Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

"How can I break a deal you never accepted?"

Yale hung up without responding.

Jenkins had gotten the call and driven over immediately. He'd flown across town, sirens blaring, drawing a nasty look from Bronner when his cup full of tobacco spit sloshed over onto a knee.

Bronner stood by the curb, scrubbing at the Kodiak stain with a thumbnail. Jenkins broke through the crowd of press, shoving roughly and dodging questions, and bolted up the stairs. A crime-scene technician tried to stop him in the hall, but Jenkins straight-armed him into the wall. Yale met him at the shattered door of Clyde's apartment and placed a splayed hand on his chest, walking backward as Jenkins continued to advance. "We're sweeping for evidence. Watch your step. SID doesn't want us all through here. We don't know if he's-back the fuck off, Jenkins."

Five heads snapped to attention. Then, the Scientific Investigation Division went back to work, dusting and marking. One held a jar of urine to the light; another flipped the pages of the DSM-IV with gloved hands.

Dalton shuffled over from his position at the window, stepping between Yale and Jenkins, resting his hand lightly on Jenkins's stomach and walking him a few steps back.

"You listen," Yale said. "I'm keeping you in the loop on this as a favor. Calm the hell down or you're gonna blow leads. Is that what you want?" He took a step forward, glaring at Jenkins over Dalton's shoulder. "Is that what you want?"

"No," Jenkins said.

"All right. Me neither. But save your bull-in-a-china-shop routine for speeders and jaywalkers. This is my case. And I'm gonna bust the POS, for your sake and your sister's, but don't you fuck it up by being such a hard-on, or I'll make a few calls and you'll be shoveling out stables for the mounted unit."

Jenkins's eyes narrowed. "Sorry," he managed.

"We missed him. Dr. Spier tracked him here and called in the address. We came over with SWAT to serve the warrant, but by the time we got here… " He gestured to the broken door. "No sign of Clyde C. Slade. We have units out around the area, but nothing yet."

One of the cops popped the locks on the footlocker and raised the lid, revealing a container of DrainEze nestled among syringes, Pyrex beakers, and other medical paraphernalia. When Jenkins caught sight of the alkali, his lips pressed together until the pink left them.

"Place is a fucking monkey house," Dalton grumbled. "Jars of scabs and shit. That reek we're all relishing-it's from a rotting cat in the kitchen."

A technician snapped a photo, and Jenkins tensed up at the flash.

"Don't worry," Yale said. "By the time we're through with this place, we'll know at what grocery store he buys his TV dinners."

A technician sifting through the contents of a vacuum-cleaner bag paused to sneeze. Yale grimaced at him. "Great. That's just great."

"So what's the call?" Jenkins said. "What now?"

Dalton flipped open his notepad. "DMV came back with expired registration to an old address. A '92 Crown Vic, bought at a sheriff's auction."

"Irony," Yale said. "Rich." Hands on his hips, he turned and gazed at the half-open window. A shard of glass had been carefully balanced on the sill.

"He had citations and parking violations up the yin-yang, but the car was never impounded. I assume he still has it, but we've found no sign of car keys." Dalton surveyed the wreck of the apartment. One of the technicians, on his hands and knees picking through dirty clothes, stopped to fan himself. "Though you could lose a refrigerator in this joint. But I think he bolted, took his car. We already called it in."

"The good doctor sticking his nose in again," Jenkins said. "Fucking things up."

"His ass is covered, though," Dalton said. He sighed, irritated. "It's within his rights to walk around, ask questions."

"Unless he broke in here," Jenkins said.

"He knows better," Dalton said.

Yale walked over and lifted the shard of glass from the windowsill. He slid the pane down, revealing the hole the displaced shard had left, just above the latch. "Does he?" he asked.

Peter was sitting at the edge of Diane's bed, his legs straight-braced out in front of him, when David entered the room. An ortho cane leaned against the base of the bed, but David knew better than to ask about vacillations in Peter's condition. Peter moved to rise. "Please," David said. "Sit."

"Nonsense," Peter said. He turned around, gripping the bar at the foot of the bed and backing himself slowly onto his feet, then he pivoted, faced David, and shook his hand gravely. "Good God, what happened to you?"

Diane craned to see around Peter. "Your lip, David. Did he attack you?"

David walked over to Diane, hesitated for a moment, then pushed back her bangs and kissed her on the forehead. She looked surprised by this show of tenderness. Peter did not.

"Don't get affectionate on me," Diane said. "I might not recognize you."

David turned to Peter. "I'm so glad you were in the ER when I called."

"Motorcycle versus streetlight," Peter said. "Crotch rockets indeed."

"What took you so long?" Diane asked.

"I've spent the last hour buttoning down the ER and dealing with security."

"Why?" Diane asked.

"I've just come from Clyde's apartment. I tracked him there and we had a confrontation. I escaped and gave Yale his address, but he probably fled before the cops got there. I thought he might come here."

"You went alone?" Peter sank slowly back onto the bed. "Are you mad?"

The question hung heavily in the silence. A loud rapping startled them, and David tensed as the door swung open. Yale, Dalton, and Jenkins entered the room, looking extremely displeased. Jenkins closed the door behind him firmly.

"What are you doing barging in here?" Peter said. "This is a patient's room." He struggled to stand, and Jenkins took note of his efforts with a calm disdain.

"We'd like to talk to you alone," Yale said to David. David noted genuine anger in his voice-it seemed more than a front for Jenkins's and Dalton's benefit.

David crossed his arms. "You can talk to me here. I don't mind if they're here."

"We do."

"Then you can talk to me in the presence of my attorney."

"Listen to me, you motherfucker," Jenkins growled. "How about we jack your ass on the burg you committed at Clyde's pad, stick you in the general population at County, and have a big bad jig try you on as a condom. How about that?"

Yale turned neatly on his soft leather shoes, facing Jenkins. "Out," he said softly. Jenkins did not move, and Yale walked over and opened the door. "Out," he said again.

With a glare at David, Jenkins straightened his shoulders and walked from the room. Yale closed the door and nodded at Diane. "I apologize for that."

"I should hope so," Diane said. "That's the first time I've ever been exposed to that kind of fucking language."

"I take it you didn't find him," David said.

"You stepped in it proper this time, Spier," Dalton said.

David studied Yale; he seemed to be struggling between the competing needs to vent his anger or arrive at a more constructive state of affairs. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you fucked up," Dalton said. "Our best bet for catching him would've been you finding the address, getting the fuck out of Dodge, and calling the police so we could sitting-duck his alkali-throwing ass."

"That's what I was planning to do," David said. "But I thought there was a woman trapped in there."

Yale looked puzzled. "Well, you thought wrong," he said. "And even if you were correct, you should have left her in there rather than risking your civilian rear end."

Dalton ticked off the counts on his fingers. "Obstruction of justice, interfering with a police officer, burglary, contaminating a crime scene."