Under the Knife(45)

“I, uh, try to stay in shape. I guess,” Spencer said.

“Oh please. Were you, like, a football player, or something?”

“Nah. Never appealed to me. I boxed. In high school.”

“Boxed! Wow.”

“Yeah. Well, there was this retired Olympic boxing coach in my hometown in eastern Washington who worked with some of us kids. Great way to stay in shape and out of trouble.” Although he hadn’t been the kind of teenager who’d had trouble staying out of trouble.

“How about college?”

“I played rugby at the University of Washington. Proud Huskie.”

“Rugby. Well, it shows,” she said, laughing. She touched the back of his hand, letting it linger briefly.

Spencer noticed. Of course he noticed: he was a heterosexual man with an intact libido and a pulse. Wendy was a little on the thin side, and he wasn’t into the way she highlighted her hair, or the blue eye shadow, or the body piercing. But she was cute. And available, she and her first husband having ended their short marriage last year, without acrimony or kids.

Plus, Spencer was lonely. Not that there hadn’t been any women since he and Rita had split. But they’d come and gone, placeholders to fill the void left by Rita. A lawyer. A personal trainer at his gym. A woman who described herself as a “life consultant.” All nice enough, especially the consultant, who was about the most cheerful person he’d ever met. But none could hold a candle to Rita. Lately, he hadn’t had the energy or interest to go looking for more.

Or was it the misguided hope that Rita might yet come to her senses about the two of them?

He knew in his gut that a fling with Wendy would lead only to temporary parole from his loneliness. Plus, he didn’t need the aggravation of innuendo. The OR break and locker rooms trafficked heavily in gossip. Exhibit A: the idiot who’d passed out naked in the OR. People like Ray were eating that stuff up; and even if, by some bizarre circumstance, the naked surgeon had a reasonable explanation, the guy’s reputation was still toast. Once his identity was out, it would be just as well for him if he never showed up here again.

As if reading his mind, Wendy said, in a low voice, “So. Dr. C. Did you hear about what happened this morning?”

Spencer chuckled. “You mean the naked guy?”

Chrissy, standing behind Wendy, squealed. “Wendy’s the one who found her!”

Her?

“Her?” Spencer asked, forcing casualness into his tone.

Wendy’s eyes gleamed with the joy of secret, salacious knowledge. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. Dr. Montgomery told me not to tell anyone.” Her eyes darted briefly to the anesthesia resident, who was absorbed in a medical textbook on her iPad. “But, yes. A woman, Dr. C. Can you believe it? Lisa Rodriguez and I found her while we were setting up OR 10.” She glanced at the anesthesia resident again. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Rita operated in OR 10 on Mondays.

In fact, she was supposed to be operating there right now.

Easy, Spencer. That doesn’t mean anything. It could have been anyone.

“A resident?” he said casually. “Drape, please.”

Wendy handed him the sterile drape. “No.” He couldn’t see her lips, but it was like he could hear her smirking. “An attending.”

His mouth went dry as he unfolded the drape and placed it over Bogart. That narrowed it down to about ten women, including Rita.

“Ahh,” he said. “The plot thickens. So who was it?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you.” But it was so obvious she wanted to. All she needed was a nudge.

“Come on. You’re leaving us all in suspense here.”

Wendy put her elbows on the scrub tray and leaned toward him. “Well, what do I get?”

“Umm … my undying gratitude?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “You can do better than that, Doctor,” she said. “I was thinking along the lines of food.” Toying with him now.

“Coffee? The cart in the lobby is first-rate.”

“You know,” she purred, “I have a condo down on Mission Bay. Small, not a big deal, but sunsets from my balcony are gorgeous, and I make a mean paella. I’m having some friends over this Saturday.”

“Kelly clamp, please.”

She handed him the clamp. “You should come.”

Chrissy raised her eyebrows.

Careful, Doctor.

“Ah … how can I turn that down?” He was careful not to actually say yes.

“You can’t,” she said.

“Okay, then. Done. Who was it?”

Eyeing the anesthesia resident, Wendy wrote a name on a surgical towel using a sterile marking pen and slid it toward him.

Dr. Wu.

With a little smiley face underneath it.

“Ah…” He picked up the pen with an unsteady hand and wrote back: R U SURE?

She nodded emphatically. Yes.

“Saturday?” she murmured. “Spencer?”

“Sure,” he said absently, his mind now running in five different directions, some of them leading to the strange car parked in front of Rita’s house. “Saturday.”

“Margaritas at five. I’ll text you my address after the case. Okay?”