upscale safari jacket, Nell voted for movie star. Although considering the jacket’s age, maybe she’d better go with drifter. He looked tough. Streetwise. Dangerous.
Nell distrusted him on sight.
She clutched his chart and forced a smile. “I’m Eleanor Dolan, the nurse-practitioner,” she said crisply. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr., ah—” She glanced at the sheet clipped to the front of the folder. It was blank, damn it. Somebody should have helped him if he was having trouble filling out the forms.
“Joe,” the man supplied. He was still smiling, but his eyes were watchful.
All right, he spoke English. But maybe he was worried about the law or Immigration. Maybe he was embarrassed about his financial situation. Maybe he couldn’t read.
She uncapped her pen, determined to help him. That was what she did. Help people.
“Last name?” she prompted.
“Reilly.”
She wrote it down. “Do you have insurance, Mr. Reilly?”
He slouched against the examining-room table, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “As long as I keep my job, I do.”
She mustered her patience and lifted her pen. “I don’t know if you’re aware of our policy, Mr. Reilly, but the Ark Street Clinic provides medical assistance to people who are uninsured. Your having a job certainly doesn’t disqualify you from seeking care. Many of our patients work two or more part-time jobs and earn too much to qualify for Medicaid. But if your employer provides insurance—”
“I work for the Examiner,” he said.
The Chicago Examiner was the city’s largest and second-oldest daily newspaper. Nell had been calling and e-mailing both the Metro department and the features editor for months, trying to provoke the kind of publicity that would attract donations to her clinic.
Oh my God.
“You’re Joe Reilly,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“The journalist.”
“Guilty.”
“You’re here to write about the clinic.”
Joe kept his hands in his pockets. “That was the idea.”
His editor’s idea. Not Joe’s.
Actually, his editor’s idea was for Joe to profile the woman standing in front of him, Eleanor Dolan, the driving force and guiding light of the North Side’s Ark Street Free Clinic. The so-called Angel of Ark Street.
Joe thought the idea was hokey and the name probably undeserved. The past year had left him with a jaded view of women and a jaundiced view of the medical profession.
But he could see how the name might have stuck. Eleanor Dolan looked enough like an angel, the kind that showed up in Russian icons flanking the Madonna—pale, blond and severely beautiful. She was even dressed in white, a lab coat, instead of a printed smock like the other nurses wore.
A vain angel? Joe wondered. Not that it mattered. The Dolan woman could dress like the queen of England in white gloves and a blue hat and it wouldn’t make her newsworthy.
Although it might be interesting to see what was under that lab coat.
Even if Eleanor Dolan was the angel his boss made her out to be, Joe was no saint. And he was getting mighty tired of self-denial. So he let himself look, appreciating the slope and curve of Dolan’s sweater between the open panels of her coat. Very nice.
Of course she caught him staring.
She frowned. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
He shrugged, enjoying the flash of annoyance in her eyes. “I had some time free today.”
“I don’t. Monday is our busiest day.”
“I noticed.”
“Some of our patients wait outside for two hours before the clinic even opens.” She must have realized scolding wasn’t likely to generate the kind of publicity she wanted, because she softened her tone. “Please come back tomorrow. We’ll be fully staffed then, and I can give you a tour.”
Joe knew all about official tours. He’d been escorted by experts in Haiti, Kosovo and Baghdad. The skin prickled on the back of his neck.
Which was ridiculous. Eleanor Dolan didn’t have anything to hide. She was just anxious to make a good impression.
“That’ll be great,” Joe said. “In the meantime, any objections if I stick around? Make some general observations, maybe ask a few questions?”
Dolan opened her mouth. Closed it, and tried again. “Not at all. I’ll have to ask you to stay in the waiting area, though. To protect our patients’ privacy.”
Okay, maybe she wanted to make a good impression.
And maybe she was a little bit of a control freak.
“Sure, no problem,” Joe said.
And it wasn’t, he thought as she led him back to the lounge. He wasn’t Ed Bradley from 60 Minutes. Hell, he wasn’t even Joe Reilly, wonder-boy foreign correspondent anymore. He was just Joe Reilly, staff writer, and unless Nurse Dolan was dealing drugs from the clinic waiting room, she had nothing to fear from him.
Nell regarded the clinic pharmacist in disbelief. “What do you mean, you think we might be missing units from the narcotics closet?”
She heard her voice rising and struggled to contain it. She didn’t want to scare the patients.
But Ed Johnson, the pharmacist, flinched. He looked almost ill, slack and pale, his forehead beaded with sweat.
Nell sympathized. She felt sick herself. “How many units?” she asked. “And which drugs are missing?”
Ed rubbed his shiny face with one hand. “I don’t know, exactly.”
This was bad. Any theft or significant loss of controlled substances had to be reported to the nearest DEA office as well as to the police. But if she didn’t even know what was missing…
“When did you take inventory?”
Ed’s gaze slid from her. “I was keeping a tally,” he mumbled.
“Ed.”
At her tone, Lucy Morales, one of the RNs, looked over.
Nell took a deep breath and tried again. “You’re supposed to take inventory twice a day.”
“I know,” Ed said miserably. “But we were busy.”
Nell’s patience stretched like a rubber tourniquet about to snap. She loved her job. She did. But she was sick of covering for other people’s mistakes, tired of making herself responsible
