Queen of Hearts

Chapter 1

Into the Frying Pan

H e was still recovering from the last adventure. It was hard seeing Marelli die. It was even harder talking to Marelli’s wife and family. Although the guy was a sociopath—and the police had no choice but to take him down—it took a toll on everyone. Michael Hawke threw himself back into his work with a vengeance and started taking in more clients.

He was a physician and a lawyer, and for some reason, his practice was growing. In addition, his help with solving the Dallas Hospital murders had given him quite a reputation. He enjoyed serving clients and solving crimes. It added some adventure to his life.

Medicine was getting slightly mundane; he had been doing it for so many years. Of course, he still felt the thrill of saving people’s lives. At the end of the day and at the end of his life, he would be proud of what he had done. He thought about some of the guys he went to school with who worked in finance. They had made hundreds of millions of dollars doing nothing to help others.

Hawke got a new 5 Series from BMW. A beautiful talisman green, the car was a testament to the ability of man to make beautiful devices. A camera would appear as he backed up. This was just part of German engineering. Sensors would detect any movement to the side, and it could reach a hundred miles an hour faster than any car he had ever had. It hugged the road like a magnet was carrying it.

Terry, I’ll be right there, man!

Hawke was responding to a call from Dr. Gabriel—the short, dark-haired, Syrian-born surgeon who he frequently worked with. He needed urgent help about something personal, or so he said when he had called Hawke.

Gabriel desperately wanted to be an all-American boy and dressed the part well with his Tommy Hilfiger suits and crew cut. Of course he married a blue-eyed blonde girl from the Heartland. They had a great family, but like a lot of doctors, he fell victim to pleasures of the flesh. He had a penchant for nurses, drug reps, and device representatives. His wife knew him well and tolerated his dalliances with tacit acceptance. It was the same old story every time. Whenever he got caught, he would head for a sumptuous family vacation to Bermuda or some similar place for a couple of weeks, and that was that! It seemed like he was at it again and wanted Hawke’s help.

Hey, what’s up? The car phone came alive. Max, Hawke’s brother, was a successful plastic surgeon.

Hawke loved the way modern phones plugged directly into the car’s system. A call from Max was always a great stress-buster. The brothers had been close confidants since childhood.

Hey, Max, congrats on your practice! I saw some of the billboards.

Hey, I’m making Dallas more beautiful, one person at a time, Max chuckled.

Can you do a chin lift for me? Hawke asked.

There’s no hope for you, bro! Listen, I’m off to Europe with the kids. Is everything okay with that lawsuit? Max sounded serious now.

Max was referring to the recent case where Hawke was sued and had to go to a deposition. These deep personal issues for physicians take a great toll. In no other profession and country did physicians bear such a level of liability. With any error—real or perceived—doctors were on the hook personally and professionally. Hawke knew of physicians in their forties and fifties who had gone bankrupt in the process. And it was not only financial loss that mattered; questioning the integrity of a physician had far greater impact than most people would imagine.

I’m doing good. Hawke tried to sound casual. It was pretty stressful, yes, but I’m okay!

We all go through it. Everyone knows you are a good doc. Nothing is going to happen to you. You didn’t do anything wrong, Max said.

I know I didn’t, but sometimes that just isn’t enough. A lot of it is perception.

Hawke was aware that doctors were fair game in the current medical climate. Everyone felt comfortable criticizing and questioning physicians. The latest trend was for insurance companies to question how many procedures the doctors performed and the necessity of those procedures. They were not concerned about patients; they wanted to stop paying for treatments. It was amazing but not surprising.

With the medical profession falling apart and turning into a shell of what it had been, people were jumping ship. In a way, doctors were their worst enemies. They continued to turn on their own.

His train of thought broke as another car maneuvered itself dangerously close to his BMW. As Hawke pressed on the brakes hard and then regained control of the course, he cursed involuntarily.

What was that for? asked Max, amused.

Some dick just cut me off! Hawke explained.

It’s probably some jerkoff in a Toyota Camry thinking that his evening run to grab a jug of milk necessitates the haste and arrogance of a neurosurgeon going to perform urgent brain surgery.

"Dude, if you drive a Toyota, you aren’t going anywhere really urgent to society."

Onlookers may express similar feelings as you blow past them in your BMW! Max said in a mocking tone. But hey! I have yet to experience your new car. You’ve got to take me for a ride someday.

I will, if you ever get any time off! Hawke laughed.

Max loved his work. He was also a stickler for discipline and really took his medical training seriously. Hawke remembered how his brother wasn’t available for the previous family Thanksgiving because of all the people who ate a little too much turkey at the table.

Listen, have a good trip, bro! Call me when you get back.

Ciao! Max hung up.

Hawke concentrated back on the road. He could hear the well-tuned sports car whizz as he turned a corner. His car hugged the corners like it was on rails!

Another call came through.

You gotta help me, man! Gabriel panted. Desperation was evident in the surgeon’s voice.

What’s going on, man?

I need your help. There is blood everywhere!

Hawke had no idea what he was getting himself into. Was Gabriel describing a medical emergency or was it an emergency of a different kind? As a surgeon, Gabriel was used to bloodshed. But that blood ought not to be everywhere! Hawke stepped on the gas instinctively.

It’s Lizzie … she’s dead! I didn’t kill her!

That was not the kind of conversation Hawke liked to have on a Friday night. It was definitely not a professional emergency. A whole lot of emotions rushed through his mind.

I’m almost there, Terry! Hawke tried his best to sound reassuring, but he wasn’t sure of the effect. The call got disconnected from the other end.

Hawke tried to concentrate on driving to keep the thoughts out of his mind. The lights were beacons in the night that called him to go faster. Although he was driving a new sports car, he didn’t enjoy needless speeding. However, his calling as a doctor often necessitated rushing for emergencies. The police had stopped him a few times, but in most cases, he got off by smiling, telling them he was a doctor, and casually reaching across the dash to get his license. As he did, the prominent sticker showing how he and Maria had donated to the Sheriff’s Association caught the officer’s eye. It generally translated to a ticket-free trip!

This time, it was no different. He was speeding deliberately, but no one stopped him. He seemed to hit all the red lights, though. The small buttons of light called to him as he could see the yellow streaks of the highway come and go in his mirror. Hawke needed to think of something else to distract himself. He tried to think of his wife. Maria taught at the university in North Dallas. Maria was in Europe, and Hawke was on his own. Maria knew Gabriel. How would she react when she found out about the gory mess that Gabriel had gotten himself into? It sounded like real trouble, and although they weren’t the closest friends, Hawke and Maria didn’t dislike the happy-go-lucky kind of guy who Gabriel was. Gabriel’s wife was the typical American cheerleader from Michigan. And they had beautiful children. Indeed, Hawke felt somewhat sorry for Gabriel and realized that he was unable to stop thinking of him.

Hawke parked in the doctors’ lot and rushed past the doctors who were coming off their shifts.

Hey, Mike, I didn’t know cardiologists worked after five o’clock! a general surgeon quipped as he headed out through the emergency room door.

Yep, we haven’t figured out yet how to get out of doing that! Hawke shot back as he headed for the on-call room. Cardiologists were like the surgeons of the internal medicine field. They would work late and come in at all hours. They did work with their hands as well. He always thought being a cardiologist was sort of like a hybrid of radiology, internal medicine, and surgery. And of course, being a physician was in itself a little like being a priest, teacher, saint, and a whole bunch of other things.

Gabriel was cooped in the tiny on-call room where he had spent so many nights. As he surveyed the scene, Hawke couldn’t help thinking that the room was now a cage closing in on Gabriel. There was blood everywhere. Lizzie Lehrman, the rep Gabriel was currently involved with, lay in a crimson pool, badly cut up. Hawke knew she was into her second marriage. Once an aspiring starlet who had spent years on producers’ couches but never made it big, she was still beautiful at thirty-five. The hospital grapevine had it that she was eager to please. From whatever little Hawke had heard of her from Gabriel, he didn’t find it surprising. Having come from a broken home and an abusive father, she was typical of this type of low-self-esteem promiscuous behavior.

Tell me what happened here! Hawke blurted out. He tried to focus his mind. It was hard with everything going on. Gabriel was hyperventilating. The EMS responders were getting closer around him and cleaning up the body. Lizzie looked like she had been cut from stem to stern. Hawke inspected her closely. Her twisted face and running makeup made her look like a sad hooker or a sad clown—Hawke couldn’t decide which one.

Excuse me, sir. I need to collect DNA. The tech was doing his CSI thing. Since that show came on TV, juries were cripples dependent on DNA. They were no longer able to deal with good old police work of investigations and evidences. The O. J. trial certainly didn’t help. Now every criminal worth his salt knew what do with DNA. The real problem was the public perception. They were convinced that in a jury decision, DNA evidence and all other evidences were 100 percent correct. There was no room for error. Combine that with the general view that the police were out to get people, and guess what—nobody seemed to be getting convicted of anything anymore.

As Hawke stepped back to give room to the tech, someone put a heavy arm on his shoulder from behind and said, I thought we had seen enough killing at hospitals for a while!

Hawke turned to face Detective Trichet and smiled. A tall black man with a New Orleans drawl, his black hair with sprinkles of gray made him a dead ringer for Morgan Freeman. The detective, originally from Louisiana, had worked with Hawke on his last case where a number of doctors were involved in setting up insurance policies and killing patients for the money. They had a rough ride together. It was a difficult situation for all of them, especially for Hawke, to unmask fellow doctors who were involved in the despicable killings. Trichet worked closely with Hawke, and they had grown to be fond of each other. And now here he was back on the hospital scene!

So what’s the deal with this doc? Another one on the take? Trichet asked in a low voice.

You know how I feel about that. Hawke’s voice was even lower.

They had talked about this on many occasions. Trichet had recounted how his own father had almost died in the hospital due to error on the part of the physician and the nurses. Trichet maintained that with more than a hundred thousand deaths per year, hospitals were dangerous places!

Hawke would always try to counter him on this point. C’mon, man. Do you think that some nickel and dime doctor in the big picture is going to prescribe a medication when someone doesn’t need it?

Trichet would set aside his arguments with a wave of his strong hand. I read the papers; money is tight for you all. There are even banks that are trying to close you all out, saying you are no longer a low-risk business. With all these changes, you guys sound like you are getting screwed.

Well, look at you cops! Hawke would try to argue on a lighter vein. You can no longer pull out your gun or do anything without being investigated by internal affairs.

Indeed, the time of being a policeman had changed dramatically, and Trichet was well aware of it. Gone were the good old days of wielding enormous power to investigate and do police work. Trichet felt it was due to the media. Through the Internet and cameras, it was often apparent that