Page 98 of Thankless in Death

“No, he walked out the door. Why?”

“What was wrong with him?”

Now she pokered up. “I’m not allowed to share any patient’s information.”

“Name. What name?”

The receptionist checked her computer. “He signed in as John. That’s all that’s required if no insurance is involved. He paid cash.”

“I want to see his doctor. Now.”

“If you’d have a seat in chairs, I’ll see if—”

“I said now.” Eve leaned over the counter. “I just left a retired schoolteacher who’s on her way to the morgue. You treated the man who sent her there. I’m about an hour behind him, according to you. I’m not going to waste time arguing. Get the medical who treated him out here, or I go back there and make a hell of a mess.”

“Wait. Just wait.” The receptionist all but flew back, vanished around a corner. In under a minute she was back in the wake of a tall, lean Asian man with a flapping white lab coat.

“What’s all this?”

“All this is murder. This man has killed four people. I need to know why he came in, what you did, what he said. Everything.”

Without a word, he gestured her back around the same corner and into a small office with a lush potted palm near a fake window.

“The patient is a murder suspect?”

“Multiple. I need to know what name he used, his injuries, his treatment, and if he scheduled any sort of follow-up.”

“You don’t have a warrant.”

“I have four dead bodies. But we can play that way. Peabody?”

The doctor just lifted a hand, waved it. “He elected not to use his full name. Just John, and neglected to check the privacy form. So. The patient had two broken metatarsals on his right foot, along with a hairline fracture of the first cuneiform.”

He picked up a tablet, tapped, swiped. And showed Eve a diagram of a foot.

“So... A couple of broken toes, and a hairline deal on this part here, before the arch?”

“Basically, yes. There’s little you can do, other than wand, wrap, and treat for discomfort, advise the patient to rest the foot. All of which I did. He also had some minor bruising along his diaphragm. There were no internal injuries. He left—perfectly ambulatory, and with the medication in no particular discomfort.”

“No follow-up, no referral.”

“Offered and declined. He said he was traveling—and he had a couple of suitcases with him. He claimed someone had dropped a heavy case on his foot at the transpo center, then he’d tripped over it, jamming it into his diaphragm. He’d assumed the foot was just bruised, but soon decided it might be more, so came in for exam and treatment. He paid for the exam, the treatment, the meds, the wrap, and the soft cast in cash.”

“How long before it heals?”

“It depends. With daily wand treatments, rest, he could be fine in a matter of days. Without the follow-ups, a couple of weeks. The first treatment is the most intense.”

“Yeah, been there. If he comes back, decides to do another treatment, contact me. Don’t let him know, just keep him waiting, or draw the treatment out. He’s violent, he’s dangerous, and he won’t hesitate to kill.”

“Then I’ll hope he doesn’t. We often have children in here.”

“Just give him a seat, tell him to wait his turn, and tag me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The minute she walked outside, Eve strode over, kicked her own tire. “Crap! He just has to luck into a fast, efficient medical. He couldn’t get bogged down with hackers and bleeders and pukers for an hour.”

She kicked the tire again, then walked around to the driver’s door, sliding behind the wheel to a cacophony of horns.

“Cab,” she said yet again to Peabody.