Intensive Care. Jessica Andersen
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him then, as it flowed through him now when their eyes locked in the auditorium and the electricity surged again.
Dr. Ripley Davis. Radiation Oncology. He didn’t trust R-ONCs as far as he could pitch them, and he’d already heard rumors of suspicious doings in her department. His investigation was already underway. The fact that she was a beautiful woman shouldn’t matter one bit.
It wouldn’t matter, he told himself firmly. If she was responsible for the hidden radioactive material Dixon had supposedly found in the R-ONC broom closet, Cage would bring Dr. Davis down and be glad of it. He had no patience for sloppy doctors. Especially R-ONCs. And it was beyond unacceptable for unlogged radioactive materials to be scattered throughout the hospital.
Cursing the rev of his body when she smiled tentatively and mouthed, “Thank you,” Cage gritted his teeth and glared out at the rest of the assembly. He could deal with their animosity more easily than he could deal with Ripley Davis’s smile.
“Attention. Everyone, please!” The Head Administrator waved the crowd to silence. “As you know,” Gabney began, “the final ballots for Hospital of the Year will be cast at the end of the week, and Boston General is up for the title and the ten-million-dollar grant. This money would not only go far in easing our recent budget concerns, it would also fund the new Gabney Children’s Wing.” There was little reaction from the room, but the administrator beamed and nodded as though there had been a standing ovation. “Now, as part of my continued commitment to improving Boston General, I’d like to introduce Zachary Cage, who is replacing George Dixon as Radiation Safety Officer.”
There was a quick, speculative buzz, but it died when Cage cleared his throat and leaned toward the microphone. “I know there have been complaints about fines levied by the previous RSO, and I promise to look into those incidents.”
There were a few nods and a faint smile or two. These were wiped clean as Cage continued, “But…the radiation safety here is a joke. You know it, and I know it. I intend to bring each and every doctor in this hospital back into strict accordance with federal radiation safety guidelines. There will be no exceptions, no allowances. You will comply or you will be shut down until the guidelines are met.” An angry hum skittered through the crowd and Cage saw Leo frown. Undaunted, he barked, “Radioactivity is not a toy, ladies and gentlemen. It is a weapon.”
A quick memory of angry red burns on soft skin had his stomach clenching. He glanced down at the notes he didn’t need and ignored the hands that shot up around the room. He ignored the chocolate-brown eyes he could feel on his face like a touch and tried to imagine wounded blue ones in their place.
Heather. He was doing this for Heather. He hadn’t been able to save her. Hadn’t been able to punish her killers. But he could make the hospitals safer for other women. For other men’s wives. The widower’s cry echoed in his head. Dr. Davis killed my wife!
Cage leaned forward into the microphone and made the final pronouncement, the one that was likely to be the most unpopular. “I will be performing a full audit of your radiation use for the last two years, starting in the labs with the most recent fines and infractions.” He glanced up and was caught in her eyes. The sudden angry babble faded into the background when he saw the surprise on her face.
And the sudden flash of…worry?
He glanced down at the unnecessary notes again, needing to sever the contact. “My team and I will start our audit tomorrow.” He paused and his eyes found Ripley Davis again. It was as though he was speaking only to her. “We’ll begin with Radiation Oncology.”
This time, the fear was unmistakable and Cage felt an unaccountable thread of disappointment knife through him. Ripley Davis had something to hide.
She was just like all the others.
The meeting wound down quickly after that. Cage saw Dr. Davis slide from her seat as he opened the floor to questions, but she didn’t meet his eyes. She hurried from the room while he answered a query about waste containment systems and Cage had a sudden, mad impulse to follow her.
As quickly as he could, he turned the microphone over to the Head Administrator and walked to the door. There was no sign of her in the hallway. Gabney droned in the background, “I will be personally overseeing the public affairs events scheduled over the next two weeks as the Hospital of the Year voting draws near…”
Cage slipped out of the conference room and headed for the Radiation Safety office, intent on rereading her personnel file. Ripley Davis had piqued his interest. Not because of the way she looked, or because of how she’d handled the situation in the atrium, he assured himself, but because she was a doctor. A R-ONC. And because George Dixon had told several people about finding a jar of radioactive material in the R-ONC broom closet. Unlabeled. Unshielded. Unauthorized.
Unacceptable.
Now it was Cage’s job to figure out where the jar had come from. Where it had gone. And why.
He found the Rad Safety office deserted and he grimaced. Dixon had run a sloppy office in more ways than one. “Those technicians had better step up to the plate, or they’ll find themselves looking for new jobs,” he muttered into the echoing emptiness.
He crossed to the cardboard box that held his paperwork, pulled out the stack of files he’d requested from personnel, and thumbed through until he reached Davis, Ripley. He froze.
That morning, the folder had been thick with commendations and biographical material. But not anymore.
He pulled the now-thin folder from the box and opened it.
The file was empty.
Chapter Two
Ripley spent that night going over Ida Mae Harris’s lab workups backward and forward until the notations blurred together. Then she staggered to bed and slept a few hours, plagued by a tangle of waterfalls, hot black eyes and unfamiliar aches. The shrill ring of the alarm was almost a relief, but when she reached her office at Boston General, the tension she’d felt after Harris’s attack returned in force.
A book she remembered leaving open to a page on cardiac complications was closed. Her chair, which she usually pushed all the way under the desk, was askew.
Had someone been in her office? She glanced at the door. It had been locked as usual. She shook her head.
She was still rattled from the day before, that was all. She was shaky from being assaulted, and worried by Mr. Harris’s strange choice of words. The voice on the phone said Dr. Davis killed my wife. Had he meant her phone call when Ida Mae died? It seemed the likeliest answer, but the phrasing bothered Ripley. What if someone else had called Mr. Harris and told him R-ONC was responsible for his wife’s death?
She’d be looking at a malpractice suit, and even worse, it meant that someone in her dwindling department couldn’t be trusted.
“He’s late.”
Ripley jumped, cracked her elbow on the corner of her desk, and swore. It wasn’t often that her best friend, Tansy, snuck up on her. Usually, the pretty blonde entered the room with a flourish and an invisible fanfare. Men lit up. Women smiled. Her energy was infectious.
Not today. Ripley grimaced. “You look about how I feel. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing important.” Tansy’s smile barely flattened the frown. A sleepless night was etched in the slump of her shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes. “How are you feeling after yesterday?”
“Jumpy and sore,” Ripley replied. “And I know Cage is late.”
The new RSO’s threatened audit was another reason for her nerves. Though Ripley and her technicians were scrupulous about their radiation practices, Zachary Cage was reputed to be on a mission. And Leo Gabney was looking for an excuse to close the R-ONC department and shuffle their expensive patients elsewhere across the city, where Ripley knew they’d get adequate care.
Adequate, but not exceptional. And though she’d originally taken the R-ONC