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The agents moved down the hallway. Halfway to the exit, Faith turned around and looked at the receptionist. She was talking on the phone and staring at the retreating agents, no longer smiling.
The exit opened into a courtyard decorated with clusters of fountaingrass and lilyturf. Tables sat in groups of four at four separate corners of a diamond-shaped central area sporting a single maple tree about fifteen feet tall.
“You want to get some lunch while we’re here?” Michael asked.
Faith stared at him for a moment. “How about we interrogate the suspect first and worry about food later?”
He lifted his hands. “All right. No need to get ornery, I was just asking.”
Faith rolled her eyes and picked a table that allowed them to monitor the entrance to the building. Several groups of nurses and doctors entered and left the courtyard. “This place seems to be doing well.”
“Yeah, it looks like his almost-malpractice hasn’t hurt his financial prospects,” Michael agreed. “Might make him really touchy about people threatening this good thing he has going on.”
“It just might,” Faith agreed.
Another doctor entered the courtyard and approached them with a purposeful gait. His hair was solid gray, which threw Faith off for a moment, but as he drew closer, she realized that this was Dr. Thomas Crane.
The two human agents got to their feet. Turk growled softly. It wasn’t a foolproof sign that he had found their killer, but it was a damned near foolproof sign that the doctor had something to fear by talking to them.
“Hi,” he said, stopping about eight feet in front of them. “Kimmy said you two wanted to see me?”
"That depends," Faith replied. "Are you Dr. Thomas Crane?"
“Yeah,” he said simply.
“Then we want to speak to you. Would you like to have a seat?”
Dr. Crane blinked. “Um… is this going to take a long time?”
“Won’t be a minute,” Michael said breezily. He pulled out one of the upholstered wooden chairs and gestured gallantly toward it.
Dr. Crane blinked and, after a hesitant half-step, accepted the chair. "I really wish you guys had called ahead," he said. "I have a very busy schedule today, and I'm keeping patients waiting. What is this about, anyway?"
Faith and Michael took their seats. Turk positioned himself in between Faith and Dr. Crane and kept a steady, watchful eye on the doctor.
“We’re investigating the murders of Monica Smith and James Porter.”
Dr. Crane blinked again. “Okay?”
“Those names don’t ring a bell?” Michael asked.
“No. Are they patients of mine?”
“They were,” Faith replied. “They were part of a trial four months ago for a new method of combating hearing loss. They were two of eight individuals who left the trial early.”
“Oh. Right.” Dr. Crane folded his hands on the table. “Right, Monica was the artist, and James was the accountant.”
“So can you tell me why they left your trial?”
“Well, they were”—he cleared his throat—“they were unsatisfied with the lack of results. So were the others.”
“Did they threaten to make trouble for you?”
“Oh no. I mean, they called me names, but they didn’t threaten to hurt me or anything.”
He unfolded his hands and leaned back, then started to tap his heel on the floor. He was nervous and possibly lying.
“They didn’t threaten to file a complaint against you with the Board of Audiology?”