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?”
Joe glanced across the room. Jane was now in one of the clinic’s fancy hospital gowns and hooked up to an IV, still looking as peaceful as a sleeping child. “It’s hard to say with concussion and potential brain swelling. The doctors may determine she needs surgery for a subdural hematoma or something, for all I know.”
The young cop looked grim as he considered that possibility, and Joe was grateful for his concern. “Well, we’ll be in touch.” He gave Joe his card. “If she wakes up, or if there’s anything you remember or want to talk about, give me a call. Likewise, I’ll let you know if we find anything out.”
“Thanks.”