Drying his back, he headed into his bedroom and placed his pajamas neatly in their drawer before dressing in his scrubs. He lifted his white coat off the chair in the corner and pulled it on, then removed his stethoscope from the inside pocket, and laid it across his shoulders. Until he felt the weight of the stethoscope around his neck each morning, he felt partially unclothed.
Walking into the study, he admired the perfectly even shelves, the rows of books organized by size and genre. Diplomas lined the far wall, framed in a cherry wood. Harvard undergrad and medical school, equally pompous with their scrolled Latin, started the row, followed by his UCSF residency certificate and board certification for Emergency Medicine. One of his Outstanding Clinical Instructor plaques hung slightly crooked. He straightened it with the edge of his thumb.
Turning to the large brass birdcage in one corner, he sighed before removing the drape. The Moluccan cockatoo awakened instantly on its perch, shifting from one black claw to the other. A bright salmon-pink crest protruded from behind its head, a flair of color on its otherwise cream body.
"Hello, Stanley," David said flatly.
"Elisabeth?" it squawked. "Where's Elisabeth?" David's wife had spent three painstaking weeks one summer training the cockatoo to ask for her when it wanted to be fed. Stanley's repertoire of comments had not since been expanded.
"On vacation in the south of France," David said.
It nodded its head to gnaw at something in its breast feathers, the long erectile crest spreading behind its head like an exotic fan.
David sprinkled some birdseed into the small cup secured to the cage bars, grimacing when some fell to the hardwood floor.
"M&M's," the cockatoo squawked. "Where's Elisabeth?"
"Took off for Mexico with embezzled funds."
The cockatoo regarded him suspiciously with a glassy black eye. "Where's Elisabeth?"
"Training Lipizzans in Vienna," David said.
His mother, were she still alive, would not have been pleased with the fact that David drove a Mercedes. Along with Doberman pinschers and von Karajan, they were, in his mother's mind, forever associated with the Third Reich. And though David would never admit it, the cast of the back-tilted headlights of his E320 sometimes reminded him of the requisite round spectacles perched on every Nazi nose in bad '50s films.
He passed the imperious Federal Building on Wilshire, the perpetual protesters outside imploring commuters to honk to free Tibet, and drove into the heart of Westwood. Turning onto Le Conte, he steered wide to avoid the grime kicking up from the jackhammers at the site across from the hospital. For two months, construction crews had been working day and night converting the building next to the Geffen Playhouse into a large retail store. A burly worker swung a sledgehammer at a 4-by-4 supporting a section of defunct scaffolding, and the section keeled over slowly, sending a burst of dust across the road. The olive hood of David's car dulled with the pollution. He made a note to schedule a trip to the car wash on his next free afternoon.
A thought seized him, and he pulled over and approached the crew of construction workers. The muscular worker stood in the midst of the fallen scaffolding, a sledgehammer angled back over one shoulder. He wore a goatee that tapered to a point. His white undershirt was soaked with sweat, permitting an enormous swastika tattoo to show through. Covering his torso from his clavicle to the top of his belly button, the tattoo had been poorly inked. A black box of a probation-and-parole monitor was strapped to his ankle on a thick metal band.
David's immediate thought was that this man could be the alkali thrower. He worked in the vicinity--he would have had easy access to the ambulance bay. David immediately reproached himself for having such a severe and unfounded first impression. The man turned a hard gaze in David's direction as David approached, and he noticed a slight facial asymmetry. The other men continued to work.
"Hello, I'm Dr. David Spier. I work in the Emergency Room at UCLA."
"Zeke Crowley."
David watched Zeke's large, callused hand envelope his own. David pointed to the monitor on Zeke's ankle. "I had to cut one of those off once."
"Not your own, I'd guess." Zeke's voice, gruff and forceful, fit his appearance.
David smiled. "No, for a procedure on a patient, back when I was a resident. It kept getting in my way. I called the number on the tag. The operator was a bit of a pain."
"They tend to be." Zeke coughed into a fist. "Spier. That Jewish?"
"Sometimes. I'm sure you heard about the alkali attack that took place here yesterday. I was wondering . . . well, I just thought given your location here, you might have seen something."
"Sometimes," Zeke repeated. "How about in your case?"
"Yes. It is. Anyone here see anything?"
Zeke ran his fingers down his goatee and twisted the end. "Nope."
Zeke seemed to have too much confidence to have committed the attack on Nancy. His aggression, David guessed, would be more direct and muscular. Fists and kicks. If he assaulted someone, Zeke would want them to know it was he who was punishing them. From what David knew of the alkali throwing, it was pathetic and cowardly. Repressed, somehow.
David studied Zeke closer. His right eyelid drooped, and the pupil was constricted. There was a decided lack of sweat on the right side of his face. Ptosis, miosis, and anhidrosis. The probable diagnosis came to David, quick and gratifying. He pushed his medical thoughts aside. "What time do you guys start?" he asked.
Zeke crossed his arms, his thick forearms flexing. He studied David for a moment. "A lot of you guys are doctors, huh? Doctors and bankers. Crafty bunch."
"Did you not hear my question?"
"Cops already came through here, stirred the shit, asked for alibis. The way I see it, I don't have to answer to a smart-ass doctor."
David felt suddenly foolish about his hunch. Of course the police would have thought to interrogate the construction workers to find out if they saw anything. He was glad they were covering their bases; it wasn't his place to be out here beating the bushes.
"You're right." David turned to go, then stopped. "You've had a recent trauma to your neck."
Zeke rocked the sledgehammer on his shoulder. "How the hell do you know that?"
"What's occurring in your face, I'd bet, is Horner's syndrome. It's a result of disruption of the sympathetic nerves in the cervical neck."
Zeke studied David long and hard, then broke eye contact. "I got whacked by a falling 2-by-4. About two weeks back. My face has been kinda messed up since."
"It might resolve on its own, but why don't you come into the ER so we can take a look. You'll probably need a referral to see a neurologist, just to be safe." David reached in his coat pocket for a business card. "Don't worry--if you're uptight about it, we'll be happy to find you a doctor of whatever ethnicity you prefer."
Zeke's smile was surprisingly soft, despite the sharp edges of his facial hair. The card looked minuscule in his palm. Zeke folded it and shoved it in his back pocket.
David headed back to his idling car.
He zipped around the kiosk and into the parking lot for the Center for Health Sciences, a tiered outdoor structure that stepped its way down from the medical plaza to Le Conte Avenue. Walking through the concrete maze of stairwells and levels, he emerged from the lot and headed along the sidewalk that curved down into the underground ambulance bay and ER entrance. Checking his watch, he saw he was five minutes late to be twenty minutes early.
Halfway down, he paused and regarded the small strip of grass and plants to his left. A waist-high light stuck out from a row of bushes. He realized he was standing in precisely the same spot that Nancy Jenkins had been when assailed with the alkali. What had she seen? A movement in the bushes, a flash of a face? And then a sudden, blinding pain.
A hand clutched David's arm, and he jerked violently around. Ralph took a quick step back, his bleached-white security shirt pulling free from his pants on one side. He wore a polished pin on his shirt--an eagle clutchin
g the American flag in its talons. A former marine who'd done two tours of duty in Vietnam, Ralph had come back to the States and found himself, like so many other veterans, with few options. He'd spent several years living between the streets and the VA on Wilshire before taking control of his life again. After slipping and breaking a finger at a UCLA football game, he'd come into the ER, where he'd impressed David with his gruff, determined nature and no-bullshit honesty. David had put out feelers for jobs throughout the hospital. A trainee security position had quickly led to a full-time job, and now Ralph was one of two chief security officers.
"Whoa!" He smiled. "Shit, Doc. Didn't mean to scare you."
David placed a hand on his stomach. "I think I'm just a little on edge, with all the . . . " He gestured to the bushes.
"We amped up our patrols," Ralph said. "Eight security officers instead of five."
"That's good to know. Do you think this person is planning another assault?"
"Looks more like a personal vendetta thing to me." Ralph thumbed his belt and leaned forward, his voice lowered. "The word is, Nancy told the detectives she saw a tattoo on the guy's arm. Didn't see his face. Just an arm with a tattoo and then the stuff all in her eyes." He shook his head, blank-gazing at the bushes, as if the assailant were suddenly going to reappear. "I can't imagine Nancy had any enemies, but who the hell knows. I seen stranger things, that's for sure."
David fingered his stethoscope absentmindedly. "Did the person shout anything at her? Interact with her in any way?"
"Not from what I heard." Ralph's eyebrow dipped in a curious squint. "Why?"
"That just seems odd. If it is personal, I mean. I'd think the attacker would want to express his anger, make Nancy aware of why she was being victimized. The attack seems so impersonal." David shook his head. "Not that this is my field."
"Well, until there's another attack, it's an isolated incident," Ralph said.
David's lips pursed in a slight smile at Ralph's unintentional syllogism. "Yes," he said. "That's true."
"But we're keeping a few more sets of eyes around the area, just in case. To keep things safe and to ward off the media vultures." As if on cue, a news van pulled up just past the kiosk. A reporter hopped out and began rolling footage against the backdrop of the hospital. Ralph shook his head wearily. "All morning long."
A security guard appeared swiftly, disrupting the reporter's shot, and immediately began arguing with the cameraman.
"I guess the higher-ups don't dig the press. They have us on the reporters like brown on shit." Ralph placed his hands on his hips and grimaced, showing off a crooked front tooth. "I never knew Nancy's brother was a cop. You met him, right?"
David nodded. "I had the pleasure, yes."
"Well, our guy pulled two no-nos: attacking a hospital and an officer's relative." Ralph whistled. "I hope he likes attention, 'cause he's got a lotta people gunning for him now."
"The detectives seemed as . . . intense as Nancy's brother?"
Ralph raised his eyebrows, his face taking on a you'd-better-believe-it cast. "If you pardon my language, Doc, someone fucked with the wrong girl."
Chapter 6
HUGH Dalton turned a half rotation, spilling coffee over the side of his mug as he showed off his rumpled slacks and JCPenney pinstripe shirt. His solid brown tie stuck in his shoulder holster. Jenkins pulled it free for him.
"Whaddaya think?" Dalton said. "From two-striper to D-one in the blink of an eye." He grimaced. "Three year blink of an eye, but who's checking."
"I'm surprised you finally passed the exam," Jenkins said. "Let alone the oral."
Dalton emptied a carton of orange juice into a glass jug and set it on the table next to a plate stacked high with Eggos. "I appreciate your vote of confidence."
"I'm losing a good partner. Don't expect me to turn cartwheels."
"At least you're losing me to a promotion, not a coffin." Dalton shouted down the hall, "Breakfast's on the table. Get out here or I'll eat it myself." He turned back to Jenkins. "You know I will."
Jenkins eyed his significant gut. "No argument here."
"Well? How do I look?"
"Like my high school geography teacher," Jenkins said. "Mr. Perkins packing heat." He smoothed the front of his own freshly ironed uniform, then polished his badge with a cuff. "Tell me you're not gonna miss the monkey suit."
"I'm not gonna miss the monkey suit." Dalton drained his coffee and thunked the chipped cup on the table. "No more uniform for this dick." He leaned back in the direction of the hall. "If I have to come get you . . . !"
Jenkins cleared his throat. "Tell me you're gonna be able to get the case from the jackass campus cops."
Dalton raised an eyebrow. "Believe you me. The Captain's already hot for it. ACID THROWER TAKES AIM AT WESTWOOD. Where there's press, there's juris."
"Lye. It was lye."
"You think the LA Times knows that?" Dalton grunted. "Besides, it'll help ID the false confessions." He poured himself a glass of orange juice, smelled it, then poured it out in the sink. "I want you to finish checking Nancy's papers and files for any services she's recently paid for. Workers in the house or yard. Look through her credit card bills for anything she might've ordered that would've been delivered. She wore her scrubs around the house sometimes, right?"
Jenkins's nod was barely discernable.
"Well, they have UCLA MEDICAL CENTER printed right on 'em. Who knows, our sicko delivers a package, she answers the door in her scrubs--" He stopped when he saw the expression on Jenkins's face. "You get the picture." He smoothed the skin of his jowls with an open hand. "How's she doing? Nance?"
The points of Jenkins's jaw flexed out, then disappeared. "I'm gonna break somebody's face over this," he said.
"I'm gonna help you."
Two girls, ages nine and twelve, scampered down the hall into the kitchen, dumping their backpacks near the door. The twelve-year-old set a purple sequined purse on the tabletop and stared at the Eggos with displeasure.
"Eat," Dalton said. "No purses at school. Drink your juice."
The younger girl pointed at the stack of waffles. "You forgot to toast that one." Dalton removed the frozen Eggo from the stack and tossed it in the sink. The twelve-year-old took a sip of orange juice and spit it back into her cup.
Jenkins glanced at his watch. "I gotta head," he said.
Dalton nodded with mock formality. "Patrolman."
Jenkins eyed Dalton's cheap dress clothes, and his hard features loosened for a moment. He nodded back. "Detective," he said.
The yellow Buick ran the red light at Broxton and Weyburn and pulled up to Jerry's Deli in downtown Westwood. Ted Yale, a tall, even-featured detective with a clean yacht-club look, stepped out from behind the wheel, snapped his gum, and readjusted the knot on his designer tie. When Dalton got out from the car, a cluster of Chee*tos fell from the folds of his pants to the sidewalk.
Yale entered the deli briskly, and Dalton followed, squinting at the bright lights, the flashy Broadway posters, and the neon signs. Yale's head pivoted like a periscope, locking on two men reclining in a corner booth. One of them, a handsome black man with a broad mustache, was evidently telling a joke. His hands traced gestures in the air.
"Over there," Yale said, gesturing with his chin. "You can always tell 'em by the cheap shoes." He glanced down at Dalton's shoes, then back up at his face. "Sorry."
They crossed the deli and slid into the booth, taking the two outside seats. The men looked up. "What the fuck?" the black detective said.
"You Gaines?" Yale asked. "And Blake? UCLA PD?"
Blake, an older man with a blond mustache and deeply textured face, ignored the two newcomers; his eyes fixed on Gaines. "What's the punch line?" he asked.
Gaines looked nervously from Yale back to his partner. "Hanukah Lewinski." Blake laughed, slapping the table with the palm of his hand and making his water dance in the glass.
"Hey," Dalton said. "I got a joke for you. What's the only thing more
boring than a UCLA cop?" He looked from Gaines to Blake. "A retired UCLA cop."
Blake pinched a lemon between his fingers and let it drain into his water glass. "Let me guess. Judging by the demeanor and the sense of general entitlement . . . LAPD."
"Demeanor," Yale said. "Good word."
"To what do we owe?" Gaines asked.
"We're taking over one of your cases," Yale said. "Sister of someone on the job. The captain-three feels quite strongly, as does our department."
"The Acid Thrower?" Gaines shook his head. "Uh-uh."
"Lye," Dalton said. "It was lye."
"I know the drill," Blake said. "High-profile case. Everyone's gonna try 'n' squirm in and get some, like pups at a tit. No way."
Yale smiled curtly. "Let me remind you--"
" 'UCLA Police will handle all crimes that occur on UCLA property, including nonacademic facilities, and incidents involving UCLA personnel within a mile from campus if they are connected to the victim's association with UCLA.' " Blake wrinkled up his textured face and cocked his head at Gaines. "What's the name of that big hospital again?"
"The UCLA Medical Center," Gaines said. "I believe."
"UCLA Medical Center," Blake said. "That's right." He touched his forehead with his fingertips.
"With the exception of . . . ?" Yale asked.
No one answered.
"With the exception of homicide and rape, which are investigated only by the Los Angeles Police Department." Yale smiled, pleased with himself.
Blake said, "Last I checked, no one got raped or murdered."
"Attempted homicide. Mayhem. Assault with a deadly weapon."
"Attempted homicide is a stretch," Gaines said. "More like attempted plastic surgery."
Dalton came up from his seat hard, his thighs knocking the table. "Don't you fucking joke about this," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't you dare."
Blake mopped up his spilled water with a napkin. With a flick of his eyes, Yale signaled Dalton to sit. Though younger, Yale, a detective-second, outranked him.
"She was a good friend of the department," Yale said calmly. "In addition to being his ex-partner's sister."
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