Free The Surgeon by Tess Gerritsen Page B

Moore called out:
"Rizzoli?"
"Don't fight my fucking battles for me, okay?" she snapped.
"You weren't fighting. You were just sitting there with that . . .
thing on your desk."
"Tampon. Can you say the word nice and loud?"
"Why are you angry with me? I'm trying to stick up for you."

"Look, Saint Thomas, this is how it works in the real world
for women. I file a complaint, I'm the one who gets the shaft. A
note goes in my personnel record. Does not play well with
boys. If I complain again, my reputation's sealed. Rizzoli the
whiner. Rizzoli the wuss."

"You're letting them win if you don't complain."
"I tried it your way. It doesn't work. So don't do me any
favors, okay?" She slung her purse over her shoulder and
stepped onto the elevator.
The instant the door closed between them, she wanted to
take back those words. Moore didn't deserve such a rebuke.
He had always been polite, always the gentleman, and in her
anger she had flung the unit's nickname for him in his face.
Saint Thomas. The cop who never stepped over the line,
never swore, never lost his cool.
    And then there were the sad circumstances of his personal
life. Two years ago, his wife, Mary, had collapsed from a
cerebral hemorrhage. For six months she'd hung on in the
twilight zone of a coma, but until the day she actually died
Moore had refused to give up hope that she'd recover. Even
now, a year and a half after Mary's death, he did not seem to
accept it. He still wore his wedding ring, still kept her photo on
his desk. Rizzoli had watched the marriages of too many other
cops disintegrate, had watched the changing gallery of
women's photos on her colleagues' desks. On Moore's desk,
the image of Mary remained, her smiling face a permanent
fixture.

Saint Thomas? Rizzoli gave a cynical shake of the head. If
there were any real saints in the world, they sure as hell
wouldn't be cops.

One wanted him to live, the other wanted him to die, and both
claimed to love him more. The son and daughter of Herman
Gwadowski faced each other across their father's bed, and
neither was willing to give in.
"You weren't the one who had to take care of Dad," Marilyn
said. "I cooked his meals. I cleaned his house. I took him to
the doctor every month. When did you even visit him? You
always had better things to do."
"I live in L.A., for god's sake," snapped Ivan. "I have a
business."
"You could have flown out once a year. How hard was that?"
"Well, I'm here now."
"Oh, right. Mr. Big Shot swoops in to save the day. You
couldn't be bothered to visit before. But now you want
everything done."
"I can't believe you'd just let him go."
"I don't want him to suffer anymore."
"Or maybe you just want him to stop draining his bank
account."
Every muscle in Marilyn's face snapped taut. "You bastard."
Catherine could listen no more, and she cut in: "This isn't
the place to be discussing it. Please, can you both step out of
the room?"
For a moment, brother and sister eyed each other in hostile
silence, as though just the act of being the first to leave was a
surrender. Then Ivan stalked out, an intimidating figure in a
tailored suit. His sister, Marilyn, looking every bit the tired
suburban housewife she was, gave her father's hand a
squeeze and followed her brother.
In the hallway, Catherine laid out the grim facts.
"Your father has been in a coma since the accident. His
kidneys are now failing. Because of his long-term diabetes,
they were already impaired, and the trauma made things
worse."
"How much was due to surgery?" asked Ivan. "The
anesthetic you gave him?"
Catherine suppressed her rising temper and said, evenly:
"He was unconscious when he came in. Anesthesia was not a
factor. But tissue damage puts a strain on kidneys, and his
are shutting down. Plus, he has a diagnosis of prostate
cancer that's already spread to his bones. Even if he does
wake up, those problems remain."
"You want us to give up, don't you?" said Ivan.
"I simply want you to rethink his code status.