Do No Harm

Chapter 69

Clyde's breath fogged the window against which he leaned as he gazed down the seven-story drop to the dark square of the UCLA Medical Center quad. The top tier of the PCHS parking structure glowed beneath the lights, crammed with cars and trucks. The security guards moved up and down the rows in their nurse-white shirts. The top floors of the office buildings on Le Conte were also in view, sticking up above the fringe of trees like dominoes, and he could just make out the splintered wreckage of the scaffolding.

Clyde kept his eye on one car in particular-the olive-green Mercedes parked in the choicest spot near the hospital. From this distance, the ashole lettering on its side was visible only as a red smudge.

A few drops of condensation resolved on the foggy glass and trickled to the sill. He'd been watching for some time.

He spotted the white coat first, then recognized David walking tenderly up the concrete stairs to the top level, Diane Trace slightly in front of him. At either side of them were men in suits-one standing tall and lean, the other wide and slumped. The detectives.

After discussing something animatedly, they helped David into his car. Then they headed down to the lower tier, escorting Diane to her Explorer.

The Mercedes pulled out of the parking structure, Diane's car just behind it. When they passed the parking kiosks, a van pulled out from the curb and followed them both, about a block back.

Clyde pressed both palms against the glass on either side of his face, like a mime, and watched David's car until it disappeared from view.

Don strode up to Sandy's door, white coat flaring. He raised his hand to knock, but before he could, Sandy's voice issued through the solid door. "Come in."

A Bic pen behind her ear, Sandy worked at the conference table under the glow of the green banker's lamp. She flipped through a contract, sighed, tossed it to the side, and glanced at the next document in the pile before her.

"Dr. Evans, I'd like to thank you for your support in this matter, regarding Dr. Spier." Sandy did not look up. Don waited for a response, but finding none, continued. "It was, uh, a wise decision, I believe, for the division."

Still looking down at her paperwork, Sandy mumbled something under her breath.

"I'm sorry?" Don said.

Sandy finally looked up. "I said, 'Go fuck yourself,' Dr. Lambert." She pulled the pen from behind her ear and attacked the next file in her stack.

Don watched her work for a few moments, his mouth slightly ajar. He made sure to close the door quietly behind him when he left.

David was vaguely aware of the carpet cleaning van following him and Diane a few blocks back; Yale had selected it as the undercover vehicle, as it wouldn't be out of place in upscale Brentwood. It parked across the street when David pulled into his garage. Diane left her Explorer at the curb, near the mailbox. She helped David inside, and in a confusion of beeps and codes, he disarmed the security alarms.

She walked him down the long hall to his bedroom, one arm looped across his back, and deposited him on his bed. He lay back on the stark white pillows with a groan, holding her hand. His eyes were swollen, underscored by bags so dark they resembled contusions.

He held her hand and looked up at her. She was scanning the plain, empty room, the white walls, the lonely chair in the corner, and David felt a sudden, intense vulnerability-a concern that his bedroom revealed more of his life than he himself wished to grasp and convey.

"You should go," he said. "The cops will escort you home and keep an eye on you."

"Are you sure you want to be alone?"

He nodded. She backed up to go, but he didn't relinquish her hand. Despite the codeine, his wound was throbbing with his heartbeat, regular intervals of pain. The shock of almost being killed had caught up to him all at once, rushing him like a bad dream recalled. And though he'd been anticipating it, the news from the board didn't lessen the sensation that he was badly navigating rocky waters.

"I could stay," she offered again quietly.

He shook his head, but still held her hand, held it tighter.

"It's okay," she said. "You can need me." She looked at him and gave him the silence for as long as he needed it.

"Five minutes," he finally managed.

She let her hand slide from his, then, crossing her arms and shrugging her shoulders, she lifted off her top. Her hair spilled down across her shoulders, a golden fan spreading.

She slid into bed beside him, her back propped up against the headboard, and then he was lying in blissful silence, clutching her, his face pressed to her bare chest, her flesh moist with the faintest recollection of sweat and scented like lilac and summer.