Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

Milo's warrant had opened the electric gate of the house on Mulholland but no one had come up to greet us and he'd taken out his gun and let the uniforms come on like an army. Just as we'd reached the front door it had opened and the ponytailed frog I'd given the medicine vial to was leaning against the jamb, trying to look casual.

Milo put him against the wall, cuffed him, patted him down, took his automatic and his wallet, read his driver's license.

“Armand Jacszcyc, yeah, this looks like you. Who else is in the house, Armand?”

“Just Mr. K. and a nurse.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah,” said Jacszcyc. Then he noticed me and his head retracted.

The uniforms went in. A sergeant came back a few minutes later, saying, “No one else. Lots of guns, we're pulling an arsenal.”

Another uniform came out with Nurse Anna. Her tight face was glossy with sweat and her big chest was emphasized by an electric-blue angora sweater.

She kept her head down as they took her away.

“Okay,” said Milo. “Leave me a couple of guys to tear up the place for dope.”

“No dope so far,” said the sergeant.

“Keep looking. And bust this one for concealed weapon.”

Frog was hustled off and we stepped in. The center of the house was one sixty-foot stretch of dark-paneled space clear to the back, sparkle-ceilinged and gold-carpeted, filled with groupings of green and brown couches, ceramic lamps with fringed shades, heavy, carved tables full of souvenir-shop porcelain and crystal. Clown paintings and Rodeo Drive oils of rainy Paris street scenes said all talent should not be encouraged. The rear wall was covered by pleated olive drapes that locked out the sun and sealed in the smell of decay.

A screech-bird voice from the back yelled, “Where's that water, Armand!”

A wheelchair sat next to a fake Louis XIV commode with an obscenely inlaid front. The marble top was crowded with medicine bottles. Not like the vial I'd showed Jacszcyc. Big white plastic containers. No prescription blanks. Drug-company samples.

“Armand!”

“He had to run,” said Milo. “Nurse Anna's gone, too.”

The old man blinked, tried to move. The effort turned him green and he sank back.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Police.” Milo flashed ID. Two uniforms came over and he told them, “Over there.” Pointing to the open doorway of a big brown kitchen. The counter was piled with water bottles, soft-drink cans, takeout cartons, dirty dishes, pots and pans.

“What the fuck you moe-rons doin' here?”

His accent was interesting: the broad farmer drawl of Bakersfield tucked up at the final syllables by a hint of Eastern Europe. Lawrence Welk without the cheer.

“Gimme some water, moe-ron.”

Milo filled a glass and held it out along with the warrant.

“What's that?”

“Drug paper. Anonymous tip.”

The old man took the glass but ignored the warrant.

He drank, barely able to hold the glass, water dribbling down his chin. He tried to put it on the table, didn't protest when Milo took it.

“Drug paper? Wrong customer, moe-ron. But what do I give a flying? Tear up the place, it's rented anyway.”

“Rented from you,” said Milo. “Triage Properties. That's a medical term. Interesting choice for a doing-business-as. My-son-the-doctor's idea?”

The old man put his hands together and closed his eyes.

“Triage,” repeated Milo. “DBA the Peninsula Group, DBA Northern Lights Investments. Northern Lights traces to Excalibur Properties, which traces to Revelle Recreation, which traces to Brooke-Hastings Entertainment. Your old skin biz. Before that, your old manure-and-meat biz. You musta really liked the name, giving it to wife number two and the so-called charitable institution you established in San Francisco: rehab for street girls. What, Junior treating their VD and doing their abortions and helping the cute ones get into dancing?”

“You prefer welfare?”

“So what else did Junior do that year? Practice his surgical technique?”

The old man's hands shook a bit. “Go ahead, moe-ron, finish. Then go back to your boss and tell him you found nothing. Then, go fuck yourself.”

“I'd rather talk.”

“About what?”

“Bakersfield. San Francisco.”

“Nice towns, both. You wanna know where to eat, I got recommendations.”

Milo touched his gut. “Food isn't what I need.”

“No,” said the old guy. “You're a fat fuck- here's a tip: Lay off the meat. Look what happened to me.” He reached up with effort, flicked a chicken-skin jowl. It fluttered as if paper.

“Big meat eater, were you?” said Milo.

“Oh, yeah. Meat, meat, meat.” A purplish tongue tip cruised along a gray lip. “I ate the best. Ate the fat, too, every bit. Now my arteries and everything else are clogged and I gotta sit here and put up with moe-rons like you.”

“Tough,” said Milo.

The old man laughed. “You give a flying, huh?”

Milo smiled. “So. The new kidney making life any easier?”

The gray lips turned white.

“I also want to talk about Junior,” said Milo. “His sudden holiday.”

“Fuck off.”

“We also served paper for his place in Beverly Hills. Alleged medical offices. Except the only thing we found in there were rooms full of porn videos ready for shipping.” Smiling again. “And that operating room. Must have cost a fortune.”

The old man pushed a button on the wheelchair's arm and the contraption began reversing slowly.

Milo held it in place and the chair whined, wheels scraping the carpet.

“We're still talking, Mr. Kruvinski.”

“I want a phone. I got a right to a fucking phone.”

“What rights? You're not being arrested.”

“Leggo of the chair.”

“Sure,” said Milo. Pushing another button, he locked the tires.

“You're in big trouble, pigass,” said the old man. “Lemme see that paper.”

Milo gave him the warrant again and he unfolded it.

“I need my glasses.”

Milo stood there.

“Gimme my glasses!”

“Do I look like Armand?”

Cursing and squinting, the old man held the warrant at arm's length with palsying hands. The arms lost their strength and the paper slipped and fell to the floor.

I picked it up and tried to give it to him.

He shook his head. “You guys are no good. Rotten, no honor.”

“Oh yeah,” said Milo. “Honor among thieves. Spare me.”

“What do you want!”

“Just to talk.”

“Then get yourself a psychiatrist !”

Milo grinned at me.

“Fuck off, clown.”

“Why so hasty, Kruvinski? Maybe we could help each other.”

“In hell .”

“Maybe there, too.”

Milo leaned over him. “Don't you godfather types make a big thing about gratitude? You're looking at the guy who saved Junior's life.”

Something flickered behind the cloudy eyes.

“Unfortunately, I couldn't save Hope Devane. Or your grandnephew, little Casey. But I did get the guy who did them. Stopped him before he got to Junior.”

The clouded eyes were wide now. Unblinking.

“Who? Gimme a name.”

Milo placed a finger on Kruvinski's lips, gently. “That doesn't mean I'm going to forget about what Junior did. Which you can bet the scumbag will use as his defense. Odds are any jury's going to sympathize with him. Especially one of our idiot L.A. juries. Or we won't even have a trial 'cause the D.A. will plea-bargain it down. Meaning sooner or later the scumbag's gonna be out and guess who he's gonna be looking for? So unless Junior plans to stay on vacation forever, he's gonna be looking over his shoulder a lot.”