Do No Harm

Chapter 35

Realizing he was running late for the resident meet-and-greet, David raced back across town. His annoyance that The Eagles now qualified for the Oldies radio station was quickly replaced with dismay when the news cut in. "The Westwood Acid Thrower is still on the loose after a daring escape from the UCLA Medical Center last night. Sources indicate that ER Division Chief Dr. David Spier was in a standoff with the LAPD after he refused to release the suspect due to-"

An abrupt disquietude seized David. He clicked off the radio and drove in silence. His untainted career had not prepared him for being the center of controversy. Now every decision he made would be before the glaring spotlight of the media.

Before going to the Sunset Recreation Center, he stopped at home and changed into a suit. Dinner was over by the time he parked and arrived at the banquet hall on the third floor. People were milling on the back terrace, enjoying the summer evening. An immense semicircle of a balcony, the terrace overlooked the UCLA track, its view broken only by the occasional tree. David was amused to find he'd coiled his stethoscope inside his jacket pocket from force of habit.

He nodded to his colleagues as he made his way through the crowd outside, taking care to seek out the new faculty members. Carson wore Birkenstocks beneath his slacks, and a wide grin. Near the bar, Don spoke in hushed tones to a busty blonde in a sequined dress, drawing close to whisper so their cheeks touched. Other colleagues seemed to huddle together after David walked by, probably discussing his treating "The Westwood Acid Thrower."

David ordered a cranberry juice and soda, and stood at the concrete balustrade alone, sipping his drink from a too-small red straw. Large overheads lit the track, a few remaining athletes toiling below through the tail end of a practice. The crack of a starting gun carried to David on the breeze, and he thought of days when he too ran and lifted and sweated and woke up unsore to do it all over again.

A soft hand on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts, and he turned to see Diane at his side, wearing a black wraparound dress. A single chain of pearls rested across her upper chest, kinking slightly over the lines of her clavicles.

"I know," Diane said. "You're not used to seeing me dressed. Any luck tracking down our friend at the seedy bookstore?"

"No. But I got to leaf through a coffee-table book featuring clitoral pierces, so the outing wasn't a total loss."

Diane grimaced.

Two attendings at the bar looked away quickly when David caught their eye. Being scrutinized by his own goddamn colleagues on top of everything else. His anger departed quickly, though; he'd made his bed. Turning back to the track, he saw that dark clouds had gathered by the mountains, threatening a shower. "I see Don's no longer with his wife."

"You didn't hear? He got one of those photo traffic tickets, the kind like in Beverly Hills where a camera snaps your picture at an intersection when you run the red light."

"Don't you mean if you run the red light?"

"Anyway, the picture showed up at home, and his wife opened it, and there was Don in the car with some nurse from peds."

"How'd you hear that?"

"From Dr. Jenner. They play golf together."

"Do doctors really play golf together? How wonderfully stereotypical."

Diane reached for the front of his shirt, then stopped herself. "You missed a button."

Everyone began moving inside for the post-dinner address. Having raced around for the past few days, David had neglected to prepare a speech. He was too tired to worry about it; he'd spoken at so many events, he'd be able to regurgitate something suitable.

A man in a red caterer's jacket shuffled along the edge of the terrace, plucking empty cups and bottles from the balustrade. David had noticed earlier, when the man had smiled, that his teeth were stained gray, probably from taking tetracycline at too early an age. He limped slightly, favoring his left leg. David glanced down-sure enough, a special shoe. Probably a childhood brush with polio. The vaccine was developed in the mid-'50s; the man looked to be in his late fifties-that seemed about right. If he was twelve when he contracted-

"David."

When he turned to face Diane, he was surprised to find the balcony mostly empty.

"You're zoning out on me. What were you thinking about?"

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "How our bodies are marked. How physicians are like detectives, reading scars and limps and intonations, seeing what we can glean about a person's past and present."

Diane looked disappointed. "Relevant to the past days' events, I suppose."

"Why? What were you thinking about?"

"Our conversation in the cafeteria." She folded her arms, a fluid, graceful motion. "I decided we'd both be stupid to walk away from this after a few half-assed dates."

He smiled as if she were joking, though he knew she was not.

"Come on. Your ageism aside, you think I don't notice how you look at me? How we interact? We both know it's more than professionalism, David."

"Well, it shouldn't be." He realized he was speaking loudly, and he lowered his voice. "I'm the division chief and you're a resident."

"I thought we were colleagues."

"We… we are."

"Besides, it's not like anyone can accuse you of sexual harassment. I'm the one who'd get hauled off on that count."

"Diane, I'm still your superior." He did not meet Diane's stare when she looked over at him. His tone became more assertive. "There are certain boundaries that shouldn't be crossed in the workplace." He felt his face flush and realized he was growing anxious. He wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with two neat strokes of his index fingers. "And besides, I just lost my wife."

She didn't look as though she wanted to touch that one. She let it sit with him, and it didn't sit well. It was a cheap excuse; he wondered how long ago it had lost its legitimacy. Was two years long enough to mourn? To let go?

"That's three excuses in thirty seconds," Diane said, "and I still haven't heard you say you don't feel the same way."

"Well, I don't think I really need to-"

"When's the last time you had a friend over for dinner?"

"What?"

"A friend. Just a friend."

"I don't know. I guess it's been awhile."

"David, you are the most heavily sublimated person I know. You work constantly, you're in a field that doesn't involve long-term care so you have no long-standing relationships with patients, you have very little personal time, and with the exception of our few nights out, you don't date. It's like you've pulled yourself into a protective little shell. Maybe you don't want to recognize the fact that you still have feelings."

His anger flared, instinctual and protective. "It's been a few years since your psych rotation, Dr. Trace. Why don't you back off the armchair analysis?"

Diane's face hardened, and he felt a sharp stab of regret. Frustration, sadness, and intensity were all part of her weekly routine, but this was the first time he'd seen her really pissed. He started to say something to mitigate the harshness of his remark, but a woman stepped through the French doors to the back terrace. "Dr. Spier, we're ready for you!"

"I'll be right there."

Diane refused to look down or turn away; she faced him, angry and vulnerable. He tried desperately to figure out what he wanted to say but could not, and finally it was he who turned away as he headed inside to deliver his address.

He moved through his remarks on autopilot. At one point, the room filled with laughter, and he was momentarily nervous before realizing he'd delivered a stock joke. Diane came in about halfway through and sat in the back.

As soon as he finished, she headed out with one of the new residents, a tall, striking brunette. David had to walk at a fast clip to catch her in the parking structure nearby. Diane was climbing into the passenger side of a red VW, the other resident at the wheel. A soft rain was falling, more like a wet breeze.

"Excuse me, Dr. Trace."

Diane paused, half in the car. "Yes, Dr. Spier?"

"I wanted to talk to you more about… about the case this afternoon. Would you mind terribly if I gave you a ride home?"

She thought for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. "I guess that's fine." She leaned back down. "I'll see you tomorrow, Marcy."

The friend nodded and pulled out, and David returned her wave. "Where are you parked?" Diane asked.

He looked around the wide lot. "To be honest, I'm not sure."

She shook her head but did not comment. She waited patiently as he walked around the lot with the alarm button depressed on his key chain, pointing it in all directions. Finally he heard a blip somewhere behind him and followed the noise back to his Mercedes. He debated opening the door for her, but decided that would be inappropriate.

Aside from her occasional directions, they drove in complete silence to her apartment building on Chenault. He pulled over to the curb and they sat silently in the car, studying the faux walnut dash.

Diane said, "Let me get a word in edgewise, would you?"

"Look," David said. "It's been a very difficult past few days and, for me, past couple of years. Lately, I've been trying to figure out how it all fits together, where I am in all this. As foolish as it sounds, I don't think I've really known where I am for a good long time, and I've only recently started piecing that together. And then this whole shitstorm hit with the escape… " His voice trailed off and he realized he wasn't sure what he was saying. "You're right-I won't deny that I have certain feelings for you. But I'm not sure that those feelings are entirely appropriate."

"Feelings can't be inappropriate," Diane said.

"It's not that simple for me right now." He studied the steering wheel. "I'm afraid I'm a little lost."

She nodded once, slowly. "That's the first honest answer you've given me, so I'm gonna let you get away with it." Amusement flickered through her eyes. "For now."

"And I'm sorry I spoke to you so sharply."

"I'm sorry I was pushing you. That's not my place." She laughed. "Wow. Our first fight and we haven't even had sex. You really know how to cut right to the good stuff." Smiling, she put her hand on the door handle.

"So after all that, would it be entirely rude for me to tell you I think you're quite stunning?"

She considered. "Yes," she said.

"Okay," David said. "You're not stunning."

"You're not either."

David swerved out of his lane when he answered his ringing cell phone. He straightened the car and gave an embarrassed look around, but the road was empty.

Blake's raspy voice. "You paged me again?"

"Yes."

"Don't turn it into a habit."

"I'm looking into a few angles and if I… if I happened to locate the suspect and could bring him in or alert you, would you handle the arrest?"

Blake's laugh gave off a deep rattle. "Your planning didn't work out so hot last time."

"Would you?"

"Shit, yeah. I'll take the collar. And the book deal. TV movie. Talk-show circuit. This cop thing's only temporary. I really want to direct, you know."

"I'm serious."

"Well, shit, now that makes all the difference." A sigh. "Yes. I would handle the arrest-if you silver-platter it for me. But I can't interfere with an LAPD investigation without getting my ass in a serious sling. So short of you walking this guy in to me or giving me an exact location, save your quarter."

"All right. I just wanted to know who to contact if anything firm pans out."

"I'll be waiting with bated breath. Oh-and Doctor? Don't get yourself hurt."

David snapped the phone shut and laid it on the passenger seat. He turned off San Vicente, leaving behind the aisle of coral trees draped with nighttime mist, and threaded back through the quiet residential streets to his house. He cursed softly when he saw the flashing lights behind him.

He pulled over and waited, retrieving his registration from the glove box. A loud knocking at the window startled him upright. Jenkins. With a black metal flashlight. He'd hit the window so hard with the flashlight, David was surprised it hadn't cracked. Jenkins held the flashlight down near the lens, so the shaft could be snapped forward like a baton. Bronner appeared on the passenger side, his flashlight angled into David's eyes.

David took a moment before rolling down his window and then only rolled it down halfway. Without turning his head, he gazed into his rearview mirror, searching for other cars on the dark road. There were none.

"License and registration," Jenkins said.

"Can I ask what-?"

Jenkins turned, his boots crunching on pebbles as he headed back to the police car.

David sat quietly in his car, debating hitting REDIAL on his cell phone. But what would he say? He'd been pulled over for a routine ticket, no doubt. He decided to get UCPD on the line just in case Jenkins became violent, but as he reached for his phone, Jenkins reappeared.

"I'm giving you a fix-it ticket," Jenkins said. "You have a broken taillight."

"No I don't," David said. "I just had-"

"I don't think you want to harass a police officer. Do you, sir?" Jenkins ripped off the ticket and handed it over the glass.

David realized that Bronner was now waiting back in the car, and he grew even more tense.

Jenkins clicked on his flashlight and shined it into David's face from two feet away. David squinted into the light. "He knows right from wrong well enough to hide from the authorities," Jenkins said. "He's not compelled to commit these acts if he can plot and wait. This is a mind that is purposeful. This is a mind that is in control." Jenkins's shadow loomed amorphous and large behind the powerful beam. When he spoke again, his voice was little more than a cold murmur. "This is a mind that you elected to defend." He clicked off the flashlight, and his eyes reflected back a glint from the dashboard lights.

David remembered his mother's hard-learned lesson from the young nephrologist who beat her-don't push a man on the edge-so he remained silent, but he readied himself to block a fist or flashlight butt coming at his temple. Instead, Jenkins pushed off the door frame. "You see about getting that taillight fixed," he said.

He headed back to the police car. As he passed the rear of the Mercedes, he swung the stock of the flashlight, smashing the taillight lens without breaking his stride.