Ghost Country by Sara Paretsky Read Free Book Online Page B

I can cut back on my on-call rotation, sir, since I’ll have to be out of the hospital one day a week.”
    Hanaper was disconcerted, although only briefly. “The clinic will meet on Fridays, starting a week from today. We’ll move your on-call rotation permanently to Friday night through Saturday, Tammuz. That way you can dictate your notes on your homeless clients while you’re in the on-call room, save you some time so you don’t have to be away from home any more than necessary. Although you don’t have a wife yet, do you?”
    Wanted to pick up the Steuben paperweight the bastard keeps on his desk and brain him with it. Wanted to sing, “Take this job and shove it.” But of course I just meekly said, “No, sir,” and got directions on when and where to start. Orleans Street Church has offered use of a room, since they run a homeless shelter there in an old coal basement. Hagar’s House. Wasn’t she the woman sent into the wilderness? So a fitting name: women out of the wilderness into the coal cellar.
    Hard to remember why I wanted to become a doctor. Even if I finish my residency at this hellhole it will only mean signing on with some managed care group elsewhere and doing more of the same: relying on drugs, not therapy, having an average of fifteen minutes to spend with every patient, having to justify every admission to a committee of administrative baboons who know nothing about mental illness!
    About to leave when Hanaper’s secretary buzzed him; Luisa Montcrief had arrived. The diva Stonds told us about on Tuesday, whose family is worrying. Completely forgot about her, as H obviously had,too, but he was glad to sweep me along on his coattails, have secretary page Melissa so he could have bigger audience on his great therapeutic methods.
    Bad news from the secretary: diva has no health insurance. Coverage lapsed after eighteen months of not paying premiums.
    On first sight, Montcrief very striking—dark hair swept back from strong cheekbones, expensive-looking crimson dress. Another woman with her, sister-in-law we later learned, face tight with the kind of worry all caretaking relatives get after a while.
    “Ms. Minsky? I’m Dr. Hanaper. Your brother says you’ve been having a few problems lately.”
    The diva turned mocking brows toward her sister-in-law, who said sharply, “He’s speaking to you, Janice.”
    “But my dear Karen, I am not Ms. Minsky. You are the only person with that name in the room. Unless you have Becca concealed behind the arras?” Her voice was rich, like fresh coffee, and her laugh tingled the blood of the men in the room.
    “She likes to think of herself as Madame Montcrief,” Karen Minsky told Hanaper.
    “I’m here in the room, Karen, and able to speak for myself. I like to think of myself as Madame Montcrief because that is my name. I paid a fee to a judge when I was twenty to have it legally changed. Not to ‘Madame’ of course; to Luisa Montcrief. ‘Madame’ is a courtesy title out of respect to my eminence in the world of music. So it is really never appropriate to call me anything else.”
    “Except when you want to use the Minsky money,” Karen said sharply.
    “Even though I changed my name I didn’t have a DNA transplant: I am still Miriam and Herschel Minsky’s daughter. I’m entitled to my share of their estate.”
    “She squandered her share of the inheritance—”
    “Which included half the money our parents had to leave, but nothing from the profits of the scrap iron empire. I don’t think I’m beyond my rights in wanting some of that cash flow.”
    “Harry has worked every day of his life since he was fifteen in that scrap yard. He’s earned that money. You’re ashamed to have anyone know you’re a Minsky, even by DNA.”
    “When Harry sold my home in Campania—”
    “To pay the debts you’d built up around the world—”
    “Ah, ladies,” Dr. Hanaper broke in, “you may both have valid points here, but let’s try to see what is