Read Online The Dirty Secrets Club by Meg Gardiner - Free Book Online
Authors: Meg Gardiner
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never changed. Day or night, it had an atmosphere of controlled crisis. The quiet, the vigilance, the monitors and watchfulness—ICU felt to Jo like the staging ground for a Special Forces mission.
ER was a different story. From her trauma rotation at UCSF she remembered the noise, the adrenaline, the way dog bites and flu could abruptly be replaced by drownings and gunshot wounds. ER was shock and awe. ICU was a stealth campaign. But people died here in greater proportion, because you didn't come to ICU unless you were in bad shape.
And Geli Meyer looked damned bad.
Jo paused in the doorway. Propped in the hospital bed, sprouting tubes, Meyer looked like one of the aliens in the research lab in Independence Day. She had ECG suckers stuck to her chest and a central line IV inserted near her neck. A Foley catheter, a drain in her side, oxygen cannulas under her nose—she looked like a porcupine. Her skin was pallid gray, her blond hair ropy. Her eyes were closed.
Quietly Jo crossed to her side.
She put her fingers to the young woman's wrist. Her pulse felt strong and regular. She stroked Meyer's hand, hoping for a response, but the girl lay motionless. Her hand was cold. Jo pulled up the thermal blanket and tucked it comfortably around Meyer's legs.
What happened to you, girl? Why were you in the car with Callie Harding? What is it you want me to stop?
She walked over and opened the small closet. Meyer's shoes and skirt were inside. No shirt or bra. They must have been cut off in the ER. Meyer's purse sat on a shelf.
Jo glanced out the door. The nurse was on the phone.
Jo wasn't a cop. She had no search warrant, and rifling a patient's belongings was far beyond frowned upon. But she wasn't a thief, either, and Meyer wasn't talking. Maybe her possessions could talk in her stead. Jo glanced again at the nurse. She opened the bag and took everything out.
Pink lipstick, breath mints, lighter, grocery list. No cell phone. She opened the wallet, found a driver's license, two credit cards, eighty dollars in cash.
One photo, a snapshot of a man who had a Kansas farmer's weather-beaten face and a smile so cool, he looked like he was auditioning for Reservoir Dogs. His thumbs were hooked over a belt with a gigantic silver buckle, rodeo size, shaped like a casino chip. Tarantino Gothic.
Older brother? Boyfriend? No name or date, no way to contact him. Dead end.
She put everything back.
She picked up Meyer's black skirt, reached in the pocket and felt a slick piece of paper. It was an album sleeve from a CD. The All-American Rejects, Move Along. It contained the lyrics to the songs on the album. One song had been circled in black pen.
Jo blinked, and her breath snagged.
"Dirty Little Secret."
She knew the song, could hear it in her head, the playground taunt of the melody and the singer's teasing, conspiratorial tone. The final line of the chorus had been highlighted with bright yellow marker: Who has to know?
A note was scrawled across the page in black ink. Callie, this is what you were talking about, isn't it?
And below that: Can anybody play?
With a smiley face drawn next to it.
Jo compared the handwriting to that on the grocery list. They matched. She returned to the bedside. Meyer lay still and silent.
"Geli, I want to help you. I wish you could help me."
She might as well have been talking to the sky. After a minute she returned Meyer's chart to the nurses' station. She asked for a sealable plastic bag, an adhesive label, and a black Sharpie. Putting on her toughest I'm-a-doc face, she held up the Ail-American Rejects album sleeve for the nurse to see.
"This is evidence relating to the crash." She put it in the plastic bag.
The nurse scowled. "Where did you get that?"
"It needs to go to the police." She sealed the bag, stuck the label across the seal, signed and dated the label. She handed the Sharpie to the nurse. "You need to sign it as well. You're my witness that I've created a chain of custody."
The
ER was a different story. From her trauma rotation at UCSF she remembered the noise, the adrenaline, the way dog bites and flu could abruptly be replaced by drownings and gunshot wounds. ER was shock and awe. ICU was a stealth campaign. But people died here in greater proportion, because you didn't come to ICU unless you were in bad shape.
And Geli Meyer looked damned bad.
Jo paused in the doorway. Propped in the hospital bed, sprouting tubes, Meyer looked like one of the aliens in the research lab in Independence Day. She had ECG suckers stuck to her chest and a central line IV inserted near her neck. A Foley catheter, a drain in her side, oxygen cannulas under her nose—she looked like a porcupine. Her skin was pallid gray, her blond hair ropy. Her eyes were closed.
Quietly Jo crossed to her side.
She put her fingers to the young woman's wrist. Her pulse felt strong and regular. She stroked Meyer's hand, hoping for a response, but the girl lay motionless. Her hand was cold. Jo pulled up the thermal blanket and tucked it comfortably around Meyer's legs.
What happened to you, girl? Why were you in the car with Callie Harding? What is it you want me to stop?
She walked over and opened the small closet. Meyer's shoes and skirt were inside. No shirt or bra. They must have been cut off in the ER. Meyer's purse sat on a shelf.
Jo glanced out the door. The nurse was on the phone.
Jo wasn't a cop. She had no search warrant, and rifling a patient's belongings was far beyond frowned upon. But she wasn't a thief, either, and Meyer wasn't talking. Maybe her possessions could talk in her stead. Jo glanced again at the nurse. She opened the bag and took everything out.
Pink lipstick, breath mints, lighter, grocery list. No cell phone. She opened the wallet, found a driver's license, two credit cards, eighty dollars in cash.
One photo, a snapshot of a man who had a Kansas farmer's weather-beaten face and a smile so cool, he looked like he was auditioning for Reservoir Dogs. His thumbs were hooked over a belt with a gigantic silver buckle, rodeo size, shaped like a casino chip. Tarantino Gothic.
Older brother? Boyfriend? No name or date, no way to contact him. Dead end.
She put everything back.
She picked up Meyer's black skirt, reached in the pocket and felt a slick piece of paper. It was an album sleeve from a CD. The All-American Rejects, Move Along. It contained the lyrics to the songs on the album. One song had been circled in black pen.
Jo blinked, and her breath snagged.
"Dirty Little Secret."
She knew the song, could hear it in her head, the playground taunt of the melody and the singer's teasing, conspiratorial tone. The final line of the chorus had been highlighted with bright yellow marker: Who has to know?
A note was scrawled across the page in black ink. Callie, this is what you were talking about, isn't it?
And below that: Can anybody play?
With a smiley face drawn next to it.
Jo compared the handwriting to that on the grocery list. They matched. She returned to the bedside. Meyer lay still and silent.
"Geli, I want to help you. I wish you could help me."
She might as well have been talking to the sky. After a minute she returned Meyer's chart to the nurses' station. She asked for a sealable plastic bag, an adhesive label, and a black Sharpie. Putting on her toughest I'm-a-doc face, she held up the Ail-American Rejects album sleeve for the nurse to see.
"This is evidence relating to the crash." She put it in the plastic bag.
The nurse scowled. "Where did you get that?"
"It needs to go to the police." She sealed the bag, stuck the label across the seal, signed and dated the label. She handed the Sharpie to the nurse. "You need to sign it as well. You're my witness that I've created a chain of custody."
The
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