say?”
By claiming that he had not lied regarding the HE panel’s approval, Gilbride had opened the door just a sliver for Jessie to remain at the hospital. It was really all she wanted.
“My guess is it’s going to be pretty crazy here tomorrow,” she said, her voice neutral.
“I think you could say that.”
His smug expression said he knew he had won. Jessie thought about demanding written proof of the date the HE committee had approved ARTIE. But she knew Gilbride well enough to suspect he could produce such a document even if it belied the truth. And why should she hurt herself, Sara, and her other patients over this, anyhow? she thought. Better to try to do things on her terms—to take the promotion and begin making some discreet inquiries to other neurosurgery departments in the city and around the country.
“I’ll do what I can to help you out,” she said.
“Spoken like a true team player,” Gilbride replied.
Chapter 10
ALEX BISHOP HAD TAKEN A FURNISHED STUDIO IN a clapboard tenement a mile from the hospital. It was midnight, and his shift at the hospital had just ended. On the way back to his room, he stopped at a convenience store for some Diet Pepsi, a dozen Almond Joy candy bars, and several packs of nicotine gum. His last cigarette had closely followed his decision to hunt down Malloche. Until the man was behind bars or dead, no more smokes. That was the deal he had made with himself, and it had been a bear of a promise to keep. Periodic nicotine gum or patches helped keep the craving under reasonable control, but nothing had touched his substitute addiction to Almond Joys, which was now up to five or six bars a day. Each morning he did a hundred push-ups and four times that many sit-ups as penance.
The tenement was in a fairly tough neighborhood. Bishop headed there half hoping some punks might try to shake him down. He was going through one of those periods when he simply craved action. But he knew this just wasn’t the time. He needed to show whatever restraint was necessary to keep from calling attention to himself.
Everything was coming together.
The robot-assisted operation on Marci Sheprow had eliminated what lingering doubt he had regarding Claude Malloche’s choice of a surgeon. The Mist, as some called the elusive, genius killer, was either on his way to Eastern Mass Medical Center, or he was already there. And Carl Gilbride was to be his surgeon. It hadn’t been easy to gather information discreetly on Gilbride, but gradually a picture of the man was beginning to emerge. And thanks to the ignition wire he had loosened on Jessie Copeland’s car, before too much longer, the pieces of the Gilbride puzzle that were missing would be filled in by her.
What Bishop knew so far was that Carl Gilbride was an empire builder, much like Sylvan Mays had been. He had a humble background, and had begun living above his means as soon as he could. Now, he was an autocrat, forging a department that was already considered among the best in the country. Socially, he and his wife were tight with Boston’s upper crust. Mrs. Gilbride was on the board of the symphony.
Did Gilbride seem like someone Claude Malloche could buy? Based on the information Bishop had gleaned so far, the answer was unequivocally yes. If the price was right, would he do the surgery even if he knew who Malloche was? That question remained to be answered.
Getting close to Jessie Copeland was going to help fill in the gaps and also make it easy for him to get a fix on the neurosurgical patients on Surgical Seven and in the outpatient department. Through his offhand inquiries, he had heard nothing but good things about her, and he felt fairly certain from some of what had been said that she was not that tight with Gilbride. In that respect, she was just what the doctor ordered. His initial impression was that she seemed too nice and too feminine to be earning a living cutting into people’s brains. But he had known a number of
By claiming that he had not lied regarding the HE panel’s approval, Gilbride had opened the door just a sliver for Jessie to remain at the hospital. It was really all she wanted.
“My guess is it’s going to be pretty crazy here tomorrow,” she said, her voice neutral.
“I think you could say that.”
His smug expression said he knew he had won. Jessie thought about demanding written proof of the date the HE committee had approved ARTIE. But she knew Gilbride well enough to suspect he could produce such a document even if it belied the truth. And why should she hurt herself, Sara, and her other patients over this, anyhow? she thought. Better to try to do things on her terms—to take the promotion and begin making some discreet inquiries to other neurosurgery departments in the city and around the country.
“I’ll do what I can to help you out,” she said.
“Spoken like a true team player,” Gilbride replied.
Chapter 10
ALEX BISHOP HAD TAKEN A FURNISHED STUDIO IN a clapboard tenement a mile from the hospital. It was midnight, and his shift at the hospital had just ended. On the way back to his room, he stopped at a convenience store for some Diet Pepsi, a dozen Almond Joy candy bars, and several packs of nicotine gum. His last cigarette had closely followed his decision to hunt down Malloche. Until the man was behind bars or dead, no more smokes. That was the deal he had made with himself, and it had been a bear of a promise to keep. Periodic nicotine gum or patches helped keep the craving under reasonable control, but nothing had touched his substitute addiction to Almond Joys, which was now up to five or six bars a day. Each morning he did a hundred push-ups and four times that many sit-ups as penance.
The tenement was in a fairly tough neighborhood. Bishop headed there half hoping some punks might try to shake him down. He was going through one of those periods when he simply craved action. But he knew this just wasn’t the time. He needed to show whatever restraint was necessary to keep from calling attention to himself.
Everything was coming together.
The robot-assisted operation on Marci Sheprow had eliminated what lingering doubt he had regarding Claude Malloche’s choice of a surgeon. The Mist, as some called the elusive, genius killer, was either on his way to Eastern Mass Medical Center, or he was already there. And Carl Gilbride was to be his surgeon. It hadn’t been easy to gather information discreetly on Gilbride, but gradually a picture of the man was beginning to emerge. And thanks to the ignition wire he had loosened on Jessie Copeland’s car, before too much longer, the pieces of the Gilbride puzzle that were missing would be filled in by her.
What Bishop knew so far was that Carl Gilbride was an empire builder, much like Sylvan Mays had been. He had a humble background, and had begun living above his means as soon as he could. Now, he was an autocrat, forging a department that was already considered among the best in the country. Socially, he and his wife were tight with Boston’s upper crust. Mrs. Gilbride was on the board of the symphony.
Did Gilbride seem like someone Claude Malloche could buy? Based on the information Bishop had gleaned so far, the answer was unequivocally yes. If the price was right, would he do the surgery even if he knew who Malloche was? That question remained to be answered.
Getting close to Jessie Copeland was going to help fill in the gaps and also make it easy for him to get a fix on the neurosurgical patients on Surgical Seven and in the outpatient department. Through his offhand inquiries, he had heard nothing but good things about her, and he felt fairly certain from some of what had been said that she was not that tight with Gilbride. In that respect, she was just what the doctor ordered. His initial impression was that she seemed too nice and too feminine to be earning a living cutting into people’s brains. But he had known a number of
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