Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

"Looks more like a personal vendetta thing to me." Ralph thumbed his belt and leaned forward, his voice lowered. "The word is, Nancy told the detectives she saw a tattoo on the guy's arm. Didn't see his face. Just an arm with a tattoo and then the stuff all in her eyes." He shook his head, blank-gazing at the bushes, as if the assailant were suddenly going to reappear. "I can't imagine Nancy had any enemies, but who the hell knows. I seen stranger things, that's for sure."

David fingered his stethoscope absentmindedly. "Did the person shout anything at her? Interact with her in any way?"

"Not from what I heard." Ralph's eyebrow dipped in a curious squint. "Why?"

"That just seems odd. If it is personal, I mean. I'd think the attacker would want to express his anger, make Nancy aware of why she was being victimized. The attack seems so impersonal." David shook his head. "Not that this is my field."

"Well, until there's another attack, it's an isolated incident," Ralph said.

David's lips pursed in a slight smile at Ralph's unintentional syllogism. "Yes," he said. "That's true."

"But we're keeping a few more sets of eyes around the area, just in case. To keep things safe and to ward off the media vultures." As if on cue, a news van pulled up just past the kiosk. A reporter hopped out and began rolling footage against the backdrop of the hospital. Ralph shook his head wearily. "All morning long."

A security guard appeared swiftly, disrupting the reporter's shot, and immediately began arguing with the cameraman.

"I guess the higher-ups don't dig the press. They have us on the reporters like brown on shit." Ralph placed his hands on his hips and grimaced, showing off a crooked front tooth. "I never knew Nancy's brother was a cop. You met him, right?"

David nodded. "I had the pleasure, yes."

"Well, our guy pulled two no-nos: attacking a hospital and an officer's relative." Ralph whistled. "I hope he likes attention, 'cause he's got a lotta people gunning for him now."

"The detectives seemed as… intense as Nancy's brother?"

Ralph raised his eyebrows, his face taking on a you'd-better-believe-it cast. "If you pardon my language, Doc, someone fucked with the wrong girl."

Hugh Dalton turned a half rotation, spilling coffee over the side of his mug as he showed off his rumpled slacks and JCPenney pinstripe shirt. His solid brown tie stuck in his shoulder holster. Jenkins pulled it free for him.

"Whaddaya think?" Dalton said. "From two-striper to D-one in the blink of an eye." He grimaced. "Three year blink of an eye, but who's checking."

"I'm surprised you finally passed the exam," Jenkins said. "Let alone the oral."

Dalton emptied a carton of orange juice into a glass jug and set it on the table next to a plate stacked high with Eggos. "I appreciate your vote of confidence."

"I'm losing a good partner. Don't expect me to turn cartwheels."

"At least you're losing me to a promotion, not a coffin." Dalton shouted down the hall, "Breakfast's on the table. Get out here or I'll eat it myself." He turned back to Jenkins. "You know I will."

Jenkins eyed his significant gut. "No argument here."

"Well? How do I look?"

"Like my high school geography teacher," Jenkins said. "Mr. Perkins packing heat." He smoothed the front of his own freshly ironed uniform, then polished his badge with a cuff. "Tell me you're not gonna miss the monkey suit."

"I'm not gonna miss the monkey suit." Dalton drained his coffee and thunked the chipped cup on the table. "No more uniform for this dick." He leaned back in the direction of the hall. "If I have to come get you…!"

Jenkins cleared his throat. "Tell me you're gonna be able to get the case from the jackass campus cops."

Dalton raised an eyebrow. "Believe you me. The Captain's already hot for it. ACID THROWER TAKES AIM AT WESTWOOD. Where there's press, there's juris."

"Lye. It was lye."

"You think the LA Times knows that?" Dalton grunted. "Besides, it'll help ID the false confessions." He poured himself a glass of orange juice, smelled it, then poured it out in the sink. "I want you to finish checking Nancy's papers and files for any services she's recently paid for. Workers in the house or yard. Look through her credit card bills for anything she might've ordered that would've been delivered. She wore her scrubs around the house sometimes, right?"

Jenkins's nod was barely discernable.

"Well, they have UCLA MEDICAL CENTER printed right on 'em. Who knows, our sicko delivers a package, she answers the door in her scrubs-" He stopped when he saw the expression on Jenkins's face. "You get the picture." He smoothed the skin of his jowls with an open hand. "How's she doing? Nance?"

The points of Jenkins's jaw flexed out, then disappeared. "I'm gonna break somebody's face over this," he said.

"I'm gonna help you."

Two girls, ages nine and twelve, scampered down the hall into the kitchen, dumping their backpacks near the door. The twelve-year-old set a purple sequined purse on the tabletop and stared at the Eggos with displeasure.

"Eat," Dalton said. "No purses at school. Drink your juice."

The younger girl pointed at the stack of waffles. "You forgot to toast that one." Dalton removed the frozen Eggo from the stack and tossed it in the sink. The twelve-year-old took a sip of orange juice and spit it back into her cup.

Jenkins glanced at his watch. "I gotta head," he said.

Dalton nodded with mock formality. "Patrolman."

Jenkins eyed Dalton's cheap dress clothes, and his hard features loosened for a moment. He nodded back. "Detective," he said.

The yellow Buick ran the red light at Broxton and Weyburn and pulled up to Jerry's Deli in downtown Westwood. Ted Yale, a tall, even-featured detective with a clean yacht-club look, stepped out from behind the wheel, snapped his gum, and readjusted the knot on his designer tie. When Dalton got out from the car, a cluster of Chee*tos fell from the folds of his pants to the sidewalk.

Yale entered the deli briskly, and Dalton followed, squinting at the bright lights, the flashy Broadway posters, and the neon signs. Yale's head pivoted like a periscope, locking on two men reclining in a corner booth. One of them, a handsome black man with a broad mustache, was evidently telling a joke. His hands traced gestures in the air.

"Over there," Yale said, gesturing with his chin. "You can always tell 'em by the cheap shoes." He glanced down at Dalton's shoes, then back up at his face. "Sorry."

They crossed the deli and slid into the booth, taking the two outside seats. The men looked up. "What the fuck?" the black detective said.

"You Gaines?" Yale asked. "And Blake? UCLA PD?"

Blake, an older man with a blond mustache and deeply textured face, ignored the two newcomers; his eyes fixed on Gaines. "What's the punch line?" he asked.

Gaines looked nervously from Yale back to his partner. "Hanukah Lewinski." Blake laughed, slapping the table with the palm of his hand and making his water dance in the glass.

"Hey," Dalton said. "I got a joke for you. What's the only thing more boring than a UCLA cop?" He looked from Gaines to Blake. "A retired UCLA cop."

Blake pinched a lemon between his fingers and let it drain into his water glass. "Let me guess. Judging by the demeanor and the sense of general entitlement… LAPD."

"Demeanor," Yale said. "Good word."

"To what do we owe?" Gaines asked.

"We're taking over one of your cases," Yale said. "Sister of someone on the job. The captain-three feels quite strongly, as does our department."

"The Acid Thrower?" Gaines shook his head. "Uh-uh."

"Lye," Dalton said. "It was lye."

"I know the drill," Blake said. "High-profile case. Everyone's gonna try 'n' squirm in and get some, like pups at a tit. No way."