Lost and Found (24 page)

I stand up and check my teeth in the small mirror that hangs next to my door.
Time for a haircut
, I think as I open the door and step out into the waiting room.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. A young girl with the loudest outfit I’ve ever seen is waiting for me, a giant plastic purse under her arm. If I were to describe her look for a magazine, I’d coin the term
grunge tranny.
I study her face carefully to see if she’s already had some work done. It’s then that I get the impression that I’ve seen her somewhere before.

Chapter Forty-Seven

“YOU!” SHE SAYS, POINTING AT me.

“Me. Yes. I’m Doctor Oliver.” I reach my hand out to take hers and smile, hoping to ease us past this very uncomfortable greeting. I can’t tell if the weird feelings are a result of her get-up or the fact that I can’t place her exactly.

Where have I seen her before? Online? On television? Whoever did her lip injections needs to be sued, that’s for sure. She looks like she’s got hives.

I smile. “And you must be … Shay, is that right?”

She nods. “Shay Dee, thass me. Thass my name.” She takes my hand in a loose grip, but looks around me into my office, like she can’t wait to get in there.

I look at Veronica and give her the signal to be on the alert. We do this when I think I’m about to be dealing with an overly emotional patient.

“After you,” I say, gesturing for her to go in before me.

Her skirt is riding up high on her waist and she’s trying to push it down from the front. I turn around to shut the door and give her a few moments to get herself together. I hear rustling behind me as she moves her clothing around.

She takes a seat across from mine and checks out my diplomas as I move around the desk. This is standard procedure for any new patient, so I give her time to absorb it all while I take a seat.

“So, what brings you here today, Miss Dee?” I say as soon as her attention is back in my direction.

Her face goes blank for a few seconds. Then she bursts out with, “You married?”

I wasn’t expecting that, but I act like it’s a completely normal first question from a patient to her new doctor. “No, I’m single. But let’s talk about you…”

“Ever been engaged, maybe?”

I could swear she just lost her street-smart accent, but before I can say anything, she jumps back in.

“Yo, you know, like almost with a ball and chain.”

I open my mouth to respond but am interrupted when she starts choking.
 

I jump to my feet, wondering if I’m about to use the Heimlich. “Are you okay?”

She puts one hand up like a stop sign as she holds her neck with the other. Her voice is hoarse.

“Yeah, yeah, just got my gum stuck in my throat.” She lets her neck go and sits straighter, her voice back to normal. “So, you were saying…?”

This is the most ridiculous question and answer session I’ve ever been a party to. I need to find a way to derail it. I remain on my feet, sensing that I need to be ready for anything. I don’t trust this Shay Dee person. Shay Dee, indeed.

“Are
you
married?” I ask, hoping the turn-around will make her uncomfortable enough to change the subject.

“Why? You interested?”

She gives me the craziest look, and I start to feel a little unsafe. My hand drifts over to the desk drawer that houses my weapon.

She starts waving her hand back and forth in between us, making me think one of us must have very bad breath.

As if she’s read my mind, she stops with the waving, her hand freezing in midair. She immediately drops it into her lap.

“Just jokin’,” she says. “I’m taken. But let’s get back to the conversation. You have a fiancée recently? Lost one, maybe?”

Oh my god, is she a stalker? Someone sent here by Hilary? A spy? Hilary can’t get me to talk to her so she sends some deranged rapper in here to try and communicate on her behalf? How twisted can a woman get?

My temper grows very short. “Miss Dee, I think I’d prefer to keep the conversation about your reason for being here. What is it that I can do for you?”

She sighs long and deep. Then she takes off her hat and her sunglasses. Leaning over, she spits a wad of something into my trashcan at the side of my desk.

It’s then that I finally recognize her.

Chapter Forty-Eight

“YOU!” MY LEGS TURN TO jelly and I fall to my seat, but then when I realize how vulnerable that makes me, I stand again. “Your name’s not Shay, it’s … Betty!”

She holds up her hands in front of her. “Easy, there,
Helen
, don’t worry. I came here for a reason other than to be plowed over by you
again
.”

She grabs her pink plastic purse and reaches inside.

My survival instincts go into overdrive. I refuse to be taken down by a demented gypsy having an allergic reaction to polyester clothing.

“No!” I yank my desk drawer open and pull out my .45. No way am I letting her get the drop on me. I know the damage bullets can do, and if she’s got a gun in there, I’m not going to be the one with a hole ripped into his organs. I’m going to shoot first and ask questions later. I point my pistol at her shoulder, the meaty part where it wouldn’t kill her if I hit it but would definitely stop her from coming after me with her weapon.

“Oh my god!” Her voice is shrill. “What the fuck is your problem?!” She kicks out so hard, it sends her chair backwards with her still in it. Her purse opens and all of its contents fly out, landing like hail around her head and chest.

When she finally comes to a rest on her back in the middle of my floor, there’s a tampon in her eye, papers folded up on her neck and tissues in her hair next to her head

She grabs the tissues and holds them up above her. “This is why I’m here, you freak!” she yells.

I lean over to see her better, bringing the gun with me so she won’t get any funny ideas. She could still have a weapon in that bag. Hell, she could have a small village in that thing; it’s enormous.

I look at what she’s holding up, not sure I understand. “You came to show me a dirty tissue?”

She must be an escapee from the psyche ward. It’s the only explanation for her behavior. I can’t believe I’ve been haunted by visions of someone who I thought might be one of those
nice girls
the cabbie was talking about, but who instead is obviously insane. I should never ever trust my instincts about women again. They’re obviously broken.

“How can a person as stupid as you are possibly be a doctor?” she asks. She sounds angry.

“You don’t have a gun?” Having her point tissues at me instead of a nine millimeter is a little bit of a let down. Did I read that wrong? Was she really here to show me something stupid and not kill me? Talk about an overreaction. Now I’m worried about losing my license to practice medicine.

“No, I don’t have a gun. What do I look like? A criminal?”

I take in her ridiculous outfit and plastic purse, along with the hat and the swollen lips. She looks like a drugged out amateur tranny reject from the wrong side of the tracks. Now I’m not worried about my license anymore. I acted completely rationally. Anyone in my shoes would have moved to defend himself.

“Do you want me to be honest?” I ask.

She sighs. “No. Lie to me.”

I do a quick re-evaluation. Now that I know she’s not here to kill me and I can see the real girl underneath the costume, I realize she doesn’t look as dangerous as I originally thought. “You look … mostly harmless.”

She tries to get up, but it’s a struggle. She rolls sideways and the chair goes too. Her personal items fall to the floor like droppings left behind by a goat.

She ends up on her hands and knees, and I have to look away before my imagination has me there behind her with my pants down. How she can be sexy even with all that stuff on, I have no idea, but it is what it is.

She brings my attention back with a loud thump. Her purse is now on my desk, in all its shiny pink glory. She’s looking at the wall behind me, the ceiling, and the floor … anywhere but at me. It’s obvious she’s uncomfortable, and my heart goes out to her. Anyone who would wear that outfit just to see me must be desperate.

“So … that’s quite a get-up you’re wearing,” I say as a form of peace offering.

“Shut up.” She grabs the wad of tissues she held up before and unwraps something from it. An item spills out onto my desk blotter. She turns around to get her chair back on its feet so she can sit down.

I stare at the thing she brought for me to see, and my heart pounds painfully behind my ribs.

What. The. Fuck.

Recognition dawns.
It’s that goddamn ring!

“What in the hell is
that
doing here?” I’m furious that this bad luck omen has followed me all the way from that fucking fountain to here at my place of work, my sanctuary from all that craziness. I have a security system, goddammit! How did this happen?!

“I found it.” She’s the picture of innocence.

I’m so pissed, I can’t think of what to say. Obviously she’s trying to be a good samaritan, returning a lost article, but she doesn’t understand; I don’t want this fucking thing. It’s a giant, expensive, painful reminder of how lost I am, how screwed up my world is, how empty my existence is, how I’ve gotten it wrong more often than I’ve gotten it right. I need to move on from this life, but this ring won’t let me!

She sighs, probably growing impatient with my inner monologue.

“What … I don’t … this isn’t …” I can’t get a single sentence out. How did she even find this thing? Does she swim in fountains? Steal the money from them? And how did she know it was mine? Did she see me throw it in with Jeremy?

I growl with frustration, running my hand through my hair. The headache is back.
Fuck me senseless.

She smiles. “You know, that’s exactly what I thought when I found it.”

“You say you found it?” Hope sparks in my heart and starts a tiny flame. Finders keepers, losers weepers, right?

“Yep. In a fountain. Not far from here, actually.” She tilts her head like a confused dog would and stares at me intensely. “Did you put it there?”

“I don’t want it.” I grab the thing and shove it back into her tissues, holding it out at her. “Take it back.” From the looks of her, she could use it. I’m certain she’ll want it now that she knows she has my permission to keep it. My confidence soars. I’m almost home free.

She shakes her head emphatically, dashing my hopes into the dirt. “No, it’s yours. I looked it up. You bought it, so it’s yours, not mine.”

“You looked it up?” What? How is that even possible? She’s lying. She has to be. She actually saw Jeremy do it and then she followed us. She just doesn’t want me to know she’s a stalker.

“Yes,” she assures me, “with the laser-etching on the stone. Cartier has a record.”

A flash of memory arrives, a phone call that Veronica screened for me... Cartier called here. Were they calling for her?

“A record?” I ask, not sure I understand. Hoping I don’t understand. “Cartier?
They
gave out my name to you?”

“You don’t have to say it like that. Like I’m some kind of maniac.”

I drink in her appearance, from the top of her frizzy bird’s nest hairdo to the tip of her nineteen sixties go-go boots. She must be kidding.

“Fine,” she says, her tone going bitchy, “I see your point, but this isn’t what I normally dress like.”

Then she disappears under the desk.

I have no idea what she’d doing down there, but I waste no time in remedying my little problem. I scrunch up the tissues and throw the whole thing into her purse as it rests on my desk. The ring disappears into its depths. I swear I can sense the sun coming out from behind dark clouds as it falls from view.

“No, of course not,” I say, covering up my tracks with conversation, “normally you dress like a hippy who’s an hour late to a peace rally.”

I yank my hand away from her purse at the exact moment that she stands up and points a tampon at me.

“Hey!” she yells. “Watch it, bud! That’s just plain rude and totally uncalled for.”

The relief I experience at putting that ring back in her purse is like being high on drugs. Seratonin molecules are coursing through my circulatory system, making me feel as though I’m floating on air. My feet are barely touching the ground right now.

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling supremely confident. Now I’m in the mood to tease her, not just because she’s going to deliver me from the evil the ring represents, but because she’s kind of cute when she’s mad.

“Totally uncalled for?” I arch an eyebrow at her. “I’ve met you four times, and three of those times you’ve run smack into me without looking where you’re going.”

She barks out a laugh. “Ha! That’s called projection, buddy. It ain’t me, it’s
you
. Don’t try to put your shit on me. You’re the one who thinks he’s soooo important he doesn’t have to look where he’s going, even when he’s in a crowd of people in the middle of New York City!”

I point to the door, afraid she’s going to find out what I did with the ring. Besides, she obviously doesn’t share my feelings; I think she’s cute, and she thinks I’m an arrogant asshole.

“Get out,” I order.

“Gladly!” She takes her purse and spins around.

“And don’t ever come back here!” I say loudly, hoping to intimidate her into wanting to leave fast so I can lock the doors behind her and that ring asap. I follow her as she leaves my office.

“As if! You wish!”

She storms through the lobby and yanks the doors open, helping them to slam shut behind her as she exits.

I turn to a stunned Veronica and motion with my finger to my lips. “Shhhh … make sure that door is locked.”

She nods and gets up, testing the handles. They always lock automatically, but I don’t want to take any chances.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Do not let that woman in here again, under
any
circumstances.”

Veronica puts her hand on her chest. “Wow, did she … what did she do?”

“Nothing. She’s just not who she says she is, and I don’t want to see her or anything she might try to give me in here again.”