SH Medical 07 - The Detective's Accidental Baby Page 2

  If not, he was a liar and a gold digger.

  None of the stories had proved true, Lock reflected as he limped toward the investigation company’s door, wedged between an escrow company and the Sexy Over Sixty Gym. In Erica’s trash, he’d found a single wine bottle, plus a supermarket receipt that listed a six-pack of beer. No sign of drugs or contraceptives, either. A records check had shown excellent credit and a clean driving record, while discreet inquiries had turned up a spotless reputation at the hospital. As he could testify from observation, she didn’t hang out at bars and she kept regular hours. The agency Ginnifer had hired in Boston had come up empty-handed, as well.

  Erica’s only sins appeared to be an overreliance on take-out food and a rush to judgment on men. But given a lying ex-husband intent on blackening her name, she had good reason to be suspicious.

  Also, she’d been right. Lock did have an ulterior motive.

  Still, creepy? The word rankled. He might not be the world’s smoothest operator, but he’d never had a problem interesting ladies when he put forth the effort.

  He opened the door stenciled with the agency’s name and paused to rub his sore thigh before tackling the flight of stairs to the second-floor office. If he worked for someone else, he’d have insisted on an elevator. Being coowner meant he appreciated the modest rent and considered this climb part of his rehab. On a bad day, he could use the service elevator, but the way it creaked and jerked hurt his leg just as much, without the benefit of exercise.

  Last spring, after he and his foster brother, Mike Aaron, bought this agency in their native Southern California, Lock had handed in his two-week notice at the sheriff’s department in Flagstaff, Arizona. The next day, while off duty, he’d stumbled across a bank holdup. The robber’s aim hadn’t been as good as Lock’s, but it had done enough damage to lay him up for months. He regretted not being able to arrive sooner to join Mike, whose friendship had helped him stay straight during his difficult teen years.

  Slowly, Lock stumped up the steps. Despite the pain, it had felt good to stretch out on a track. He just wished he hadn’t been there to fulfill a final demand by the client. Left to his own conscience, Lock would have refused to try to pick up Erica Benford, even though, had she fallen for it, he’d have faked an emergency phone call rather than take her home. He wasn’t sure what accepting his invitation would have proved, anyway. Agreeing to let him cook dinner was a far cry from leaping into bed. And even if she had, so what? Nobody these days expected a single woman to live like a hermit.

  But the client was willing to pay well for the firm’s services, and as Mike pointed out, owning a business didn’t come cheap. So Lock had given it his best shot.

  And offended a very attractive lady.

  At the top of the stairs, he went through a windowed door marked with the firm’s name and paused to enjoy the sight of the freshly painted and carpeted outer office. Framed certificates, awards and commendations from his deputy sheriff’s position and Mike’s work at the Safe Harbor Police Department lined one wall. Across from them, a trio of paintings in splashes of amber, coral and aqua depicted the Grand Canyon—eighty miles from Flagstaff—at different times of day. Lock had bought them at an outdoor art sale and shipped them here.

  At the reception desk, Sue Carrera, the middle-aged secretary who doubled as bookkeeper, whisked a tissue from the box in front of her. “Ready to have lipstick scrubbed off?”

  “No lipstick.” In such a small office, everyone knew your business.

  She set down the tissue box. “Silly me. She wouldn’t put on lipstick to go jogging.”

  “That isn’t why—”

  A stocky young woman with short, straight, blond hair popped her head out of the report-writing room. “Did she take the bait?”

  Why did everyone have such a keen interest in this assignment? “No.” Lock braced himself for a raucous comment about striking out. That would be typical male commentary, and Detective Patty Denny, while unmistakably female, had an ex-cop’s reputation as one of the guys.

  Instead, she gave a satisfied nod. “Good. I was rooting for Erica.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Alec likes her, remember?”

  “Oh, right.”

  Patty’s new husband, an embryologist who was part of the medical team that had relocated from Boston to California, had a long acquaintance with Erica. Patty had solicited his opinion without revealing that they were investigating his colleague, and reported that he considered Erica an outstanding scrub nurse and all-around good person. Lock had also questioned a male nurse who, he’d learned from Patty, was a notorious gossip, and the fellow hadn’t said anything worse than that Erica seemed standoffish.

  The door to Mike’s office opened to reveal a lanky, sandy-haired man wearing a pair of reading glasses he’d acquired in the past few months. A result of all the paperwork, he’d complained only half in jest. “Batting zero again, eh, bro?” he asked, no doubt having overheard the conversation.

  “What do you mean, again?” Lock raised an eyebrow. “I seem to recall drawing this mission because of certain studly qualities that might—and I do mean this in the nicest way—be otherwise lacking around here.”

  “That’s kind of tough on Patty, don’t you think?” Mike peered down from his six-foot-four-inch height. “Ms. Benford turned you down flat?”

  “Flat as a tortilla.”

  Mike shrugged. “Guess that’s a wrap, then.”

  “Ouch,” said Patty.

  Both men regarded her questioningly.

  “Bad pun,” she told them. “Tortilla—wrap. Wrapping up the case. That reminds me, I’m hungry. Got to pick up groceries on the way home.” Although her dining preferences ran to pizza and chocolate bars, Patty took her new role as stepmother to a five-year-old girl seriously.

  “Isn’t it your husband’s turn to shop?” Mike had a weird habit of keeping track of all sorts of things.

  “Yeah, but he tends to go out at lunch and store the food in a refrigerator at work. He swears he doesn’t keep it near those embryos, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  Mike grimaced. “I don’t blame you.”

  Lock checked his watch. Nearly five. He’d like to write up this afternoon’s incident while it was fresh in his mind. Every detail mattered, because you never knew when a case might end up in court, where attorneys picked things apart under a mental microscope. “Have fun at the supermarket. See you later.”

  The desk in his private office, next to Mike’s, was bare except for a few manila folders and a copy of California’s Private Investigator Act, which Lock was studying to prepare for his licensing exam. That left plenty of room to open his laptop and take out the voice recorder into which he’d described the encounter while driving.

  From below came the faint creak of exercise equipment, or maybe that was the creak of elderly joints being put through a workout. Lock didn’t mind the muted noise. At the house he and Mike shared, his brother spent at least an hour a day on a treadmill that sounded as if it hadn’t been oiled since the late Jurassic.

  Both brothers disdained gyms, with their complicated machines, body odors and rude patrons who failed to rerack their weights and wipe them clean of their sweat. Lock hadn’t been kidding in his remarks to Erica, but he doubted anything would convince her of that.

  As he transcribed and added to his notes, an image intruded on his thoughts: of Erica’s small figure filling out the pink jogging suit. As he’d approached from behind, he’d noted the luscious shape of her derriere and the tantalizing blond hair that bounced across her shoulders. Then, when he came alongside, her fierce hazel eyes had swept him sharply enough to knock a lesser man off his stride.

  Lock couldn’t explain the jolt that had gone through him. Chemistry, sure, but something more complicated, too.
A sense that he knew her. Not surprising, considering that he’d been investigating her for weeks. But also, he’d had the strange impression when he met her eyes that he’d caught a glimpse of his own soul.

  Now what the hell was that about?

  His training had kicked in, and he’d sprung his opening line on her smoothly enough. But he longed to find out what his reaction meant, even though he knew better than to get involved with a woman whose trash he’d rifled through, and whom he was even now writing up in cold, analytical terms. She’d never forgive him if she learned the truth, and he had an ethical obligation to keep his private life separate from his professional work.

  Yet…what was it about Erica Benford that vibrated inside him on a wavelength he’d never shared with anyone? Maybe if he figured out the secret of that connection, he’d finally understand why he’d really come back to California.

  Chapter Two

  The next day, a storm rolled in. Although the weather forecasters assured the public it had arrived across the warm Pacific rather than descending from chilly Alaska, the temperature dropped and more than an inch of rain turned the dry earth to mud. Much as Erica longed to go jogging, she stuck to the hospital’s exercise room when it wasn’t being used for childbirth classes.

  Although the rain stopped after a few days, it left a soggy landscape that kept her confined. By Friday, she felt ready to claw open the nearest hospital window and dive into a bedraggled bed of petunias. But she couldn’t really blame the weather for her troubled mood.

  Friday marked the tenth anniversary of the worst day of Erica’s life. It was also her birthday, which meant someone might—if she was unlucky—expect her to celebrate. If so, she’d have to plaster a fake smile on her face, because the last thing she wanted to share with anyone was that not only had her world been shattered the day she turned twenty-one, but she sometimes felt as if she’d stuck the pieces together with glue that might crumble at any moment.

  Mercifully, a full schedule in the operating room kept her focused. Dr. Owen Tartikoff loved performing surgery, and Erica felt the joy radiating from his broad smile to the roots of his russet hair. The source was partly the challenge and reward of restoring women’s fertility, but also the sheer fun of working with the hospital’s state-of-the-art equipment.

  While the use of thin scopes fitted with cameras had become routine in surgery, doctors at Safe Harbor now had access to a million-dollar system called a da Vinci robot. For complex procedures, Dr. T would sit at the console’s controls, viewing the surgical site through a high-resolution endoscopic camera, and maneuver several robotic arms with jointed wrists that were able to refine the surgery to a precision even the most skilled hands couldn’t produce.

  “Coolest tools in the world,” the obstetrician remarked gleefully as he performed a myomectomy to remove uterine fibroids from a thirty-five-year-old patient who’d been trying to get pregnant for years.

  Erica handed a sterile instrument to Dr. Zack Sargent, who was assisting. He followed Dr. T’s instructions to retract some patient tissue. “So, do we have a date yet for Ms. Garcia’s arrival?” Zack asked.

  “You just can’t wait to get that egg-donor program started, can you?” remarked anesthesiologist Rod Vintner from the specialized computer terminal where he monitored the patient’s vital signs.

  “Some of us enjoy helping women have babies,” Zack said drily.

  “Seems to be a lot of that going around.” Rod was as cynical about babies as Erica.

  “I’m afraid everything’s on hold until September,” Dr. T said. “Jan’s current hospital is invoking some contractual right or other.” He’d jumped at the chance to hire nurse administrator Jan Garcia to coordinate the planned egg-donor program at Safe Harbor. It was a program that particularly interested Zack, an earnest young ob-gyn.

  Erica was disappointed about the delay, too, although not because of any interest in the new project. She liked Jan, with whom she’d worked in Boston before Jan took the Houston job three years ago. It would be nice to see her again and to have a female friend here in California.

  “That’s a bummer,” Zack said. “As you’ve pointed out, the staff’s having a postholiday letdown. And our publicity’s dropped off since the grand opening.”

  “The press has a short memory,” Owen observed. “That can be a curse or a blessing.”

  Last September had marked the official launch of the fertility program. Thanks in part to Dr. T’s fame and a new procedure he’d pioneered, the event had drawn widespread interest from the media. There’d also been unwelcome coverage of his half brother’s indictment in a fraud scheme, for which the man was now serving a long sentence.

  Personally, Erica could do without seeing the hospital’s name splashed across the news. Still, a for-profit facility depended on attracting new patients, and while the public relations director did her best, she couldn’t single-handedly keep Safe Harbor Medical in the public eye.

  “I’m open to ideas,” Dr. T said from his console. “As long as they don’t involve a reality TV show. The only camera I want to see around here is that one.” He indicated the overhead device that recorded each operation for later review. It also allowed them to televise surgeries to medical schools and other hospitals for teaching purposes, although they weren’t doing that today.

  “We could operate in our underwear,” Rod said sardonically. “That oughta make the ten o’clock news.”

  “For all the wrong reasons,” Zack replied, without removing his gaze from the patient.

  The anesthesiologist shrugged. “What can I say? Sex sells.”

  “You in your underwear?” Dr. T said. “That’s a stretch.”

  “I’m a sexy guy. Ask anyone.” Rod jerked his thumb toward Zack. “Except him.”

  Erica pretended to be absorbed in examining the instrument tray. She hoped no one noticed the heat spreading across her cheeks because of the picture that sprang to mind at the mention of sexy guys. One of thick, brown-blond hair, a T-shirt clinging to a broad chest, shorts hugging narrow hips… Much as she longed to, she couldn’t keep the images of the breezily confident Lock out of her thoughts.

  She wasn’t likely see him again. Certainly not until the park dried out enough for her to resume jogging.

  “I’d welcome an idea that’ll build staff morale and interest the press, not reduce us all to helpless laughter,” said Dr. T.

  “A baby photo contest?” Zack suggested.

  “That’s lame.” Catching the ob-gyn’s irritated glance, the anesthesiologist assumed an innocent expression. “Just expressing an opinion.”

  “What about another kind of contest? Something concerning the fertility rate,” Erica volunteered. “But not multiple births, of course.” That would be medically inappropriate, since such births, while of interest to the public, could endanger the health of moms and babies.

  Owen nodded approvingly, sending a warm glow through Erica. “You’re on the right track. That bears thinking about.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dr. T gave further instructions to Zack, and for a while they were all absorbed in wrapping up the operation. Only when he’d moved away from the console did Owen address her again, and then merely to ask if she planned to have lunch in the cafeteria.

  Erica checked the clock. It was nearly three-thirty and she’d been on duty since seven that morning. While she ate snacks to keep up her energy level, she hadn’t consumed anything substantial during her half hour lunch break. “Guess so.”

  “I might see you there,” was all he said.

  Now what did that mean? As she stripped off her scrubs, Erica reflected uneasily that the doctor was aware of her birthday. While Owen wasn’t the type who lavished his staff with gifts, he could surprise you when you least expected it.

  Or wanted it
.

  Deciding to avoid him by grabbing a sandwich from a vending machine, she strolled to the second-floor break room. There, she found the machine empty of everything except gooey bear claws and salty peanuts, the same stuff she’d been snacking on earlier.

  Her stomach rebelled. Erica supposed she’d better listen to the warning.

  She took the stairs down a flight. On the main floor, she caught a whiff of Friday’s special, poached fish, and speeded her pace toward the cafeteria.

  A glance showed more tables occupied than usual for this hour, probably because the cool temperatures kept people from spreading out onto the patio. Erica took a tray and approached the hot-food serving line, only to find it closed.

  “Sorry,” said the cashier from her central register. “All we’ve got left are sandwiches.”

  Glumly, Erica turned to the depleted array of foods and picked a small fruit plate and a glass of milk. In Boston, she would have joined friends, but she hadn’t formed any close ties since arriving in Safe Harbor. With new acquaintances, conversations tended to turn to personal matters such as marital status, which was still a sore subject. At her old hospital, she hadn’t had to explain anything, because everyone had watched the melodrama unfold in real time.

  She’d met Donald Panzer while volunteering at the substance abuse clinic where he worked. A former addict, he’d earned a master’s degree in social work and now counseled others. Energetic and personable, he’d showered Erica with attention when she felt vulnerable, appealed to her nurturing side when she caught him in lies, and cheated on her repeatedly. By the time she faced the fact that her two-year marriage was a sham, he’d taken up with a wealthy business owner named Ginnifer Moran and set his sights on marrying her. Even though he’d readily agreed to divorce, he’d spread ugly rumors about Erica, as if trying to justify himself. She’d been glad to reclaim her maiden name of Benford and put that whole mess behind her.