Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(3)
A nursing assistant opened the door of the birthing suite and motioned me to come in. I settled in on the couch while a nurse attached leads to Grace so they could monitor her and the baby’s vital signs. The nurse attaching the leads was pretty, maybe thirty-five, with black hair and dark-brown eyes. She’d written “Jenny Diaz” on a board that hung on the wall near the bed.
“Who’s on call?” Grace said to Jenny.
“Dr. Fraturra.”
Grace crinkled her nose.
“Is that a problem?” I said.
“It’s fine. I’ve seen him twice at the office. He just seemed a little distracted.”
I expected a comforting phrase from the nurse, something like, “Oh, Dr. Fraturra is excellent. You’re in good hands.” But none was forthcoming. She just continued to adjust the monitors.
“What do you think of Dr. Fraturra, Jenny?” I said.
“I’ve been a labor-and-delivery nurse for ten years, but my husband and I just moved to Knoxville,” she said. “I’ve only been here six weeks, so I’m not very familiar with the doctors yet. I’ve already paged him, though. He should be here soon.”
“He isn’t in the building?” I said. “We called before we left the apartment and were told he’d be here.”
“He must just be running a little late. Nothing to worry about. We still have a little while. She’s dilated six centimeters.”
The door opened, and a thin, dark-haired, midthirties man with a receding hairline walked in.
“Ah, here’s the magic man,” Jenny said.
“I’m Dr. Sams,” the man said, nodding to both Grace and me. “I’m the anesthesiologist, and I’m here to administer your epidural.”
“Thank God,” Grace said.
They asked me to leave the room again, and ten minutes later, Dr. Sams walked through the door.
“You can go back,” he said. “I’ll check on her regularly.”
I found a different woman when I returned, one whose face was no longer pale and drawn. She looked relaxed, almost angelic.
“Anesthesia is the bomb,” Grace said. “It was like he walked in here and sprinkled fairy dust all over me.”
CHAPTER 2
In a trendy bar near Turkey Creek on Knoxville’s West Side, Dr. Nicolas Fraturra raised a glass of fifteen-year-old bourbon in a toast to the blonde sitting on the bar stool next to him. His pager vibrated against his side again, but he ignored it.
“To your good health, your beautiful face, your gorgeous body, and my prospects of getting you out of that very sexy dress in the near future,” he said beneath the din of young professionals who crowded the bar every Friday night.
The blonde, a financial analyst from Nashville named Danielle Davis, who was at least ten years younger than Fraturra, raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t believe in wasting time, do you, Doctor?”
“That’s something I learned early on as a doctor,” Fraturra said. “Life is short, and it is precious. There is absolutely no sense in wasting time.”
“There is such a thing as decorum, though, don’t you think?” Davis said as she clinked her glass of Chardonnay against his bourbon.
“You said you were here to close a deal with one of your firm’s biggest clients,” Fraturra said, ignoring the question. “Where’s your client?”
“We’re close to getting it done,” she said, “but it’s his thirtieth wedding anniversary. I’ll have to wait until Monday.”
“How lucky for me,” Fraturra said. “Forgive my lack of decorum, but my experience has been that some women find straight talk sexy. The way I see it, one of two things is going to happen: either the two of us are going to spend the weekend together in luxurious and amorous bliss, or we aren’t. I would prefer that we do. You can stay at my house if you’d like—I’m single—or you can stay at your hotel and we can maintain a little space if you’re more comfortable doing so. Everything will be on me—food, drink, mood-altering substances, if you’re into that sort of thing. I have a five-thousand-square-foot home overlooking the Tennessee River, an incredible pool, absolute privacy, and an insatiable sexual appetite. All you have to do is say yes, and we’re out of this place.”
The beeper vibrated again, and Fraturra became irritated. He pulled it from his belt and looked down.
“What kind of medicine do you practice?” Davis said.
“OB-GYN.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me? The look on your face says something is wrong. Is there an emergency? Someone having a baby?”
“No, no. Nothing wrong. No emergency. I’m not even on call this weekend. I just need to take care of something. Will you excuse me for a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
Fraturra made his way out of the crowded bar and into the men’s room. He would have gone outside, but a severe thunderstorm had suddenly blown into Knoxville, and rain was falling in sheets. He dialed a number on his cell.
“Bernie? Yeah, yeah, I need a favor. I’m on call tonight. A patient has come in, and I can’t make it. Can you cover for me?”
Fraturra listened to the answer, something about a daughter’s volleyball game. He stepped into a stall and lowered his voice.