Expert Witness by Rebecca Forster Read Free Book Online Page B

pools of water and benches. The only things that set the structures apart were letter designators high up near the roofline. He passed building A and B and F without giving a thought to why F came after B.
    Spotting J, his step quickened as he took the three low-rise steps that led him to J’s double glass doors. Archer could see straight through to a back door that led to a garden and a parking lot.  In the space between the two, Archer saw an elevator, two facing couches and a coffee table with a tabletop fountain. There was a chrome-framed legend board.  He pulled the heavy door open and stepped through.
    The interior was serene and silent save for the little bubbling fountain. The edge of his lips tipped when he saw that someone had put a penny in the water. They were either desperate for a miracle, or their dreams were as small as the place they left their wishes. Out back there were a couple of cars in the lot: a pearl-white SUV that had seen better days, an old Toyota, two Mercedes and a Lexus.  The Mercedes and the Lexus were in reserved spaces and both were black. The Toyota needed a wash.
    Satisfied with the manageable environment, Archer ignored the elevators and took the emergency stairs two at a time. Exiting the second floor, he paused to get the lay of the land.  Four doors.  Discrete nameplates. No windows.  Knowing he would see any challenge before it became a problem, Archer made his way down the hall, counting off the tenants as he went.
    Brahms. General Surgery.
    Cochran.  DDS.
    Fistonich. Gynecology.
    The door of Dr. Fistonich’s office opened. Archer stepped aside as a woman the size of a barn waddled into the hall.  He nodded; she flashed him a beatific smile. He nodded again, flustered as only a childless man can be when faced with a woman in the throes of hormonal bliss. When the pregnant lady was well inside the elevator, Archer moved on and found what he wanted.
    Young. Daniel P.  Psychiatry.
    Archer opened that door.
    A young woman with shoulder-length, light brown hair smiled at Archer with practiced sincerity and rehearsed serenity.  She spoke with a voice modulated to a perfect, peaceful pitch.
    “Hello there.”
    Archer took a second to admire her and her surroundings. In this doctor’s office there was no room divider with a sliding, frosted glass window, no clipboard for him to fill out with his name, time of appointment and his insurance information. There were no chairs lined up against the wall or old magazines to leaf through. This place was a haven for the weary, the wounded, and the worried.
    Three of the walls were painted a mole color with an accent of brick red on the fourth. On that wall hung a huge portrait of a woman with moist eyes and expressive lips. A tear of white paint trickled down her cheek to her bare shoulder. Her lips were matte, her eyes sparkled with a trick of technique that made it seem as if she was daring the viewer to look closer and see inside her. Over a couch of saddle leather hung antique baskets and what appeared to be an ancient papoose. There was a walnut table cut from a giant burl. Music played. He couldn’t identify it but it soothed him as intended. And then there was the receptionist, though he doubted she considered herself such.
    She was young but not too young; pretty but not gorgeous; interesting without being intimidating. She sat behind a delicate desk with a carved apron that hid all but the lower sweep of her gorgeous gams. Her shoes were expensive, her posture was perfect and Archer imagined she had once been a dancer who had wisely stopped chasing the dream and settled for a regular paycheck. Her hair was stick straight and hung past her shoulders; severe bangs covered her brows so all he saw were those two blue eyes encapsulated by kohl smudges.  Archer glanced at the painting. Those eyes of hers were as daring as those of the woman in the picture. Doctor Young had very specific taste in women.
    “May I help you?”  She