Do No Harm (5 page)

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 clutching 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."

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."

Gaines raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. The waitress approached the table and Yale shooed her with a flick of the wrist.

"Veterans services, counseling, fund-raisers for families of men downed in the line of duty," Dalton said, anger still coloring his voice. "She was a good kid." He leveled his eyes on Gaines. "When's the last time you worked a mayhem?"

"Plus it's state property," Blake continued, as if there had been no interruption in his conversation with Yale.

"However," Yale said, "there's a five-hundred-yard jurisdiction overlay. Not to mention the fact that the suspect schemed to commit the crime in the city. Though the actual execution of the crime occurred on state property, in all likelihood, he had to go to and from the city to arrive at the crime scene."

"In all likelihood," Blake repeated. A red bloom appeared beneath the rugged skin of his face, either anger or frustration.

"Did you tighten down the hospital?" Yale asked. "On the off chance it was random?"

Blake nodded. "Warned personnel."

"Your report appeared to be devoid of leads," Yale said.

"We have leads," Gaines said. "We're looking into an ex-husband."

Dalton's elbow flared as he scratched the side of his head. "I think it's fairly safe to say he didn't do it."

"Well," Yale said. "Now that we've run through all your leads . . . "

Gaines fingered the edge of his plate. "She said the guy had a tattoo. Shape of a skull, but she wasn't sure. We're running it."

"This case'll exhaust your resources," Yale said.

"Bullshit," Blake said. "It's an isolated incident, and we have it under control."

"Did you hold the crime scene?" Dalton asked.

"We got there late." Gaines looked down at his toast, yellowed with yolk.

"You found a jar with alkali residue thirty yards from the ER entrance, and you didn't hold the scene?"

"We preserved the evidence," Blake said. "And combed the area for more. We found two cigarette butts nearby--lab pegged 'em as Marlboros--but they'd been ground to nothing."

"No prints on the jar?" Yale asked.

Blake shook his head. "Smooth gloves. Probably latex."

"According to your report, the cigarette butts were found near a waist-high footlight off the sidewalk that curves down to the ER entrance. If he was smoking, that meant he was waiting there for some time. He might not have been wearing gloves while he waited, not wanting to look suspicious. The top of the light is aluminum. Given it's waist high, he very well could have leaned on it as he waited. Did you print it?"

Blake ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. "No."

"So let's go print it now," Gaines said. "It's off the sidewalk in the shrubs, not like people go back there and handle it all the time."

Yale's face stretched tight in a flash of a smile. "The sprinklers at Zone Six of the Medical Center run at five-fifteen in the morning, something I would have assumed you'd know, given your tremendous UCLA expertise. Unfortunately, I didn't read your report until eight-thirty." He tapped the table with a forefinger. "That's why you hold a crime scene." He leaned back and crossed his arms, raising wrinkles in the shoulders of his blazer. "Sorry, boys. This one comes down from the Captain. We're taking it over."

"Don't worry," Dalton said. "I'm sure there's some interesting campus cases you can work on. Harassing e-mails, late library books, a good date rape or two."

"Have the evidence sent to our labs," Yale said. He threw a crumpled twenty on the table and rose. "Breakfast's on the West LA Detective Bureau this morning."