She suspected my intentions, and that wasn’t easy to get past.
Then again, my intentions weren’t entirely pure.
I showered and got dressed. I decided to go casual, but put on my nice leather jacket, and a good shirt. I spent a little more time in the mirror than I normally did, and had to remind myself that this wasn’t a date, a fact that I was sure Fiona would immediately mention the first chance she got. I had a small drink then headed out into the cool evening air, breathing deep the car exhaust and Philly slime. Couples ambled past me, walking their yappy white dogs, men bundled in black overcoats, women in chic jackets and expensive handbags, and I was reminded that I lived in one of the more affluent areas of the city. It was hard to imagine that crime and grift and theft existed in a place like this—but the rich were as corrupt as anyone else, even more so.
The rich were good at keeping their money, and getting more than their fair share.
Tria was packed, but I knew the hostess. She was the daughter of one of my patients, a kind older man with a neurological issues, mostly relating to motor functions, and I suspected he might be heading toward Alzheimer’s, but I hadn’t told them that yet, not until I was sure.
“Just you tonight, doctor?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Meeting someone.”
Her eyebrows raised. She was a small girl, thick dark hair, big, beautiful eyebrows. “You’re on a date?”
“Not exactly.”
“Good. I hoped you were saving yourself for me.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Sorry, Melissa, you know I don’t date patients.”
“But I’m not the patient.”
“Fair point. Are you trying to get me to bribe you for a table?”
She leaned closer. “I’d never, ever do that.”
“Good.” I smiled again, feeling slightly uncomfortably and waiting for the moment to pass. She turned again then waved me on. There was a single high-top table left in the far corner. I took a seat, she put a menu down, then waved and headed back to her tiny station at the front.
I ordered a whiskey. Fiona showed up ten minutes later, and I sat up straighter as she waded into the crowd. She practically glowed, somehow standing apart from the affluent dinner crowd in a conservative white blouse and dark jacket, her auburn hair down in long curls over one shoulder. I felt my heart rush as she came toward me, our eyes locking for a moment before she sat down, her back straight, head tilted to the side.
“Wasn’t sure you’d show up,” I said. “You look good.”
“Thanks. Wasn’t sure I’d come.”
“I’m glad you did. Want something to drink?”
She nodded and I flagged down the waitress. She asked for a white wine, and when it came, she took a long sip, leaning back in her chair. The group behind her laughed loudly, and there were several intense conversations happening at the bar, but I couldn’t pay attention to anything but her.
I leaned forward, and she leaned toward me.
“Why would a hospital administrator have that much cash in her desk drawer?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t either. I keep thinking about it though.”
“Maybe she’s going on vacation.”
“Maybe.” I clucked my tongue and shook my head. “But she would’ve scheduled that months in advance. There’s nothing on her calendar.”
“You have her calendar?”
I gave her a look. “It’s public.”
She sighed and shook her head. “I should’ve thought of that.”
“Probably.”
She gave me a look. The waitress returned, asked if we wanted food, then headed off when Fiona said no, and I shook my head. I sipped my whiskey and placed it down, turning it in slow circles on its edge.
“Maybe she doesn’t trust banks,” Fiona said.
“Or maybe that guy left it for her.”
“That’s another strong possibility.” She shifted in her seat then leaned closer, her voice dropping softer. I had to tilt my head to catch what she was saying. “Are we doing the right thing here? I mean, this is bizarre, right?”
“It’s bizarre,” I agreed. “But something’s up. You’re not backing down, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m just…” She trailed off, biting her lip.
“What?”
“I worked hard to get where I am.”
“I can understand that.”
“No, you can’t.” She gave me a look then sighed, drank some wine, and put the glass back down. “I was in an accident, when I was a teenager. A really bad accident that nearly paralyzed me, and left me with some… lasting damage.”
I arched an eyebrow and resisted the urge to go into full-on doctor mode. I wanted to ask the extent of her injuries, what her lasting damage was, how she was coping with it now, maybe suggest some rehabilitation—but held my tongue. She was a smart person, and if there was something she could do for herself, she’d do it.