze followed her around the kitchen. Unsettling, and at the same time, undeniably exciting. The way lighting a match next to a powder keg was exciting. Was David Ransom just as explosive?

  She swallowed nervously. “I—I have to dress. Excuse me.”

  She fled into the bedroom and grabbed the first clean dress within reach, a flimsy white import from India. She almost ripped it in her haste to pull it on. Pausing by the door, she forced herself to count to ten but found her hands were still unsteady.

  When she finally ventured back into the kitchen, she found him still standing by the table, idly thumbing through her book.

  “A war novel,” she explained. “It’s not very good. But it kills the time. Which I seem to have a lot of these days.” She waved vaguely toward a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Ransom. I—I’ll make some coffee.” It took all her concentration just to fill the kettle and set it on the stove. She found she was having trouble with even the simplest task. First she knocked the box of paper filters into the sink. Then she managed to dump coffee grounds all over the counter.

  “Let me take care of that,” he said, gently nudging her aside.

  She watched, voiceless, as he wiped up the spilled coffee. Her awareness of his body, of its closeness, its strength, was suddenly overwhelming. Just as overwhelming was the unexpected wave of sexual longing. On unsteady legs, she moved to the table and sank into a chair.

  “By the way,” he asked over his shoulder, “can we cut out the ‘Mr. Ransom’ bit? My name’s David.”

  “Oh. Yes. I know.” She winced, hating the breathless sound of her own voice.

  He settled into a chair across from her and their eyes met levelly over the kitchen table.

  “Yesterday you wanted to hang me,” she stated. “What made you change your mind?”

  In answer, he pulled a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. It was a photocopy of a local news article. “That story appeared about two weeks ago in the Star-Bulletin.”

  She frowned at the headline: Honolulu Physician Found Slashed To Death. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Did you know the victim, Henry Tanaka?”

  “He was on our O.B. staff. But I never worked with him.”

  “Look at the newspaper’s description of his wounds.”

  Kate focused again on the article. “It says he died of wounds to the neck and back.”

  “Right. Wounds made by a very sharp instrument. The neck was slashed only once, severing the left carotid artery. Very efficient. Very fatal.”

  Kate tried to swallow and found her throat was parched. “That’s how Ann—”

  He nodded. “Same method. Identical results.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Lieutenant Ah Ching saw the parallels almost immediately. That’s why he slapped a guard on your hospital room. If these murders are connected, there’s something systematic about all this, something rational—”

  “Rational? The killing of a doctor? A nurse? If anything, it sounds more like the work of a psychotic!”

  “It’s a strange thing, murder. Sometimes it has no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes the act makes perfect sense.”

  “There’s no such thing as a sensible reason to kill someone!”

  “It’s done every day, by supposedly sane people. And all for the most mundane of reasons. Money. Power.” He paused. “Then again,” he said softly, “there’s the crime of passion. It seems Henry Tanaka was having an affair with one of the nurses.”

  “Lots of doctors have affairs.”

  “So do lots of nurses.”

  “Which nurse are we talking about?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not up on the latest hospital gossip.”

  “Even if it involves your patients?”

  “You mean Ellen? I—I wouldn’t know. I don’t usually delve into my patients’ personal lives.
Not unless it’s relevant to their health.”

  “Ellen’s personal life may have been very relevant to her health.”

  “Well, she was a beautiful woman. I’m sure there were…men in her life.” Kate’s gaze fell once again to the article. “What does this have to do with Ann Richter?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. In the last two weeks, three people on Mid Pac’s staff have died. Two were murdered. One had an unexpected cardiac arrest on the operating table. Coincidence?”

  “It’s a big hospital. A big staff.”

  “But those three particular people knew each other. They even worked together.”

  “But Ann was a surgical nurse—”

  “Who used to work in obstetrics.”

  “What?”

  “Eight years ago, Ann Richter went through a very messy divorce. She ended up with a mile-high stack of credit-card bills. She needed extra cash, fast. So she did some moonlighting as an O.B. nurse. The night shift. That’s the same shift Ellen O’Brien worked. They knew each other, all right. Tanaka, Richter, O’Brien. And now they’re all dead.”

  The scream of the boiling kettle tore through the silence but she was too numb to move. David rose and took the kettle off the stove. She heard him set out the cups and pour the water. The smell of coffee wafted into her awareness.

  “It’s strange,” she remarked. “I saw Ann almost every day in that O.R. We’d talk about books we’d read or movies we’d seen. But we never really talked about ourselves. And she was always so private. Almost unapproachable.”

  “How did she react to Ellen’s death?”

  Kate was silent for a moment, remembering how, when everything had gone wrong, when Ellen’s life had hung in the balance, Ann had stood white-faced and frozen. “She seemed…paralyzed. But we were all upset. Afterward she went home sick. She didn’t come back to work. That was the last time I saw her. Alive, I mean….” She looked down, dazed, as he slid a cup of coffee in front of her.

  “You said it before. She must have known something. Something dangerous. Maybe they all did.”

  “But, David, they were just ordinary people who worked in a hospital—”

  “All kinds of things can go on in hospitals. Narcotics theft. Insurance fraud. Illicit love affairs. Maybe even murder.”