Don't Go

by Lisa Scottoline

  “I was over there when they did the article, and she seemed fine.”

  “What article?”

  “There was an article we ran to promote the practice, talking you up. We had a freelancer interview Chloe and take some pictures. Didn’t she mention it?”

  “No, not that I remember.”

  “Anyway, I didn’t see any liquor around and I never heard about any guy, other than Bob.” Jim paused. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but is it possible that Bob was her, uh, boyfriend?”

  “My brother-in-law?” Mike recoiled, incredulous.

  “Why not? He’s still a guy. Chloe was the pretty one, and he’s not blind.”

  “You think Chloe would sleep with her sister’s husband?”

  “Look don’t get all bent out of shape.” Jim leaned back, putting up his hands. “Stranger things have happened. It’s the suburbs.”

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and Jim rose as Rick Lyon came in, extending a hand to Mike.

  “Hi, you must be Mike Scanlon. Welcome back, and thank you for your service to our country.” Lyon was short and stocky, with wire-rimmed glasses, dark brown eyes, and a head of thick black curls. “I’m proud to meet a real war hero.”

  “You still haven’t.” Mike could feel his face aflame, and Lyon turned to Jim with a smile.

  “Jumbo, he’s just like you said. Look at him, blushing. He’s like Captain America or something.”

  Jim grinned. “You better believe, as soon as he joins the practice, we’ll press-release it.”

  Mike groaned. “Again, you’re going to pimp me out?”

  “No, we’re going to support you.”

  “Ah, the sound of one hand clapping.” Mike chuckled, and so did Lyon and Jim. It felt good to be around people who didn’t feel sorry for him.

  “Okay, let’s get down to business.” Jim clapped his hands together. “Mike, as you see, we’ve narrowed the focus of the practice to adolescent sports medicine. You’re a regular font of knowledge about foot and ankle injuries, and we’re going to put you to work.”

  “Thank you.” Mike felt a rush of gratitude. “I appreciate your faith in me, but I haven’t even started rehab yet. I’m not ready to start work until I know more about what I can and can’t do.”

  “Sure, but here’s where we see you fitting in. The most common sports injuries aren’t new to you. Plantar fasciitis, shin splints, peroneal tendinitis, stress fractures”—Jim counted off his thick fingers—“Achilles ruptures, and Achilles tendinitis. Injuries you’ve treated before, in a non-sport context. You with me?”

  “Yes.” Mike nodded, intrigued.

  “We’re all about marketing and expansion, trying to generate new business, and a couple of months ago, Lyon and I put our heads together and we said, you know, after most surgeries, we’re prescribing a walking boot, your basic cam walker. A no-frills, ugly boot, comes in black or gray. You remember at Suburban Foot & Ankle, we sold the HomeHealth boot for 350 bucks, after markup.”

  “Sure.” Mike nodded again. It was illegal to receive any kickback from prescribing DME, or durable medical equipment, but it was legit to buy it and prescribe or sell it to patients, which was what they used to do with the HomeHealth boot.

  “So, Lyon and me, we noticed that the kids’ boots they make aren’t great, and we should develop our own boot, anyway.” Jim leaned forward over his desk, and the shiny glass reflected the crisp white of his polo shirt. “There’s nothing special about the cam walker, and we had ideas to improve it, for kids. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So we designed a kid’s boot where some parts were inflatable to customize the fit, we found a manufacturer who made a prototype and now we have an official Lyon & Haggerty walking boot for children and adolescents.”

  “Good idea.” Mike shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Exactly! Why not?” Jim’s blue eyes lit up. “It’s better designed for younger sizes, less well-developed muscles, shorter bone lengths, etc., and it can be customized, not just for fit. You can get it in school colors or team colors. You can get your school’s name or your name on it.” Jim talked faster as he got more excited. “All the kids in Pop Warner get it in their team colors. Varsity athletes in high school get the varsity model, with different piping for JV. It’s a fully customizable boot, and we charge 425 bucks.”

  Lyon added, “The orthotics come in matching colors, too.”

  Mike saw the possibilities. “Insurance covers it?”

  “Yes. We pitch it as designed for kids’ sports injuries. It even gets them back in the game faster, because they wear it.” Jim opened his hands, palms up. “It’s a no-brainer. Why sell HomeHealth’s boot when we can sell our own?”

  Lyon interjected, “Kids customize everything, nowadays. My eleven-year-old, when he gets his braces adjusted, gets red bands like the Phillies. My thirteen-year-old gets maroon for the Haverford School.”

  “Here. This is the prototype.” Jim reached to the credenza behind his desk, rolled open a drawer, and fished out a black walking boot with a hard plastic back and a soft inflatable front. He pointed at three Velcro straps over the ankle. “This is where you customize the straps and the inflatable buttons. It’s fully weight-bearing, has arch support, and we sell extra supports, also customizable.”

  Lyon gestured at the boot, grinning. “Maybe you could get them for returning vets, in red, white, and blue.”

  “Hoo-ah!” Jim saluted.

  Mike cringed, inwardly. “So where do I come in? What does this have to do with me?”

  “There’s a sports-medicine conference every week, somewhere. I’ve done a few, and Lyon’s done one, but we need somebody to work them, who also knows what he’s talking about.” Jim set the boot on his desk with a clunk. “We need a podiatrist who can market this boot and sell it to these doctors.”

  “So you want me to take a turn at conferences, selling this thing?”

  “Yes, the way I see it, this is a new business for you. Of course we cut you in on the net revenue, a full third after costs, exclusive of royalties. You can take this and run with it.”

  Mike’s mouth went dry. He’d been expecting to be a podiatrist again.

  “You can go to as many trade shows and conferences as you like, after the required minimum. They’re all over the country. We could expand to the High Risk Diabetic Foot Conference and State-of-the-Art Lower Extremity, or any kind of sports conference, like the trainers’ conferences, and they have a slew of those everywhere.”

  Mike didn’t know how he’d travel so much, with Emily at home.

  “You have the expertise and personality to grow it out the wazoo. Not to mention the fact that you’re a vet. What do you say?”

  Mike fumbled for words. “Thanks, I appreciate it, but to be honest, it’s not what I was thinking. I wanted to practice. I mean, maybe I can’t do surgery, but I can examine patients, wrap ankles, everything short of surgery. I can be a podiatrist again, in some capacity.”

  Jim’s face fell. “I thought you might feel that way. Maybe we’ll leave that door open, but we can’t know—”

  “Mike,” Lyon interrupted. “We talked to our lawyers about you, and they advised us not to employ you in any clinical capacity. Our malpractice insurance will go up, and there’s too great a potential for litigation if you see patients, hands-on.” Lyon cringed. “Poor choice of words. You don’t fit in, in a clinical capacity, as a full partner.”

  Mike blinked. “But I don’t expect to be a full partner, if my workload is less. It’s not about the money. I just want to be a podiatrist again.”

  “Without performing surgery? Not possible, with us.” Lyon frowned. “Surgery is three-quarters of our time. The case gets handled by the same doc, from exam to surgery to post. In fact, we need to do more surgery to make up for the shortfalls on the allowables.”

  Jim sighed. “Mike, you know how we work. When we see the mom and the kid, they want to talk to the man with the knife. The best route
for you is selling the boot.”

  “So practice isn’t a possibility here, in any form?”

  “Not really,” Jim answered.

  “No.” Lyon shot Jim a cool look. “Practice is not a possibility, and we’re not doing you any favors to let you think it is. To be clear, we would like you to join us to grow our customized boot and orthotic business.”

  Mike looked over at Jim, who met his eye, pained. “I know you’re doing everything you can for me, and I appreciate it.”

  “I am, pal.” Jim’s forehead relaxed, his relief evident. “I wish I could do more, but you know how it goes with lawyers, and this boot business can be a goldmine.”

  “Let me think it over and get back to you.” Mike rose stiffly.

  “Take this.” Jim put the boot prototype in an open cardboard box on the floor. “Also, here’s your personal items, from your old office. I keep forgetting to get them over to you.”

  “Thanks.” Mike took the box, trying to act like he could hold it with ease in one arm.

  “Listen, one last thing, there’s a PAPSM conference tomorrow in King of Prussia.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pennsylvania Academy of Podiatric Sports Medicine. You remember the conference drill, they give CME credits? We’re vendors. We have staff there now, setting up the booth. I was gonna man it, and you should do it with me. Give it a dry run and see how you feel after that. What do you say?”

  Mike tried to look on the bright side. At least he had a job, when so many didn’t. “Great,” he said, forcing a smile.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Mike drove down the street and pulled into an empty parking lot, for visitors to Haverford College. He wanted to make a call and find out what other options he had, before he went forward with Jim and Lyon. He still had Chatty’s offer in Greenwich, but he didn’t know if that was real. He cut the ignition, slid out his BlackBerry, scrolled to his email function, and found Chatty’s email with the phone number of his colleague Sean Carver. When the call connected, and Mike introduced himself and said, “You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of—”

  “I know who you are. You’re Mike Scanlon, Chatty’s buddy from Afghanistan. I’ve been expecting to hear from you. Chatty sings your praises. You guys got a real bromance.”

  Mike chuckled. “You call him Chatty, too?”

  “Of course.” Sean laughed. “Anyway, we need the help, we’re busy as hell. Chatty said you have to do rehab first, but you can do that here, can’t you?”

  “I assume so,” Mike answered, surprised. “Your business is doing well, in this economy?”

  “We don’t take credit. It’s location, location, location.” Sean chuckled. “This practice is in one of the wealthiest parts of the country, so nobody has any problem getting or paying for medical insurance. If there’s discretionary procedures, they can pay for it out of pocket, if need be.”

  “But I’m not sure the extent to which I can do surgery.”

  “I know you’re an amputee, and you can practice with us without doing surgery. We have plenty of nonsurgical patients, and if we run into a dry spell, we don’t have a problem with you doing the initial intake on a surgical patient. It’s not efficient or economic to take a surgeon’s time to answer a million questions.” Sean snorted. “And you know how much surgeons love questions.”

  “Great,” Mike said, encouraged. “So when would I start?”

  “As soon as you want, and Chatty already negotiated that we pay you what you were making before, which is fine. I can email you a copy of our employment agreement and bonus structure, which is excellent. Our clients are used to Manhattan prices because that’s where most of them work.”

  Mike thought it was almost too good to be true. “But I need to relocate to Greenwich.”

  “Ha! You couldn’t afford Greenwich, but you might have a shot at the surrounding suburbs.” Sean laughed at his own joke. “I’m sure we can work out some advance for a down payment, if you find yourself in a bind.”

  “So I have a decision to make. When do you need to know by?”

  “Two weeks, at the outside. Fair enough?”

  “That’s more than fair. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You’re welcome, good-bye.”

  “Thanks again.” Mike pressed END, torn. He was thrilled to think he could practice again, but he hated to move Emily away from Bob and Danielle. She loved them, and it would kill them to lose her. He wondered if he had any options closer to home, and he still had Tony and Dave on speed dial, so he pressed T and the call connected after two rings. “Tony! How the hell are you?”

  “Mike!” Tony said warmly. “Is that you? Are you back? About damn time! How are you?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “We’re all fine. I’m in South Jersey now. The Bryn Mawr practice didn’t work out, and we moved. Her parents live here and they help with the kids.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “A two-man group.”

  “You got any openings?” Mike asked, but he didn’t add, for a one-armed podiatrist? It was embarrassing enough.

  “Sorry, no, I’m hardly busy, but I’ll keep you in mind, for sure. What, did Jim screw you over, like I predicted?”

  “Not really.” Mike didn’t want to elaborate. “What’s up with Dave?”

  “Dave’s semi-retired.”

  “What? How’d he pull that off?”

  “Bonnie got a great job with one of the hospitals, and he consults for med mal trials. He’s an expert witness, does exams and then testifies.”

  “Think I can get in?”

  “Give him a call. Stay in touch, and I’ll keep my ears open. We gotta get together, man.”

  “We will, after the thaw. Talk to you later. Stay well, pal. Say hi to Jill for me.”

  “See you.”

  “Bye.” Mike hung up, pressed D for Dave on his speed dial, and waited for the call to connect.

  “Yo!” Dave boomed, jubilant. “This really you, soldier boy?”

  “Sure enough.” Mike warmed to the sound. “There’s nothing like an old friend.”

  “That’s the truth. So, you’re back? Thank God!”

  “Yeah, and you’re semi-retired. How about that?”

  “I know, right?” Dave laughed. “I sort of fell into it.”

  “Tony said you’re an expert witness. Think they have room for another? How do I get into that?”

  “Oh man, to tell the truth, semi-retired means I can’t get five full days of work. I was out of work for six months, and it puts a good face on it.”

  Mike felt for him. “I hear you, and I’m hoping it works out for you.”

  “It wouldn’t have, but for Bonnie. She got a big job at Siemens.”

  “What a woman.” Mike felt a twinge that told him his Oxy was wearing off. “Give her my love, will you?”

  “Sure thing. If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks. We gotta get together,” Mike told him, meaning it.

  “We will. Call you. See you.”

  “You, too.” Mike pressed END, then looked down at his phone, and his directory was a list of his podiatrist friends, all of whom were local. One of them could have an opening or put him in touch with somebody who did. He scrolled to the first name and got busy. Six calls later, he had no new leads on jobs. None of his friends knew of any openings, and most were worried about their own practices.

  Mike looked out the windshield without really seeing anything. The sky was a blanket of steel wool, and everything seemed gray. Bottom line, he had a great option in Connecticut, but it wasn’t one he could take without hurting Emily, Danielle, and Bob. He was about to start the car when his gaze fell on the cardboard box on the passenger seat. He found it depressing that his entire professional life could be contained in one box.

  He scanned the contents. His lab coat was folded next to his wedding photo and a heart-shaped picture of Chloe and Emily. Then he thought of something.
He reached in the box, pulled out his lab coat, and stuck his hand in the pocket. Inside was his prescription pad, which he kept there, per procedure. They never used to leave their pads in the examining room, as a security matter, but went with them from room to room.

  Mike read his old pad. Under Suburban Foot & Ankle, it said Dr. Michael J. Scanlon, then ID Number 83736 and DEA Number 35242, for dispensing controlled substances.

  He eyed the pad, tempted.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Mike hurried to the drugstore, in a strip mall a few towns west of Wilberg, where he wouldn’t be recognized. He entered with his head down, avoiding seeing his own image in the security monitor, ashamed of himself. He’d never done anything like this before, and it could cost him his license.

  He passed customers browsing racks of leftover holiday cards and headed to the pharmacy, which would be in the back to the left, because all the stores in the chain had the same layout. He went to the drop-off window, next to shelves with an array of pregnancy kits. There was no line, unlike the pick-up window, which was eight people deep. “Hello,” Mike said to the young female pharmacist.

  “Hi, how can I help you?” she asked, fresh-faced, with dark hair, an earnest smile, and a crisp lab coat. Her red nametag read Erin.

  “I’d like to fill this.” Mike passed her the script, which was for Oxycontin, ten milligrams every twelve hours, quantity thirty. He knew she’d be looking for red flags, like thirty milligrams or higher dosage and a quantity of sixty pills, and he’d avoided them. He wished he could have called in the script, but he had to present in person for controlled substances.

  “Date of birth?”

  Mike told her his real birthday, then tried to act casual as she started hitting keys on the computer. He told himself that there was no way the pharmacist would suspect anything. The only way he could get caught was if she called Suburban Foot & Ankle to verify the script, but she’d only do that if she had reason to be suspicious of him. He didn’t tuck his empty sleeve into his jacket, because it showed his bona fides.

  “Phone number?”