Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant (28 page)
Read Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant Online
Authors: Lee Goldberg
Special Agents Terry Riordan, Sandra Flannery, and Tim Witten were quietly reassigned to clerical posts at FBI field offices in Spokane, Wichita, and Sacramento, respectively.
Nearly a month after Jason Brennan and Dr. Plume's arrests, Mark Sloan received a nice letter from the FBI thanking him for his assistance in their investigation.
But his most rewarding memento of his experience on the case arrived a few days after the letter. It took four men close to two hours to get it into Mark's house. He tipped them generously and was still appreciating the many intriguing facets of his keepsake when Steve came home.
An enormous overstuffed recliner dominated the living room. The chair's wood-grain trim and leather upholstery reminded Steve of the interior of a cheap car with luxury pretensions. It was the ugliest piece of furniture he'd ever seen.
He stared at the chair, warily approaching it from the back as if he was nearing a potentially dangerous animal.
"Dad?" Steve shouted.
"BRING ME TORTILLA CHIPS!" Mark's voice boomed thunderously out of the recliner.
Steve staggered back, startled, and was instinctively reaching for his gun when suddenly the chair spun around to reveal Mark sitting on it, a big, boyish grin on his face, his legs resting on the footrest.
"ISN'T THIS WONDERFUL?" Mark boomed, forgetting that his voice was still amplified by the recliner's built-in loudspeaker. He gave Steve an apologetic shrug and switched it off. "Isn't this wonderful?"
"I heard you the first time," said Steve, self-consciously taking his hand from his holster and trying to look casual about it. "What the hell is it?"
"The Captain's Chair, the recliner for the new millennium. I forgot I even bought it. Would you like a refreshing, ice-cold soft drink?" Mark lifted up the armrest to reveal a six-pack of root beer in a mini-icebox.
Steve peered into the icebox. Along with the drinks, Mark had stowed some cheese, salami, grapes, and a Godiva chocolate bar.
"You've got to be kidding," Steve said.
"You keep telling me I need to relax. Now look at me. I'm in total command of my relaxation." Mark hit a switch, the recliner hummed, and his body began to jiggle as he enjoyed a vigorous massage. "This is comfort-tech engineering."
"Let me try it," Steve said.
"No," Mark replied, hitting another switch. Classical music began to play on the recliner's hidden surround-sound speakers and subwoofer.
"I just want to see what it feels like," Steve said. "I'll get right out."
"I don't think so," Mark said. "What happened to those tortilla chips?"
"C'mon, Dad, I'll only sit in it for a—"
Mark pressed a button and interrupted Steve with a voice that could have parted the Red Sea.
"GET ME CHIPS!"
Steve jerked back, startled again. "Okay, okay. I'll get your chips. Geez."
As his son trudged sullenly to the kitchen, Mark gleefully operated the tiny joystick, spinning the recliner around and steering it out onto the deck, where he parked facing the surf.
The sun was shining. He had cold drinks on ice, great music playing on the speakers, a skilled masseuse kneading his tired muscles, and a spectacular view of the Pacific.
Mark Sloan smiled to himself and closed his eyes.
Who needs a vacation?
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