A rueful grin from Matt. “Yeah, I noticed. So what now?”
George shrugged a bit helplessly. “I suppose we—”
His thought was interrupted as the doctor’s door opened and a voice boomed out, “Gentlemen!”
George and Matt looked back toward the office, to see a porcine, well-appointed man with thinning hair and beady eyes approaching. He wore a lab coat.
“Check it out,” announced Matt with some amusement, under his breath: “the mountain’s coming to Mohammed.”
Before George could question this new idiom, the mountain (aptly identified, in George’s view) was upon them, smiling obsequiously.
“Is anything wrong?”
“Kind of a startling display you have in there,” Matt offered. “You know, if you’re not prepared for it, I mean.”
“I understand,” said the mountain, and without waiting for George to extend his hand, grabbed it. “I am Dr. Christian LeBeque,” he proclaimed, his otherwise unaccented voice going inexplicably nasal at the pronunciation of his first name, “and I’ve seen your reaction before. The shock of the new, that’s all. Believe me, there’s nothing of which to be affrighted.”
Matt flicked a gaze at George. Affrighted???
Not releasing George’s hand, LeBeque inspected it. Then looked at George’s face, not as if he were a person, but as if he were a specimen. LeBeque raised a hand, touched fingertips to the outline of George’s jaw, gently angling his head into better light.
“Oh, yes indeed, we can do wonderful things for you.”
George nearly slapped the hand away—with his strength, he might have broken the doctor’s arm in the process, for good measure—but out of the corner of an eye, he caught a shift in his partner’s expression. Let this clown ramble a bit, it tacitly urged. And so George bore the man’s stare, endured his unwelcome touch.
“I must say,” George commented, gingerly trying to extricate himself and at length succeeding, “you do go out of your way to . . . woo your potential clientele.”
LeBeque tut-tutted. “Let’s not refer to clients, please. Patients. And, yes, my zealousness can appear to be, oh, why not say the ugly word, aggression—but it’s misleading, truly. I just get concerned when it seems a patient may not be fully informed as to what we do here. You should have all the facts before coming to a decision.”
“I told you this guy didn’t have to drum up business, George,” Matt said, playing the part broadly but, as it happened, convincingly.
“Of course not,” LeBeque laughed self-deprecatingly. “Look around you. What need? No, my interest is in doing what’s best for you. Mister—?”
“Francisco.”
“Mister Francisco!” Grandiloquent. “Please. Come back in. I promise not to keep you waiting long. And the first consultation is free,” he added pointedly.
“Fine,” George said, having decided to play along. “In truth I do not know quite why I was so apprehensive. I had been told your rates were equitable and your service—top drawer.”
“I’m so pleased,” beamed LeBeque, gesturing toward his office, beckoning them to follow. And as they walked: “Who recommended me to you?”
“A Miss Fancy Delancey.”
LeBeque froze in his tracks, hand on the doorknob. He turned about slowly, scowling and growling.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” George responded innocently.
“I mean I never treated any such patient.”
“Ah,” smiled George, “I believe I can help you there. She has, of late, been using the name Fran Delaney. Perhaps when you treated her—”
“I tell you I treated no such woman!”
Matt pulled the bottle of Stabilite from his pocket, held it between middle finger and thumb, rocked it back and forth on the balls of the digits. “I got a label here tellin’ a different story.”
“That’s it!” LeBeque exploded, jowls aquiver. “Leave this building or I’m calling the—” He cut himself short. Paused. Nodded to himself. Grimaced ironically. “How absurd of me. You are the police.”
“Man’s a quick study, George.”
“Let’s can the banter, gentlemen. I’d like to see some ID. Just to be on the safe side.”
“The man is also cautious, Matthew.”
“Maybe he’s got reason.”
They both flipped their shields. LeBeque inspected them for a long time. “All right,” he said finally, “fine,” and the shields disappeared. “What is this charade all about?”
“The charade, sir, would seem to be yours,” George accused.
“Excuse me?”
“You just pretended not to know one of your most notable clients,” Matt pointed out. “Oops. Sorry. Patients.”
“Part of my service involves strict confidentiality. Ms. Delancey went through great lengths to keep her treatment private. She would not have spoken of it to anyone, much less made a recommendation.”
Appraising LeBeque, George asked slowly, “And would you say your work on Ms. Delancey was successful?”
“Exemplary. As you must know from her recent triumph.”
“You must be very proud of yourself.”
“It is always good to know that one’s labors have helped another achieve a lifelong dream,” he responded defensively.
“Yeah, well, the celebration’s a bit premature, Christian,” Matt asserted, mocking the affected pronunciation. “The lady’s down from bad Stabilite.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Pity.”
“ ‘Pity,’ ” echoed George. “Is that all you have to say?”
“What would you have me say?”
“You might try assuming some responsibility.”
“Me? For what?”
“For seeing that she was fully prepared for the consequences of her . . .” the word caught in George’s throat; he managed to extricate it, “. . . treatment.”
“Consequences such as . . . ?”
“Such as the high price of the habit,” Matt contributed. “Such as the existence of bum product and the dangers of ingesting it.”
LeBeque pulled himself up, huffily. “No, gentlemen, I’m sorry, my responsibility ended when I asked Ms. Delancey if she could afford treatment and medication. It was she who sought me out, remember. And when her answer was yes, I proceeded accordingly.”
“With no regard for the state of her finances after she paid you off?”
“She’s an adult, making an adult decision. It’s not my job to be a detective. That’s your department.”
“Yes . . . Of course . . . You are correct,” George nodded.
His tone was so overpolite that Matt backed up a step, saying, “Oh my.”
“Indeed,” George continued, “we are detectives, and a very minor bit of detecting led to the discovery that when you wrote Ms. Delancey’s prescription for Stabilite, you did not make it out to any of the pharmacies specializing in its handling and dispensation—such as the one right here in this building—but instead you gave her an open prescription. Good anywhere.”
“Standard practice,” LeBeque countered. “A courtesy. Ms. Delancey did not, obviously, live in the immediate area and I thought—”
George grabbed the fat man’s tie and jerked him forward so that they were almost nose to nose. “Standard perhaps,” he said in soft, lethal tones, “but of questionable ethics where expensive and controversial drugs are concerned and there is a known threat of inferior merchandise. Especially since ‘obviously’ the young lady did not live in the area because she ‘obviously’ had no access to the financial resources. Which might have led a reasonable mind to the conclusion that ‘obviously,’ and by extension, she would find it difficult if not impossible to afford the required medication.”
George tightened his grip on the tie.
“Gack,” said LeBeque.
“The unconcerned but diligent mind,” George continued, “might, at the very least, have filled
out a restricted prescription to insure that if Ms. Delancey could indeed lay hands on the drug, she could get it from nowhere but a qualified apothecary. Since, in the case of Stabilite, an open prescription is generally regarded as an invitation to charlatans.”
“Let go of me!” LeBeque gasped.
“An open prescription to Stabilite,” George concluded, “says ‘Look at me, I’m poor, can you get me a deal?’ ”
“I’m not responsible for that, now let me go, you’re choking me!”
Interesting word, choke, George thought. How it sounds so much like Chorboke.
Casually, Matt said, “What a world, huh? Nobody’s responsible for nothin’.” And, then, touching George’s shoulder lightly, he said, “Let ’im go, George.”
George snapped open his fist, releasing LeBeque so suddenly that he reeled against the door.
“That was very good, partner, I’m impressed,” said Matt. He smiled jauntily at LeBeque. “Usually I get to play ‘Bad Cop.’ ”
LeBeque wagged an admonishing finger at them both, adrenaline rush giving him a new head of steam. “I gave that young lady the best treatment possible, and need I remind you, it was elective surgery and no one twisted her arm!”
George cocked a hairless eyebrow. “You mean as you tried to do with me just a while ago?”
“Pah! Salesmanship hardly qualifies as coercion. And you gentlemen have taken my patience to its limit.”
Matt sighed theatrically. “Man’s right, George, we don’t have anything on him. There’s been no crime committed, at least none on the books, none we can make stick.” He patted LeBeque on his beefy arm, smiled.
Smiled like a shark.
“But wouldn’t it be fun to try?”
LeBeque sputtered. Noises, all ending in question marks.
“Well, I mean,” Matt explained, “you could try this case in the news media and never have to bother with arrests, paperwork, the expense of a trial. Let the public decide what constitutes negligence. Just present ’em with the facts—that you knowingly performed elective surgery on a patient who couldn’t afford to maintain proper treatment. What do you think, George?”
“Oh, I think the release of such a story would put a strain on his . . . patients . . . just as he said.”
“An old pun, but a gem.”
“All right,” LeBeque spluttered, exasperated. Then, more subdued, trying to recover some dignity, “All right. Clearly you—officers of the law are after something.” He pulled clumsily on his lapels. “How can I—as a law abiding citizen—be of service?”
The detectives exchanged a look. George took a step toward LeBeque. LeBeque leaned back into the door. Crooking an elbow, George pointed lightly across his chest at Matt. And spoke with exaggerated civility.
“Write out an open prescription for Stabilite. Make it out to my partner, Matthew Sikes.”
“That’s Sikes with an i, not a y,” Matt added helpfully.
LeBeque appraised the features on the human detective’s face with a clinical eye—also evident distaste.
“And let people think I worked on you?” he asked unpleasantly.
“Isn’t that cute,” cooed Matt. “A professional scruple . . .”
C H A P T E R 5
GRAZER WAS TRYNG to dust off his shoes. Or, more appropriately, he was trying, with intense concentration, to lift particles of dust out of them. Piece by piece.
He had Scotch tape wrapped around his fist, sticky side out, and continually applied the tape to the shoe he was working on
—crinkle—
and lifted—
thwop.
Applied and lifted.
Crinkle, thwop. Crinkle, thwop. Crinkle, thwop.
Every forty-five seconds or so, when the strip of tape had outlived its usefulness, he pulled it off, damning the accretion of stickum on his skin, and wrapped his hand in a fresh strip from an ever-decreasing roll. Whereupon he began knuckling the shoe again.
Crinkle, thwop.
Crinkle, thwop.
He was muttering over the task like one possessed when Sikes and Francisco knocked and entered his office.
Matt exchanged a look with his partner and spoke very tentatively.
“Uhh . . . Cap’n?”
“Suede.”
“What?”
“Suede, dammit.” Grazer held up one of the shoes and shook it angrily in front of his face. “White suede at that, can you believe it?” He brushed at the top of the shoe with the untaped side of a hand, went, “Ahhh,” in disgust, and began banging it on the top of his desk like Khrushchev at the U.N.
“What’re you doin’?” Matt asked. He asked it rationally, but also carefully. Reasonable question though it was, he couldn’t be sure that Grazer had reason within reach.
Grazer jumped up, exasperated. “He dusted up my shoes!” He stepped out from behind his desk. His beige pants had a dingy gray residue clinging to the cuffs. “He didn’t do much for my slacks either, but the shoes. One-hundred-fifty-dollar white suede and he just barrels right into me with a loaded broom.”
“Who?”
“Albert Einstein, who the hell do you think?”
Under most circumstances, if a man claimed that Albert Einstein had sabotaged his wardrobe, you might safely assume that man had flipped over into the happy side. At the very least, that the man was being heavily sarcastic in referring to a particularly dim-witted fellow.
Bryon Grazer, though, was being entirely literal.
Albert Einstein, a youthful Newcomer, was the day-shift janitor at the precinct house.
“I’m sure he did not mean it,” George offered.
“He laughed,” Grazer insisted. “He schmutzed me with this filthy broom and he laughed.”
Matt shook his head.
“No. Sweet, naive Albert laughed? Usually, after an accident, he gets on his knees to denounce his unworthiness.”
“Sure, get on his knees,” growled Grazer, “why should he screw up his pants?” He paused, as if listening to a private little tune, cocking his head curiously, and suddenly giving a single, decisive little nod. “Ah-hah!” He strode past them to his office door, threw it open. “Hear for yourself.”
And, sure enough, like a delicate obligato, riding above the din of general office noise, came the sound of dizzy laughter.
“It is unlike Albert to behave in such a fashion,” George commented.
“Gets worse,” Grazer snarfed. “This morning he left an entire box of fresh jelly weasels on the radiator too long.”
Jelly weasels were Newcomer snack food, rather akin (in intent, if not in content) to the doughnuts ingested by humans. Like any other meat-based product suitable for Newcomer consumption, jelly weasels had to be consumed raw. Tenctonese physiology not only thrived on the nutrients and enzymes in raw meat, it was, furthermore, unable to digest meat in any other condition.
“Cooked ’em,” Grazer exclaimed. “Just enough to cause damage, not quite enough to be noticed by a preoccupied officer until the first bite went down.” Grazer flapped his arms in frustration, the shoe on his hands describing a wide, and possibly dangerous, arc. “A dozen of those disgusting things, twelve potential cases of food poisoning.”
Sikes wasn’t sure what it was that Grazer found disgusting: cooked jelly weasels or jelly weasels as a concept. Probably a toss-up.
“I assume Albert found this amusing as well,” George guessed.
“On a scale of one to ten, he thought it was a twelve. Better than the shoes. If May hadn’t caught it, we’d’ve been knee-deep in Newcomer barf.”
As if on cue, a young, pretty Newcomer girl showed up in the doorway. She was the sandwich girl, formerly May O’Naise, more recently May Einstein, Albert’s wife.
“What?” Grazer snapped by way of greeting.
“Captain, I wanted to apologize for my husband.”
“Forget apologies, can you calm him down?”
“I’ve been trying. I don’t know what to do.”
�
�Hi, May,” Matt said, lightly, trying to diffuse a bit of the tension. And then: “Hey, you’re a little lighter in the bread basket there, aren’t you?”
It was true. Where previously she had been pregnant, full with the pod which would gestate into her first child, now she was her former slim-waisted and flat-stomached self.
“Oh, yes. Albert assumed the pod last night. It was beautiful.”
George exhaled, as if relieved about something.
“Of course,” he said, almost to himself; and then, to Grazer, “Did you not notice that Albert was suddenly pregnant?”
Grazer pursed his lips and snorted. “I’m a cop, Francisco, of course I noticed. But after he broadsided me, I wasn’t too keen on offering congratulations.”
“What I am trying to get across, Captain, is that his current . . .”
—Albert’s laughter floated across the squad room again—
“. . . giddiness is directly attributable to his condition.”
“Well, now, how the hell was I supposed to know that? I mean, when you were pregnant, it didn’t turn you psycho.”
“I dunno, Cap’n,” Matt put in. “George had some remarkably pissy moods.”
Matt pointedly ignored George’s brief glare as Grazer poutily responded, “You know what I mean.”
May seemed sympathetic.
“I really don’t understand it myself.”
Grazer made a face that eloquently translated as, There! Satisfied?
“I at least know what you mean, Captain,” George conceded, and Matt did not miss the implied dig. “But I’m a gannaum, Albert is a binnaum.”
“And my great-grandfather was a moyel in the old country, what does that have to do with anything?”
“Binnaums have a somewhat different body chemistry. They are built so that they can incubate a pod to term, but it is a feature few binnaums actually utilize. A small number of binnaums have even been born without a pouch.”
Grazer’s inflection took on a long-suffering quality. “The point being . . .”
“That by accepting the pod into his system, Albert triggered a chemical change, and a fairly emphatic one. In order to create a safe environment for the pod, several of his glands have kicked into overdrive.”
Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy Page 6