Gregg Hurwitz - Do No Harm

"No, no. I keep the clean ones over here." Ed pulled a glass from a stack sitting atop a fallen dartboard and filled it with water.

He and David sat in perfect silence, David sipping from the glass nervously, though he wasn't thirsty. "So can you do it?" David asked. "Get me a bug of some kind?"

"Yes, and we call it a digital transmitter these days, Joe Friday." Ed flared his hand like a magician, and a flat metal disk appeared in his palm. About the size of a watch battery, it was dense with tiny components, like a computer's motherboard. "Works off radio frequency." Leaning over, he pulled what looked like a walkie-talkie from a desk drawer that had been left on the floor. "Here's your receiver. I go with the Motorola HT one thousand because it's more compact than a Saber, so you can strap it to your belt without looking like you have a perennial hard-on." He smiled, his grin a white crescent in the white of his face. "It'll get the RF transmission and kick it up to this" — he held up a molded, skin-colored earpiece- "as long as you're within a few blocks."

"I won't be within a few blocks. I'll be in the middle of a stakeout in Venice."

Ed ran his hand across the top of his head. It made a rasping sound on the red stubble. "A challenge. I love challenges. Where's Peter live?"

"Westwood. A few blocks east of the hospital."

"Where's his office?"

"On Le Conte."

"How many stories is the building?"

"Four."

Ed rubbed his temples. David opened his mouth, but Ed raised a silencing finger in warning. More temple rubbing. Clearly, he was enjoying this.

"All right, Spier, here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna put an expensive-as-shit repeater on the roof of his office building. Think of it as a big antenna. It'll pick up the RF transmission and bounce it to your Motorola across town." He spread his arms wide, as though accepting applause. "I am a trained professional. Do not try this at home."

"When can you do it?"

"Tonight. Once it gets dark. But let me ask you a question. What good does this do?"

"I'll know where Peter is at all times. I'll know if he finds himself in trouble. As a worst-case scenario, if he's attacked, I'll be able to direct the police to him quickly."

"He'll need a gun."

"Peter won't carry a gun."

"How do you know?"

David regarded Ed wearily. "Trust me on this one."

"Fine. Well, would our liberal and foolish urologist with the apropos name lower himself to carrying a nonlethal weapon?"

"Perhaps."

Ed dragged a large cardboard box from the coat closet across the room and sat back down. The contents gave off a metallic jingling as he dug through them. Proudly, he displayed a weapon with a spear-gun handle that looked as though it shot out two attached electrodes with dart ends. "A taser," he said. "You have to have decent aim, though, and they're a bitch to get through thick clothes. Fucker's wearing a leather jacket, forget it."

David shook his head. "Too… complicated."

Ed threw the taser back into the box and removed a pair of spiked brass knuckles.

"Too savage."

Next, Ed pulled out a silver rod with a knob on the end. When he flicked it, it telescoped to form a baton. "The asp."

Again, David shook his head. "Too easily overcome."

Ed grumbled, tossed the asp back into the cardboard box, and continued to sort through its contents. His face lit up. With a Vanna White gesture, he exhibited a large frying pan. "Old Faithful."

David merely looked at him, and he threw it back.

"I think we have a winner," Ed exclaimed. He removed a stun gun, about the size of a flashlight, complete with finger grooves. The black rectangular stock extended into two prongs. He thumbed a switch forward, and a burst of visible voltage shot between the prongs.

"Can it work through clothes?"

"Again, nothing too thick. But a T-shirt or something, you might as well not be wearing anything at all."

"I'll take it," David said.

Ed tossed him the stun gun. "Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of a fifty-thousand volt, hair-standing, cattle-prod special."

"How should I get the… bug-transmitter thing on Peter?"

"I could install it in a watch. Could you give it to him as an early birthday gift?"

"No. That would be suspicious."

"Does he have a special pen or something? I could slip it in there."

"I don't know. Nothing I could be sure he'd always have on him."

"So the question is: What sort of pet object does he keep with him at all times?"

An idea hit David with a sudden, bright clarity. He raised his head with a smile. "I think I've got it," he said.

Peter's office building, a modern four-story structure of dark glass and concrete, sat near the junction of Westwood and Le Conte, a few blocks from the hospital. David parked at a meter. The construction work next door had left a light fall of dust on the sidewalk before the front doors.

When David arrived at Peter's second-floor office, his side was aching and itching, and he couldn't decide which sensation was worse. Peter's office manager was leaving and putting out the lights. David took a quick step back as she locked the door and turned to him, nearly striking him in the gut with a jumbo purse that swung from her shoulder like a pendulum.

"I'm looking for Dr. Alexander," David said.

She continued down the hall, not bothering to make eye contact. "He might be in the procedure suite," she said.

"Across the street?"

"No, in the new one. It's on the third floor. The move's been a royal pain in the rear end. That's why some of us are still here when we should be home with our husband and two daughters."

"Have a lovely evening," David said.

He found Peter in the suite upstairs, skimming through a folder, standing between two procedure tables amid a scattering of moving boxes and file crates. Peter looked up with a smile and took a few heavy steps toward David, assisting himself with his ortho cane. "David. To what do I owe…?"

David thought about pulling himself up to sit on one of the procedure tables, but didn't want to risk tearing the stitching in his side. "I wanted to see you in person, to convince you to let the cops keep an eye on you. Just for a few days."

"I appreciate the thought, David, but this is ridiculous. First of all, Clyde Slade has no reason to come after me."

David fondled the digital transmitter in his pocket. He'd had Ed adhere a small, powerful magnet to its back. Plan B. Getting police protection was still preferable, so he took a deep breath, preparing himself for his next words. He saw no alternative but to attack the issue head-on, despite Peter's repressive preferences. "To be frank, as a disabled man you make an appealing target."

Indignation cast its pallor across Peter's face, mitigated only by a devilish glint in his eyes. He flipped his ortho cane, caught the end, and let the long rubber-coated handle fall between David's feet. With a sharp tug, he yanked David's feet out from under him. David landed on his back, an explosion of pain screeching through his side.

"I can protect myself better than you might think," Peter said.

A groan escaped David as he reached for his side.

"Oh, Jesus," Peter said. "I forgot about your injury. I'm so thick-headed." He attempted to help David rise. Ignoring the pain, David pulled the minuscule transmitter from his pocket and placed it on the inside of Peter's left leg brace, just where it tapered above the ankle. The deceit helped undercut his anger at Peter.

He let Peter help him back to his feet. "Let me see the cut," Peter said. David raised his shirt obediently. The stitches were all intact. "You're fine." He looked up at David, his gray face tired and drawn. True regret. "I'm terribly sorry."