Pitfall (6 page)

“I thought you said your paper had given you a list of clinics.” Now the fly was crawling up Manfred’s glasses. Again he swatted, nearly knocking his specs off his head.

“No, just the name of the closest one. Like I said.” I hoped he wasn’t taping this.

“So you don’t know the names of the other clinics.”

“No, sorry. That’s why I’m hoping I’ll do well here.” I lowered my voice. “Just between us, my editor is a troglodyte.”

“I don’t care if he’s the Piltdown man,” the old man shot back. “Just ask your questions. And go.”

Was it my imagination, or had Manfred’s ongoing brusqueness and now aggravation with the fly made him seem as if he was hiding something? Curious …

And with that, deep in my hindbrain, alarm bells began to clamor. Way down in the viscera, somehow I knew this was it. This bland clinic was where the nightmare began.

And I’d taken the first step inside.

Chapter Seven

“M
r. Niles, will you please get on with it?” Manfred’s tone was pointed. “My time is quite short today. I have a patient arriving in fifteen minutes.” As if to emphasize his displeasure, he tapped his silver Mont Blanc pen on his desk in a staccato beat. I hate that.

But something wasn’t adding up here. I didn’t think Manfred’s pen tapping was simply annoyance. As he continued to stare at me, sweat was beading up and popping on his forehead like oil drops on a hot driveway. Like an anteater’s, his gray slug of a tongue shot out and quickly ran around the surface of his thick lips. The doctor was, as the saying goes, as nervous as a whore in church. And that wasn’t the fly’s doing.

Why was he so jumpy? Surely not on my account. The conviction grew he had to be shading something, and by his actions, it was something pretty bad. But what? As if in reply, that prickling I’d encountered the day before once again began niggling my spine. Good God, not
again.
Just then the fly made a crazy-eight circle toward Manfred’s head.

“Right.” Clearing my throat, I purposely dropped my recorder on the carpeted floor and retrieved it, buying some time until the weird feeling passed. To be back later, I was sure. Straightening, I said, “Sorry, Doctor. I’ll try to be brief. And by the way, may I?”

“May you what?”

“Do this.” Quick as a snake, I reached out my left hand and snatched the fly in mid-flight just as it was about to land on Manfred’s cranium. It buzzed angrily in my grip.

I smiled at my host. “I’ve always had excellent reflexes.” Still holding the fly, I readied my pen again with my right. “Is this clinic only for women?”

“No. Males are welcome too.” Manfred nodded toward the buzzing. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Let it go when I leave. You were saying …?”

“I was saying that we do also get men as walk-ins.”

“I see.” On a whim I asked, “Does Brighter Day dispense reproductive information?”

“Of course.” His reply was cool. “As a general practitioner facility we’re licensed for many types of medical work, including reproductive help for our patients.”

“Blood tests and such?”

“Yes.”

“Abortions?”

“Never.”
Leaning forward, blue veins bulged like plastic, soda straws on the sides of Manfred’s neck, standing out in sharp contrast to his pallor. “Mr. Niles, we do not perform abortions here, under any circumstances. Human life is valuable.”

Valuable.  Wasn’t that interesting. In his agitation the doctor had used that word, instead of “sacred” or “precious.” I made a mental note to later write down the words,
valuable to whom?

“Is one of Brighter Day’s functions helping women get pregnant?” I asked.

“No.” For the first time Manfred smiled; a ghastly sight. “We are not gigolos, sir.”

God, I sincerely hoped not. The idea of Manfred lightly stepping around the room clad in a gold knit thong made my gorge rise.

“So this is mainly a place for the indigent and homeless to seek medical help.” And if that was right, what had drawn Sarah Cahill here?

“That is correct. Every person has worth. Even in ways they may not be aware of.”

“I see,” I said again, not seeing at all. “I know HIPAA law states I can’t ask you for specific information on your patients, Doctor, but could you tell me their approximate ages? Also their races, religions, backgrounds, and so on?”

“Whatever for?” His sour look was back, bushy eyebrows knitted in suspicion.

“Simply stats for my story.”

He gave a put-upon sigh. “Their races and religions are immaterial. As far as their ages, our patients range from the young to the middle-aged.” His smile was cold. “In recent years there have been great advances in medical science, you know.”

“Yes. I know.” Pedantic blowhard. His pontificating was really starting to wear. “A moment ago, you mentioned the word ‘young.’ How young? As young as, say, twenty-one?”

I watched closely for his answer. He didn’t disappoint because here it came again. The eye shifting. The lip licking.

“Sometimes,” he said. “We get all types in here, from infants to the elderly. Cuts, scrapes, knife wounds, childhood diseases, the gamut of general practitioner treatment.” The doctor shifted his rear end. “Are these questions germane to your story, Mr. Niles?”

“You never know,” I said. “It’s like throwing spaghetti against the wall. You just see what sticks.”

I couldn’t, of course, ask what I really wanted to know. Which was, did he recall seeing a patient by the name of Sarah Cahill? Since I was hamstrung, I made as if I was finishing up. “Doctor Manfred, I’d like to thank you for your time. You’ve been most helpful. May I call you later if I happen to think of any further questions?”

Another heavy sigh, dripping with distaste. “If you must.”

“Thank you.” Polite cuss, wasn’t I? Putting my recorder away, I motioned to the file cabinets along the wall behind him. “Those drawers must represent the hopes of an awful lot of people you’ve helped here. You have to be proud of that.”

I’d thrown out the bait, to see if the good doctor would acknowledge those cabinets did indeed contain his patient files. He took it.

“I am proud. Quite proud.” He stood as well, dismissing me. “Good day, Mr. Niles.”

“And to you too, sir.”

Leaving his office, I passed back through the waiting room. Crossing in front of the glass wall, I opened my fist, releasing the fly into the room. Well, I did tell him I’d let it go when I left.

My smile at Bluto was dazzling. “And thank you too, Mrs. Blutarski.”

She just glared. Battleaxe.

I acted as if I didn’t care, giving her a cheery wave as I walked out the main door. Because I knew I’d be returning later—much later—for some entertainment I rarely get to enjoy.

A little burglary.

*

But that would have to wait until after midnight. Next on the agenda was a trip to Milford, and a visit to Sarah’s place of employment.

Taking the Michael Fox Highway (not
that
Michael Fox) out of Madison put me on I-75 south. From there it was maybe five miles to I-275 east, and then ten minutes of easy driving to the U.S. 28 exit. Turning north, I headed away from Milford itself.

And as I did I landed smack in the middle of Dante’s ninth circle of hell.

Jacob Cahill had told me the town was growing; from the construction traffic I found myself snarled in, I could believe it. As soon as I’d made the turn off the ramp there was a beefy guy in a yellow hardhat stopping all the cars, making us wait while a Caterpillar D-7 heavy dozer slowly backed out onto the highway. I watched the thing pause, and then make a ponderous, grinding turn before moving back off the berm. When it was done, Hardhat vigorously waved us on, like Patton directing the tanks at Malmedy. The line of cars I was in traveled maybe a foot before a stoplight halted us.

No doubt about it. This was going to take a while.

I was right. It took nearly thirty minutes to go a thousand feet, but I finally located The Embers. As I’d approached the restaurant, I passed a truly dying breed, an independent bookstore called the Milford Book Shoppe. Like iron filings to a magnet, I nearly went in there instead. But I didn’t. I knew if I did I’d be greeted by a smell I never get tired of: the wonderful, magical, papery aroma of books. Books of all shapes and sizes, colors and subjects … how I love ‘em. Even as a kid you were as likely to find me haunting our county library on a summer day as you would the swimming hole or the ball fields. It was my refuge.

And to her credit, before her disappearance my mom encouraged my reading. She couldn’t have articulated the why of it, but I think she realized giving me the freedom to expand my horizons would be the only sure ticket that could launch me clear of my ratty place of birth.

And she was right. Books gave me wings. Reading took me up and away from our poverty-cursed, coal town, and into the great world beyond. And my affection for them has held me in good stead all my life. Politics, fiction, nonfiction, biographies, histories, the classics, you name it, books have been meat and drink to me, and always will be. To my thinking, they’re noble; at least as near to nobility as I’m ever likely to get.

Pulling off the road, I turned right into the lot, at last shutting off my poor overheated ride. Once out of the car I walked up to The Embers’ entrance, and after making my way through the burled oak double doors, I found the place high-ceilinged and airy, with a medium-sized stage up front and maybe forty or so tables in a semi-circle arranged on risers before it.

Striding up to the bar that stretched the length of the left wall I saw it was manned—womanned?—by a slack-jawed, pale-skinned, androgynous member of some species.

I looked closely at this critter. His/her nametag read “Pat.” Figures.

“Uh. Can I help you?” the whatever-it-was mumbled in a high monotone.

“Hi Pat. I’d like to speak to the owner, please.”

“Huh?”

I said it more slowly. “The owner.”

“Uh.” Gum-popping. Cud-chewing. “How’d you know my name anyway?”

Ah, youth. So bright. So alert. I leaned in. “Look down at your shirt, Pat. You tell me.”

A frown. “… what …?”

Right then I heard a man’s deep voice behind me. “Is there a problem?”

Turning around, I nearly laughed out loud. Before me stood a dirty blonde, pony- tailed man, my age or older, of average height and weight. But his face was anything but average. Let me put it this way: I’d heard of body piercing, but this was insane.

To start, the guy wore a small gold ring in his left nostril, as well as a bigger one in his septum, like Ferdinand the Bull. Both earlobes sported pewter pirate fobs, and a big shiny, gold-colored safety pin skewered his right cheek. From the corners of his crooked mouth two little silver horns hung, and six brass studs crowded his left eyebrow.

But that wasn’t the best. To complete his ensemble he—or someone with a bent for sadism—had run four small steel rods through the bridge of his nose, capping the ends with little metal balls. They looked for all the world like those gizmos your mom uses to hold the family turkey butt together at Thanksgiving, so the stuffing won’t fall out.

I suppose the guy saw himself as truly hip and tragically with it. I thought he looked like he’d been attacked by a rivet gun.

“You’re the owner?” I asked.

“Reynaldo Parker, the manager. And the director of the shows we put on here. The owner doesn’t get in until three.”

I offered my right hand. “My name’s Sullivan Wiltz. I’m a private investigator.”

“Investigator?” The other man frowned as we shook. “What’s this about?”

I glanced at Pat, who blinked at us slowly once, lips parted. I couldn’t tell if Pat was shocked by my statement, or just a natural mouth-breather.

I gave Parker a look. “Is there someplace we could talk?”

He stared at me a second, then jerked his head over his left shoulder, causing his face jewelry to reflect the light from the fluorescent fixtures overhead.  “I guess so. This way.”

I followed him around the stage to the back, and from there down a short narrow corridor, and into a tiny office fairly overflowing with paperwork. On Parker’s small gunmetal gray desk sat a cooling Styrofoam cup of Mickey D’s coffee. Alongside it on a paper plate rested a grim-looking breakfast sandwich with a huge bite gone. Seeing that, I idly wondered if Parker’s mouth-horns ever jabbed his tongue while he ate. I guessed if they did, he didn’t care. The high price of fashion.

He went around his desk, plopping his skinny butt down in a chair even worse than the one I had at my place. He didn’t offer me a seat, but to be fair, there wasn’t another one, unless I wanted to pull up a box. Which I didn’t.

Flipping open his hand, Parker held it out, palm up. “I’d like to see some ID.”

Did he expect me to lay my PI license on it, like he was a cop that had just pulled me over for running a light? I didn’t think so. He waited. I guess I could have surprised him by slapping my own hand down on his in a low five, but why antagonize him?

Drawing out my wallet, I dropped it open with a careless flick, just the way I used to do it back when I was a cop myself and badging somebody. Doing that exposed my fake Ohio PI ticket I keep for times like this. Behind that bogus license was another one—this one real—that gives me the right to conceal-carry. Parker didn’t need to know that. Yet.

Leaning over, he peered at it, and then sat back, satisfied. “Okay, you’re legit.”

Staring at him, I raised an eyebrow in lieu of an answer.

“It pays to be careful these days,” he explained. “You never know what kind of character might wander in here.”

I knew exactly what he meant. White-bread suburban dinner theater is well-known for attracting the seedier elements of society.

“So Mr. Wiltz. What can I do for you?” Parker took another monstrous bite of his nasty sandwich, chewing it in a lazy side-to-side motion, like a camel.

“I’ve been retained by the Cahill family, to get a lead on their daughter Sarah. You might know her as Raven. Your establishment is the last place she was seen.”

“Yeah, Raven.” He nodded as he swallowed. “I figured it was something like that. And I’m glad somebody’s out to find her because it’s a sure bet the police in this town won’t break a sweat trying to do it.”

“What makes you say that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think much of our constabulary. Never have.” He took a noisy sip of his coffee. “My Z-28 isn’t too well liked by any of them. You might say I’ve had my share of run-ins with Milford’s finest.”

With his appearance and demeanor? I was stunned.

Parker must have read in my eyes what I was thinking; not a simple task. He grinned. “I don’t look much like a man who’d manage a dinner theater, right?”

I didn’t answer.

He shrugged, “To me it’s just a fancier kind of lounge, like I’m used to running.” “The overhead here’s not as bad as you might think. The shows run to light musicals, and the food’s mediocre but filling. Of course the real cash cow is the bar. We turn a heck of a buck.”

“How wonderful for you.” I’d have bet my parrot The Embers’ owner was the classy one, for presenting a solid and non-punctured face to the public.

“But I’ll be happy to tell you what I know about Raven,” he offered. “We all like her, even if she is a little strange.”

Strange? This, from a guy with a face like a golf shoe? “Tell me about her.”

“Not much to tell. She’s been here about a year. Good worker. Prompt. Good with the customers, and the beer jobbers and food reps seem to like her.” He narrowed his eyes. “If she just wasn’t always so much like a freaking Pollyanna …”