John Locke - Bad Doctor

“Mr. Luce would like to visit with you at nine-thirty.”

“Great. Anything else?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Devereaux would like you to stop by the ICU and check on Lilly.”

“That’s a no. Anything else?”

“The rest can wait till later.”

“Good. I need you to do something for me.”

“Is it legal?”

“Funny. I need you to find a private investigator in Nashville, Tennessee.”

“No problem. What’s his name?”

“I don’t have one yet. I need you to call around. Get me someone really good.”

“Are you delusional?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a medical secretary. What do I know about finding a private detective?”

“Lola?”

“What?”

“Don’t start with me.”

I hang up. Ten minutes later she calls back.

“I’ve got a name,” she says, “but it’s a woman. Is that okay?”

“Is she any good?”

“How would I know?”

“Who recommended her?”

“The Nashville police department.”

“I thought the police hated private eyes.”

“I thought so too, but Detective Polomo said I’ve been watching too much TV. Then he asked me out on a date.”

“And did you happen to mention you’re married?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did you say, exactly?”

“I asked him to send me a photo.”

My secretary’s a bimbo.

“Who’s the detective?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but…are you sitting down? Dani Ripper!”

“You say that like I’m supposed to know who that is.”

“Dani Ripper? The little girl who got away?”

“Sorry.”

“You’re one of a kind, Gideon.”

“Thanks. You got a phone number for me?”

“You’re planning to call her from your cab?”

“Might as well, I’m stuck in traffic.”

Ms. Ripper takes down my name, phone numbers, home and work addresses. She gets my address and three phone numbers. When that’s done she says, “Please. Call me Dani. How can I help you, Dr. Box?”

“I need a quick background check.”

“How quick?”

“Immediately.”

“You’re in luck.”

“Why’s that?”

“All my associates are swamped with cases. But miraculously, I myself happen to be available, having just wrapped up a major case last night. What’s her name?

“Excuse me?

“The woman I’m doing the background check on,” Dani says.

“How do you know it’s a woman?” I say.

“A New York City doctor wants a background check in Nashville, Tennessee? You’ve either slept with one of our local women or you’re thinking about it, and want to know how many miles she’s got under the hood, Am I right?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but as it happens, it’s a woman.”

“Name?”

“Willow Breeland.”

“Age?”

“Eighteen.”

Dani sighs. “Of course she is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you happen to know her date of birth?”

“April sixteenth, eighteen years ago.”

“You can’t do the math?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Does Willow have a middle name?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You’re certain about the date of birth?”

“Yes.”

I am certain. Not only did I read it on her driver’s license last Thursday, she also happens to have the same birthday as my mother.

“Has she broken any laws?”

“Almost certainly.”

“If this is a criminal investigation I need to coordinate with law enforcement.”

“It’s not that.”

“Normally I only accept cases from people I’ve met face to face. Since you want this rushed, you need to tell me why you’re interested in this young lady.”

“She’s my house guest.”

“Your house guest,” she repeats.

“That’s right.”

“Why don’t you just ask about her past?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Feel free. I’m just sitting here, drinking coffee, surfing the internet.”

“I get that. But I’d rather you were making some calls, getting me some answers.”

She doesn’t respond, so I say, “I met her in Nashville last week. I told her I might be able to help her get cancer treatment. She said no, then showed up on my doorstep yesterday.”

“In New York City?”

“Yes. And since she’s in my home as we speak, and I’m riding to work in a cab, I’d like to make sure there are no outstanding warrants on her, or anything like that.”

“You’re sure she’s eighteen?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“You slept with her.”

“ What?”

“What if she’s underage?”

“What if she is?”

“You’re forty-two.”

“I never told you that.”

“You didn’t have to. I’ve been reading about you since the moment you told me your name.”

“What difference does it make how old I am?”

“I don’t approve of forty-two year old men sleeping with eighteen-year-old strippers.”

“That’s not your concern. Wait. How did you know she’s a stripper?”

“She’s in an ad on a website for the Firefly Lounge, Cincinnati, Ohio. As in, “Meet the Firefly Girls!”

“That’s her,” I say.

“She’s cute.”

“You think?”

“Sure. Put her in pigtails she could be selling Girl Scout cookies.”

I decide not to respond.

She says, “Does it bother you the ad says girls instead of ladies?”

“No. Why should I care what it says?”

“Seriously, Dr. Box?”

“I don’t see what difference it makes if I slept with an eighteen-year-old stripper,” I say, noticing the cab driver staring at me in the mirror.

Dani says, “I don’t think I like you very much, Dr. Box.”

“If you want to join that parade you’ll have to take a number.”

“That I believe,” she says. “So what am I looking for, specifically?”

“Her birth certificate, parents’ death certificates, proof her father served time in prison, and any information you have on her uncle, her father’s brother.”

“You have his name? Or the parents?”

“Just their last name. Breeland. And the uncle’s wife is May.”

“Also from Nashville?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“She moved to Cincinnati three years ago. Lived with a lowlife named Bobby Mitchell, recently deceased.”

“Lowlife? Recently deceased? Be yourself, Doc. No need to talk like a TV cop.”

“Willow’s been diagnosed with recurring Hodgkin’s lymphoma. There should be hospital records.”

“I won’t be able to get those for you.”

“I don’t need the actual records. Just names of doctors who might have consulted with or treated her. Also, her best friend died from complications of a gunshot wound. She was a recent patient of Saint Stephen’s hospital in Dayton.”

“Friend’s name?”

“Cameron Mason.”

I notice Dani’s gone quiet.

“Hello? Are you there?”

She says, “Stop me if I get any part of this wrong. You breeze into Nashville, visit a club, meet an eighteen-year-old stripper who happens to be a cancer patient, and pay her for sex. What was she doing, trying to earn money for cancer treatment?”

I sigh. “Maybe you’re not the right person for the job.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve already uncovered information that’ll knock your socks off.”

“What, already? How’s that possible?”

“I’m very good at what I do.”

I grab my notebook and pen from my jacket pocket and prepare to write. “Okay,” I say.

“Okay what?”

“I’m ready. What have you got?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Don’t tell me you expect me to apologize for sleeping with her.”