carnations. No lilies, at least not in the quantity we saw in that apartment.”
“Probably bought from at least a few different places. Let’s keep calling until ten. Then we’l go visit the brokerage house where Adams worked.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Monday, March 13, 8:30 A.M.
Abandoning her umbrella with a growl, Tess pul ed her cell phone from her pocket after it rang for the third straight time in as many minutes. Somebody was persistent. A glance at the caller ID revealed that somebody to be her secretary.
“Yes, Denise?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended, grimacing when her foot sank into a pothole, soaking her up to the ankle. She ducked beneath the overhang in front of the psychiatric hospital and shivered, shaking the cold dirty water from her right shoe that was probably ruined. It was a miserable morning, cold and rainy. So totally in sync with her mood.
“What’s happened?” she asked more calmly.
“You’ve had some calls this morning, Dr. Chick.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with the icy rain raced down Tess’s spine and she swallowed what was sure to have been a very bad word. “From?”
“A few reporters. One from the Trib, one from Channel Eight. They want a comment on the story in this morning’s Bulletin .”
A sharp pain arced through her head. “The Bulletin .” Visions of a gray-eyed young woman with a long blond braid came to mind. “Let me guess. Joanna Carmichael.”
“No, Cyrus Bremin is the byline, but… yeah. Carmichael’s name’s on the photos. You haven’t seen the article, then?”
Photos. The pain trebled. “No. How bad is it?”
41
Karen Rose
[Suspense 5]
You Can't Hide
“Real bad. You also got two calls from a Dr. Fenwick from the state licensing board. He says you have to call him back immediately.” Denise rattled off the number. “I told him you were consulting this morning, but he insisted.”
Tess’s stomach rol ed as she committed the number to memory. “Any other calls?”
“Mrs. Brown is having panic attacks. I referred her to Dr. Gryce. Mr. Winslow has called three times, demanding to see you and no one else. He sounded hysterical so I penciled him in for three.”
“Thanks.” She dropped her phone in her pocket, her heart beating so hard she thought it would pound straight through her chest. Quickly she scanned the area. There was a bank of newspaper vending machines across the street.
She crossed against the light, earning her blown horns and irate shouts. Her hands trembled as she pul ed the paper from the machine. The front page. She was on the front page. The rain pounded her uncovered head, soaking through her coat, but she couldn’t move. Her own face stared up from the page, next to an obscene picture of Cynthia Adams lying impaled on a Chicago street. And the headline that had her heart beating in her throat. NOTED
PSYCHIATRIST IMPLICATED IN PATIENT’S SUICIDE.
Her cell phone rang and woodenly she answered it. “Ciccotelli.”
“It’s Amy. Have you seen the Bulletin this morning?”
“Yes.”
Silence buzzed between them as the rain continued to pour. “Where are you, Tess?”
Reality somehow reconnected in her mind and propelled by another one of those bursts of white hot fury, Tess shook herself and tossed the newspaper in the nearest garbage can. She had patients to see and she was wasting time standing in the rain like she had no sense at all. “I’m at the hospital.” Briskly she started back across the road, this time waiting for the light, not caring about the rain. She was already soaked to the skin. “I have to make my rounds now, Amy, but afterwards, it looks like I’l be meeting with the state licensing board. I’l need my attorney with me, I think.”
“Tell me when and where and I’l be there.”
Tess’s throat tightened and she resolutely cleared it. “Thanks.”
Monday, March 13, 8:30 A.M.
“I’m home.”
Joanna Carmichael looked up from the sports page and
“Probably bought from at least a few different places. Let’s keep calling until ten. Then we’l go visit the brokerage house where Adams worked.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Monday, March 13, 8:30 A.M.
Abandoning her umbrella with a growl, Tess pul ed her cell phone from her pocket after it rang for the third straight time in as many minutes. Somebody was persistent. A glance at the caller ID revealed that somebody to be her secretary.
“Yes, Denise?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended, grimacing when her foot sank into a pothole, soaking her up to the ankle. She ducked beneath the overhang in front of the psychiatric hospital and shivered, shaking the cold dirty water from her right shoe that was probably ruined. It was a miserable morning, cold and rainy. So totally in sync with her mood.
“What’s happened?” she asked more calmly.
“You’ve had some calls this morning, Dr. Chick.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with the icy rain raced down Tess’s spine and she swallowed what was sure to have been a very bad word. “From?”
“A few reporters. One from the Trib, one from Channel Eight. They want a comment on the story in this morning’s Bulletin .”
A sharp pain arced through her head. “The Bulletin .” Visions of a gray-eyed young woman with a long blond braid came to mind. “Let me guess. Joanna Carmichael.”
“No, Cyrus Bremin is the byline, but… yeah. Carmichael’s name’s on the photos. You haven’t seen the article, then?”
Photos. The pain trebled. “No. How bad is it?”
41
Karen Rose
[Suspense 5]
You Can't Hide
“Real bad. You also got two calls from a Dr. Fenwick from the state licensing board. He says you have to call him back immediately.” Denise rattled off the number. “I told him you were consulting this morning, but he insisted.”
Tess’s stomach rol ed as she committed the number to memory. “Any other calls?”
“Mrs. Brown is having panic attacks. I referred her to Dr. Gryce. Mr. Winslow has called three times, demanding to see you and no one else. He sounded hysterical so I penciled him in for three.”
“Thanks.” She dropped her phone in her pocket, her heart beating so hard she thought it would pound straight through her chest. Quickly she scanned the area. There was a bank of newspaper vending machines across the street.
She crossed against the light, earning her blown horns and irate shouts. Her hands trembled as she pul ed the paper from the machine. The front page. She was on the front page. The rain pounded her uncovered head, soaking through her coat, but she couldn’t move. Her own face stared up from the page, next to an obscene picture of Cynthia Adams lying impaled on a Chicago street. And the headline that had her heart beating in her throat. NOTED
PSYCHIATRIST IMPLICATED IN PATIENT’S SUICIDE.
Her cell phone rang and woodenly she answered it. “Ciccotelli.”
“It’s Amy. Have you seen the Bulletin this morning?”
“Yes.”
Silence buzzed between them as the rain continued to pour. “Where are you, Tess?”
Reality somehow reconnected in her mind and propelled by another one of those bursts of white hot fury, Tess shook herself and tossed the newspaper in the nearest garbage can. She had patients to see and she was wasting time standing in the rain like she had no sense at all. “I’m at the hospital.” Briskly she started back across the road, this time waiting for the light, not caring about the rain. She was already soaked to the skin. “I have to make my rounds now, Amy, but afterwards, it looks like I’l be meeting with the state licensing board. I’l need my attorney with me, I think.”
“Tell me when and where and I’l be there.”
Tess’s throat tightened and she resolutely cleared it. “Thanks.”
Monday, March 13, 8:30 A.M.
“I’m home.”
Joanna Carmichael looked up from the sports page and
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