Do No Harm (57 page)

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.

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.

ED'S voice was high-pitched and irritated. "You paged me 911. This better be an emergency."

"It is."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm in my car."

"Are you in imminent danger?"

"No."

Ed took a deep breath. "All right. We need to get our signals straight. Cornered in a shootout--that's a 911. Waking up in a bathtub of ice with a missing kidney. That's a 911."

"Look, this is extremely important. The cops are staking me out to catch Clyde. I managed to sneak out, and I only have a brief window." David yanked the Explorer over to the side of the road. "Where are you? I'm coming over."

"How do you know they're not following you?"

"Because I've been driving in loops and circles all over the city for the past hour and a half. I'm not as much of a dumb-ass as when you first met me."

"Jury's still out on that one, Spier."

"Where are you?"

"I don't take meetings at home."

"Where are you?"

Ed paused for a moment, as if debating with himself. "I'm at Five-thirty-four Federal, just south of Wilshire. Apartment Six."

"Thank you," David said. "Thank you. I'll be there in less than-- " He stopped, looking up at the street sign ahead. "Where the hell am I?"

Before letting David enter, Ed made him explain himself at the door. The small ground-floor apartment was ransacked. Drawers pulled from the dressers and dumped, mattress sliced open, plates shattered. Holes had been punched into the walls at regular intervals in a search that went even behind the sheetrock. Ed moved through the mess with a practiced gait that showed he'd grown accustomed to it.

On a long folding table in the corner sat five or six computers of different shapes and sizes, screens blinking, monitors humming. About ten Nextel cell phones were lined up, charging. A bank of small televisions showed what appeared to be live shots of several rooms, from presumably hidden cameras. David watched a woman lean forward into what must have been a one-way mirror and attempt to floss an entrenched piece of food from between her teeth.

Sitting in a rolling chair, Ed began to splice a wire that led to a minuscule microphone. "Don't ask questions. Not a one."

David looked around for somewhere to sit. Finally, he picked up a slashed pillow and set it on top of an overturned bookcase, forming a makeshift banquette. He sat cautiously so as not to stretch the stitches in his side.

Ed looked up from his work and pointed at David. "Yes, I trust you, but let me tell you, if you mention one thing about this location to one person, I'll know. And believe me, I'm not someone you want to cross."

David gazed across the bank of screens. A skinny man was fucking what looked to be an obese call girl on a mahogany desk somewhere. "I believe you," he said.

A week ago, he would have been horrified to be threatened; now he found it almost flattering.

"Want something to drink?" Ed asked.

David reached for an unbroken tumbler at his feet.

"No, no. I keep the clean ones over here." Ed pulled a glass from a stack sitting atop a fallen dartboard and filled it with water.

He and David sat in perfect silence, David sipping from the glass nervously, though he wasn't thirsty. "So can you do it?" David asked. "Get me a bug of some kind?"

"Yes, and we call it a digital transmitter these days, Joe Friday." Ed flared his hand like a magician, and a flat metal disk appeared in his palm. About the size of a watch battery, it was dense with tiny components, like a computer's motherboard. "Works off radio frequency." Leaning over, he pulled what looked like a walkie-talkie from a desk drawer that had been left on the floor. "Here's your receiver. I go with the Motorola HT one thousand because it's more compact than a Saber, so you can strap it to your belt without looking like you have a perennial hard-on." He smiled, his grin a white crescent in the white of his face. "It'll get the RF transmission and kick it up to this" --he held up a molded, skin-colored earpiece-- "as long as you're within a few blocks."

"I won't be within a few blocks. I'll be in the middle of a stakeout in Venice."

Ed ran his hand across the top of his head. It made a rasping sound on the red stubble. "A challenge. I love challenges. Where's Peter live?"