Dr. Knox (21 page)

My apartment smelled of old coffee and dust and weed. I slung my backpack on a chair, emptied my pockets on the table, kicked off my shoes, and stretched out on the bed. I thought that the night on the sofa in El Segundo would catch up with me and that sleep would come fast, but I was wrong. Elena's voice whirled in my head, not her words but the sound of it: its hard, dispassionate shell, the way it broke in places, the pain and molten rage that surged in the cracks. I looked at the ceiling—white and shot with fault lines—and after a while Lydia's voice mixed with Elena's. Fear, fatigue, and a hefty slug of fatalism sifted with anger, like flour in a bowl. I touched my cheek where Lydia had patted it. She'd never done that before.

But sometimes—like with this girl and her little boy—you get an idea that you can…I don't know what. Fix them? Fix their lives?
Dangerous fantasy, I knew—paving stones on the road to hell. I wished I could say that Lydia had it all wrong.

I awoke from a dream about Africa: the forested hills around my last field station, the dense, corrugated green, the screaming and thrashing in the branches sometimes, at dawn and dusk, the silence that descended before a storm, Mathieu standing on a trail that led into the woods….I tried to find the narrative, but the dream broke and faded as I chased it.

I sat up and ran my hands through my hair. I was looking at my dresser and wondering which drawer might have some weed in it when the phone rang. It was Anne Crane.

“I left you messages,” she said. Her voice was scratchy and tired, and there were traffic sounds and wind behind it. I pictured her in front of her firm's Century City office building, her cropped gray hair tousled by the breeze, a cigarette dangling from her lip. Anne and her pro bono efforts had come with the clinic—along with the crumbling infrastructure and the negative cash flow. I didn't know what debt she owed my predecessor, Dr. Carmody, only that it was something big. I was just grateful she didn't yet feel it paid in full.

“I got them. You still smoking?”

“Bad enough I'm in the office on a Saturday—I don't need guilt. Did you get Kashmarian's messages too?”

“Yep. I haven't called him either.”

“Well, I can save you the minutes. He wants to tell you he has an offer on your building.”

I stood. “An offer? I thought I had months before it was even on the market.”

“You do, technically.”

“Technically?”

“Kashmarian can't offer it for sale for another three months, and you have right of first refusal, but, assuming you don't make a matching offer, he's saying he's already got a willing buyer lined up. Someone who reached out to him.”

“For this place? Who?”

“He didn't volunteer that.”

“How would anybody even know it's for sale?”

“Beats me. How does anybody know anything in this town?”

“Did he say what the offer was?”

There was silence on the line, and then Anne cleared her throat. “He said they came in at full ask.”

“For
this
place? Full fucking ask?”

“Calm down. That's just what his message said. I haven't actually spoken to him yet, so who knows if it's true.”

“Shit.”
I sighed. “I can't match full ask.”

“We don't even know if it's for real yet,” Anne Crane said again. “But in the event…do you have a Plan B?” I said nothing, and Anne sighed. “I'll take that as a no, despite the fact that I've been telling you to make one for the past six months.”

“My plan is to put together a down payment.”

“Fantastic. How much do you have?”

“A hundred grand.”

Anne made a noise that might have been a laugh being stifled. “That's it—a hundred? A hundred thousand? That's a down payment on, like, a toolshed. And not in a good neighborhood.”

“That's what I've got so far. I'm still working on it.”

“You better work faster,” she said.

It was after eight by the time I found parking off Los Feliz Boulevard. The air was cool on my face as I walked toward Hillhurst. I'd managed no more sleep that afternoon, just fitful turning in my bed for a while, and then much coffee and a scan through that week's medical journals—all the while trying not to think about the Brays or Siggy circling the clinic like sharks. My eyes were still gritty and hot.

I was meeting Nora at Airstream. Like the trailer, it was low-slung and industrial, shiny and metallic. Everything there looked new, including the customers, who seemed fresh out of school—possibly middle school.

Bright faces were gathered at the bar, which was shaped like an airplane wing, and I scanned its length for Nora, pausing at each dark ponytail. I found her at the far end, leaning away from an eager hipster with white arms, a belly like a soft volleyball, a smudge of beard on his chin, and a turquoise bowling shirt with an old Northrop logo on the pocket. He scowled when I walked up. Nora smiled, drained her wineglass, dropped off her stool, and smoothed her flowered skirt. “Good luck with that pilot,” she said to the hipster, and hooked her arm in mine.

Our table was outside, where it was cooler and the sky was purple. We were near a gas fire, burning in a wide copper brazier, and the heat rolled across me in waves. Its flickering light made Nora's face quick, sinister, and sexy.

The waitress came and Nora asked for another glass of wine. I had coffee. Nora squinted at me. “Planning a wild night?”

I shook my head. “Anything stronger and I'll be having a pillow and blanket for dinner.” She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head, and I took a deep breath and once again told Elena's story. It was the third time that day, and that just made it worse.

Nora was still and silent when I finished. A chopped salad had been delivered at some point, but she hadn't touched it. “Jesus, Adam,” she said finally. Her voice was soft. “This woman, her son—they need help.”

“I know,” I said, and pushed away my salmon.

She leaned toward me. “I mean,
serious
help.”

“I know that. That's why—”

“Help you can't give them. If her story is true, this woman has been the victim of several violent crimes, including multiple rapes. She's lost her close family to murder, lost her son to abduction, and been forced into sex slavery. She's massively traumatized—almost certainly suffering from PTSD—and her little boy…God only knows what he's been through, what he's seen. You've done what you can for them—you saved both of their lives and brought them together—but you're not equipped for what they need now.”

“I know I'm not, but what am I supposed to do?”

“Call DCFS, or the police, or both.”

“And then what happens? Elena's an illegal, a sex worker, a witness to who knows how many crimes that Siggy Rostov and his boys have committed—not to mention the miscellaneous felonies she's committed herself. Do you honestly think the authorities are going to let Alex stay with her? And that's without Harris Bray putting his thumb on the scale. How long do you think it'll take him to get ahold of Alex again, once cops get involved?”

“None of that is certain. And are you sure that it wouldn't be in Alex's best interests to be back with his father and grandparents?”

I sat up. “Back with the people who arranged for his abduction, and caused most of the shit that's happened to his mother? You can't believe that.”

Nora shook her head. “Everything I know is secondhand, so I don't know what to believe. Which is okay, since I'm not setting myself up to make custody decisions for Alex.”

“If you saw him with Elena, how they are together, you'd know they belong together.”

Nora nodded slowly and swept a wing of black hair behind her ear. She picked up her wineglass, swirled it, and took a sip. “The bond between them isn't the only consideration. With what Elena's been through, she may not be the best person to look after Alex—not right now, at least. Her behavior might be erratic. Her judgment might be impaired.”

“I've seen traumatized mothers and children before—whole villages of them, half a country, it seemed like—and I don't know that separating kids from their moms improved anybody's health.”

“These circumstances are different from what you saw in Africa, and you know it.” I shrugged, and Nora's mouth became a hard line. “Anyway, DCFS actually specializes in making those kinds of calls.”

The look on my face made Nora pause, sit back, and change tacks. “Do you believe everything that Elena's told you?” she asked.

“I'm not sure she's told me everything, but I think the part she's told me is true.”

“Doesn't it bother you that she might be holding back?”

“What she's been through doesn't make people trusting. I'm more bothered by the fact that the Brays still haven't called the cops. Like that's not too suspicious—people with that kind of sway, reluctant to use it. Or how about their approach to this whole thing—strong-arm tactics, and offers of a bribe? Do they sound like people with nothing to hide?”

“Which is a great reason not to get involved with them.”

“And also a great reason not to hand them that little boy.”

“Point taken,” she said. “And very heroic.” She wasn't smiling.

We prodded and picked at our food after that, but ate little and spoke less. I had another coffee and Nora had another glass of wine.

A thaw set in when we left Airstream and walked along Hillhurst, and when we turned onto Franklin, Nora leaned close and took my hand. We were on Vermont, headed for Skylight Books, when a silver Mercedes pulled up ahead of us and rocked to a halt with its front tire over the curb. The driver's door swung wide and scraped against asphalt. Climbing from the car, Kyle Bray seemed not to notice.

He wore a dark-blue shirt with the sleeves pushed up, gray trousers, black loafers with no socks, and black aviators. When he pulled them off, his eyes were red and unfocused, his pupils pinpricks. He smiled and pointed at us, and I moved in front of Nora. My pulse revved.

“You took your time over dinner, doc,” Kyle said. He had a drunk's overcareful pronunciation. “You order everything on the menu?”

“You're following me now, Kyle?”

He leaned back against the Mercedes. “I have people who do that. They called when it looked like you were staying put for a while.”

“What do you want? Mandy said—”

“I don't fucking answer to my bitch cousin, doc.”

“Do you answer to your father? Because I caught sight of him at PRP, giving Mandy what looked a lot like marching orders.”

Kyle's face tightened and his voice was brittle. “When it comes to my kid,
no one
tells me what to do.”

“That's nice, Kyle—touching—but I don't want to get caught in the middle of a family feud. Maybe you, your dad, and Mandy should sit down and make sure you're all on the same page with the threats and everything, just so I don't get confused. And maybe then I could say it just once, to all of you: that I really can't help you out.”

Kyle snorted. “Too late for that, doc—you're already in the middle. But something you might think about is how many other people you want to drag in with you. Like, for example, your girlfriend here. That's who she is, right—your girlfriend?” I said nothing, and Kyle smiled. “Though she's no girl, is she? She's got a nice MILF-y thing going on.” Behind me, Nora snorted.

I sighed. “What do you want?” I asked again.

“You know the answer to that, asshole—I want my kid.”

“And you know what I've said every other time you people have asked. Did I not say it loud enough, or do you have some kind of aphasia? Or are you just fucking stupid? Maybe that's why Daddy put you on the bench and put Mandy in the game instead.”

Kyle colored, and balled his fists. Then he took a deep breath. He looked past me, at Nora. “All the tough talk for her benefit? You like an audience?”

I shrugged. “Maybe you want to step away, and we can finish what we started back in that conference room.”

Kyle laughed. “That's tempting, doc—believe me. But I've got plans with two blondes and a suite in Vegas tonight, and I'm not gonna fuck those up, even to kick the teeth out of your head.”

A Volvo cruised by and slowed as it passed Kyle's Mercedes, angled into the curb. The driver honked and stared and shook her head.

“What the fuck are you looking at, bitch?” Kyle yelled, and grabbed his crotch. “You see something you like?” The woman blanched and sped off, and Kyle laughed.

I cleared my throat. “Then I remain confused, Kyle. I don't get why your men are following me around, or why you're here. You have nothing new to say to me, and I have shit to say to you, so—”

“That's where you're wrong, doc—I do have something new. I'm here to introduce you to your new landlord.” Then he put out his hand and laughed.

Monday was like any other day at the clinic, which itself seemed odd. After a Saturday evening of incipient argument with Nora, and stalking and threat from Kyle, and a Sunday of sleep—interrupted only by making rounds in El Segundo—a typical workday, full only of the sick and their treatment, was disorienting and strange. Like the calm after a storm. Or before one.

Though probably not what most people would consider a calm. The norovirus continued its march through our corner of the city, and we saw three more miserable and messy cases, along with an unmanaged hypertensive, an unmanaged diabetic, a badly infected spider bite, two STDs, miscellaneous lacerations, sprains, and fractures, and a pale and wiry young woman in the waiting room who wore sweatpants, an overlarge pink tee shirt, and a layer of grime, and who started screaming when Lucho asked her name. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Mrs. Guzman delivered a cake.

We had vaccinated her three granddaughters several weeks back and treated the youngest for ringworm on her scalp, and because she hadn't been able to pay us for any of it, she'd made a
tres leches
cake and brought it in a foil pan. The custard smell filled the office, and my stomach crooned to it all afternoon. It was five-thirty before I made my way to the file room for a slice and a coffee, and when I did, the baking pan was empty and the coffee pot was dry. I stared at them, feeling forlorn.

“Fucking Lucho,” I muttered.

“Don't worry,” Lydia said, “I'm looking out for you.” She was in the doorway, holding a steaming mug of coffee and a big square of cake on a paper plate. “My boy's got a sweet tooth, so I knew to put some aside for you.” Lydia smiled at me, and her stern features softened. I felt a rush of affection for her, followed immediately by a rush of guilt. I hadn't told Lydia about the bid on our building—hadn't told her about a lot of things lately—and I didn't have the energy or courage to start just then.

“You're the best, Lyd.”

“You bet your ass,” she said, and handed me the coffee and the cake.

I was about to have a bite when my cell burred. It said
unknown caller
on the screen, and I thought for a moment about not answering, but then I did.

Mandy's voice was arch and teasing. “It's been
days,
doctor—
days.
I'm not used to waiting so long for a guy to call. But I guess being the savior of the dispossessed is a full-time gig. Or are there other things that have kept you hopping?”

I looked at the cake. “I have patients, Mandy.”

She giggled. “I'm sure you do. And I have
patience,
doctor, but it's not infinite.”

“I don't know what to tell you.”

“Tell me that you've decided what you want. Tell me what I can do for you.”

I laughed. “What is this—good cop, bad cop with you and Kyle?”

There was silence for a moment, and then a deep breath. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about Kyle, two nights ago—following me, accosting me on the street, threatening me. Are you going to pretend that's news?”

Mandy sighed. “I had no idea, doctor—really. Kyle gets out of hand sometimes.”

“You'll forgive my skepticism. And you'll forgive me if I get back to work.” I put my phone down and picked up the paper plate and put it down again, because my appetite was gone.

I got out of the clinic just after dark, and drove west until I got to The Grove. I pulled into the big white parking structure, up the ramps to the fourth level, and into a space not far from a stairwell. I got out and locked my car, and Sutter appeared from the shadows.

“Shopping at Crate and Barrel today?” I asked. Sutter smiled minutely, glanced behind him, and said nothing. I followed him to the stairs. “Was that your Escalade I passed on three?” He nodded.

We walked up to the fifth level and found a gray Mazda there, parked facing out. Sutter opened it and we got in and drove. We took Fairfax out of The Grove, and went south and west, toward El Segundo.

I looked over at him. “If not Crate and Barrel, then what's with The Grove? And what's with the car swap?”

Sutter chuckled this time and checked the mirrors. “Siggy's boys have been like lint on me today. He's using lots of bodies and not trying to hide any of 'em. It's not subtle, but it gets the job done. Hence The Grove and the car swap.”

“He doesn't care that you see his people?”

“He wants me to see—wants to make sure I haven't forgotten about him. And let me tell you—it's a real pain in the ass. I've got people to see and business to do, and none of it happens with these poodles around.”

His mouth settled into a tight line and we drove in silence for a while. I watched the mirrors until everything seemed suspicious. Then I sighed.

“I had a poodle of my own on Saturday,” I said, and told Sutter about my run-in with Kyle Bray. He listened and nodded imperceptibly a few times, and when I was done he looked sideways at me and laughed.

“The new landlord, huh? Maybe he'll spring for clean carpet in your waiting room.”

“I'm thinking not.”

“Probably right. Guy's a head case.”

“I don't know if it's drugs or daddy issues or both, but his wiring is fried.”

“Maybe it always was. But I bet he's extra pissed at getting sent to the kiddie table. And I'm guessing Papa Bray and the cousin won't be too happy with him wandering off the rez.”

“Mandy didn't seem pleased. I just hope they get his leash back on.”

Sutter nodded and checked his mirrors again. He was mostly taking La Cienega, turning off sometimes and looping back to check for tails. The strip malls were unending and monotonous—like piles of lost luggage at the roadsides. My temples were throbbing.

Sutter pulled into a side street, into a space by a fire hydrant. He switched off the lights and the engine and watched the mirrors. They were black. He turned and looked at me.

“You're juggling chain saws, brother, and you got me juggling 'em too. It can only go on so long.”

I sighed. “I know, I know, and I'm sorry. I—”

“I'm not looking for apologies, but we need to get out of this holding pattern. No more waiting around for shit to happen.”

“So we do what instead?”

“We had a plan, the start of one, anyway—about squeezing the Brays, so that they lay off the kid and cough up some cash. About telling Elena's story out loud otherwise.”

I looked at Sutter and said nothing.

He sighed. “We gotta do something, brother. You got crazy Kyle stalking you and buying your building out from under you; you got his daddy and the little piranha cousin threatening you; and let's not forget about Siggy.”

“I haven't forgotten him.”

“Neither have I, as I sit here in not-my-car. I'm thinking we get Elena on video, telling her story. Arrange it like a deposition—have her under oath, with a lawyer asking the questions—then we make a highlight reel for Bray. We threaten to put the director's cut on YouTube, or send it to MSNBC.”

I thought about it and shook my head. “I just don't see how this scares someone like Harris Bray. He'll have an army of lawyers and press flacks on deck, just waiting to rack up billable hours for him. Not to mention those bullet heads from PRP.”

“He's got all that firepower on tap 'cause he's a big name, brother, and that's what we've got going for us: he wants to protect himself. You know firsthand the hoops even little tiny names jump through to guard their precious reputations. Harris Bray's got a whole lot more to lose. He's got bankers and business partners to worry about, not to mention all those high-profile boards and good works he's involved with. He doesn't want all that splashed with shit. And he's got political enemies too. I gotta think there're a few senators or congressmen or ambitious prosecutors who'd love to make their bones looking into these kinds of allegations.”

“We go public with Elena's story, we go public with her being an illegal,” I said. “Then ICE gets involved, and after that, who the hell knows what happens—to her or to Alex. Who knows where he might end up?”

“It won't come to that.”

“You're sure about that?”

“Nothing's for sure, but Harris Bray—hell, all his companies and his whole damn family—have a long way to fall. I just don't think they're gonna go that route.”

I sighed again, and we were quiet for a while on the dark street. “We'll need DNA tests to go along with Elena's deposition—in case the Brays try to sell their story of her not being his mom.”

Sutter slapped the steering wheel and smiled. “Now you're talking.”

“And we've got to get Elena's buy-in,” I said. “If she says no—”

“She won't,” Sutter said. “Girl wants her pound of flesh, and this is the closest she's gonna come to it.” Then he started the car and pulled from the curb.