What happens when a surgeon turns his eye from the operating room to crime fiction? In "Stone Hearts", Craig R. Smith, MD, cardiac surgeon and former Chair of the Department of Surgery, builds a medical caper rooted in transplant, intrigue, and the peculiar moral weather that hovers above and beyond the hospital.
Follow along each Friday as we release the novel one chapter at a time. You can also see more on Dr. Smith's Substack, Long Incision.
Chapter One: Eva
Eva appraised the set from her unpadded, straight-backed metal chair. Walls painted drab gray-green. Door over there, fake mirror straight ahead. Camera mount in a corner of the ceiling. Interrogation room, Eva concluded, without straining her powers of observation. Still NYPD, or have I been handed off? She gave her right wrist a frustrated shake that rattled the links of the handcuff, the other cuff attached to a ring recessed in the tabletop. Throbbing pain in her left hand drew her eyes back to the discolored, swollen fingers visible beyond the bulky splint that extended from her left forearm to her fingertips. The nurse had said “Keep your hand above your heart!” Why does that seem intuitive? A metaphor? Eva raised the splinted forearm to ninety degrees, resting her elbow on the table.
The table ring is a nice touch, she reflected, remembering how uncomfortable it was to be handcuffed to a chair leg, all those years ago. Eva could easily imagine Elias sitting in a similar room, being worked over, or sweated in isolation, as they were sweating her. There was nothing she could do about what was going on in another room. She knew someone would enter this room and try to make her talk. They might tell her what Elias said, or tell her lies about what Elias said. They might cross-check things they already knew, or use already-knowns to set traps. Poorly supported suspicions might be floated, hoping she’ll crack and cough up the proof. Or they might not have a clue and would just be fishing.
They are certain to probe her relationship to Dr. Elias Bessette. Maybe they’ll ask with a bit of a sneer, to register their surprise that some vanilla actress-model-whatever would know such a paragon of achievement. In anticipation, and with nothing better to do except think about how much her left hand hurt, Eva reviewed their history. To do a full rewind, how far back should she go? It helped that she remembered the beginning very clearly. May, 1981, on the Upper West Side. In the Lion’s Head, up by Columbia.
Eva was with Dorothy. They had just finished rehearsals in that little dump on 109th Street, long since gone. A pretentious one-act self-indulgence by some hairball from Tisch who should have gone into business with Daddy. The two of them had been just desperate enough to sign on. She remembered masks and role-switching and dreary sex metaphors. They couldn’t find a bar fast enough. Dorothy had grabbed the one empty barstool, down at the unpopular end, next to the place the waiters use.
Standing behind Dorothy, Eva’s right hip was inches away from a table with a bunch of young men, conventionally dressed and groomed, she guessed business or law. A few of them were collecting their stuff, chairs scraping back, preparing to leave. The emptying seats provoked an invitation from what turned out to be a group of med students—outside the interrogation room Eva heard voices that interrupted her reverie. Back to the future, nine years later. The door opened and a man took a step in, but he stopped and turned to a loud voice behind him, then stepped back out without a word to her. The door clicked shut. The footsteps and voices receded to nothing. She wondered if Elias had just given her up.
If they were really clever, she thought, they’d send in Elias. Deputize him. For the three years they were together Elias had often made Eva feel like he was silently interrogating her, especially at the end. He never asked the hard, direct questions. That wasn’t his style. He’d sit there calmly, suffering nobly. The pain in her memory and the pain in her hand were chased into the wings by the precarity of her current situation when she heard footsteps again.
The door opened, and a man entered, carrying a manila folder. Average height, normal weight, trim dark hair graying at the temples. His tie was loose at the neck of a rumpled white oxford shirt. Rolled-up sleeves choked strong forearms. My opponent. He sat down across from her in his own metal chair and set down his folder, taking care to align it neatly parallel to the edges of the table. He leaned back and sighed, regarding her thoughtfully. Familiar opening move, Eva thought. Try to make me squirm. She sat perfectly still and returned his gaze.
“Marco Formani, detective, NYPD.” He laid out his badge for her to inspect. And I thought you were my accountant...look at the bright side, girl! Not the feds…not Volkov….
“You are Ms. Eva Meyer Holtz, am I right?
“Yes.”
“I don’t see any point in beating around the bush, Ms. Holtz, you were in possession of a loaded, unlicensed firearm. That’s a serious felony in our fine city. Do you want to tell me why you have the gun?”
“What’s a girl to do, in your fine city? I’d rather be Bernie Goetz than face-down somewhere.”
“Just what this city needs, more vigilantes. So, you’re a sassy one! Have you seen the movie where the guy playing me reaches over and pounds on that sorry-looking hand of yours? You’d love it, there’s a great twist at the end.” He made a twisting motion with his closed fist and muscular forearm. Their eyes locked, assaying each other’s credibility and ruthlessness. He broke first and smiled. “Just kidding, Bronson, why don’t you tell me where you got it?”
“A couple weeks ago a young banker going for a jog in Central Park asked me to hold it for her, said it was too heavy for running. Funny, she never came back for it.”
Formani leaned forward onto his elbows and interlaced his fingers. “Sorry, Ms. Holtz, unlike you, I’m a terrible actor.” He freed his hands and gestured to his face. “This is how I look when I’m not laughing. And do you know why you’re not making me laugh?” He put both palms firmly on the table. Eva noticed that his watch crystal was cracked. “Because the jogger’s gun has no serial number, and about 20 minutes ago ballistics informed me that it’s been involved in at least two deaths we think were related to organized crime. We can go ahead and chase down the gun thing, and make sure you do time for being so cooperative.” He sat back with folded arms. “Or, you can think about actually cooperating. Which would seriously improve your odds.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Formani, but lawyer! And I don’t think you can keep me if you’re not going to charge me.”
“Of course, Ms. Holtz, you can have a lawyer. And lawyer or not, we can detain you longer than this while studying our options. Will you humor me in a little benign fact-checking?
“Try me.”
“You were born here, at Baby’s Hospital, on March 16, 1957?”
“Correct. First day of Purim.”
Formani met her gaze without an overt reaction. “That means something, Ms. Holtz? Sorry, not to me.”
“When Queen Esther saved the Jewish people from annihilation. A big, happy party.”
Holding eye contact, Formani drew out an emotionally neutral truce…Ms. Holtz, note that I’m indulging you, this time….
“Moving on, your family returned to Israel in 1974 and you stayed there through college, including three-plus years in the IDF. Correct?”
“Three years and eight months.”
“You returned to New York City to pursue an acting career?”
“And some modeling, yes.”
“Tell me about your playmate down the hall, the nature of the relationship.”
“Playmate?”
“Let’s not play games, sweetheart,” Formani said, with an exhausted air, “of course I mean the hotshot surgeon who so graciously came in with you to visit us today.”
“Sorry, I’m not feeling very playful. I can confirm that he’s reputed to be a hotshot surgeon.”
“Give us a little credit, Ms. Holtz, how hard do you think it was to discover that the two of you shared an address for a few years?”
“You’re correct again, Mr. Formani, we did share an address.”
“Then not long after the sharing stopped you moved to Montreal and lived there for a year or so. You received special attention from the Mounties when you immigrated, their records don’t say why, but I’ll come back to that. You did a little acting stuff that made the papers.” He quickly glanced at a few pages in his folder as if to remind himself of what they said. “You made a few short trips back and forth between Montreal and New York City. Then you returned here last year. ‘Permanently,’ you told them at the border.” He closed the folder and looked straight at Eva. “There have never been any charges against you. All correct?”
“Correct.”
“Back to why the Mounties wanted to talk to you, there’s another little story that seems to follow you around but never sticks, something about your various talents proving useful to the IDF. True?”
Eva displayed her most blank, what-are-you-talking-about look, and said nothing. He waited.
“Yeah, that’s the same response the feds say they get from Mossad. A couple things you might think about. Maybe there’s a reason you’re more comfortable with a nine-millimeter than the average theater girl. But could that mean there are people who don’t like knowing that you’re in trouble and under pressure?” Again, he waited.
“Ok, have it your way. Food for thought. Back to the simple stuff—why Montreal?”
“New professional opportunities.”
“Immigration says you entered Canada with a man named Jean-Charles Bessette.”
“Yes.”
“What a funny coincidence—same last name as the reputedly hotshot surgeon down the hall! Any relation?”
“Brother.” Stay cool, girl. “As if you don’t know.”
“Brother…fancy that! Just needed to hear you say it.”
Formani made full use of a long pause to let that sink in. “Why’d you come back?”
“My work in Montreal got a lot of attention. Especially the modeling, I got lucky with a clothing line. People in New York persuaded me to come back.”
Formani thoughtfully studied the folder on the table in front of him for a bit, then he leaned in toward her and held eye contact.
“Will you hear me out on a particular aspect of your situation?”
“I’ll try.”
“You see, gun or no gun, we already have our suspicions about your part in an incident that could plausibly connect you to a recent crime. A particularly ugly element of soviet bloc organized crime may have been involved, but not in a way that makes us think you killed anybody with the gun in question. Maybe you were given the gun for your protection as part of said incident.”
“Incident?”
“Certain highly valuable goods were recently stolen in Montreal. We think they were moved here, not necessarily by you personally, but they seem to have gone missing, probably before they reached the gentle folk who were expecting to receive them.” Formani leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “If those items were to magically reappear, it’s possible very few questions would be necessary to ask, and the world could turn its attention from the little fish to the sharks. If the magician who made the goods reappear had other problems, say, weapons charges in which no one was hurt, maybe that would all go away. Lawyer or no lawyer!” He freed his hands and sat forward sharply, laying both forearms in front of him. His fingers gently gripped the tabletop on either side of the handcuff ring.
Eva held his stare and tried to suppress the pain in her hand while analyzing this offer. Formani’s implied knowledge of recent events seemed at odds with his interest in exchanging information for leniency. If they’d already sweated something out of Elias, Formani wouldn’t be offering her a break, he’d be booking her. Would Elias give me up? He couldn’t do that without giving up his brother, yet Eva had to admit it was possible to imagine—Elias saves his own ass and gets some biblical retribution. But then Formani wouldn’t need me….
“Cat got your tongue? Well, while you’re thinking it over, I’m going to go rejoin the discussions we’re having with your recent companion. The guy you may or may not have been waving a gun at.” As he walked to the door, he said “Your friend smells even more connected to this little incident in Montreal than you are.” As he was passing through the door he turned back to face her. “Dr. Bessette also has a long way to fall. A lot farther than you do, hope you don’t mind me saying so. Maybe we need to have an auction.”
“Lawyer. Charges.”
“I hear you, Ms. Holtz, I’ll be back very soon.”
Eva’s bladder was reminding her that she’d been there too long. It was starting to compete with the pain in her left hand. To distract herself she practiced her craft into the fake mirror, just facial expressions, eyes, intensity, meaning. Becket. Pirandello. Williams. Then she changed characters and projected to the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. Enjoy it, guys, sometimes people even pay for this.
The door opened and Formani reentered, without his manila folder. “I’ve had fun talking to your boyfriend. Former boyfriend, I should say. Or past and future boyfriend?”
“Not exactly Paolo and Francesca.”
“Paolo and Francesca? They sound like nice Italian kids. Friends of yours?”
“You can look them up. Under Dante.”
“You’re such a smart one! Listen sweetheart, let me tell you where we are here. Dr. Bessette has been released. I’m releasing you now.”
Formani leaned over the table and removed her handcuffs. “No charges yet, no bail. You’ll have time to get a good lawyer. I guarantee you’ll be hearing from us about the weapons violation. Customs and FBI were hot and heavy on the Montreal incident in the beginning, but they’ve delegated the grunt work to us for now. If you want to talk about that, or about anything else, here’s my card.” He planted his card on the table in front of her with an audible snap. “Call anytime.”
Formani hesitated, as if debating whether to say more. “And I have another card for you, from a man who showed up just now, claiming to support you. He answered at least one percent of my questions.”
Formani flicked the second card toward the table, where it landed inaudibly within her reach. “He said you’d know what to do with that.”
Eva picked it up, studied it. She knew.
Formani added “Don’t even think about leaving town, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Just like that?”
“Maybe I just like you kids. Paula and Franco, right?”
“Why do I think your dumb-wop-cop thing is just a role you play? And of course we won’t be followed.”
“Like my character said, don’t do anything stupid."
Related:
- Lessons Learned: Surgeon Craig Smith Reflects on Career in the OR
- “The Sacrament of Utility” Dr. Craig Smith’s 2025 Commencement Address at Case Western Reserve University School of Medicine
- Nobility in Small Things: A Look Back at The Leadership of Craig Smith, MD