dealing with the two most important issues of the day: McCarthy and Cunningham’s meeting with the CIA analysts.
7
S TILL IN SCRUBS, Wyse climbed the stairs from the thirteenth to fourteenth floor. His newly formed start-up company, RegenBiologic, was on thirteen, and the Neurological Surgery Unit occupied the top floor. Wyse smiled at how he’d won the hard-fought battle against orthopedics for this space. Ortho and neuro, the top two moneymakers for a typically cash-strapped trauma center. Although he chaired the smaller department, he’d single-handedly won the David and Goliath fight for the space. He pushed open the metal fire door separating the bare concrete stairwell from his magnificent reception lobby. The walnut panels, plush carpet, and hushed voices served as sharp contrast to the third-world marketplace ambience everywhere else in the hospital.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Wyse.”
He smiled at the knockout behind the sleek glass and stainless steel reception counter. “Afternoon, Ginger.” She was a straight-spine, hair-in-a-bun, dress-for-success woman who preferred stylish glasses to contacts. Probably her assertion of individuality, he figured. He fantasized her with her hair down, glasses off, sipping a martini as a prelude to an evening of sex.
His private secretary had taken the day off to extend the three-day weekend into four, so Cunningham’s call would’ve come through Ginger. Had he called? The answer, of course, would be scrawled on one of those pink callback memos on his desk. But he’d have to weed through the stack to find it. He asked, “Did Colonel Cunningham call?”
“Yes, Doctor. A few minutes ago. I said you were running behind. He asked for you to return his call.”
Nodding, as if it were nothing more than another hassle in a typically busy day, he mumbled thank you and continued into his office.
His corner space featured two magnificent views. One across Lake Washington to the multimillion-dollar homes choking the east shore, the Bellevue office buildings, and the breath-stopping Cascade Mountain peaks. The other, a northerly panorama of the downtown business district, Lake Union, and Queen Anne Hill. It didn’t get much better than this, far as hospitals went.
He shut the door, went straight to the desk, picked up the slips, and found Cunningham’s call second from the top. According to Ginger, it came in ten minutes ago. Gut churning with anticipation, he eyed the phone. Did the agency buy the concept?
Sure they did. They had to. Why wouldn’t they?
Well, because there were certain, ah, issues. But hell, those were relatively minor compared to the benefits.
He dropped into his chair, ran trembling fingers over his scalp, and squinted at the ridiculously expensive silver frame that held a portrait of his wife and two children. His family. What a joke. Twenty-one years shackled with Samantha the Clotheshorse, the frigging Imelda Marcos of Nordstrom. Pissed him off every time he looked around her closet at the piles of clothes. The guest room closet was overflowing too.
And Rachael, his daughter. A high school senior who dressed like a two-buck hooker from the projects. It’d be a godsend if a fraction of her mother’s tastes rubbed off on her. But he knew they wouldn’t.
To say nothing of Aaron, the fucking disaster. A ski bum shacked up in Vail. Or was it Whistler? Couldn’t keep those places straight. Leaching off older women like a damned gigolo in Gucci. Christ, was that a cliché or what?
To say nothing of Samantha’s social-climbing charity events. Queen of the spend-big-so-the-program-committee-will-seat-you-close-to-the-stage-to-be-noticed philosophy. At the moment she chaired both the Pinnacle Club Women’s Advisory Board and the Woman’s Auxiliary. Both bloodsucking tentacles of the Lakeview Foundation, the group of parasites tasked with encouraging philanthropic giving by making prospective donors feel exclusive. All last week Sam had pressed
7
S TILL IN SCRUBS, Wyse climbed the stairs from the thirteenth to fourteenth floor. His newly formed start-up company, RegenBiologic, was on thirteen, and the Neurological Surgery Unit occupied the top floor. Wyse smiled at how he’d won the hard-fought battle against orthopedics for this space. Ortho and neuro, the top two moneymakers for a typically cash-strapped trauma center. Although he chaired the smaller department, he’d single-handedly won the David and Goliath fight for the space. He pushed open the metal fire door separating the bare concrete stairwell from his magnificent reception lobby. The walnut panels, plush carpet, and hushed voices served as sharp contrast to the third-world marketplace ambience everywhere else in the hospital.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Wyse.”
He smiled at the knockout behind the sleek glass and stainless steel reception counter. “Afternoon, Ginger.” She was a straight-spine, hair-in-a-bun, dress-for-success woman who preferred stylish glasses to contacts. Probably her assertion of individuality, he figured. He fantasized her with her hair down, glasses off, sipping a martini as a prelude to an evening of sex.
His private secretary had taken the day off to extend the three-day weekend into four, so Cunningham’s call would’ve come through Ginger. Had he called? The answer, of course, would be scrawled on one of those pink callback memos on his desk. But he’d have to weed through the stack to find it. He asked, “Did Colonel Cunningham call?”
“Yes, Doctor. A few minutes ago. I said you were running behind. He asked for you to return his call.”
Nodding, as if it were nothing more than another hassle in a typically busy day, he mumbled thank you and continued into his office.
His corner space featured two magnificent views. One across Lake Washington to the multimillion-dollar homes choking the east shore, the Bellevue office buildings, and the breath-stopping Cascade Mountain peaks. The other, a northerly panorama of the downtown business district, Lake Union, and Queen Anne Hill. It didn’t get much better than this, far as hospitals went.
He shut the door, went straight to the desk, picked up the slips, and found Cunningham’s call second from the top. According to Ginger, it came in ten minutes ago. Gut churning with anticipation, he eyed the phone. Did the agency buy the concept?
Sure they did. They had to. Why wouldn’t they?
Well, because there were certain, ah, issues. But hell, those were relatively minor compared to the benefits.
He dropped into his chair, ran trembling fingers over his scalp, and squinted at the ridiculously expensive silver frame that held a portrait of his wife and two children. His family. What a joke. Twenty-one years shackled with Samantha the Clotheshorse, the frigging Imelda Marcos of Nordstrom. Pissed him off every time he looked around her closet at the piles of clothes. The guest room closet was overflowing too.
And Rachael, his daughter. A high school senior who dressed like a two-buck hooker from the projects. It’d be a godsend if a fraction of her mother’s tastes rubbed off on her. But he knew they wouldn’t.
To say nothing of Aaron, the fucking disaster. A ski bum shacked up in Vail. Or was it Whistler? Couldn’t keep those places straight. Leaching off older women like a damned gigolo in Gucci. Christ, was that a cliché or what?
To say nothing of Samantha’s social-climbing charity events. Queen of the spend-big-so-the-program-committee-will-seat-you-close-to-the-stage-to-be-noticed philosophy. At the moment she chaired both the Pinnacle Club Women’s Advisory Board and the Woman’s Auxiliary. Both bloodsucking tentacles of the Lakeview Foundation, the group of parasites tasked with encouraging philanthropic giving by making prospective donors feel exclusive. All last week Sam had pressed
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