Читать книгу: «Hot Docs On Call: Tinseltown Cinderella»

CHAPTER ONE

CAREY SPENCER HAD never felt more alone in her life than when she got off the bus in Hollywood.

Joseph Matthews, on that night’s shift for the prestigious Hollywood Hills Clinic, had just delivered one of the industry’s favorite character actresses to the exclusive twenty-bed extended recovery hotel. It was tucked between Children’s Hospital and a smaller private hospital on Sunset Boulevard, and the common eye would never guess its function. Joe had agreed to make the Wednesday night run because James Rothsberg himself had asked. After all, the lady had won an award for Best Supporting Actress the year before last.

As the lead paramedic for the ambulance line he owned, Joe had attended the not-to-be-named-aloud patient during the uneventful ride to the recovery hotel. She’d been heavily sedated, her IV was in place, her vitals, including oxygen saturation, were fine, but she’d had so much work done on her face, breasts and hands she looked like a mummy. When they’d arrived, you’d have thought he’d delivered the President to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center the way the abundant staff rushed to the ambulance and took over the transfer.

Now, at nine p.m., back sitting in the front of the private ambulance, Joe switched on some music. Jazz, his favorite station. Yeah, he owned this bus—hell, he owned all six of them—so he could play whatever music he wanted. But that also kept him thinking about work a lot. It was the first of the month and he’d have to make copies of the June shift schedule for the EMTs and paramedics on his team before they showed up for work tomorrow morning.

“I’m hungry,” Benny, his EMT, said from behind the wheel.

Why was Joe not surprised? The kid had barely turned twenty and seemed to have hollow legs.

Restless and out of sorts, a state that was nothing new these days, Joe nodded. “How about that Mexican grill?” They’d just made their last run on Friday night, without plans for later, so why not?

“You read my mind.” Benny tossed him a cockeyed grin, his oversized Afro flopping with the quick movement.

He turned off Hollywood Boulevard and up N. Cahuenga to the fast-food place by the cross-country bus depot, where a bus had just arrived from Who Knew Where, USA. Benny had to wait to pull into a larger-than-average parking space. Joe mindlessly watched a handful of people trickle off the bus.

A damn fine-looking young woman wearing oversized sunglasses got off. Sunglasses at night. What was up with that? She was slender and her high-heeled boots made her look on the tall side. She wore jeans and a dark blue top, or was it a sweater? Her thick hair was layered and long with waves and under the bus depot lights looked brown. Reddish? He wondered what her story was. Probably because of the shades at night. But he didn’t bother to think about ladies these days. Yet, still, dang, she was hot. And stood out like a rose in a thorn patch.

Benny backed the private ambulance into the space at the farthest end of the restaurant lot, and Joe got out the passenger side, immediately getting hit by the mouthwatering aroma of spicy beans and chipotle chicken. He stretched, eager to chow down. A sudden movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention. Someone sprang from behind a pillar and snagged a lady’s purse strap and wrist, pulling her out of the crowd and toward the nearby alley. It was the woman he’d just been gawking at! The other travelers had mostly dispersed. She put up a fight, too, and squealed, yet the few people left lingering didn’t seem to notice...but he did.

Joe ran to the mouth of the alley. “Hey!” Then sprinted toward the young woman, who was still fighting to hold on to her purse.

The tall but skinny, straggly-haired dude dragged her by the shoulder strap and wrist deeper down the alley. Why doesn’t she just let go? Ah, wait, it’s one of those over-the-torso jobs.

“Hey!”

This time the guy turned and whacked her with his fist, knocking the young woman to the ground. Her head hit with a thud. He ripped off the purse, hitting her head on the pavement again, then stepped over her to get to Joe with a wild swing.

Joe blocked the first punch with little effort—the dumb punk didn’t know what he was dealing with as he boxed for his workouts—but the guy pulled a knife and lashed out. Joe threw another punch and landed it, even while feeling a hot lightning-quick slice across his ribs. Now he was really ticked. The guy ran deeper into the alley with Joe in pursuit, soon disappearing over a large trash bin and tall crumbling brick wall. Joe skidded to a brief stop and watched in disbelief. For a scumbag the man was agile. Probably from a lot of practice in assaulting innocent people.

The girl! Holding his side, he sprinted back to where she lay. Out cold.

Benny met up with him. “I called the police. You okay?”

“Just a superficial wound.” Still, he checked it briefly since an adrenaline rush could mask pain. The last thing he wanted to find out was that the cut was deep enough to cause evisceration and he hadn’t noticed. Fortunately the only thing he saw was oozing blood, nothing gushing. He’d throw a thick absorbent pad over his middle as soon as Benny got back with the trauma kit, oxygen bag and backboard. He didn’t want to bleed all over the poor lady. “Bring our equipment, okay?” He grabbed a pair of gloves from Benny’s belt, and knelt in front of the young woman as Benny took off for the ambulance. “I’m a paramedic, miss. Are you okay?” he said loudly and clearly. She didn’t respond.

She’d hit her head hard when she’d fallen—correct that, had been punched to the ground. He tried to rouse her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Hello? You okay, you awake, miss?”

He watched the rise and fall of her chest. At least she was breathing normally. He felt her neck for the carotid pulse and found it. Rate and strength normal. Good. He scanned her body for bleeding or other signs of obvious injury. Maybe the scumbag had stabbed her too. Then he used the palms of his gloved hands to sweep the underside of her arms and legs to check for bleeding, and did the same beneath both sides of her back. So far so good.

There was a fifty-cent-sized pool of blood behind her head, but he didn’t move her neck, not before he and Benny had placed a cervical collar on her. Her assailant had run off with her purse and she didn’t appear to have any other form of ID. He checked her wrist and then her neck to see if she wore any emergency alert jewelry. No such luck. They’d have to wait until she regained consciousness to find out who she was.

Even under the dim lights in the alley she had an obvious black eye, and because the dirtbag had yanked off her torso-anchored purse strap the sweater she’d been wearing had been pulled halfway down her left arm...which was covered in bruises. She’d just been mugged, but these marks weren’t fresh. Anger surged through him. She’d been beaten up long before today.

What kind of guy treated a woman like that?

He shook his head. Of all the lousy luck. She hadn’t stepped off the bus five minutes ago and had already gotten mugged and knocked unconscious. The only thing she had going for her on this nightmare of a Friday night was him. He shuddered for the young stranger over what might have played out if he hadn’t been here.

Maybe it was those thick eyelashes that seemed to glue her eyes shut, or her complete vulnerability, being unconscious in an alley, or maybe it was the obvious signs of abuse, but for whatever reason Joe was suddenly struck with an uncompromising need to protect her.

From this moment on tonight he vowed to take responsibility for the out-of-luck Jane Doe. Hell, if anyone had ever needed a guardian angel, she did.

Benny had moved the ambulance closer, and brought the backboard and equipment. Joe let Benny apply a large sloppy dressing around his middle as he checked her airway again, noting she had good air exchange. He worried, with the head injury, that she might vomit and wanted to be near if she did to prevent aspiration.

“We’re going to give you some oxygen and put a collar round your neck,” Joe said calmly, hoping she might already be regaining consciousness and hear him explain everything they did to her. They worked together and soon had Jane on the backboard for stability. Joe secured her with the straps, never taking his eyes off her. She had definitely been knocked out cold, yet still breathed evenly. A good thing. But he knew when unconscious people woke up they could often be combative and try to take off the oxygen and cervical collar. Hell, after what she’d just been through, could he blame her if she woke up fighting?

With her long dark auburn hair spread over her shoulders and her hands strapped to the transport board, she made the strangest image.

An urban Sleeping Beauty.

“Ready for transfer?” Joe said, breaking his own thoughts.

“Don’t you want to wait for the police?”

“If they’re not here by the time we get her in the back of the van, you call them again and tell them to meet us at the clinic. She might have a skull fracture or subdural bleed for all we know, and needs medical attention ASAP.” He knew the next forty-five minutes were all she had remaining in the golden hour for traumatic head injury. “I’m going to call Dr. Rothsberg and let him know what we’ve got.”

He jumped into the back of the van first to guide the head of the gurney on which they’d placed the long spine board and patient as Benny pushed from the back, then he rolled the gurney forward and locked it in place with sprung locks on the ambulance floor.

He’d ride in the back with her. If she woke up, confused and possibly combative, he wanted to be there. Plus it would be his chance to do a more thorough examination.

Joe did another assessment of Sleeping Beauty’s condition. Unchanged. Then he made the call. Unexpectedly, Dr. Rothsberg said to bring her to the clinic instead of county. Which was a good thing, because Joe would have taken her home before he’d consider delivering a Jane Doe to county hospital to potentially slip through every conceivable crack due to their overstretched system.

He stripped off the makeshift dressing and his shirt to assess his own wound, which was long and jagged, still wept blood and would definitely need stitches. Now that he was looking at it, it burned like hell. Benny had a short conversation with the police, who’d just arrived. Great timing! He showed them where they’d found her and where the attacker had fled over the wall then left them to look for witnesses as Joe cleaned and dressed his own wound. Damn, the disinfectant smarted! One of the policemen took a quick look inside the ambulance, saw the victim and Joe with his injury, nodded and took off toward the alley.

Benny closed the back doors of the van, got into the driver’s seat then started the ambulance. “They’ll take our statements at the clinic later.”

“Good,” Joe said, taping his dressing, constantly checking his patient as he did so.

As Benny drove, with their lights flashing, Joe checked her vital signs again, this time using a blood-pressure cuff then a stethoscope to listen to her lungs. He opened her eyes, opening the blackened eye more gingerly, and used his penlight to make sure she hadn’t blown a pupil. Fortunately she hadn’t, but unfortunately he’d had to move a clump of her hair away from her face in order to do so. It was thick and wavy, and, well, somehow it felt too intimate, touching it. It’d been a while since he’d run his fingers through a woman’s hair, which he definitely wasn’t doing right now, but the thought of wanting to bothered him.

By the status of her black eye, it’d been there a few days and definitely looked ugly and intentional. Someone had punched her. That was a fact. There was that anger again, flaming out of nowhere for a woman he knew zero about.

He decided to insert a hep-lock into her antecubital fossa so the clinic would have a line ready to go on arrival. A head injury could increase cranial pressure and so could IV fluid. He didn’t want to add to that, and so far her blood pressure was within normal limits. While he performed the tasks he thought about everything that had happened to his patient prior to winding up in that alley.

She’d gotten off the bus and hadn’t waited to collect a suitcase, which meant all she’d carried with her was in that large shoulder bag. And that was long gone with the punk who’d knocked her cold and jumped the wall. He tightened his fists. What he’d give to deck that guy and leave him in some alley.

If Joe added up the clues he’d guess that the lovely Sleeping Jane was running from whoever had bruised her arms and blackened her eye. She’d probably grabbed whatever she could and snuck away from...

“Who are you?” Joe asked quietly, wondering if she could hear him, knowing that unconscious people sometimes still heard what went on around them. “Where did you come from?”

He lifted one of her hands, that fierce sense of protectiveness returning, and held it in his, noticing the long thin fingers with carefully manicured but unpainted nails, and made another silent vow. Don’t worry, I’ll look out for you. You don’t have to be afraid where I’m taking you.

* * *

They arrived at The Hollywood Hills Clinic, nestled far beneath the Hollywood sign at the end of narrow winding roads with occasional hairpin turns. The swanky private clinic that hugged the hillside always reminded him of something Frank Lloyd Wright might have designed for the twenty-first century, if he were still alive. The stacked boxy levels of the modern stone architecture, nearly half of it made of special earthquake-resistant glass, looked like a diamond in the night on the hillside. Warm golden light glowed from every oversized window, assuring the private clinic was open twenty-four hours. For security and privacy purposes, there were tall fences out front, and a gate every vehicle had to clear, except for ambulances. They breezed through as soon as the gate opened completely.

Benny headed toward the private patient loading area at the back of the building. Joe put his shirt back on and gingerly buttoned it over his bandaged and stinging rib cage.

He still couldn’t believe his good fortune over landing the bid as the private ambulance company for James Rothsberg’s clinic only two short years after starting his own business. He’d been an enterprising twenty-three-year-old paramedic with a plan back then, thanks to a good mind for business instilled in him by his hard-working father. James must have seen something about him he liked when he’d interviewed him and Joe had tendered his bid. Or maybe it had had more to do with the nasty info leak the previous ambulance company had been responsible for, exposing several of the A-list actors in the biz on a TV gossip show, making Joe’s timing impeccable. He used to think of it as fate.

James’s parents—Michael Rothsberg and Aubrey St. Claire—had had enough info leaks in their lives to fill volumes. Everyone, even Joe, remembered the scandal, and he’d only been in his early teens at the time. Their stories had made headlines on every supermarket rag and cable TV talk show. Everyone knew about their private affairs. After all, James’s parents had been Hollywood royalty, and had been two of the highest-paid actors in the business. Watching them fall from grace had become a national pastime after a nasty kiss-and-tell book by an ex-lover had outed them as phonies. Their marriage had been a sham, and their teenage children, James and Freya, had suffered most.

James had told Joe on the day he’d hired him that loyalty to the clinic and the patients was the number-one rule, he wouldn’t tolerate anything less, and Joe had lived up to that pledge every single day he’d shown up to work. He’d walked out of James’s office that day thinking fate was on his side and he was the luckiest man on earth, but he too would soon experience his own fall. Like James, it hadn’t been of his own making but that didn’t mean it had hurt any less.

These days Joe didn’t believe in fate or luck. No, he’d changed his thinking on that and now, for him, everything happened for a reason. Even his damned infertility, which he was still trying to figure out. He glanced at the hand where his wedding ring had once been but didn’t let himself go there, instead focusing on the positive. The here and now. The new contract. His job security.

The clinic had opened its doors six years ago, and two years later, right around the time James’s sister Freya had joined the endeavor, Joe’s private ambulance service had been the Rothsbergs’ choice for replacement. Having just signed a new five-year contract with the clinic, Joe almost thought of himself as another Hollywood success story. Hell, he was only twenty-eight, owned his own business, and worked for the most revered clinic in town.

But how could he call it true success when the rest of his life was such a mess?

James Rothsberg himself met the ambulance, along with another doctor and a couple of nurses, and Joe prepared to transfer his sleeping beauty.

A little bit taller than Joe, James’s strong and well-built frame matched Joe’s on the fitness scale. Where they parted ways was in the looks department. The son of A-list actors, James was what the gossip magazines called “an Adonis in scrubs”. Yeah, he was classy, smooth and slick. He was the man every woman dreamed of and every man wanted to be, and Joe wasn’t afraid to admit he had a man crush on the guy. Strictly platonic, of course, based on pure admiration. The doctor ran the lavish clinic for the mind-numbingly affluent, who flocked to him, eager to pay the price for his plastic surgery services. Well, someone had to support the outrageously luxurious clinic and the well-paid staff. In fact, someone on staff had recently commented after a big awards ceremony that half of the stars in attendance had been through the clinic’s doors. A statement that wasn’t far from the truth.

“James, what are you still doing here?”

“You piqued my interest,” James said. “I had to see Jane Doe for myself.”

Joe pushed the gurney out of the back of the ambulance, and Rick, one of the evening nurses, pulled from the other end.

James studied Jane Doe as she rolled by. “She didn’t get that shiner tonight.”

“Nope,” Joe said. “There’s a whole other story that went down before she got mugged.”

James nodded agreement. “That reminds me, I got a call from the police department. They’ll be here shortly to take your statement.” He tugged Joe by the arm. “Let’s take a look at your injury before they get here, okay?”

Joe was torn between looking after Sleeping Beauty or himself, but knew the clinic staff would give her the utmost medical attention. Besides, it wasn’t every day the head of the clinic offered to give one-to-one patient care to an employee.

“Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s totally selfish. I’ve got to look out for my lead paramedic, right?” James said in a typically self-deprecating manner. That was another thing he liked so much about the guy. He never flaunted his wealth or his status.

Joe glanced across the room at the star patient of the night, Ms. Jane Doe, still unconscious but breathing steadily, and felt a little tug in his chest, then followed James into an examination room.

After the nursing assistant removed Joe’s dressing, James studied it. “So what happened here?”

Joe explained what had transpired in the alley as the doctor applied pressure to one area that continued to bleed.

“Oh, you’re definitely getting a tetanus shot. Who knows what was on that guy’s blade.”

“Well, he was a scumbag.”

“Good thing you’ve got a trained plastic surgeon to stitch you up. I’d hate to ruin those perfect washboard abs.”

Joe laughed, knowing his rigorous workout sessions plus boxing kept him fit. Boxing had been the one thing he could do to keep sane and not beat the hell out of his best friend during his divorce. “Ouch,” he said, surprised by how sensitive his wound was as the nursing assistant cleaned the skin.

“Ouch!” he repeated, when the first topical anesthetic was injected by James.

The doctor chuckled. “Man up, dude. I’m just getting started.”

That got an ironic laugh out of Joe. Yeah, sterile dude, man up!

“You won’t be feeling much in a couple of minutes.”

Joe knew the drill, he’d sutured his share of patients in his field training days, but this was the first time in his entire life he’d been the patient in need of stitches. Hell, he’d never even needed a butterfly bandage before.

“So, about the girl with the black eye,” James said, donning sterile gloves while preparing the small sterile minor operations tray. “I wonder if she may have had any prior intracranial injuries that might have contributed to her immediately falling unconscious.”

“I was wondering the same thing, but she hit that pavement really hard. I hope she doesn’t have a subdural hematoma.”

“We’re doing a complete head trauma workup on her.”

“Thanks. I know this probably sounds weird, but I feel personally responsible for her, having seen the whole thing go down, not getting there fast enough, and being the first to treat her and all. Especially since she doesn’t have any ID.”

“You broke a rule, right? Got involved with your patient?”

“Didn’t mean to, but I guess you could say that. I know it’s foolish—”

James turned back toward him. “And this might be foolish too, but when the police come we’ll tell them we’ll be treating and letting our Jane Doe recover right here.”

Touched beyond words, as the cost for staying at this exclusive clinic would be astronomical, Joe wanted to shake the good doctor’s hand but he wore sterile gloves. “Thank you. I really—” He was about to say “appreciate that” but quickly went quiet, not used to being the patient as the first stitch was placed, using a nasty-looking hooked needle, and though he didn’t feel anything, he still didn’t want to move.

“If I stitch this up just so, there’ll hardly be a scar. On the other hand, I could make you look like you’ve got a seven pack.”

As the saying went, it only hurt when he laughed.

* * *

A couple of hours later, the police had taken a thorough report, and also told Joe they hadn’t found anyone matching the description a couple of witnesses had given for the suspect, they also said they hadn’t recovered Jane Doe’s purse.

Joe sighed and shook his head. She’d continue to be Madam X until she came to. Which hopefully would be soon.

“We do have one lead, though.”

He glanced up, hopeful whatever that lead was it might point to Jane’s identity.

“The clinic staff found a bus-ticket stub in her sweater pocket. If she used a credit card to purchase the ticket, we might be able to trace it back and identify her.”

“That’s great. But what if she paid cash?”

“That might imply she didn’t want to be traced.”

“Probably explain those bruises, too.”

The cop nodded. “The most we could possibly find out is the origin of the ticket. Which city she boarded in, but she’s bound to wake up soon, right?”