Dr. Knox (16 page)

“I'm looking for somebody, Franny—a white girl named Shelly. She's got a bleach job with a bright-blue streak in it.”

Franny nodded. “Yeah, I know her. Try around the corner, on Sixth, but you want to stay the hell away from here.”

I wanted to ask her why, but Franny was in no mood to talk more, or even to stand next to me, and in an instant she was halfway down the block. I walked in the other direction and around the corner.

Shelly was hard to miss, even in the failing light. Her white hair shone against a scarlet macramé vest, her green vinyl skirt glittered in the passing headlights, and she looked like an ornament off Charles Bukowksi's Christmas tree. She glanced up as I headed toward her. I waved, but she spun around and jogged across the street against an oncoming phalanx of cars. She kept jogging down the opposite sidewalk and into an alley.

When the cars passed, I sprinted after her. I was ten yards into the alley when a black SUV blocked my way, and three large, crew-cut men in black suits emerged and beckoned to me with guns.

They were mostly quiet, and when they weren't they were clipped but polite. They took my backpack and cell, but weren't overly rough about it. They didn't hide their faces or cover my eyes, though I wasn't sure if these were good or bad things. We took surface streets, and it was seven-thirty when we turned off Santa Monica onto Century Park East, then down a ramp into the maze of parking beneath Century City.

We pulled in amid a herd of identical SUVs, and the crew-cut men walked me to an elevator. Our footsteps echoed, and the air smelled of exhaust and motor oil. I heard other cars but saw none, nor other people. We rode to the fourteenth floor.

The doors opened on a darkened reception area with no company logos or names, but with low, sleek furniture and views to the ocean. I paused, and one of the crew cuts took my elbow.

He led me down a hall to a conference room that had glass walls and a view of office towers studded with lights. There was a glass-topped table in the center of the room, and swivel chairs around it. I recognized the man sitting in one of them. It was the soldier from the clinic's waiting room, the fifty-something shark with the white crew cut, the Naugahyde skin, and the burn scar on his neck. He wore the uniform of the day today—a black suit and tie, a crisp white shirt, and spit-shined brogues. He glanced at my escorts, who nodded in unison, pivoted, and left. The shark gestured toward a seat with a ham hock hand.

“You want coffee or a soda? How about something stronger?” I shook my head. “Chow, maybe? We got decent mess.”

I rolled a chair out and sat. “No, thanks. Who are you?”

The shark smiled. His teeth were massive. “Conti, doc. Jimmy Conti. The boys call me Tig—for Tiger.”

“And you are what at PRP—the scout leader?”

Conti grinned wider. “So you know us now. I guess that's no surprise, given the game with the tour bus you ran on my boys. I thought it was cute, but I'll tell you, I got a couple fellas did
not.
They knew you were up here now, they'd want to have a talk, if you know what I mean.”

“That doesn't answer my question about what you do here.”

He shrugged. “This and that. But getting back to your little trick—you think that one up by yourself? Or maybe that gangbanger candy striper of yours helped out? Though I'd have put that out of his league.”

I shrugged back at him. “
This and that
is kind of vague, Mr. Conti.”

Conti smiled some more. “You sure you don't want something?” He heaved his massive frame from the chair and crossed to a credenza against the wall. There was a small fridge inside, from which he produced a little bottle of tonic water. Conti twisted off the top and emptied it in one swallow.

“You could tell me what you want with me.”

He took his seat and sighed. “
I
don't want anything, doc—this ain't my party. I'm just the travel agent.”

“Whose party is it?”

Conti looked over my shoulder. “And the devil appears,” he said quietly, and rose again. Kyle Bray walked through the door.

He was handsomer in person than in the online photos—bigger, broader through the shoulders, his features finer and haughtier, his eyes more vividly blue. But he was also more smudged. Not his clothes—the close-cut pinstriped suit, pale-purple shirt, and eggplant tie were impeccable—but everything else about him: his sallow, grainy skin, chapped lips, bloodshot eyes, and greasy hair. He was like the floor model of an expensive shoe—well crafted but too much handled, scuffed, and permanently finger-stained. And pictures couldn't hint at the nervous energy that coursed through him and made him shift and twitch like a skittish hound. His blue eyes bounced around the room, lit on me, bounced away again. When he spoke it was to Conti.

“You offer him a drink, Tig? Maybe a sandwich? He looks hungry to me.”

Conti's mouth tightened. “He passed.”

Kyle Bray smiled. He went to the little fridge in the credenza and found a tall brown bottle with a Japanese label. He pried off the cap, drank, and sighed.

“Can't interest you in a beer? This is the good stuff.” I shook my head. Bray looked at Conti. “I don't know, Tig—he looks underfed. But maybe that's just the way he looks. Is that just the way you look, Dr. Knox?”

I didn't respond, and Kyle smoothed the lapels of his suit. He sat down at the end of the table, opposite Conti, and took another long pull on his beer. “Underfed, underslept—you pick up those habits in med school, or was it later on?”

Before I could answer, Conti cleared his throat. “You need me for this, Kyle?” he said.

Kyle shot him an irritated look. “I don't think I need you for anything, Tig,” he said, and flicked a dismissive hand. Conti ambled out the door, and left me with what might've been a sympathetic glance.

“So what about it—hungry and tired something you learned in med school?” Kyle's smile flickered like a flame in a breeze.

I stretched my legs out and crossed my ankles. “What am I doing here, Mr. Bray?”

“I knew a bunch of premeds at Santa Barbara, and some med students at SC, and they were always grinding it out. Work, work, work—and for what? The pay was never very good, and now that we've got socialist medicine it's only going to get worse. Seems like there ought to be a better ROI—am I right?”

“I doubt many doctors in this neighborhood complain much.”

He drank some more beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and put the bottle on the table. He ran a finger along the collar of his shirt and touched the large knot of his tie. “Don't kid yourself—doctors complain about everything, especially the old ones. But maybe geography
is
the main issue. The doctors I know
do
look better fed than you, and they're all driving Beemers and Benzes. But all of them are on the Westside. Do all the docs in your neighborhood look like sorry sacks of shit?”

There was movement in the hallway, beyond the glass wall—a cleaning woman pushing a cart. Kyle watched her, then pointed at my scrub shirt and jeans and laughed. “I mean, seriously, the washwoman's better dressed than you.”

I sighed. “Am I here to talk wardrobe?”

He stood, and struck a pose by the window—legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, the captain on the bridge. “You know why you're here, Dr. Knox. My men told you what they wanted the day they walked into your shack, and they've sent you messages a few times since then.”

“They were interested in a little boy. I gather they still are.”

“You
gather
? You fucking
gather
right.”

“And now you're going to threaten me some more? Maybe read from my high school transcript?”

Bray shook his head. “I looked at your file, and I didn't think there was much in there, except maybe the part about you getting kicked out of Doctors Transglobal. I figure an outfit like that would be desperate for cheap labor, so you'd have to fuck up big-time to get fired. Tig's theory is that it was black market stuff—that maybe you were raiding the drug supply to make something extra on the side. Me—I'm simpler. I figure you got a thing for dark meat, and they caught you fucking patients. That's a thing doctors do, right? One of the perquisites?”

I sighed. “I thought I made it clear to your people—I don't talk about my patients.”

“Which isn't the same as you not knowing where he is.”

“I
don't
know where he is.”

“And I say you're a little bit full of shit.”

“Then I guess we're at an impasse.”

“Except you're not going anywhere until I say so.”

“Why do you want this kid, anyway? What is he to you?”

Kyle smoothed his tie and put on a brittle smile. “You're here to answer questions, not ask them.”

I shook my head. “If you're not going to explain what you—”

He puffed his chest and jabbed a finger at me. “
I
don't explain, fucker!” he shouted. “
You
explain!”

I got the impression he'd practiced the line often, and probably in a mirror, but his voice broke when he said it, and he looked and sounded like a schoolyard ayatollah—the opposite of intimidating. I laughed. Which was probably not the wisest choice.

There was a heavy silence afterward, and Bray stared at me and colored deeply. He looked at the Japanese beer bottle on the table, whispered “Motherfucker,” and grabbed it. I rolled back in my chair as he came around the table, and I kicked one of the empty chairs into his path. He stumbled, but kept coming. I stood, and grabbed his right wrist with my left hand.

I didn't get into many fights as a kid—some sloppy punches and grappling on the soccer field after one too many fouls, a more concerted effort with two douche bags in boarding school who had a penchant for racist jokes, and again in college with two other douche bags who were giving a waitress a hard time. Always the results were equivocal. I was strong enough, and quick, but I was untrained. Then I met Libby. She was an EMT in San Francisco, on the crew I joined for med school ride-alongs. She was five four and 120 pounds with change in her pockets, but she routinely brought down and restrained rampaging drunks and dopers twice her size with a mix of Brazilian jujitsu, aikido, and pressure-point control techniques. She took pity on me after I'd gotten bounced around a few times, and shared her secrets; over the years, in ERs, in Africa, and in my own clinic, I'd had plenty of opportunities to practice.

I pulled Kyle into his stumble, and let momentum carry him past me and into the table. I tangled his ankles so that he sprawled on the tabletop, and as he went over I dug my fingers into his wrist, into the median nerve. He yelped, and the beer bottle fell to the floor. I stepped behind him, twisted his arm back, and pressed my right thumb into the mastoid process behind and beneath his right ear. He screamed and stopped struggling, and then there were dark-suited men in the room.

Two of them pulled me off, and back into my seat. Then they stood on either side of me as Conti picked up the beer bottle and helped Kyle to his feet. Which just made Kyle angrier.

“Fuck off, Tiger,” he snarled, and rubbed his wrist and his neck. He looked at the other PRP soldiers. “And you guys can fuck off too. Just leave me alone with this asshole.”

The soldiers looked at Conti, who shook his head. “I leave you with him, someone's gonna get hurt.”

Kyle smoothed his tie. “That's the point, dick.”

“You sure you want to take things in that direction just now?” Conti said carefully.

Kyle glared. “Are
you
sure you want to keep patronizing me?”

The men beside me stiffened, and Conti's tanned face grew darker. His hands clenched and a tremor went through his shoulders, but otherwise he didn't respond. For a moment all I heard was Kyle's excited breathing, and then a cell phone pinged.

Conti fished it from a jacket pocket, scanned the screen, and looked relieved. “You're wanted on the phone, Kyle.”

Kyle's face tightened. “Give it here.”

“The call's waiting out at reception,” Conti said.

Kyle looked like he might spit. He stared at Conti for a moment, then brushed his lapels and left. Conti looked at the two soldiers. “Give it five and take him to the elevator,” he said. Then he raised an eyebrow at me and followed Kyle from the room.

The soldiers were silent while we waited; then one of them led me to the reception area. There was a woman there, in the shadows by the elevators, listening to the rumbling whispers of a tall, stoop-shouldered man, and nodding as the man spoke, in agreement or obedience. The man glanced at me before he stalked off, and I glimpsed a square face, a massive bald head, and a look of icy contempt.

I thought she was a girl at first. She was small, with dark-blond hair in a pixie cut, brown button eyes, and a pink, eager face, like a pretty child's. My second look took in the trim curves, the diamond stud earrings, diamond tennis bracelet, weighty square-cut engagement ring, immaculately tailored black suit, and black suede pumps—definitely not a school uniform. She smiled at me, and her teeth were even and very white.

“I came over as soon as I heard they'd brought you in, doctor,” she said. Her voice was also young, and there was a twang to it—not quite Southern or Southwestern. “Those are yours.” She pointed to my phone and backpack atop the empty reception desk. I picked them up and looked at the phone. It was still locked.

“There wasn't enough time to break into it,” she said, still smiling. “Not that they didn't try.”

I slipped the phone into my pocket and nodded. “I appreciate the honesty.”

“It's one of my many virtues. Kyle give you a hard time?”

I shrugged. “You know he's squirrelly, right?”

“Is that a professional opinion?”

“I see a lot of it in the course of a day.”

“No doubt,” she said, laughing.

“You work for PRP?”

“Actually, they work for me.”

“You're with Bray?”

“I
am
a Bray. Well, sort of.”

“I didn't think Kyle had siblings.”

“Cousin. Amanda Danzig—Mandy.” She put out her hand. Her grip was strong and warm.

“Adam Knox,” I said, cautiously.

She giggled. “I know who you are. After all, you've been my prisoner for the past two hours, including travel time.” Mandy's smile was intimate and conspiratorial, as if we were sharing a naughty joke. It was an effort not to smile back.

I held up my phone. “Which is why I'm calling the cops.”

Mandy laughed again and crossed the reception area to the windows, and a pair of low-slung leather sofas. There was a silver coffee service laid out, with china cups and lacy cookies. She sat, filled two cups, and patted the seat next to her. “C'mon—I promise I'm not Kyle. And anyway, we both know you're not going to call the police.”

I went to the windows but didn't sit. “No?”

The smile turned coquettish. “Nope.”

“Because…?”

“Because if you were you would already have done it. Days ago. Look, you said that you appreciated my honesty—let me give you some more. We know Alex went into your clinic last Friday evening, and we know he didn't come out. So it's a pretty sure bet that you have him, or that you know where he is.”

“I told Kyle—I've told all your people—I don't talk about my patients. And I don't—”

Mandy shook her head. “Just for argument's sake, let's pretend I'm right. Then the question is: why haven't you given him to us? Maybe it's because that girl told you some story. Maybe you think you're playing hero for her, or for the boy. But I'm going to say that it was our bad, doctor: I think we got off on the wrong foot with you.”

“You're definitely right about that.”

She dropped a sugar cube into her cup, stirred, took a sip. “To the extent Kyle thinks—and it's really very little—he thinks there's only one way to sort out a problem.” She put her cup down, made a fist, and drove it into her open palm. The sound was like snapping wood. “And while he's not as rash as Kyle, Tiger has a preference for those methods too—it's what he's used to. So Kyle got panicky, and got Tiger wound up, and sent him half cocked right into your clinic—big boots, big noise, big mess. But, lucky for you, I'm here to make things right.”

I looked down at Mandy. Her face was bright in the colored light that came through the windows, and her smile was wide. “Lucky for me. How do you propose doing this?”

“It's simple: I'm going to ask you what you want, doctor—what it is that we can do for you.”

“I don't—”

She held up her hand. “Maybe you're not sure what you want—in which case, take a little time to think it over. Or maybe you know, but you're too shy to ask—in which case, don't be; I don't judge. Or maybe it's what in B-school we called a
pricing uncertainty problem
—you've got something in mind, but you don't know what the market will bear, and you don't want to undercut yourself, or maybe price yourself out. Well, I'm here to tell you, the market will bear
a lot.
Seriously. A lot.”

I shook my head slowly, but Mandy pressed on.

“Don't overthink this, doctor. I promise you—I'm not being cagey or cute; I'm not playing you with some nefarious strategy. I'm offering you a lot of money, or a lot of whatever it is you want, for help getting Alex back. That's it, full-stop.”

I smiled, despite myself. I sat down opposite her, picked up my coffee cup, and took a sip. It was excellent. “
I promise you
—is that something else they taught you in business school?”

“I learned that in Brownies, actually.”

I laughed. “What are you at Bray Consolidated, Mandy?”

“My job title? It's senior vice-president of development. Fancy, right?”

“You don't seem old enough to be
senior
anything, except maybe senior class president.”

She laughed. “You wound me, Dr. Knox. Plus, that's a deeply ageist crack—and probably sexist too. And besides, I'm a few months from thirty—which isn't so young.”

“It's practically diapers. What's your fancy title mean?”

“That I follow my uncle around. I'm in training—learning how the company operates, how each part works, how the parts fit together. How to run the thing. He's a great believer in apprenticeship.”

“Like Donald Trump. You're taking over for him one day?”

The pretty white smile flickered for an instant, then came back full-strength. “My uncle has plenty of years left.”

“That was him, wasn't it—by the elevators? He keeping an eye on you? Giving you your brief?”

Mandy colored. “He's very hands-on. But if you're wondering whether I'm empowered to make a deal, the answer is yes.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I've got questions.”

She nodded encouragingly. “Fire away.”

“Why do you want Alex? What's he to you?”

“He's my cousin.”

“Your cousin? So he's…Kyle's son?”

“Maybe now you can excuse the rashness. I mean, what wouldn't a parent do for a child?”

“Kyle's more than just rash.”

“You'll get no argument from me. Next question?”

“That
girl
you mentioned…”

“Elena.”

“Who is she?”

Mandy's smile vanished, and her eyes fixed on something in the darkness. “An opportunist. Someone who thinks she sees a big payday. She may also be…disturbed.”

“She's not Alex's mother?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes she claims she is; she may have even told Alex some story to that effect; maybe she told you the same thing. Who knows, she might even believe it herself.”

“Wouldn't Alex know the truth?”

Mandy's voice softened. “He was young when his mother died—too young to remember.”

I caught a scrap of Mandy's perfume. Magnolia and something else. “So Elena's not related to him?”

“An aunt. But she doesn't know anything about him, except she may've seen him once when he was an infant.”

“Back in Romania?”

Mandy gave me a sharp look. “You
do
know her.”

“I heard her speak.”

She nodded. “Yes, she's from Romania.”

“So what's going on here? A custody dispute? Some kind of shakedown? A kidnapping?”

“All of the above, maybe; we're not sure. And, honestly, we don't even care that much. We just want Alex back, safe and sound.”

“Then why haven't you called the police, or the FBI, or someone? You've made it pretty clear that you're seriously connected.”

Mandy leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “It's not that simple. Alex has been through a lot in his life. Nobody wants to make him the center of protracted legal warfare or—God forbid—a media circus. And we certainly don't want to make him a target for more…” She ran a hand through her cropped hair and sighed. “Look, I'm authorized to make a deal with you, not to air my family's laundry. The bottom line is, we want to get him home—quickly, quietly, and safely.”

“You think he's in danger?”

She looked at me. “You probably know more than I do about that.”

I shook my head. “You think he's in danger with Elena?”

“He's a little boy, doctor. If he's not with his family, he's at risk. Does that take care of your questions?”

“For the moment.”

“Great. Then, getting back to mine…”

“I don't know if I can help you, Mandy.”

She drank some of her coffee and smiled knowingly. She put her hand on mine. Her nails were smooth and glossy; her fingers were hot. “Don't say anything, then. Take some time and figure out what you might want. Something for the clinic, maybe, or for yourself—it doesn't matter to us.”

Mandy finished her coffee, squeezed my hand, and rose. She placed a cream-colored business card with her name on it next to the coffee carafe. “Our only concern is time, doctor—we want Alex home ASAP. You've seen how impatient Kyle can be, and who knows what harebrained ideas he might come up with. Calling people we know at Immigration, maybe, or at the state medical board, or having your malpractice insurance yanked—and let's not even contemplate his felonious notions. Tiger tries to rein him in, and so do I, but we can only do so much. I can keep him quiet for a few days, maybe. After that…”

She brushed off her pants, adjusted the lines of her jacket, and walked to the elevators. A door slid open as soon as she touched the button, and she stepped inside. She mimed a telephone with her thumb and pinkie and put it to her ear. “Call me,” she mouthed as the door slid shut.