Do No Harm

Chapter 72

Peter's office building, a modern four-story structure of dark glass and concrete, sat near the junction of Westwood and Le Conte, a few blocks from the hospital. David parked at a meter. The construction work next door had left a light fall of dust on the sidewalk before the front doors.

When David arrived at Peter's second-floor office, his side was aching and itching, and he couldn't decide which sensation was worse. Peter's office manager was leaving and putting out the lights. David took a quick step back as she locked the door and turned to him, nearly striking him in the gut with a jumbo purse that swung from her shoulder like a pendulum.

"I'm looking for Dr. Alexander," David said.

She continued down the hall, not bothering to make eye contact. "He might be in the procedure suite," she said.

"Across the street?"

"No, in the new one. It's on the third floor. The move's been a royal pain in the rear end. That's why some of us are still here when we should be home with our husband and two daughters."

"Have a lovely evening," David said.

He found Peter in the suite upstairs, skimming through a folder, standing between two procedure tables amid a scattering of moving boxes and file crates. Peter looked up with a smile and took a few heavy steps toward David, assisting himself with his ortho cane. "David. To what do I owe…?"

David thought about pulling himself up to sit on one of the procedure tables, but didn't want to risk tearing the stitching in his side. "I wanted to see you in person, to convince you to let the cops keep an eye on you. Just for a few days."

"I appreciate the thought, David, but this is ridiculous. First of all, Clyde Slade has no reason to come after me."

David fondled the digital transmitter in his pocket. He'd had Ed adhere a small, powerful magnet to its back. Plan B. Getting police protection was still preferable, so he took a deep breath, preparing himself for his next words. He saw no alternative but to attack the issue head-on, despite Peter's repressive preferences. "To be frank, as a disabled man you make an appealing target."

Indignation cast its pallor across Peter's face, mitigated only by a devilish glint in his eyes. He flipped his ortho cane, caught the end, and let the long rubber-coated handle fall between David's feet. With a sharp tug, he yanked David's feet out from under him. David landed on his back, an explosion of pain screeching through his side.

"I can protect myself better than you might think," Peter said.

A groan escaped David as he reached for his side.

"Oh, Jesus," Peter said. "I forgot about your injury. I'm so thick-headed." He attempted to help David rise. Ignoring the pain, David pulled the minuscule transmitter from his pocket and placed it on the inside of Peter's left leg brace, just where it tapered above the ankle. The deceit helped undercut his anger at Peter.

He let Peter help him back to his feet. "Let me see the cut," Peter said. David raised his shirt obediently. The stitches were all intact. "You're fine." He looked up at David, his gray face tired and drawn. True regret. "I'm terribly sorry."

David did not hesitate. "Then promise me something."

Peter cocked a bushy eyebrow.

From his other pocket, David pulled the stun gun. He offered it to Peter, who regarded it like a used handkerchief.

Peter raised his ortho cane and let it thump to the floor. "You can't be serious."