Dr. Knox Page 10

The older guy laughed and consulted his file. “And speak of the devil: it’s Aunt Lydia. Another one with a past—guess the doc likes his help scuffed up. Got kicked to the curb after ten years at Palms-Pacific for running your mouth about your betters, and wound up emptying bedpans at the lockup. Ouch. Maybe not the best judgment, ratting out that lush, huh? Maybe good to think twice about who you’re fucking with.” He smiled wider and looked at me. Lydia’s mouth opened and closed. I put a hand on her arm and stepped around her.

  “You’re looking for me.” I said.

  “At last,” he said. “The jefe of this toilet.” He cleared his throat and made a show of leafing through his file and reading from it as if from a prayer book. “Adam Knox, M.D. Born and raised in Lakeville, Connecticut, graduated from the Colebrook School—is that like finishing school or something? Went to fancy university in Providence, Rhode Island, played soccer for ’em till you screwed up your knee, went premed, then med school, then blah, blah, blah. Nothing much exciting till you start volunteering for Doctors Transglobal Rescue. Saw some of the armpits of the planet with that outfit, yeah? Busted up your marriage along the way—probably for the best, considering.”

  I forced a smile and interrupted. “Am I supposed to be freaked out that you can use Google and work a printer?”

  He chuckled. “Be fair, doc—that wasn’t all public-records shit. Your boy’s juvie file, for instance—that took a little effort.”

  “I’ve known these people awhile. Your recital isn’t news.”

  “Not to you, but maybe to your patients. And how well do these folks know you? For instance, do they know how you almost got yourself killed over on the dark continent?”

  I glanced around the waiting room. The man with the splinter and the woman with the fracture looked scared. The woman with the earache was gone.

  “You’re upsetting my patients. If you keep interfering with our business—”

  “This a business?” The shark grin widened. “Anyway, we’re just talking. And don’t these folks have a right to know how you got dragged outta the Central African Republic, shot up and bloody and in disgrace? Shouldn’t they know about”—he looked at his file again—“Marie-Josée Lisle?”

  He mangled the pronunciation and I corrected him. “Josay. It’s pronounced Josay.”

  “Whatever—she was your nurse, right? Was. Dangerous thing, working for you. Surely these folks have a right to know that.” He grinned some more. Lucho squared his shoulders, and the two young soldados stiffened and took a step toward him. I looked at Lucho and shook my head.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Just a guy who wants information, doc. The more you provide, the more good you do for you and yours.”

  “Unless you people leave now, I’m going to call someone.”

  He laughed. “Calling someone doesn’t work for you—my phone book’s got a bigger dick than yours. For instance, even though little rat-turd clinics like this are barely regulated in this town, I bet I could find some people to come down and look around. Audit your controlled substances, maybe, or go over your Medi-Cal claims, or check out your wiring for code violations—that kind of shit. Maybe they wouldn’t find anything, but maybe they’d shut you down for a week while they dug around.”

  I looked at Lucho. “Would you take these folks into the exam rooms?” He nodded and beckoned to the remaining patients, who all but ran to follow.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “I told you—information. You had two people in last Friday afternoon—a woman with a boy. I want to know where they are.”

  I squinted at him and shook my head. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He shook his head. “Right. I drive all the way down to this fucking sewer ’cause I’m a big kidder, doc. I bring these ass kickers with me ’cause I’m kidding.”

  “You never heard of doctor-patient confidentiality? We don’t discuss our patients—full-stop.”

  “I’m not asking what they came here for—I could care less. In fact, I could care less about the girl. I just want the kid.”

  I looked at Lydia, who was pale and stony-faced. “Call 911, please.”

  The shark put up his hands. “Doc, you don’t want to go that way—I promise you—not with us. Remember my phone book? You bring cops in on this, who do you think has the credibility—you or us? I guarantee, it’ll be us.”

  “Who’s us?”

  He shook his head again. “You want time to think on it—take some time. But not too much.”

  “Who are you?”

  He reached into his pants pocket and took out a business card. There was a phone number on it and nothing else. “We lost something. We want it back. Save everybody heartache, doc—call the number.” Then he turned and walked out the door. The two younger crew cuts waited until he was on the street; then they followed.

  Lydia sputtered. “What the—”

  “Check on Alex,” I said, and ran to the window. The crew cuts were climbing into a black Suburban. The engine was already running, and when the doors shut, it pulled from the curb in a squealing U-turn. I found a pen in my scrubs, and as the SUV rolled past, I scrawled the plate number on the back of the shark’s card.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ben Sutter’s house was in Venice, on Horizon Avenue, a short walk from the beach. It was blue clapboard with white trim, tucked, shoulder to shoulder, in a row of vividly painted, wildly expensive cottages. It had a teak fence in front, draped in bougainvillea, and a porch with a bench. There were stone floors inside, a big steel-and-granite kitchen that opened to the dining and living rooms, and a wall of glass doors that looked onto a brick patio, more flowering shrubs, a fig tree, and a carport. There were two bedrooms upstairs, one of which Sutter was still refurbishing, as he had refurbished the rest of the house, by himself. It’d been mostly a shell when he bought it five years earlier, and not much more than that during the months I’d slept on the sofa. Now he routinely rejected unsolicited offers for the place that approached seven figures, and chuckled to himself every time.

  The bougainvillea flowers were glowing red in the twilight as I drove past. There was never street parking in the neighborhood, and I pulled my Honda into the alley and into Sutter’s carport. The streetlights were just coming on, and they buzzed irritably and made the air quiver. I recognized Sutter’s truck, and the BMW with the bullet hole, but I didn’t know the green Mini Cooper. The Mini’s owner was inside, and I didn’t know her either.

  She was tall and Asian and deeply tanned, with a whippet body, a long black ponytail, and an elaborate tattoo of an ocean wave frothing around her left shoulder and running in a sleeve down her left arm. She wore a white spaghetti tee, black yoga pants, flip-flops, a silver ring on one of her toes, and a diamond chip in her nose. She was standing at the bottom of the open stairs, drinking kombucha from a bottle, and reading something on her phone. She looked up at me unsurprised, and smiled.

  “You didn’t block me, did you?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She smiled wider. “ ’Cause I’ve got to teach class in like—yikes—fifteen minutes. Gotta jump.” She grabbed a clump of keys from the kitchen counter. “Tell him I’ll catch him later,” she said, and glided through the glass doors and across the patio. In a moment the Mini started up and pulled away.

  It was always noisy in Venice—humming day and night—but it was quiet in Sutter’s house. I heard ticking in the vents, water running upstairs, the ever-present ocean breeze moving foliage on the patio. Then there was a muffled pat, no louder than snow falling, and a flash of gray, and Sutter’s cat was on the counter.

  She was small and ash-colored, with a white blaze on her chest. She had wandered in one day while Sutter was fitting stones for his floors, and never left. Despite her size she had a rich, throaty purr, so he called her Eartha. She sniffed my hand, then bumped it with her head and licked a knuckle. Her tongue was like warm sandpaper.

  “Hey,” I whispered. She
looked at me, tilted her head, then leapt off the counter and vanished in the shadows. I turned on more lights and took a bottle of water from Sutter’s refrigerator. As I drank, I leaned on the kitchen counter. My neck and shoulders were still tense from this afternoon.

  Lydia had found Alex under the desk, shaking and wide-eyed, but not crying. He hadn’t seen any of the men, so he couldn’t say if he’d seen them before. He might have recognized the shark’s gravel voice, though he wouldn’t or couldn’t say from where, and none of us wanted to press him on it. Lucho sat with him while Lydia and I tended to our last patients. We worked in uncharacteristic silence, like the hush after an earthquake when you’re not certain that it’s over, or if another tremor might hit, or another dish might fall. When we’d seen our patients out, we spoke.

  “What the hell?” Lucho said as he locked the doors. Lydia swore softly, in Spanish.

  I looked at her. “They’re after him, Lyd,” I whispered.

  “I got that, doctor.”

  “And they don’t seem too worried if we call the authorities. Like they’re connected—”

  “I got that too.”

  “And they want us scared—scared that they’ll fuck with us,” Lucho said.

  Lydia was silent, and her mouth was a hard, white line. “Shit,” she whispered finally.

  We’d waited a while before we took Alex out of the clinic, and when we did it was through the back. Lucho pulled his car up to the door and drove Alex not to Lydia’s, or to his and Arthur’s place, but over to Echo Park, where Arthur’s sister lived.

  Eartha bumped my leg and threaded herself around my ankles. A light went on over the stairs, and Sutter came down. He wore cargo shorts and a faded red Moto Guzzi tee shirt. The scent of Dial soap followed him as he went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice.

  “Your friend said she’d catch you later,” I said.

  “Tina?”

  “I guess. She didn’t look much like a redhead from Calgary.”

  Sutter smiled. “Janine. Janine is from Calgary, and she split after breakfast. Tina has a yoga studio in Marina del Rey.”

  “She seemed quite limber,” I said, and I laid the shark’s card on the counter.

  Sutter picked it up. “What’s this?”

  I told him the story, and he listened without interrupting or moving. When I was through, he pursed his lips and nodded curtly.

  “So…they’re pros: the info they dug up on all of you says that. And they want you to know that they’re pros, and to be freaked by that: the way they used the info says that. They also want you to know—or to believe—that they’re wired in, that they or their clients have juice. It may or may not be true, but they want you to believe it. So…pros, but maybe not so good at the job.”

  “No? ’Cause they scared us pretty good.”

  “Yeah, but they were kind of heavy-handed about it. Not that there’s a lot of subtlety in this business, but really—three guys? Threats of audits and building code violations? Maybe it’s just me, but I think there’re better ways. But those are just style points. The bigger problem is, they didn’t take time to know their audience. If they had, they wouldn’t have come on the way they did and push all the wrong buttons with you guys.”

  “They pissed us off.”

  “Exactly—they dug you in deeper, which is not the objective. Of course, their biggest problem was that they didn’t know where the kid was. They certainly didn’t know he was in the next room.”

  “No?”

  “If they had, they would’ve grabbed him. So…pros, but not great ones. Or maybe they were just rushed.”

  “Good, bad, in a hurry, whatever—I didn’t like it. Can you find out who the car belongs to?”

  “The phone too,” he said, and pocketed the shark’s card. “And when I do, what are you going to do with that info?”

  “I don’t know. Talk to whoever it is? Ask him what he wants with the kid? Intimidate him?”

  Sutter smiled. “Yeah, that’ll work well.”

  “I’m supposed to let these dicks just take the kid?”

  “You could hand him over to DCFS, or call the cops.”

  “And if these goons are as connected as they say?”

  Sutter put up his hands. “You’d better figure out how far you want to take this.”

  I drank some more water. “I’m waiting for Elena. If it turns out she’s not coming back, or can’t, then we’ll see.”

  Sutter looked at me and sighed. “All right, then. I guess the only thing is to read and react. We see who these guys are, who they work for, and hope they’re stupid, or easy, or both.”

  “We?”

  He smiled. “You’re a payday, brother. Got to look after that.” Sutter looked me up and down. “Why are you dressed so fancy?”

  I was wearing a blue blazer, my newest jeans, loafers, and a blue-and-white striped shirt with a buttoned-down collar. “Hoover Mays. He says on Facebook that he’s going to a fund-raiser tonight. A benefit for some new labs at the USC med school—like they need it. It’s in Santa Monica, at the Brinkley. I figured I’d try to talk to him.”

  He looked me up and down. “You look like a tennis pro cruising for bored housewives.”

  “The Web site said the evening’s theme was ‘California clambake.’ I didn’t know what that meant.”

  He shrugged. “At the Brinkley it could mean black tie. But what the hell—it’s all in the swagger. Just look like you belong.” And then a muted burr came from Sutter’s cargo shorts. He fished out three phones and tapped the one that glowed.

  “Go ahead,” he said. He squinted for a moment and shook his head. “Go slow—when did he call? And they’re at his place? The one in Pacific Palisades? How did he sound? Okay, he’s actually in front of me right now. Just hang for a second.” Sutter muted the phone and looked at me, grinning.

  “Timing is everything, brother,” he said. “Want to make some cash?”

  “You’ve got a call?” I asked, and Sutter nodded. “What—right now? I’ve got the thing at the Brinkley.”

  “What time?”

  “Cocktails at seven-thirty, and then the main event’s supposed to start at eight-thirty.”

  “Which means nobody gets there till nine, and people won’t be even a little lubricated till ten. You want Hoover nice and loose, right?”

  I nodded. “I need all the help I can get.”

  “There you go—you’ve got plenty of time.” I hesitated and Sutter spread his hands. “C’mon, brother, you said you wanted to raise money quick. Besides, you’re going to want to take this.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s your wifty pal—Gable.”

  I was silent for a moment, and then I shook my head and laughed. “All right, but I need to borrow clothes from you. I’ve got to keep my Brinkley duds clean, and things with Will are always messy.”

  Sutter nodded and smiled and tapped his phone. “Tell your boy to sit tight and stay calm; help’s on the way.”

  Before he was my patient, I’d known Will Gable the way everyone did, from his movie roles—the broody, romantic vampire, the broody, romantic hacker, the broody, romantic journalist, drug smuggler, spy—and from the inescapable tabloid coverage of his untidy love life, which always involved other young and pretty boldfaced names. I’d never sat through any of Gable’s films, so my first sight of him beyond the Internet or the grocery checkout was two years back, when Sutter and I had arrived at 3:00 a.m. at Gable’s home in the Hollywood Hills. He was tied hand and foot with leather straps, and his scrotum was bound in dental floss that had all but disappeared into swollen blue flesh.

  The fact that he was high as a kite was a help. It’d kept him calm—jolly even—while I set him free, restored his circulation, and tended to his lacerations. He was downright courtly to the frightened young dominatrix whose knots and inexperience had led to his predicament, and whose panicked call to Gable’s manager had brought Sutter and me out. Despite his careful man
ners, she’d run off just after dawn.

  The drugs had mostly worn off by then, but not Gable’s charm. He was affable, unpretentious, scrupulously polite, and entirely unembarrassed, and he insisted that we stay for coffee and then for a full breakfast. His appetite for sexual adventure, coupled with some awesomely bad luck at it, had brought Sutter and me around three more times to tend to Gable and his pretty pals—the only repeat business we’d ever had. A Viagra overdose, a violent allergic reaction to skintight vinyl, and a muscle spasm around a mercifully empty split of Veuve Clicquot were all near-disasters for Will Gable, but quite lucrative for us. Sutter took Ocean north, and then got on the PCH.

  The gray stone manse on Corona del Mar, in Pacific Palisades, was a recent addition to Will Gable’s real estate portfolio. It had high hedges, iron gates, and sweeping ocean views, and there were two cars in the cobbled court. I knew Gable’s R8, but not the candy-apple Tesla. The double front doors were unlocked, and we heard a woman’s voice as we came through. At first we thought she was crying, but as we sprinted through the house it became something else.

  Laughter. They were weeping with it as they rolled, naked, across Gable’s vast bed. Their legs were intertwined, and they gripped each other’s asses with both hands. They stopped rolling with Gable on top and the girl’s face buried in his shoulder.

  “Dr. X!” Gable called, craning his neck to look at me. His smile was wide and cheerful, and his dark hair was damp with sweat. “Long time, doctor, and thanks so much for coming.” He looked at Sutter. “And hello to you too, Mr. X! Always a pleasure.” Gable looked at the girl. “See, I told you they’d come. The X’s are totally reliable and totally discreet. Say hello to them.” The girl giggled and said something that might’ve been “Hi.”

  I recognized the red hair that fell across the sheet like an autumn cape, the long creamy legs, and the cool green eyes that peeked over Gable’s shoulder—they were on the cover of the latest Vogue, and on the billboards over Sunset that advertised her latest album, which had been locked at the top of the charts for weeks. Tawny Mack. She giggled some more, whispered something, and Gable giggled too.