Mercy Medical Center was a huge complex in the northwest suburbs near Elgin, which lay both in Cook and Kane County. But the Covid-19 vaccines had been doled out at a church in Northglen. Why had they used Mercy instead of Northglen Hospital’s facilities, or even Rush’s, both of which were closer to the church? She guessed these things were contracted out, and Mercy got their application in before any other hospital and got the go-ahead to administer the vaccines in northern Cook County. They probably had clout at the Illinois Public Health department. That’s the way Chicago worked. Why would things change just because of a pandemic?
She turned onto a dead-end street that took her to a giant parking lot. Behind it were three five-story buildings clumped together in no apparent pattern, as if they’d been randomly dropped from outer space. All three buildings were boxy but sported gleaming white exteriors. They couldn’t be more than ten or fifteen years old.
Georgia climbed out of her Toyota and noted the numbered section where she’d parked. The entire complex was huge, including the parking lot. She could easily get lost. As she headed to one of the buildings, she passed a group of young people in scrubs and white coats heading out. Medical students. They were calling each other out with the black humor people used in life-and-death situations.
One of them smirked. “Did you hear the one where the doctor tells the patient, ‘Take one of these pills every day for the rest of your life.’ The patient says, ‘But there are only three pills, Doc.’ ‘Exactly,’ the doctor says.” Everyone laughed.
Medical students had administered the injections, she recalled Susan’s mother saying. Was there a medical school attached to Mercy? She’d check. Maybe even talk to the faculty to find out why med students were permitted to vaccinate people. In retrospect, maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea.
A building that slouched between the others bore a sign above the entrance that said Reception and Registration. It sounded like a hotel, Georgia thought. Ever since Evanston Hospital had installed a player piano on their marble floor lobby with green plants strategically placed around it, it was clear hospitals were trying to look more like the Four Seasons and less like a hospital. When Georgia’s friend Sam was in Glenbrook with a kidney infection, they’d let her order anything she wanted to eat, any time of day. They even called it Room Service. Still, hospitals would never be on Georgia’s top ten places to visit.
She pushed through the sliding doors of the “Reception” building and was directed to a marble counter on her left. Three women sat behind it, headsets on and telephones with banks of buttons at their fingertips. She approached one of the women, who wasn’t talking into her mic.
“Hello. I’m looking for Dr. Richard Blackstone. I wonder if you could tell me how to get to his office.”
The woman, an African American with a short, curly Afro and glasses that reminded Georgia of her first-grade teacher looked up. Georgia smiled. The woman didn’t return it. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Well, actually, I don’t.”
“What is the nature of your visit?”
“It’s personal.”
“Well, if it’s a health problem, you need to register with our central registration.”
“It’s not.”
The woman sniffed, then consulted her phone bank and a sheet of paper taped above it. Eventually she tapped a few keys. A moment later, she was in conversation with someone.
“Yes. She’s here now.” A pause. “No appointment. Says it’s personal.” Pause. Then, “What’s your name, ma’am?”
This wasn’t going well. “Georgia Davis.”
The woman lowered her voice as she replied to whoever was on the line. Georgia couldn’t make out much, but it didn’t sound optimistic. “I’ll tell her.” The woman hung up. “I’m sorry. Dr. Blackstone’s receptionist says the doctor is not seeing anyone without an appointment.”
“Oh. When did that start?”
The woman arched her brows. “I have no idea, Miss Davis.” She emphasized “Davis” as if she thought Georgia was using an alias. Davis was a common name, Georgia thought ruefully.
“I see. So who do I need to call to make an appointment?”
The woman wrote something on a post-it that appeared like magic, then detached the paper, and handed it over. “Don’t expect much. The doctor hasn’t been in all week.”
“Really?”
The woman arched her brows again. What was she trying to say? Georgia nodded. Maybe the woman wasn’t hostile. Just careful.
Georgia made her way back to her car. If Blackstone hadn’t been in all week, that meant he hadn’t been in since the two men’s deaths at the church—the male with colon cancer and the man with diabetes. Susan’s aunt had passed two days before them. Was Blackstone distraught or hiding from the press? According to the articles she’d read, he should have expected an adverse reaction at some point, shouldn’t he? She would find out.
Back at the car, she pulled out her cell and tapped a few apps. Five minutes later, she had Dr. Richard Blackstone’s home address. He lived in Barrington, one of the most upscale villages on the North Shore. Near Elgin and the hospital complex, but not too far from Northglen or Winnetka.
Fifteen minutes later, Georgia turned into a development called Fox Point, one of the most affluent neighborhoods of the affluent village. She turned onto a street called Lake Shore Drive, although it was nowhere near Lake Michigan. But Lake Louise, a small private forty-acre lake, did sit within Barrington’s border, so that must have spawned the name. She pulled up to a huge home on a cul-de-sac with a semicircular drive in front. The exterior was gray slatted siding, with black shutters and white trim. She imagined the interior: lots of marble, granite counters in the kitchen, windows with a view of the lake. Naturally, their dock would be equipped with a kayak or two, diving board, and pontoon boat.
A wistful feeling washed over her. As a young girl, fed by the fantasies of her mother, she’d often imagined a dream house like this. Her mother used to flip through magazines and exclaim over the magnificent estates and homes that rich people bought for themselves. But when her mother walked out, she’d taken those dreams with her, and the girl who once thought dreams could come true had learned otherwise. She’d never be able to afford a place like this, even if she and Jimmy pooled their resources. At moments like these, she felt compassion for the little girl who wanted so desperately to believe in happy-ever-afters.
She parked at the edge of the driveway and trudged to the front entrance. No one answered when she rang the bell, a full-throated melodic series of notes. She rang again and waited. Nothing. She was walking back to her car when an elderly woman from the equally huge home next door came out, carrying a woven basket and pair of garden shears, and went to a thick crop of daffodils and tulips. Flowers, trees, and shrubs bloomed earlier the farther west you lived, Georgia thought. She wasn’t sure why.
When the woman saw Georgia, she called out. “You won’t find them. They’re away for a while.”
“Where? Why?”
“Who are you?” The woman’s voice was suspicious.
“An investigator.”
The woman looked more relaxed. “Oh, well in that case, check with Sergeant Mike at the Police Station. I think he knows more.”
Georgia didn’t miss a beat. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. He’s the one who sent me.” She smiled. This time the woman flashed her one in return.