"No." Diane shook her head, tilting it back slightly so she wouldn't spill more tears. "No."
Snapping her cell phone closed, Sandy turned into the doorway, almost colliding with Diane. She stepped into the procedure room, looked at David, and said, "Christ."
Looking from David's face to Diane's, Sandy took note of the emotional current, and her lips pressed together disapprovingly.
"Sandy," David said by way of greeting. He raised his head from the pillow.
Sandy's eyes traced down the front of his hospital gown. "Your catheter's out. Have you voided?"
He nodded. "Let's just say now I know what it's like to have the clap."
"Antibiotics?"
"Unasyn. Started with two grams."
Sandy slid her cell phone into her white jacket and rubbed her hands together quickly, as if to draw warmth. "Look, I can see this isn't the best time, but, well, tact has never been my long suit." Hesitating, she glanced over at Diane.
"It's fine," David said. "What is it?"
A momentary droop in the firm line of Sandy's shoulders. "You've been asked to step down as chief. By the board. There was a vote."
Diane pushed herself off the wall as if she were going to say something. Sandy kept her eyes trained on David.
David's laugh was a bit giddy from the morphine.
"Goddamn it, David. You've had angry confrontations with police, you've been playing Nancy Drew around the hospital, you assault a colleague--"
"Assault," David repeated with amusement.
"--and don't even bother to appear when summoned to the board. What did you expect?" She shook her head in exasperation, then ran a thumb along the bottom of her painted lip, removing excess lipstick. Walking over, she sat on the gurney beside David. "I'm having Dr. Nelson take over responsibilities temporarily--I'll be fucked if I'll give Don the satisfaction. If you spend your time off quietly and distance yourself from this case, maybe things will settle down. Then I could see about--"
"No," David said.
He shifted on the bed and a dagger of pain shot into his side. Sandy moistened some gauze padding and dabbed around the edges of David's wound. By the door, Diane watched silently.
"Back off this case," Sandy said. "The press is making you look like an ass."
"To be honest, I don't really care anymore."
Sandy wadded the gauze pad into a ball and shot it at the trash can. It hit dead center. "You don't have your mother's sense, do you know that, David? You'll never be the doctor she was."
"No," David said. "I won't."
Sandy looked at him, reading his face. Evidently, she didn't find what she was looking for. "Goddamn it, David. Goddamn it." She reached out and patted him on the cheek roughly, almost a slap. "Whichever way this lands, I'm going to be unhappy, aren't I?"
Her expression textured, an odd blend of nostalgia and loss, and David knew she was thinking of his mother. When she looked at him, he sensed a glimmer of newfound respect. She spread her arms so he could hug her, which he did, despite the pain.
She squeezed him tightly, as if afraid to let go. Her lips were close to his ear, so he heard her perfectly when she whispered in her smooth, deep voice, "I'd recommend your not coming in for a while."
They broke off the embrace and regarded each other.
"I understand," David said.
He nodded. Sandy rose to leave, still not so much as acknowledging Diane.
"What was the vote?" David asked.
Sandy paused by the door. "Excuse me?"
"You said the board voted for me to step down. I'd like to know what the vote was."
Sandy readjusted the brooch on her suit jacket--a gold scarab. "Fourteen to one."
David pushed himself up to a sitting position, letting his legs dangle over the side of the gurney. He studied his bare feet. "Who was the one?"
"You know I can't disclose that."
"Who was the one?"
Sandy sighed. "You know who the one was." Her hand described an arc in the air and landed back on her hip. "Me." She nodded curtly and walked out, leaving the door open behind her.
David pressed on the flesh around his wound to gauge its redness. His white fingerprint slowly faded. When he looked up, Diane was watching him.
"I cannot believe they'd have you step down as chief. I mean, it's ridiculous. It can be overturned. You'd get staff support, I'm sure."
"Not anymore," David said.
"Aren't you going to protest?"
"It's an appointed position, not a political race."
"Okay," Diane said. "Okay." She drummed her fingernails against the door.
He stood up. The thumping pain in his side alerted him that the morphine was fading. His face still felt loose and blurry, and he knew he probably looked like hell. Unhooking his IV bag from its pole, he carried it with him as he walked over to Diane. He stopped a few feet short of her.
Diane blew a strand of hair off her face. He watched her closely, lovingly.
"I don't adore you," he said. "Not at all."
"Good." Some of the anger left her face. "I don't adore you either."
Chapter 69
CLYDE'S breath fogged the window against which he leaned as he gazed down the seven-story drop to the dark square of the UCLA Medical Center quad. The top tier of the PCHS parking structure glowed beneath the lights, crammed with cars and trucks. The security guards moved up and down the rows in their nurse-white shirts. The top floors of the office buildings on Le Conte were also in view, sticking up above the fringe of trees like dominoes, and he could just make out the splintered wreckage of the scaffolding.
Clyde kept his eye on one car in particular--the olive-green Mercedes parked in the choicest spot near the hospital. From this distance, the ashole lettering on its side was visible only as a red smudge.
A few drops of condensation resolved on the foggy glass and trickled to the sill. He'd been watching for some time.
He spotted the white coat first, then recognized David walking tenderly up the concrete stairs to the top level, Diane Trace slightly in front of him. At either side of them were men in suits--one standing tall and lean, the other wide and slumped. The detectives.
After discussing something animatedly, they helped David into his car. Then they headed down to the lower tier, escorting Diane to her Explorer.
The Mercedes pulled out of the parking structure, Diane's car just behind it. When they passed the parking kiosks, a van pulled out from the curb and followed them both, about a block back.
Clyde pressed both palms against the glass on either side of his face, like a mime, and watched David's car until it disappeared from view.
Don strode up to Sandy's door, white coat flaring. He raised his hand to knock, but before he could, Sandy's voice issued through the solid door. "Come in."
A Bic pen behind her ear, Sandy worked at the conference table under the glow of the green banker's lamp. She flipped through a contract, sighed, tossed it to the side, and glanced at the next document in the pile before her.
"Dr. Evans, I'd like to thank you for your support in this matter, regarding Dr. Spier." Sandy did not look up. Don waited for a response, but finding none, continued. "It was, uh, a wise decision, I believe, for the division."
Still looking down at her paperwork, Sandy mumbled something under her breath.
"I'm sorry?" Don said.
Sandy finally looked up. "I said, 'Go fuck yourself,' Dr. Lambert." She pulled the pen from behind her ear and attacked the next file in her stack.
Don watched her work for a few moments, his mouth slightly ajar. He made sure to close the door quietly behind him when he left.
David was vaguely aware of the carpet cleaning van following him and Diane a few blocks back; Yale had selected it as the undercover vehicle, as it wouldn't be out of place in upscale Brentwood. It parked across the street when David pulled into his garage. Diane left her Explorer at the curb, near the mailbox. She helped David inside, and in a confusion of beeps and codes, h
e disarmed the security alarms.
She walked him down the long hall to his bedroom, one arm looped across his back, and deposited him on his bed. He lay back on the stark white pillows with a groan, holding her hand. His eyes were swollen, underscored by bags so dark they resembled contusions.
He held her hand and looked up at her. She was scanning the plain, empty room, the white walls, the lonely chair in the corner, and David felt a sudden, intense vulnerability--a concern that his bedroom revealed more of his life than he himself wished to grasp and convey.
"You should go," he said. "The cops will escort you home and keep an eye on you."
"Are you sure you want to be alone?"
He nodded. She backed up to go, but he didn't relinquish her hand. Despite the codeine, his wound was throbbing with his heartbeat, regular intervals of pain. The shock of almost being killed had caught up to him all at once, rushing him like a bad dream recalled. And though he'd been anticipating it, the news from the board didn't lessen the sensation that he was badly navigating rocky waters.
"I could stay," she offered again quietly.
He shook his head, but still held her hand, held it tighter.
"It's okay," she said. "You can need me." She looked at him and gave him the silence for as long as he needed it.
"Five minutes," he finally managed.
She let her hand slide from his, then, crossing her arms and shrugging her shoulders, she lifted off her top. Her hair spilled down across her shoulders, a golden fan spreading.
She slid into bed beside him, her back propped up against the headboard, and then he was lying in blissful silence, clutching her, his face pressed to her bare chest, her flesh moist with the faintest recollection of sweat and scented like lilac and summer.
Chapter 70
WHEN the dull ache in his side awakened David the next morning, he was groggy from the morphine and codeine, and profoundly fatigued. Diane had left last night after a few minutes more than his requested five. The carpet cleaning van remained curbside up the street, visible through his bedroom window.
He cracked the window, letting the breeze float into the room, and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and wincing in time to the pulses of pain. A bottle of Tylenol with codeine sat on his nightstand, but he didn't want to take any. Not yet. He wanted to feel the sting of the wound, perhaps in a self-flagellating way; though he could discern no conscious reason why he'd punish himself, the instinctual motives were many and complex. More likely, he found the pain reassuring because the beating wound matched the movement of his heart and reminded him, continuously, sharply, that he was alive.
The insistent ringing of the phone pulled him from his thoughts. The woman's voice on the other end was exuberant to the point of being hysterical. "Hello, Dr. Spier. Kate Mantera from Time magazine. We've received word that you suffered a direct attack from the Westwood Acid Thrower. We're thinking of--"
"Alkali," David said.
"Excuse me?"
"He throws alkali." David hung up the telephone and it immediately rang again.
A man's voice, deep and rich. "Dr. David Spier, this is John Cacciotti from KBNE--your ride in the morning--and you're on the air. What we'd like to know is--"
David hung up and unplugged the telephone. After unscrewing and examining the showerhead, he took a long, steamy shower. When he got out, he used his cell phone to call Diane at home.
When she didn't answer, he felt a flutter of panic. He called the ER and asked the clerk if anyone had heard from Diane.
"Yeah," the clerk said. "She's right here."
Diane picked up. "Don't worry. I have two University police officers in here watching over me. Right, guys?" Mumbled background accord.
"But your injuries. You shouldn't be working already."
"Oh please, David. What am I gonna do, sit around and heal?"
"I really don't think you should be up and on your feet yet. At least not for a couple of days."
"That's what he'd want," she said. "To shut us down. I'll be damned if I'm going to be emotionally blackmailed into not doing my job. And besides, you should be on bed rest for several days minimum. Are you going to follow doctor's orders?"
David wandered down the hall to the living room, his side giving off a dull ache.
"I didn't think so," she said. "Look, we're on overload this morning. Why did you call?"
Switching emotional tracks, he felt suddenly sluggish. "I wanted to say . . . well, last night . . . I guess it was . . . "
"I know, David. Me too." He heard someone shout in the background on her end of the line. "I have to run," she said. "Let's talk later."
He heard himself agree, then hung up. Whatever he'd wanted to convey remained a nervous ball in his chest. He'd been realizing with increasing conviction that he didn't have the world figured out nearly as well as he'd once assumed.
He opened the front door to get the newspaper, and the crowd of reporters stationed at his curb sprang to life, scurrying up the walk at him. Startled, he snatched the paper and slammed the door. The doorbell rang behind him, three times in rapid succession.
After allowing himself a moment for his heartbeat to slow, David glanced down at the paper in his hand. The headline read WESTWOOD ACID THROWER ATTACKS SO-CALLED DR. DEATH He considered his new moniker. Dr. Death. He could adjust to that. It had a nice alliterative ring to it. Now that he was no longer division chief, he supposed the new title would have to suffice.
As he dialed Peter, he absentmindedly scanned down the article. The news of the Connolly study had leaked, which, in combination with Clyde's highly visible car attack, had kicked media coverage into even higher gear.
"How are you holding up?" Peter asked when he picked up.
"I'm feeling much better. I finally got a decent night's sleep."
"Almost run down in the street and shot like Rasputin. How ignoble." Peter made a clucking sound.
"What's this about you not accepting police protection?"
"I've protected myself just fine all these years, David. I hardly need the Keystone Kops to tuck me in at night. Besides, moving into the new procedure suite has me seeing double. I'm too busy to be bothered."
David walked over to the window and fingered the closed blind. Outside, a uniformed cop was strong-arming the press crowd back toward the street. "I don't think you're aware--"
"Bad assumption, David. I'm always aware. And I must run. I'm behind schedule. I'll check in later."
David hung up and dialed Yale at West LA. Yale picked up on a half ring. "We're lining things out for tomorrow. Don't let the media get to you. We still have a unit out front keeping an eye on things."
"I know. I saw it. I'm actually calling about something else."
"What's that?"
"I spoke with Peter today. He's still closed to the idea of police coverage. And I'd say he doesn't show any signs of changing his mind."
"We told you as much."
"His being covered is absolutely essential. One: His life is at stake. And two: We need to cover all bases for our trap."
"I understand. But without his consent, there's nothing we can do."
"What if there was some way to bug him so we could keep track of him from afar?"
A hint of humor crept into Yale's voice. "I could never participate in such a matter, of course, as a sworn peace officer. But if one were to make such arrangements without my knowledge, I'd be unable to warn him of the illicit nature of such activities."
"I see." Another van screeched up to the curb and a guy jumped out the back, toting cable. An assistant held up a mirror so a reporter in a starchy red suit could touch up her lipstick. "I need to get out of here for the afternoon," David said. "Alone."
"We need to keep a unit on you. If Clyde gets his hands on you before tomorrow night, you'll lose your utility as bait."
"Peter needs to be protected or watched in some way," David said. "We have to cover that base. Without it, our trap's going to have a hole."
>
"How strongly do you feel about this?" Yale sighed. "Never mind. Why do I bother asking?"
"There's something else, too. There's no way I can get my Mercedes out of the garage and through the press crowd without being followed. I'll arrange with Diane to borrow her Explorer--it's parked at the hospital right now. Could you have someone pick it up, then call me? I'll climb my back fence and meet the car on Bristol, near the hideous mock-Tudor." He waited, but got no response. "This is part of our deal, Detective Yale. We work together. I keep you in the loop on everything. You can either help me, or I get this done behind your back."
"I have to say, I'm surprised by your lack of respect for Peter's individual rights," Yale finally said, the same trace of amusement in his voice.
"Well," David said, "we're playing a different game now, aren't we?"
David stepped from the cover of a patch of elm saplings when the carpet cleaning van pulled up to the curb, Diane's Explorer idling behind it. The van's tinted window rolled slowly down, revealing Jenkins and, across in the passenger seat, Bronner. They were both out of uniform; Jenkins in particular looked odd wearing a casual sweatshirt. The scent of Corn Nuts and Kodiak wintergreen wafted from the van.
David drew back his head in surprise. "Gentlemen. I didn't realize it was you out here."
"There was a bit more overtime to go around, and the Captain decided he'd rather keep it within the division," Jenkins said in his tough monotone.
Bronner smiled, revealing a dark crescent of dip in his lower lip. "Plus, we waxed the Captain's car for him. That tends to help."
David glanced back at Diane's Explorer and saw Blake in the driver's seat. Neither waved. "Isn't that the guy who helped you bring Clyde in?" David asked.
"Yeah. Blake."
David started toward the Explorer, then stopped and turned back to the van. "Officer Bronner, remind me to send you over some slides of lip- and tongue-cancer victims."
Bronner spit a brown jet of saliva into an empty Coke can. "I'll do that," he said.
David gave Blake a slight nod as Blake climbed out of the Explorer, turning over the vehicle to him. David climbed into the driver's seat. He watched his rearview mirror as he pulled out, to make sure Jenkins and Bronner weren't following him.
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