The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

the reason they had to work was their wives and families. So they got angry and lashed out or got lashed. At least that was the theory forwarded by my brother, a cop, who did not have my faith in the goodness of your met-on-the-street Los Anglian.
    There were six people in the waiting room; one of them looked as if he or she was in immediate danger. Another was a kid who sat with a crude bandage covering one eye as she sat next to her mother, who tried to read a magazine. At the reception desk near the door to the treatment rooms was a dark Latin-looking woman, almost pretty. She was dressed in white and checked something off on a clipboard.
    I decided against a smile. It hadn’t worked at the front desk. Since I didn’t recognize her I walked past her looking a bit disgruntled and grouched, “Dr. Morey in?”
    “Dr. Morey?” she said, looking up, puzzled. “I …”
    “Oh Christ,” I sighed, pausing. “I told him … listen, could you call Glendale Hospital, surgery, and ask if Dr. Taylor has left yet. Tell them Dr. Christian is waiting and must leave for Fresno. Also, if a Miss Markhan comes, send her right up to the surgery office. Then page Dr. Cyclops and ask him to report to surgery immediately. You have all that?”
    She looked properly confused and repeated, “Dr. Christian at Glendale, find out when he left. Miss—”
    “Markhan,” I continued, encouraging but looking at my watch to let her know I was a busy man. My watch said it was three, which wasn’t bad, no more than six hours off.
    “Markham, right,” she said with an apologetic smile. “She’s to go to surgery and I’m to page Dr. Sy Glopps.”
    “Right,” I said. “Sy’s probably in the cafeteria.”
    I pushed through the hinged double door and strode down the hall past open and closed doors on either side and into the depths of iodine odor without looking back. I went up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. I didn’t want to have the elevator operator asking for my visitor’s card and I didn’t want to play doctor again unless I had to. I had a long day left. Luck was with me on the fourth floor: lots of people were walking around, the nursing station was three-womaned, an eight-year-old doctor was reading a chart, and the hospital paging system called out in vain for my old medical school chum Sy Glopps.
    The door to Room 403 was closed. I listened, determined that no one was talking inside, pushed it open and closed the door behind me. The room was small, all white down to the cabinet next to the bed and the patient in the bed. Straight-Ahead’s eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily. I walked over to him.
    “Merit,” I whispered. “Are you—”
    “Alive,” he finished, his eyes still closed. “Thinking, not sleeping,” he explained, opening his eyes and looking over at me without turning his head. His brown eyes strained at their corners, so I moved to hover over him.
    “What happened?” I asked. I was still whispering, even though Straight-Ahead had a private room.
    “Merit Beason was shot,” he said, which he followed with an incredulous can-you-believe-that look.
    “Teddy?” I said.
    At this point a healthy man, or at least one with flexible neck muscles, would have shaken his head. Beason simply closed his eyes firmly and opened them again before speaking.
    “No, an accomplice. It seems our strand of pasta was not in the scheme alone. It seems there was another. It seems someone named Alex put him up to it. According to Teddy … how about a sip of water for Merit Beason?” His eyes looked toward the small white table near his bed, though I was sure his eyes couldn’t take in the glass.
    “Sure,” I said, picking up the dusty, not quite clear liquid and wondering how I could get it into his mouth, since he couldn’t lift his neck. Maybe there was a funnel in the drawer. I could stick the funnel in his mouth and pour the water in. I’d probably choke him to death. “How do we do