Gregg Hurwitz: Do No Harm

"On vacation in the south of France," David said.

It nodded its head to gnaw at something in its breast feathers, the long erectile crest spreading behind its head like an exotic fan.

David sprinkled some birdseed into the small cup secured to the cage bars, grimacing when some fell to the hardwood floor.

"M amp;M's," the cockatoo squawked. "Where's Elisabeth?"

"Took off for Mexico with embezzled funds."

The cockatoo regarded him suspiciously with a glassy black eye. "Where's Elisabeth?"

"Training Lipizzans in Vienna," David said.

His mother, were she still alive, would not have been pleased with the fact that David drove a Mercedes. Along with Doberman pinschers and von Karajan, they were, in his mother's mind, forever associated with the Third Reich. And though David would never admit it, the cast of the back-tilted headlights of his E320 sometimes reminded him of the requisite round spectacles perched on every Nazi nose in bad '50s films.

He passed the imperious Federal Building on Wilshire, the perpetual protesters outside imploring commuters to honk to free Tibet, and drove into the heart of Westwood. Turning onto Le Conte, he steered wide to avoid the grime kicking up from the jackhammers at the site across from the hospital. For two months, construction crews had been working day and night converting the building next to the Geffen Playhouse into a large retail store. A burly worker swung a sledgehammer at a 4-by-4 supporting a section of defunct scaffolding, and the section keeled over slowly, sending a burst of dust across the road. The olive hood of David's car dulled with the pollution. He made a note to schedule a trip to the car wash on his next free afternoon.

A thought seized him, and he pulled over and approached the crew of construction workers. The muscular worker stood in the midst of the fallen scaffolding, a sledgehammer angled back over one shoulder. He wore a goatee that tapered to a point. His white undershirt was soaked with sweat, permitting an enormous swastika tattoo to show through. Covering his torso from his clavicle to the top of his belly button, the tattoo had been poorly inked. A black box of a probation-and-parole monitor was strapped to his ankle on a thick metal band.

David's immediate thought was that this man could be the alkali thrower. He worked in the vicinity-he would have had easy access to the ambulance bay. David immediately reproached himself for having such a severe and unfounded first impression. The man turned a hard gaze in David's direction as David approached, and he noticed a slight facial asymmetry. The other men continued to work.

"Hello, I'm Dr. David Spier. I work in the Emergency Room at UCLA."

"Zeke Crowley."

David watched Zeke's large, callused hand envelope his own. David pointed to the monitor on Zeke's ankle. "I had to cut one of those off once."

"Not your own, I'd guess." Zeke's voice, gruff and forceful, fit his appearance.

David smiled. "No, for a procedure on a patient, back when I was a resident. It kept getting in my way. I called the number on the tag. The operator was a bit of a pain."

"They tend to be." Zeke coughed into a fist. "Spier. That Jewish?"

"Sometimes. I'm sure you heard about the alkali attack that took place here yesterday. I was wondering… well, I just thought given your location here, you might have seen something."

"Sometimes," Zeke repeated. "How about in your case?"

"Yes. It is. Anyone here see anything?"

Zeke ran his fingers down his goatee and twisted the end. "Nope."

Zeke seemed to have too much confidence to have committed the attack on Nancy. His aggression, David guessed, would be more direct and muscular. Fists and kicks. If he assaulted someone, Zeke would want them to know it was he who was punishing them. From what David knew of the alkali throwing, it was pathetic and cowardly. Repressed, somehow.

David studied Zeke closer. His right eyelid drooped, and the pupil was constricted. There was a decided lack of sweat on the right side of his face. Ptosis, miosis, and anhidrosis. The probable diagnosis came to David, quick and gratifying. He pushed his medical thoughts aside. "What time do you guys start?" he asked.

Zeke crossed his arms, his thick forearms flexing. He studied David for a moment. "A lot of you guys are doctors, huh? Doctors and bankers. Crafty bunch."

"Did you not hear my question?"

"Cops already came through here, stirred the shit, asked for alibis. The way I see it, I don't have to answer to a smart-ass doctor."

David felt suddenly foolish about his hunch. Of course the police would have thought to interrogate the construction workers to find out if they saw anything. He was glad they were covering their bases; it wasn't his place to be out here beating the bushes.

"You're right." David turned to go, then stopped. "You've had a recent trauma to your neck."

Zeke rocked the sledgehammer on his shoulder. "How the hell do you know that?"

"What's occurring in your face, I'd bet, is Horner's syndrome. It's a result of disruption of the sympathetic nerves in the cervical neck."

Zeke studied David long and hard, then broke eye contact. "I got whacked by a falling 2-by-4. About two weeks back. My face has been kinda messed up since."

"It might resolve on its own, but why don't you come into the ER so we can take a look. You'll probably need a referral to see a neurologist, just to be safe." David reached in his coat pocket for a business card. "Don't worry-if you're uptight about it, we'll be happy to find you a doctor of whatever ethnicity you prefer."

Zeke's smile was surprisingly soft, despite the sharp edges of his facial hair. The card looked minuscule in his palm. Zeke folded it and shoved it in his back pocket.

David headed back to his idling car.

He zipped around the kiosk and into the parking lot for the Center for Health Sciences, a tiered outdoor structure that stepped its way down from the medical plaza to Le Conte Avenue. Walking through the concrete maze of stairwells and levels, he emerged from the lot and headed along the sidewalk that curved down into the underground ambulance bay and ER entrance. Checking his watch, he saw he was five minutes late to be twenty minutes early.

Halfway down, he paused and regarded the small strip of grass and plants to his left. A waist-high light stuck out from a row of bushes. He realized he was standing in precisely the same spot that Nancy Jenkins had been when assailed with the alkali. What had she seen? A movement in the bushes, a flash of a face? And then a sudden, blinding pain.

A hand clutched David's arm, and he jerked violently around. Ralph took a quick step back, his bleached-white security shirt pulling free from his pants on one side. He wore a polished pin on his shirt-an eagle clutching the American flag in its talons. A former marine who'd done two tours of duty in Vietnam, Ralph had come back to the States and found himself, like so many other veterans, with few options. He'd spent several years living between the streets and the VA on Wilshire before taking control of his life again. After slipping and breaking a finger at a UCLA football game, he'd come into the ER, where he'd impressed David with his gruff, determined nature and no-bullshit honesty. David had put out feelers for jobs throughout the hospital. A trainee security position had quickly led to a full-time job, and now Ralph was one of two chief security officers.

"Whoa!" He smiled. "Shit, Doc. Didn't mean to scare you."

David placed a hand on his stomach. "I think I'm just a little on edge, with all the… " He gestured to the bushes.

"We amped up our patrols," Ralph said. "Eight security officers instead of five."

"That's good to know. Do you think this person is planning another assault?"