Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

Diane added, "And his meds would've all been covered by his employee health plan. Eskalith doesn't come free."

"But he gets fired-"

"— goes off the health plan-"

"— can't afford drugs-"

"— believes that this affects him-"

"— and begins acting drastically," David finished.

Diane whistled. "Holy shit."

"What are the signs of lithium toxicity, Dr. Trace?"

"Upset stomach, difficulty concentrating, clouding of consciousness, hair loss, weight gain… " She paused. "It's as bad as Dilantin."

"What else?"

"Excessive thirst, metallic taste in the mouth, GI distress, acne, frequent urination." She paused, shaking her head, a faint smile crossing her face.

"Slurring of speech, swelling of hands, psoriasis of the fingernails, nystagmus, ataxia, hypothyroidism," David added. "There are many more, of course, but these seem to be the relevant ones."

"But one thing doesn't make sense," Diane said. "If he lost his prescription coverage when he was fired months ago, then why was he displaying signs of lithium toxicity just last week?"

"Because he's still taking it."

"But my friend at the DEA said there have been no prescriptions of any kind filled in the past three months for either Clyde C. Slade or Douglas DaVella. So how's he getting it?"

"Maybe he's been stealing it." David made a mental note to tell Ed about this possibility.

Just south of the post office, they turned into a park composed of two converted baseball fields. Range Rovers and Land Cruisers pulled up and dogs bounded from tailgates-dalmatians and Rhodesian Ridgebacks and Great Danes-and headed for the large lawn ahead. David had forgotten about the dog park, and found himself entertaining the idea of trading in his wife's cockatoo for a Labrador. A golden retriever nuzzled Diane's hand and she laughed, crouching to scratch behind its ears. Its owner, a young Hollywood type in a tight black Kenneth Cole T-shirt that showed off his prodigious biceps, used the opportunity to strike up a conversation with Diane, while David stood by dumbly.

When Muscles finally strode off to join the other dog owners, Diane and David headed for the field. David felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down to see a hand covered with paint, the fingernails and rough cuticles flecked white and green. It belonged to a disheveled kid in his midtwenties with a long, pointed goatee and a pair of glasses with a green thumbprint at the edge of one of the lenses. The kid wore Tevas and a ripped Berkeley T-shirt, also splattered with paint. Even the greyhound dog at his side was speckled with green dots.

"Hey, Dr. S!" the kid said amicably.

"Hello, Shane."

"Hey, man, I'm sorry about Elisabeth. She was one of the good ones."

"Yes. Yes she was."

"If she hadn't come to my opening at that shithole gallery on Cahuenga, I'd still be running the coasters at Magic Mountain."

The greyhound sped off and began furiously humping Hollywood guy's leg. David watched with perverse amusement.

"Oh, shit," Shane said, running over to retrieve his dog. "I'll see you around, man," he called over his shoulder.

Diane and David hiked up in the bleachers overlooking the former baseball diamond and watched the dogs wrestle and chase objects. The brief discussion about Elisabeth, compounded by his sleep deprivation, had unsettled him. He knew Diane could see it in his face and was grateful she turned to the more pressing matters at hand.

"Now," she said. "Your turn. What have you discovered?"

David filled her in, telling her about meeting Ed, discovering the lozenge wrapper, and discussing matters with Horace, Ralph, Mouse, and Dash. The information came flooding out. He realized how much he missed having Diane as his confidante and colleague, being able to talk openly.

"You certainly pulled out all stops," Diane said. "Are you sure you want to get involved to this extent?"

"Yes," David said. "I can pursue this in ways that the cops can't."

"Your diagnostic eye."

"It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I have a sense of this man."

"You think the police are still out to kill him?"

"Yes. But I think I can find my way to him first."

"And then what, David?"

David watched Shane's greyhound zipping across the open field. "I guess I turn him in to the authorities I trust and hope he can get the kind of rehabilitation a person is entitled to. In a hospital or a jail."

Diane watched him closely. "Dash said his prognosis is bad."

"It's terrible. But that's irrelevant. We don't always fight these battles to win them."

Diane made a popping sound with her lips, then took a deep breath. "There's no outcome here that you want to feel like you made happen."

"No, there's not. I guess I have to find the most acceptable version of defeat."

They sat for a while, watching the dogs run. David enjoyed the brief respite, knowing he had to return to the hospital soon and begin slogging through records. As dusk encroached, the park cleared out until only a confused miniature poodle remained. It stood on second base until its owner collected it and carried it off, and then, save for the soft whistle of the wind through the chain-link backboard, the park was silent.

"Well, I need to go home and catch some sleep if I'm gonna go back on at ten," Diane said. She rose to go, but David laid his hand over hers.

She sat back down, putting her heels up on the edge of her bleacher plank and hugging her knees. The sky had dulled to a heavy gray, perhaps in anticipation of rain. The smog wreathing Westwood made a beautiful filter for the setting sun, scattered petals of violet and orange.

"You're not stunning," he said.

"I know."

"I don't think about you when we're not together." He leaned forward, hands laced together. The skin on his knuckles was hard and cracked from overwashing. "I don't love the way your hair collects around your neck. Your eyes aren't the most deep and exquisite I've ever seen."

When he finally looked up, her face was soft and unlined, like a Renaissance angel's. Her eyes, slightly misty, sparkled like green gems.

"I don't think about you either," she said.

Leaning over, he pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead. He held the moment, his eyes closed, before breaking off the kiss. A strand of her hair clung to his face for an instant before blowing free.

They looked at each other, confused and a bit breathless.

The Medical Records Office hummed with an all-hours vibrancy. A young clerk leaned back in his chair behind the counter, listening to the Dodgers game on the radio and flipping through a worn Michael Crichton paperback.

He didn't so much as look up when David slid into a seat at one of the computer terminals and began punching the keys. To access the confidential records, he typed in his user name and then his password-Elisabeth's maiden name. His password, which he'd kept for the past four years, struck him for the first time as dire and slightly pathetic, so he changed it to pinkerton, in keeping with his new respect for security matters. On the drive over, he'd called Ed to set him on the trail of stolen lithium.

He entered the database and typed in clyde slade and Clyde's birthday. The search engine seemed to run for an eternity, the cursor turning into a ticking clock icon that stared out at him like a miniature eye. No results.

Sheffield tripled, and the radio roared with applause.

David tried CLYDE C. SLADE. Another tedious wait, and again, no results.

He pushed out from the terminal and crossed to the counter. "Excuse me."

The clerk held up a finger. "Hang on."

"Listen, I really need-"

"Just lemme finish this page."

David set aside his irritation. "Crichton, huh? I enjoy him."