Chapter Thirty-Six
I didn’t want to show up empty-handed to Aram’s place, so I dropped into a liquor store along the way. The shelves were chock-full of wine choices, and I feverishly scanned row upon row. I found the merlot Aram and I used to enjoy. I picked up a bottle and then thought better of it. I grabbed a cabernet instead.
The GPS led me into a new, upscale neighborhood. I parked on the road in front of a two-story brick house and a nicely landscaped yard. I rubbed my moist palms together. For the sake of justice, I needed to decipher whatever this flash drive contained, and whether it held any significance at all. No matter how I looked at it, I knew my being here could be viewed as inappropriate. But I’d ensure no boundaries were crossed. This was business. Period.
I let out my breath, got out of the car, and climbed the interlocking brick walkway to the front stoop. I rang the doorbell, and in seconds Aram swung the door open. He looked as fit and handsome as ever, with the top button of his white shirt undone.
“Hi,” he said and smiled. “Come in.” I got a whiff of his freshly applied woodsy cologne.
I stepped inside onto the dark wood flooring. He shut the door, and I handed him my purchase from the liquor store. “For you,” I said.
He slipped the bottle from the bag. “Thank you, June. I’m sure it’s very flavorful. How about I pour us a glass?”
“Water will be fine for me.”
“Water it is. Please have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
The high ceilings enhanced the spaciousness of the entrance and great room. Twin auburn chesterfields faced each other on an area rug. A glass coffee table sat in between. I eased onto the sofa edge near the fire and admired the marble mantle.
Aram returned with two glasses of water.
“You have a lovely home,” I said and took a sip.
“Thank you, June. That’s kind of you to say.” He sat across from me. “I hope you’re hungry. The food should be here soon.”
“I am, thank you.” I wanted to cringe from the awkward pleasantries of this lovers-to-friends scenario. If he felt the same way, he didn’t show it.
The doorbell rang.
Aram clamped his hands together. “Good timing.” He stood and answered the door. By his eager reaction, he must have felt a tinge of awkwardness, too. He reached into his pocket for a wad of folded bills and paid the delivery guy, who handed over a plastic bag.
“Keep the change,” Aram said and shut the door. “Would you like to eat in the kitchen?”
“Sure.”
I followed Aram into the tidy eating area. Overhead, pot lights glowed like soft full moons. He placed the takeout bag onto the spotless black granite island countertop. Aram unpacked the containers of food and removed two plates from the cupboard and cutlery from a drawer. He moved easily, fluidly.
We helped ourselves to scoops of stir-fried veggies, chicken, and rice and sat at the island on bar chairs. In the background, jazz music played. I didn’t recall when he had turned it on. I sighed. No, this wining and dining wouldn’t work, if that’s what this was. I’d been down this path before, and it hadn’t ended well.
“Do you like the food?”
“It’s really good. Thank you.” I crunched on a cashew and kept my eyes on my plate.
“So, fill me in on your ideas about the case,” he said.
I wiped my lips with a napkin, relieved to shift our conversation to the topic of work. “I don’t have any specific ideas. More of a hunch, really.”
He raised his brows and appeared to be intrigued.
His interest in my thoughts bubbled excitement within me, and I continued. “The memory stick, I feel, is somehow pivotal to the case. I think it may give a clue as to why the murder occurred and tell us about David Moreno’s involvement. I know you’ll have an expert perspective.”
He tipped down his chin in modesty and looked at me with those bright aquamarine eyes. “Thank you, June.”
“You’re welcome, but it’s true.” I’d always admired Aram’s intellect, but I’d have to tone down my appreciation. I didn’t want him to think I was leading him on.
After we finished eating, Aram cleared the plates and put them in the dishwasher. He had made an everyday chore look like fun. Maybe it was because he was fun.
“I’ll get my laptop,” he said. When he came back, he moved his chair closer to mine so we could share the computer screen. He booted up and inserted the USB stick. He appeared to be focused on the case and behaved appropriately, yet I had become very aware of how close we were. Our elbows almost touched.
I started to perspire.
He brought up the files from the drive and then hit the print key. “I’m old school,” he said. “I find it’s easier to work with a hard copy rather than a computer screen. Just a sec, I’ll get the list from my printer.”
I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and quickly fanned my face.
He returned, flipping through several pages. “There are seven and half pages, and about thirty lines per sheet. I’m guesstimating 225 names,” he said.
Aram handed me the papers and then logged into St. Eugene Hospital’s computer system.
“Okay,” he said. “What’s the first number on the list?”
I recited the first set of digits, and he typed them in. A patient's profile came up.
“The name matches the one on the flash drive! You were right, Aram. Those are patient ID numbers.”
He scrolled. “Here’s the name, address, other identifiers, and case history. And it continues. There’s a lengthy list of bloodwork, prescribed medications, and treatments. This profile contains comprehensive information.”
“Let’s try the second one,” I said.
He punched in the next case number. The names coincided with the flash drive and the hospital computer system.
“Another match,” Aram said and continued checking the rest of the numbers on the page.
“We have a common denominator. All these patients have hematological disorders, and all have been treated by Dr. Stan Fulthorpe.”
“That sounds significant,” I said and scanned the names on each sheet. “David Moreno had a hematological disorder, but his name isn’t on the list.”
“No, it isn’t. This must be a select group of patients,” Aram said. “We have to figure out why these particular people were chosen.”
“And then there are two other glaring questions. Why did David Moreno have this list of people’s confidential information on a USB, and what was he planning to do with it?”
“Exactly right,” Aram said. He continued searching for names and numbers. “See here?” He pointed to an X.
“Does that mean deceased?”
“Yes, it does. You’re a smart cookie,” Aram said.
I smiled at the cute compliment, then immediately refocused. “Out of curiosity, how many people out of the 225 have died?”
Aram counted the Xs from each sheet. It took a while, but I watched and waited. “In total, there are 152.”
“Could that be significant?”
“Possibly,” Aram said.
I shelved the statistic in my brain in case we found a lead in this direction later.
“June, I’m going to download each patient file from the hospital system onto one of my own USB sticks, so you have a copy, too.”
“Thank you, Aram.”
“I’m trusting you with my livelihood.” His cheeks dimpled when he smiled.
He made light of what he said, but this was serious. If discovered, a breach of confidentiality could ruin his career and reputation.
“I would never tell anyone.”
“I know you wouldn’t.” We made eye contact. My heart palpitated. He looked away and pushed his chair back. “Do you know what I would like right now?”
I shook my head, a little stunned at the intensity of that brief moment.
“I would like a glass of the wine you brought. Would you care to join me?”
I thought about it.
“Half a glass?” he asked.
I couldn’t resist. “Sure. Thank you.” He uncorked the bottle. Like a sommelier, his movements were graceful and mastered. He poured some wine into a stemless glass and handed it to me.
I swirled the liquid and took a sip. The rich oak-vanilla flavor stimulated my palate and warmed me from within. My body loosened, and I watched Aram put the rim of his glass to his mouth.
“Mmm. You chose a very nice vintage, June.”
“I’m pleased you like it.” I took another drink. This sip went down smoother, relaxing me another notch.
Back to business.
“Here’s a random thought,” I said. “Could the list on the drive by any chance be a compilation of prominent people? Maybe this is a blackmailing scheme.”
Aram flipped through the pages of names. “That’s an interesting theory. But there’s no way of assessing the prominence of these people.”
“That’s true. What are we missing?” I said, more to myself, and studied the first name on the computer screen, again. Demographics—name, address, phone number, next-of-kin, family physician, health card number. I clicked on the comment box. It read: Primary and sole care transferred from Dr. Fulthorpe to Dr. Crawford, and the referral date.
“Is this normal?” I asked Aram. “To switch primary care doctors?”
“Sure, people switch all the time. They may want a second opinion and end up preferring the other doctor.”
“Or maybe the patients think Crawford is a better doctor, or for some reason they don’t like Dr. Fulthorpe,” I said.
“Possible,” Aram said. “But if it came down to bedside manner, Fulthorpe would win hands down.”
Patient after patient, I clicked on the comment sections on the list. I finished the first page. “Aram, these all say switched to Crawford for primary and sole care.”
Aram put his glass down and took a closer look at the screen. He moved closer to me, too.
“That sounds significant, doesn’t it?” I said.
He rubbed his chin in thought. “Absolutely it does, but now we have to figure out how it’s significant. We still can’t rule out a confidentiality breech. Or blackmail, like you had mentioned.”
“The question is, for what gain would confidentiality be breached? Or who is blackmailing whom? These may be theories we need to investigate further.” My mind spun.
Aram remained cordial. True to his word, he wasn’t overtly flirting or making a move. But he looked at me in an intimate way and coaxed forth intimate memories. On the outside I resisted, but inside my body and mind were softening, betraying me. The comfort and familiarity I once had with him surfaced. I couldn’t run from it anymore or pretend everything I had felt for him stopped the day he left. My feelings for him never ended. I had buried them deep inside so I could move on.
There. I finally admitted it.
“June? Are you all right?”
It was best to make my exit.
“Yes, I’m fine. How about we take time to think more about all of this?” I shut the laptop and removed the stick. “It’s after eight. I better get going,” I said. “Thank you so much for dinner.”
“It was lovely having you. I will go through these sheets again and see if I can disclose anything.”
I grabbed my purse and went to the front door. “Thanks again, Aram. See you at work on Monday.”
“Good night, June.”
I walked to the car and waved as I drove away. My muscles relaxed.?It had taken almost two years to recover from the most aching love loss I’d ever known, and I was grateful how Aram and I had become friends without maintaining any breakup bitterness. But I’d moved on and become entwined in a greater love. My fulfilled heart brimmed with optimism and absolute contentment about my future with Patrick.
But then why did a feeling of unrest, or a sense of incompletion, tug inside of me?