Don't Go

by Lisa Scottoline

Mike gave her his real cell.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Wilberg, on Foster Road.” Mike knew it would be another red flag if he came from the city to fill the script.

  “Oh, we have a store there, a new drive-thru.” Erin’s gaze fell to his empty sleeve, then her eyelids fluttered nervously. “Have you used us there?”

  “No, I use the mom-and-pop store. Leed’s.” Mike had to have an answer, but not say too much, which was another red flag.

  “Okay.” Erin hit a few more keys, recovering. “May I have your insurance card?”

  “I’ll just pay cash.” Mike hid his jitters. Cash was a red flag, but he knew his arm was his ticket.

  “Do you have any allergies?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to wait for it? It might be half an hour. We’re kind of busy.”

  “I’ll wait, thanks.”

  “Sorry it takes so long.” Erin smiled sympathetically. “We have a waiting area over there.”

  “Great, thanks.” Mike stepped away from the drop-off window, grabbed a copy of People magazine, and went to a row of red bucket seats, next to a blood-pressure machine. He sat down and buried his face in the magazine, turning the pages and sweating under his parka until they’d finally gotten his script ready and one of the pharmacists called out:

  “Mr. DeMaria? Phil DeMaria?”

  “Here!” Mike called out, rising. By law, he couldn’t prescribe opiates to himself, so he had written the scripts for the first few names that had come to him. DeMaria, Goldstein, and Jacobs were always on his mind, in a compartment that refused to stay closed. He’d fill the second script as Goldstein and the third as Jacobs, at two different drugstores in neighboring towns. The licensing agencies kept an eye out for pill mills, but these numbers wouldn’t be high enough to trigger any investigations, even if somebody connected the dots.

  Mike joined the pick-up line, in shame.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  “I’m home!” Mike entered the empty living room, carrying the box from the office, with his new stockpile of pills tucked away inside.

  “Mike?” Danielle called out, from the kitchen.

  “Gotta run up to the bathroom.” Mike hurried to the stairwell. “Be right back.”

  Bob hollered, “Don’t be long.”

  Mike hustled upstairs to his room, set down the box, and dug out the three pill bottles. He stuffed the bottles between the mattress and box spring, which would do as a hiding place for now. He hurried downstairs, hung up his jacket, and went to the kitchen, filled with the aroma of roast chicken. “Dinner smells great!”

  “Where were you?” Bob asked, folding his arms. The table had been set, but he stood behind Danielle, who was sitting in front of an open laptop.

  “I met with Jim about a job, then ran some errands.” Mike smiled, which came easily, given that he had taken an Oxy on the way home. “Where’s the baby?”

  “She went down for a nap,” Danielle answered, her forehead knit.

  “Is something the matter?” Mike asked, puzzled.

  Bob shot him a look. “I would say so, as your lawyer. I’m trying to keep my temper, but I don’t know what you’re thinking. I got calls this afternoon from clients of mine, Jason Tilley and Marc Rubin. Imagine their surprise when they saw you on the news.”

  “I was on the news?”

  “Here, come see.” Bob edged Danielle out of the way and pressed the mousepad.

  Mike came over, and the screen showed the Clifton Administration Building, with him coming down the steps. The voiceover said, “We have breaking news in the Sara Hambera murder case. Dr. Michael Scanlon was seen leaving the Clifton police station today, having turned in evidence in the case, though he declined comment for this reporter.”

  Mike watched with dismay as the next few shots showed him crowded by the press and hitting the camera, but the angle made it look as if were trying to hit the photographers. The voiceover continued, “Dr. Scanlon has just returned from two tours of duty in Afghanistan, and we have learned that he was arrested last night for assault on a former neighbor.”

  Mike looked up, meeting Bob’s angry eye. “Obviously, that isn’t the way it happened.”

  “All that matters is you look like you hit a photographer and you have a pending assault case. I already have a call into Jane, but I haven’t heard back from her.” Bob scowled. “How do they even know about the evidence? You didn’t give an interview, did you?”

  “No, they planted some freelancers in the waiting room, who overheard me.”

  “Why would you discuss confidential business in the waiting room? I didn’t do it that way when I took you last night.”

  Danielle rose, pursing her lips. “Bob, please watch your tone.”

  Mike tried to defuse the situation. “Look, I’m sorry, but I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody. The police aren’t going to look at that when the assault case goes to trial, are they? Are they even allowed to use it in court?”

  “No, but you know who is? Pat MacFarland, when he sues you. That’s completely allowable evidence in a civil case.” Bob shook his head. “The point is, from now on, you need to stay out of this murder investigation.”

  “Why? If they investigate that bangle, they could find the killer and Chloe’s lover, and if they don’t investigate it, I will. I have a picture of the bangle in my phone.”

  “Mike, you will do no such thing.” Bob motioned at the laptop. “This is bad for me and my business. I’ve done nothing but good for you. I’ve taken you in and taken care of Emily. I’m representing you for free, and my thanks is that you ruin me?”

  “Bob, I can’t stop—”

  “You can and you will.” Bob stuck a finger in Mike’s face. “You will not take me down with you. You will not take my law firm down with you. I will not let you interfere with my revenue stream. You’ve gone from my brother-in-law the hero to my brother-in-law, the thug. Two assaults in two days. You need anger management!”

  Danielle turned to Mike, anguished. “You know we love you, and Bob is only concerned for your well-being. Instead of this murder business, we think it would be better if you focused on getting yourself into rehab. Look at this article.” She gestured at a magazine that lay open on the table. “It’s about wounded military who compete in shot put, wheelchair racing, and wheelchair basketball. This is so inspiring, and these men are so much less fortunate than you.”

  Mike looked at the magazine, with its glossy vets in black Army singlets, who were missing arms, feet, legs below the knee, and a lower body. He’d performed those amputations, he’d hacked those human beings into pieces. Guilt tore through his Oxycontin haze.

  “I know, it’s so moving, isn’t it?” Danielle asked, softly. “I felt the same way. Each one of these men has overcome so many odds.”

  Bob harrumphed. “This is what you need to be doing, Mike. You need to get your head straight. Get back on track.”

  Mike edged backwards, away from the magazine. The men in the photos morphed into his patients, all of the soldiers swirling into a horrific vortex of blood and camo, all of the wounds becoming a single giant fleshy maw, gulping down muscles, eyeglasses, iPods, and men.

  Bob said, “Mike? What’s the matter with you? Where are you going?”

  “Upstairs,” Mike answered, in a waking nightmare.

  Danielle asked, “What about dinner?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Mike murmured in horror.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  The next morning, Mike hurried toward the convention hall, wearing his best suit and an ID badge on a red lanyard, with a fluttery red Vendor ribbon. He slid out of his wet raincoat on the fly, threw it over his arm with his dripping umbrella, and hustled past the doctors swarming to their seminar rooms. He remembered when he used to be one of them. He’d taken Chloe to the last conference he’d gone to, in San Diego.

  I’m here for the vacation sex, she had said.

  Mike looked away from the doctors, who
were greeting each other, joking around, and catching up over buffet tables laden with fresh-squeezed orange juice, hot coffee, doughnuts, Danish, and fruit trays. They were dressed casually because they didn’t have to sell anything, and their ID badges sported blue Attendee ribbons, as if they had won first prize, at life. If he moved to Greenwich, he could be one of them.

  He chugged past, his stump aching and his head down. He had barely slept, but he hoped that today would go well, making it easier to stay home. He reached the exhibitor hall, showed his badge, and went inside, ducking other vendors in logo ballcaps, polo shirts, and jackets, buying bad coffee at the snack bar, carrying large grease boards, and rolling handcarts.

  The crowd hurried around him, this way and that, and Mike began to feel closed in again. His pulse picked up, his mouth went dry. He’d taken a pill before he left the car, but one wasn’t enough anymore. He tried not to panic and threaded his way through the crowd, passing all the company names he used to know; Amerigel, Advanced Skin and Wound Care, Gill Podiatry Supply and Equipment Company, and OsteoMed. He reached Row L, turned down an aisle lined with booths, and spotted Jim, in suit and tie. He was talking to Carly, who was dressed in an orange polo shirt with skimpy athletic shorts. Evidently, Jim had more than M&Ms to attract doctors to the booth.

  Mike flagged him down, with a forced smile. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

  Jim saluted. “You know Carly.”

  Carly grinned. “Hey, Dr. Mike. Okay if I call you that?”

  “Sure, hi.” Mike held his umbrella and raincoat, awkwardly. “Is there a place I can stow these?”

  “Let me.” Carly took Mike’s things, crossed to the back of the booth, and shoved them under the draped table.

  “So what do you think?” Jim gestured, and Mike surveyed the booth. The front counter held samples of the boot, and a sign at the back read LYON & HAGGERTY, WALKING BOOT FOR ADOLESCENTS AND CHILDREN, in bright orange letters. Glossy action photos showed middle-schoolers playing soccer, tennis, and basketball, interspersed with the same models as they opened their school locker, strolled around the mall, and applauded on the sidelines, wearing their color-coordinated boots.

  “Looks awesome.” Mike kept his mood up. “So what do I do? Put me in, Coach.”

  “Check this out.” Jim grabbed some literature from the table and opened it to head shots of Jim and Lyon, posing in lab coats. “Three pages full-color, with our bios and CVs. I had that article about you photocopied and stuffed in there, too, so you’re officially on the team.”

  “Thanks.” Mike pocketed the brochure, ignoring the headline about Military Medicine because underneath was a photo of Chloe, smiling hard as she held up a photo of Mike.

  “We’ll be swamped in fifteen minutes. Watch me for the first couple of guys, then jump in. Tell any doc you can about the boot. Remind him that their practice gets 5 percent if they prescribe us. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You probably know some of these docs, so target them. If you don’t know them, lead with your being a vet.”

  “Can’t we soft-pedal that?” Mike had tucked his suit sleeve into his pocket, but any orthopod would know he was an amputee.

  “Look around you, at the other booths. They’re kids, straight out of college.” Jim made a sweeping motion at the universe, in general. “None of them has your life experience. None of them has your medical expertise. None of them has been where you have. You can help us distinguish our product. Am I right, or am I right?”

  “Okay.” Mike noticed a group of doctors coming down the aisle, laughing and joking, a flurry of blue ribbons.

  “Showtime,” Jim said under his breath. “See that guy in front, Josh Haber? Has a six-man practice in Jenkintown that serves four school districts. Watch and learn.” He put on a big smile, lifted his chin, and waved at Josh. “Joshua, as I live and breathe! Here comes trouble!”

  Haber looked up, surprised over his rimless glasses. He stopped his conversation as Jim strode to him, shook his hand heartily, and steered him and his colleagues back to the booth.

  “Josh, meet my partner.” Jim presented Mike with a flourish. “Mike Scanlon, just back from Afghanistan. You’re looking at a real live combat surgeon.”

  “Wow!” Josh’s smile broadened, and he tugged off his reading glasses. “What an honor to meet you. Jim told me so much about you.” His expression sobered. “Sorry to hear about the loss of your wife, too.”

  Mike felt his cheeks burn. “Thanks, good to meet you.”

  Jim picked up a boot. “We’re putting Mike to work, helping get the word out about our boot. This is what I was telling you about, at the wedding. Fully customizable, and they can get it in Cheltenham High colors.”

  “You’re shameless.” Josh’s eyes twinkled, amused.

  “Of course I am!” Jim burst into laughter. “You know why? I believe in this product. You should, too. Kids never put up a fight about wearing it, and your practice gets a percentage.”

  “How much?”

  “Five.”

  “Excuse me, did you say ten?” Josh smiled slyly, and Jim laughed.

  “Please. What are you getting from HomeHealth? They send you a fruitcake for Christmas?”

  “Ha! You got that right.” Josh checked his watch. “I’ll give you a call. I gotta meet with some reps.” He turned to Mike. “Nice meeting you, and stay away from this character. He’ll corrupt you.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping for,” Mike said, and they all laughed. Josh and his colleagues moved on, and Jim turned to Mike with a grin.

  “You’re a natural! You did great! See how easy it is?”

  “It’s the percentage that does it.”

  “Of course. Rather, that’s part of it, but the boot still delivers.” Jim looked away, distracted as a trio of doctors came down the row. Carly met them, bouncing over with brochures, and Jim said under his breath, “Give Carly a second. They like her.”

  “Is she our secret weapon?”

  Jim winked. “My momma didn’t raise no dummy.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little cheesy?”

  “Why? She majored in physical therapy at Penn State and has the best ass in sports medicine. Watch me do my thing.” Jim flagged down the threesome. “Dr. Sam Bertold, is that you? Up this early?”

  “Very funny.” Sam rolled his eyes, an intense brown behind thickish wire-rims. He was a chubby man in his late forties, and his dark suit strained at the middle button. “Show some respect, Haggerty. I’m the midmorning keynote speaker.”

  “Working your way up to lunchtime keynote?”

  “Ha!” Sam laughed. “I’ll let you know when I hit dinner.”

  “Playing for varsity, then!” Jim laughed, and so did Sam and his colleagues, grouping around and blocking Mike, who noticed a well-dressed woman at the periphery, picking up the boot and trying to fasten the Velcro.

  “May I help you with that?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks.” The woman looked up with a smile. She had curly brown hair and colorful reading glasses on a beaded lorgnette. “My son is thirteen and runs track, but he broke his ankle on the ice in our driveway. Our podiatrist says he can’t run for four more weeks, but then he won’t be able to go to the regionals in winter track, because he missed too many practices.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  The woman cocked her head. “Can you can settle a family feud? My husband says he can run in two weeks, not four. He’s an orthopedist, too, but he specializes in tennis elbow.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m just the mom, but I think we should wait.”

  “The mom matters.” Mike was thinking about Chloe and Sara.

  “So what do you think, about my son? Two weeks or four?”

  “Of course, I haven’t examined your son, but I’m with his podiatrist. You can’t hurry the healing process, not at that age.” Mike slipped into his old role like a comfy pair of jeans. “The last thing you want is a thirteen-year-old run
ning before he’s not healed. If he damages a growth plate, he could end up with one leg shorter than the other.”

  “Oh no.” Her eyes flared in alarm. “Can that really happen?”

  “Yes. It must hurt him, too.”

  “He says it doesn’t.”

  “He’s downplaying it. They all do.”

  “I knew it!”

  Jim looked over with a caffeinated smile. His friend Sam Bertold was taking a cell phone call, leaving his friends to stand around, waiting. Jim said to the woman, “Excuse me, if your son is a runner, we also make custom orthotics that can be used with or without our boot, and placed in any shoes or sneakers. Running is a repetitive-motion sport that requires a rigid orthotic. Soccer, tennis, basketball, or gymnastics require a more flexible orthotic device, because they’re start-stop, complex motion, or cutting sports.”

  The woman frowned. “That isn’t what we were talking about.”

  “Oh, I see.” Jim blinked. “How can I help you then? Where is your practice?”

  “I’m not a doctor, my husband is. I know what orthotics are, and my son doesn’t need them.”

  Jim dialed his smile down. “Well, thank you very much for stopping by.”

  “You’re welcome.” The woman eyed Mike, knowingly. “I gather I should be going. Thanks again.”

  “Bye now.” Mike smiled, and Jim watched the woman walk away, then turned to Mike.

  “Why did you spend so much time with her? She’s not buying anything, she’s not even a doc.”

  “No one was waiting, and she asked me a question, so I answered it.”

  “Mike, these aren’t patients, they’re customers. Don’t be an altar boy. Push the boot.” Jim looked away as Sam Berthold hung up. “Sam, meet my partner, back from two tours in Afghanistan. This is Mike Scanlon.”

  “That name sounds familiar.” Sam frowned. “Aren’t you the guy that had a fight? With a news photographer?”

  Jim scoffed. “No, that’s not him. It must’ve been a different guy.”

  Mike tried to shrug it off. “It was me, but it wasn’t a fight. It might look that way on the news, but that wasn’t the way it happened. The editing made it look like I hit the guy, but I—”