P is for Peril (Kinsey Millhone 16)

I checked the windows. No sign of movement in the parking lot. I crossed to the light switch and turned the damn thing on. I did a slow visual assessment, turning in a circle so that I could take in every aspect of the room. Near the door, I spotted an eleven-by-fourteen-inch book with a heavy cover, containing what looked like computer-generated pages to a height of three to four inches. I moved over to the book and opened the front cover. Oh, glory. This was the Master Patient Index, laid out, most blessedly, in alphabetical order. I found Klotilde's impossible last name, picked up her patient ID number, and went back to work. I left the lights on, thinking, To hell with it. I renewed my search, this time tracking her chart according to the last two digits in her patient ID number. I found her within minutes, removed her chart from the drawer, and stuffed it down the front of my underpants.

I flipped the lights out and moved back into Administration. I was just about to let myself out into the corridor when I had the following thought: If anyone was ever going to succeed in uncovering the truth, the fraud investigators would need to find Klotilde's files on the premises. "Down my underpants" was not going to be admissible in a court of law. Once I removed the records from this facility, the evidence would be tainted and the proof of Dow's innocence or guilt would be irreparably compromised. Well, shit.

I flew back into the Medical Records department, where I laid the chart open on the nearest desk. The pages were filed in reverse chronology: the most recent entries first, going back page by page to the last in the chart, which was her admissions form. I lifted the prongs and removed the metal clasp. Heart pounding with panic and impatience, I lifted the cover of the copy machine and laid the first sheet facedown. I pressed the button. With a whirring, the copier began to warm up. At an agonizing pace, the bar of light traced its way across the data and then back. The finished copy slowly appeared in the tray to my left. I lifted the cover and replaced the first sheet with the second. At least there was plenty of light to see by. Many of the doctors' notes were cursory, and I could see where the cheaters might take advantage of the gaps. Aside from the items of a medical nature, who could possibly track back and determine if the patient received Steri-strips or a bottle of baby lotion? As each page emerged, the bar of light glowed brightly just long enough for me to insert the next page.

What would I do if someone happened to walk in? In between worrying about that, I worried I was being permanently sterilized.

Sixteen minutes later, I'd completed the run. I straightened the stack of copies and slid those, still warm, back in my underpants. I reassembled the pages of the chart, put the prongs back in place, slid the clasp onto the prongs, folded them over, and secured them. Now what? I couldn't take the chart with me and I couldn't be sure someone wouldn't come along later and destroy the information. I went back to the drawer where I'd uncovered her medical chart. The last two digits in her six-digit patient ID number were 44. I moved over one bank of drawers and slid her chart among the ID numbers ending in 54, instead. That way I'd know where she was, and any medical records clerk would simply discover that her chart was gone. It was always possible someone would stumble across the chart in its new location, but I'd have to take that chance.

I left Medical Records, closed the door behind me, and returned to the main office, where the pulsing dot on Merry's screen provided surprising illumination. By now I was accustomed to the dark and I could see the clock face. 11:34. Time to scram. I pushed through the hinged gate in the counter and I'd just reached the hall door when I heard approaching footsteps. I froze, trying not to panic. The tapping sound of hard-sole shoes was soft but distinct. News must have traveled about the overhead light in the records room because someone was definitely heading in my direction to investigate. I didn't want to believe anyone would actually walk into the office, but in the interest of caution, I made a beeline through the hinged gate. I scanned the area for the easiest hiding place. I crossed to Merry's workstation, pulled out her rolling chair, and crawled into the kneehole space under her desk. I found myself sitting on a tangle of fat power cords, my head angled unnaturally to keep it from banging into the underside of Merry's pencil drawer. The corners of Klotilde's chart cut into my stomach and chest and made a strange crackling sound as I drew my feet up and hugged my knees.

The office door opened.

I expected the light to be turned on, but the room remained dark. I had no idea if any portion of my person was still visible, but I had to trust in providence that whoever had come in would soon go out again. A moment later, the door opened a second time and a second someone entered. I could hear a whispered consultation, a minor argument, and then the sound of the gate as first one and then the other pushed through into the area where I was (I hoped) concealed. Who were these two? Maybe we were on the verge of a burglar's jamboree, all three of us stealing files for differing but nefarious purposes. They had to be up to no good or why not turn the lights on?