Monday morning in the library I hardly had time to finish checking my email before Jared Quinn came through the door, expression grim and eyes steely. I straightened my shoulders and prepared for the worst.
He glanced at his watch. “Carver will be in my office in twenty minutes, expecting to hear me tell you that you’re history if you don’t make his CME problem go away.”
“I can’t do that, unless he can show proof that he’s earned his fifty credits.”
“If you don’t, he’s going to raise holy hell.”
“What do you want from me? All I do is keep a record of the CME credits that our doctors submit to me. I forward them to Cleo when she processes their medical staff membership renewals.”
“He claims he’s done the work and sent proof to you,” Quinn said. “If that’s true, maybe the documentation slipped through the cracks. We have to hear Carver out. We need to do whatever we can to keep him on the Ferrera case until Dr. Prine returns. That young man is stabilized for now. His parents are here from halfway around the world, holding vigil for their only son and worrying about their missing only daughter.” Quinn shook his head. “I can’t imagine the stress they’re under.”
“What are you hearing from Prine? How soon can he be back?”
“I wish I knew. There’s some complication with his daughter’s case. He isn’t willing to leave Florida until it’s resolved.”
“Then what do you want me to do about Carver? Suggest that his documentation was lost? Cleo says he’s deficient by fifteen credits. I can’t vouch for him without proof. No matter what he sent or where he sent it, he should have copies for his records.”
“Even so, it’s possible he’s telling the truth. You know more than I do about all the options doctors have these days for earning their CME credits.”
“I know they can attend conferences, do CME courses online, or order courses by mail—either audio, video, or in print.” I decided to share my doubts with Quinn. “All we have is his word.”
“Nevertheless, we’ll meet with him and see how it goes. He either has the necessary documentation, or he doesn’t. I’ll see you in my office in ten minutes.”
“Okay, then, let’s get it over with.”
Quinn walked to the exit, where he turned and leveled a look at me. “I know you prefer to take the high moral ground, and that’s why I have so much respect for you, but sometimes we have to choose our battles. If we can help him with this, we have to try.”
I watched Quinn’s back as he left the library. Then the irony occurred to me. Watch your leader’s back. That’s what a good soldier does.
Lola Rampley, my elderly and over-qualified volunteer, arrived at nine on the dot, exuding good cheer, as always. After conferring with her about the morning’s duties, I left her in charge. On my walk across the complex, I began perspiring, even though I was wearing only a white, sleeveless cotton dress and sandals. I sucked in Timbergate’s tepid morning air and found myself wishing we could have bottled the temperate Azorean climate and brought it home with us.
When I reached Quinn’s office, TMC’s assistant administrator, Sanjay D’Costa, was standing next to Varsha Singh’s desk in the air-conditioned chill of her reception area, pointing over her shoulder at a document. He looked up and greeted me with a bright smile.
“Aimee, so nice to see you,” he said. “My cousin Kiri tells me she saw you down in Marin County last weekend.” He picked up the document on Varsha’s desk, thanked her, and returned to his office. At least I had the consolation of knowing Kiri had returned safely to Timbergate.
“Good morning, Aimee.” Varsha stood and walked to Quinn’s office door. The apprehensive look clouding her expressive dark eyes told me the three-way meeting with Quinn, Carver, and myself would be contentious at best. The raised voices coming from Quinn’s office confirmed it. Varsha opened the door for me. “You can go on in.”
Quinn sat behind his desk. Carver sat in front of it in one of the visitors’ chairs. Quinn gestured for me to sit in the other one. I pulled the chair several inches away from Carver and sat, still feeling we were too close.
“Aimee, you know Dr. Carver, of course.”
“Yes, we’ve—”
“Skip the BS, Quinn,” Carver said. “She damn well knows me, and I know her. What I want to know is how well she knows her job.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks in a flash of anger I struggled to control. I held my tongue and waited for Quinn to react. I wasn’t disappointed.
“Godfrey,” he said, “you’re on my turf right now. I’d suggest you temper your language and your attitude if you expect to receive the help you need from Aimee or from me. Either take it down several notches or this meeting is over.”
Carver shot up from his chair. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Some upstart fresh out of med school?”
Quinn stayed seated. Picking up his phone, he held his gaze on Carver. Quinn’s expression brooked no argument. “Last chance, Godfrey. Play nice or Security will escort you from the building.”
Then who will take care of Paulo Ferrera?
Carver’s face flushed nearly purple. In his late fifties, he was plenty old enough to have a massive stroke if his blood pressure rose any higher. I saw him reach the fingers of his right hand to touch his left wrist. I counted to ten in my head while he checked his pulse. Good idea.
He sat down, propping his elbows on the arms of his chair. “Let’s get on with this, Jared. I have patients to see.” His rosy color faded somewhat, but he still looked a little too pink.
Quinn placed the phone back in its cradle. “Thank you, Dr. Carver. I’m ready to hear you out. How about you, Aimee?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, holding my pen poised over the notepad I’d brought along.
Carver proceeded to tell us he’d done part of his continuing education via online classes, and the rest through courses he’d ordered by mail, including a course in managing spinal and peripheral nerve problems.
He insisted he’d fulfilled his fifty credits, the required number for the two-year time frame between medical staff membership renewals.
“If that’s the case, can you explain why Aimee wouldn’t have that information on file for you?” Quinn asked.
“That’s the hell of it. One of the girls in my office takes care of all that. Either she screwed up, or someone else did.” He sent a glare in my direction. I kept my focus on my notepad.
“Aimee,” Quinn said. “Do you have any questions?”
I cleared my throat. “Um, yes.” I turned to Carver. “My records show you’re deficient by fifteen CME credits. I’d like the name of the person in your office who oversees documenting your credits and forwarding them to me. I’m thinking she and I can work together to get this straightened out.”
Carver frowned at me, turned to Quinn. “Why the hell ….” He stopped himself mid-sentence and started over. “Jared, why am I dealing with this secretary? Dr. Poole is the chairman of our CME Committee. Why isn’t she here?”
“Let’s get this straight, Godfrey.” Quinn stood, leaning his arms on his desk, looking Carver in the eye. “Aimee is no one’s secretary. She’s a member of the professional administrative staff of this hospital. She’s here because your problem falls under her job description. Phyllis Poole chairs the CME Committee, but it’s not her responsibility to pull you out of the shit storm you’re in.”
Carver rose from his chair, placing his palms on Quinn’s desk, facing him eyeball to eyeball. “You’re making a mistake, Jared. That young man from the Azores has made good progress. If I’m taken off his case before Prine returns, we’re going to lose a lot of ground. He may never recover.”
“Are you keeping Prine apprised?” Quinn asked.
“I’ve told him the patient is showing signs of emerging from the coma. I’ve assured Prine that I’ll be on hand if he isn’t able to return before that happens.” Carver stalked to Quinn’s office door, where he stopped and turned to me. “I’ll have my office manager contact you. She’ll know which one of my girls you need to talk to.”
I was relieved when he finally left, closing the door with more force than necessary. If I’d heard him call his employees his girls one more time, I’d have been the next one uttering profanities.
Quinn leaned back in his chair and smiled. “That went well, don’t you think?”
“I know you’re joking, but at least we have someplace to start. I’d better get back to the library. We only have four days to get this done. I don’t want to miss that call from his office.”
“I hear you,” Quinn said. “Thursday is his last day, right?”
“Right. He’ll have no medical staff membership or privileges after Thursday, unless he comes up with his missing credits.”
“Then I’d better pave the way for getting Paulo Ferrera transferred to U.C. Davis. I want everything in place by Wednesday, just in case Prine isn’t back by then.”
“What are you hearing from Dr. Prine?” I hoped we could avoid a transfer. “He’s been gone for ten days. It seems like his daughter would be stable by now.”
“Apparently, his daughter is out of danger, but still hospitalized.” Quinn drummed his fingers on his desk. “Prine is aware of the situation with Carver’s pending membership renewal, and he also knows Paulo is still in a coma.” Quinn hesitated for a moment. “Although what Carver just said is news to me. I hadn’t heard that Paulo Ferrera was showing signs of waking up.”
“Neither had I, but that’s good news. Maybe that’s what Carver meant about the danger of a transfer to Davis. I suppose it could cause a setback in his recovery.”
“Prine keeps saying he’ll be back at TMC before Thursday,” Quinn said. “I wish I could depend on that, but we have to keep transfer in mind as a backup.”
“There’s always a chance Carver’s telling the truth about his CME credits.”
Quinn shook his head. “There’s a chance pigs can fly, too, but go ahead and talk to his office manager. We might as well see where that goes.”
Back in the library, I was relieved when Lola reported that Carver’s office had already called. The name she had jotted on a message slip was Kiri D’Costa.
I called Kiri back immediately. She agreed to set aside a time for the two of us to meet in Carver’s office toward the end of the workday.
Next, I called Cleo. She knew more about the nearly three hundred doctors on the TMC medical staff than anyone else. I needed her take on just how dangerous it would be to cross Carver. How miserable could he make my life? As Quinn said, we had to choose our battles.
Cleo and I met for a late lunch at Margie’s Bean Pot, a popular diner across the street and down the block from the hospital. She unfolded her paper napkin, using it to polish her soup spoon. “How unpleasant was the war of words in Quinn’s office this morning?”
I gave it to her in a nutshell, stressing that I would be working with Kiri D’Costa to see if we could find proof of Carver’s claim about unreported CME credits.
“I’m meeting with Kiri later today, after Carver’s office hours. I’ll look at the paperwork they have on file there.”
“What else is new?” Cleo asked. “Any word on when Dr. Prine will be back from Florida?”
“That’s still an unknown, although he told Quinn he’d be back by Wednesday. Apparently, his daughter’s case is more complicated than expected.”
“I’m pleased and a little surprised he’s taking such a paternal interest in her,” Cleo said. “From what I’ve heard, he and her mother split up when she was a toddler. Her mother remarried and moved out of state fifteen years ago. I didn’t realize Prine had remained close to the girl all these years.”
“Does he have other children?”
“Not that I know of.” Cleo glanced at the tables nearest ours, then added softly, “Prine keeps his personal life under wraps, which isn’t easy to do in a medical community. Most people assume there are women, just not here in Timbergate.” Cleo tapped a finger to her chin. “He does like to travel. Could be there’s someone in another city.”
“Maybe there’s a woman in Florida,” I said. “If that were the case, he’d be tempted to milk his daughter’s accident for a little extra time off.”
Cleo smiled. “Listen to how cynical you’ve become. Is this job is robbing you of your innocence?”
“Maybe a little. You can’t blame the man for wanting a break from the constant demands of a medical practice. Especially if it involves romance.”
“Still,” Cleo said, “if the Portuguese patient is emerging from his coma, that’s a big step toward recovery. I’d expect Prine to hightail it back here.”
“Yes, but from what I’ve seen in medical literature, emerging from a coma isn’t as simple as waking up from a nap. It can be a long process.”
I agreed to fill her in on whatever I discovered about Carver’s CME credits. With that out of the way, Cleo switched topics. As always, she prodded me about Nick. Were we any closer to making wedding plans, or at least a formal engagement? I evaded that question, but satisfied her need for “girl talk” by telling her how Nick and I had run into James O’Brien at the theater in Boston.
“Oh, boy,” Cleo’s eyebrows shot up. “Nick saw you plant a kiss on James?”
“On his cheek. A friendly kiss,” I said.
“Sure, friendly,” Cleo gestured air quotes. “Talk about hotties! James O’Brien is tough competition. Nick had better pick up his pace.”
I didn’t bother to respond. Trying to reason with a romantic like Cleo was useless.