Justice for All

CALLIE BAKER FINISHED a conversation with one of the councilmen and turned to find District Attorney Henry Lalane at her elbow.

“You look lovely tonight, Callie.”

“Thank you, Henry.”

“This must be a big event for the hospital’s chief of staff.”

“Bigger for the children who’ll benefit from the donations we raise,” she said. “The money’s earmarked to purchase new equipment for the pediatric wing.”

“It’s a great turnout.”

“You have to love that about Courage Bay. Rich or poor, the residents are always ready to support a worthy cause.”

“There’s not a lot of poor people here tonight.”

“No, but there have been so many other fund-raisers across the city. The latest was sponsored by the students at Jacaranda High. They raised over a thousand dollars for the hospital at their spring carnival.”

“So I heard. My niece goes to school there.”

And his daughter probably would have been a student there, too, if she hadn’t been killed a few years before in a random drive-by shooting. No one was ever apprehended for the crime. Callie was sorry she’d mentioned the school now, though Henry didn’t seem upset by the comment. Still, she knew how devastated he and his wife had been at the loss of their daughter.

Henry sipped his drink. “Bernie Brusco seems to be enjoying himself,” he said, letting his gaze settle on the man who was laughing and tangoing across the portable dance floor with their hostess.

“Not the best of dancers,” Callie observed, “but he’s generous. I hadn’t met him before tonight, but he wrote out a very substantial check for the hospital.”

“He should. He’s probably one of the richest men here.”

“Really. I wouldn’t have guessed that. What does he do?”

“Owns a string of convenience stores in L.A. Yet here he is crashing our little social scene.”

“Mary said he bought a house in Courage Bay.”

“Lucky us.”

“And that must be another new face in town,” Callie said, nodding toward a very handsome man standing beneath a palm tree a few yards away, looking exceedingly bored. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Looks like an aging surfer to me. I hate those new T-shirt looking things that pass for dress shirts.”

“It’s the style.” Callie had no idea if the stranger surfed, but she thought he was aging quite nicely. Probably near forty, he was still lean and sun-bronzed, with short sandy hair and a great body. The kind of guy Callie’s best friend Mikki would classify as a hunk.

Too bad Mikki hadn’t been available to attend the party. She’d have made certain the guy wasn’t bored, unless he happened to have a ring on his finger. Mikki’s claim was that every good-looking guy in southern California was gay, married or divorced and carried more baggage than a 747. Callie wasn’t totally convinced she was wrong.

“Think I’ll go introduce myself,” Henry said. “Then I’ll have to search for my social butterfly wife. It’s getting late, and I’ve got a full day tomorrow.”

“Are you working on Saturdays now?”

“Too many of them, but not by choice. The workload seems to have doubled over the last year. Unfortunately our staff hasn’t.”

Callie nodded and finished her second glass of champagne as Henry walked away. She spent the next few minutes chatting with various guests, then decided she was too tired to make small talk. It was nearing midnight, and like Henry, she was feeling the strain of a long, busy week. Most of the doctors on staff at Courage Bay Hospital who’d attended the event had already called it an evening.

Callie headed toward the area where she’d seen Mary and Bernie a few minutes earlier, wanting to thank her hostess one last time before cutting out. She stopped short when she heard a ruckus break out beneath the canopy to her left. She spun around just in time to see Bernie Brusco fall against one of the small tables. Another guest tried to break his fall, but the table collapsed, and both men fell on top of it.

“We need a doctor,” someone yelled.

Callie rushed over, along with everyone else in hearing distance. She ordered the anxious crowd back and knelt in the grass beside Bernie.

“Can’t…breathe. Chest…hurts.”

“Call 911 for an ambulance,” Callie ordered, directing her comment to Mary. She reached for Bernie’s wrist to check his pulse. It was dangerously accelerated.

“Do something.” Bernie’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

Callie put the flat of her hand on the man’s chest and felt the rapid, irregular beating of his heart. “Has this happened before?”

“No.”

His shallow gasps weren’t getting much oxygen to his lungs, so she slipped her arm beneath him and placed his head at an angle that should have made breathing easier. He clutched her arm and held on tight.

“Don’t let…me die.”

“I won’t.” Not if she could help it. “Try to take a deep breath.”

“I’m…trying.”

He gasped then went limp.

“Is he dead?” an onlooker asked.

Callie didn’t bother to answer, just leaned over and gave a sharp whack to Bernie’s chest with the side of her hand, then pressed his heart between the sternum and the spine with rhythmic motions. Thankfully the heart responded and started beating again on its own. The pulse remained high, inconsistent with a typical heart attack.

The ambulance arrived in short order. “His pulse is near 180,” Callie told the paramedics as they loaded him onto the stretcher. “Squirt some procardra under his tongue when you get him in the ambulance. I’ll call the E.R. and alert them you’re on the way and to have an IV setup for a nipride drip.”

Bernie managed to murmur his thanks to Callie as the medics hurried him to the ambulance.

Mary was waiting at Callie’s side when she finished the phone call to the E.R. “Will he be all right?” she asked, her voice shaky.

“The hospital E.R. is one of the finest in the state. He’ll get excellent care.” It was the best she could promise.

Mary blinked and flicked the back of her hand across her eyes. “Poor Bernie. One minute he was really enjoying himself, wolfing down hors d’oeuvres as if he hadn’t eaten for days and drinking some kind of specialty cocktail the bartender had mixed for him. The next he was gasping for breath.”

“Which bartender mixed his drink?”

“One of those young men,” Mary answered, motioning to the portable serving area set up at the back of the tent.

“What was he eating?”

“The seafood canapés—you know, the ones served on the shrimp-shaped crackers. He’d piled a dozen or so on his plate. Couldn’t stop raving about how good they were.” Mary slapped her hand against her cheek. “Oh, dear. You don’t suppose they made him sick, do you? My caterer insists on the freshest ingredients. I’m certain the seafood wasn’t tainted.”