Notorious D.O.C. (Hope Sze medical mystery) (30 page)

Oh, God. This was where I needed the Y
chromosome and a lot more muscle. "You're not going anywhere." I knew
how ridiculous that sounded. One of my best friends once described my build as
twig-like. I hung on, acutely conscious of how thick his wrist was, covered in
coarse black hair. He wasn't huge, but he was much bigger than me. And I had no
right to touch him. If Mike backhanded me, would he be able to claim
self-defense?

Mrs. Lee stood up, but there was no way
I'd let an old lady break her hip on this. Show of force. I met Mike's eye and
said, with as much authority as I could muster, "Count it here."

He laughed aloud. "Who's going to
make me? You?"

A Goth girl shuffled by en route to the
bathroom. For a crazy second, I thought I could call on her to back me up as
needed. But she just dropped her paper coffee cup on the table beside us, pale
face averted and shaded by her long, dyed-black hair. No help there.

I yanked his wrist forward. He laughed,
breaking my grip easily. But with my left hand, I plucked the envelope from his
back pocket.

It was thick, neatly sealed, heavy with
money.

"Hey!" Mike snatched my wrist,
hard enough to grind my radius and ulna together. Teeth gritted, I snapped at
the envelope with my free right hand, but he imprisoned that wrist, too.

Mrs. Lee seized the envelope, startling
both of us.

Mike dropped my wrists and turned on her,
but hesitated. The whole café was watching. The waitress and another clerk
stood behind the counter, undecided, but the couple, the studious girl, and a
gaggle of teenagers stared at us.

"Just fooling around, folks,"
Mike said, with a cheery wave.

Everyone watched Mrs. Lee tuck the
envelope back in her purse. She nodded and waved everyone away, then took her
seat and primly crossed her legs, as if nothing had happened.

Gradually, conversation resumed with a
few glances our way. I refused to rub my wrists, even though the left one hurt
especially.

"What's the deal?" Mike said to
Mrs. Lee through a smile that almost looked genuine. "You want to know
about your daughter? Or you just want to play 'pass the envelope'?"

"I'll give you some money now,"
she said. "You can count it in front of both of us. But if you think you
can just take our money and run, you must think me a fool."

"Hey, you're the one who contacted
me." He spread his arms out and raised his voice. "I didn't come
looking for you. And, like I said, other people are asking. I'm a popular
guy."

Mrs. Lee didn't stir from her seat. After
a slight pause, she asked, "How much are those people paying you?"

"We haven't set a price yet."

"I'll give you fifty dollars right
now, before you tell me anything. For every useful piece of information, I'll
give you another twenty."

He blew his breath out between his lips.
"No way, Grandma."

"Do you know so little?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

They stared at each other. Mike and I
were both still standing. Only Mrs. Lee sat, seemingly serene. She sipped her
coffee.

Finally, he sank back in his seat.
"A hundred up front, fifty per tip. If you're too stingy with the $50's,
I'll stop talking."

Mrs. Lee nodded, and pulled the envelope
and a silver letter opener out of her purse. With great ceremony, she slit the
side of the envelope open.

Chapter
32

"My name isn't Michael Martin. It's
Michael Martinez, or it was back then. I was—what, nineteen? I didn't
know anything yet."

Old info. Mrs. Lee made no move toward
her purse. We watched him and waited for the story to flow.

He ran his hand through his hair.
"Ah, shit. I don't know what you want to know. Yeah, I was part of that
group—you know, the one Dr. Lee headed with Dr. Ven. I was the only guy,
which had its benefits." He grinned, but it dimmed fast. "Too bad
they were all nuts."

Mrs. Lee said, "I would like a list
of all the group members. That would be worth my while." She slid a
notebook and a pen toward him on the table. I glanced at her purse. It was only
moderate-sized, but I expected her to pull a tank out of it next.

"Put it on the table first."

She placed the cash, deftly hiding it
under her palm, but the flash of red made the denomination clear.

"No. Not where you can grab it
back."

She uncovered it and I dropped the sugar
bowl over it, leaving my hand over the bowl.

Satisfied, he laid his right hand on the
bill and clicked open the pen to scrawl. He was a lefty. "This is what I
remember."

I looked over his shoulder. As a doctor,
I'm pretty good at deciphering bad handwriting.

Kate

Tracy

Shelley

Sara

Reena

Jodey

My heart rate kicked up. "Wait a
minute. Jodi Green?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. We
didn't do last names."

"She came with Reena to the
emergency room."

"I'm not surprised. They were,
uh—" He smirked and glanced at Mrs. Lee. "—good
friends."

I'd known Reena was a lesbian, so that
didn't surprise me too much. But Jodi as a borderline? That was how they met?
Strange.

Mrs. Lee said nothing, but turned her
gaze back to the list. She was not amused.

Mike kept writing, but slower now.

Ann

Porsha

"I think that's it. I remember her
because her name's like the car, but she made a big deal about how it's spelled
different," he said. "But I'd have to think about the others. We had
the regulars and then we had the ones who dropped in sometimes. I don't
remember them all. Unless they were hot." He smirked some more before
filching the $50 from under the sugar bowl.

Mrs. Lee didn't blink, so I took my cue
from her and watched him pocket it.

Two seconds later, the Goth girl passed
us on the way back from the bathroom, scooping up her coffee. I was glad she
hadn't come out when the money was on the table, but it made me nervous that
Mrs. Lee had so much cash, and was doling it out in public. No matter how safe
the natives claimed Montreal was, it felt like we were begging for a mugging.
Not to mention whoever was already targeting me.

Mrs. Lee said, "Okay" and
ripped the list off the top of the notebook, folding it neatly in her purse.
She took out another $50 and covered it with the sugar bowl, but held her hand
over both of them. "That's a good start. Next. Where were you the night of
August eighth, 2003?"

I held my breath. My pulse beat in my
throat. Oh, God, Mrs. Lee. Around us, dishes clanked and a woman laughed, high
and excited, but the moment felt suspended.

Then Mike broke into a smile.
"That's worth at least a hundred, don't you think?"

I writhed in my seat. The police could
ask him for free. But we still had no evidence, and it was Mrs. Lee's call.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached
into her purse and added another $50.

Mike nodded and dropped his hand over the
sugar bowl. His fingertips were wide and blunt with old scars over two of his
left knuckles. At some point in his life, he'd been a fighter. It would not pay
to underestimate him.

Beside me, I sensed Mrs. Lee, too, was
holding her breath.

His eerie eyes moved from my face to hers
and back again.

Just the waitress returned with his
coffee. "Sorry for the wait," she said.

I avoided her eye, hoping she'd take the
hint and leave. But Mike said, "Is it fresh?" He slowly ripped open a
creamer, stirred it in, and tapped in a little sugar before tasting it.
"Coffee's not bad here. Thanks," he said, letting the waitress go. He
was enjoying the suspense. He was an actor, all right. But, just as he sensed
he was losing me, he handed over the information. "I was bartending."

"What about after the bar
closed?" I snapped. Laura was run down after her five-a.m. blade, and
Quebec bars close at three.

"It was an after-hours club. I was
there 'til seven. Lots of witnesses. Sorry, babe. Oops. I mean
Helen
." The $100 disappeared with
hardly a paper whisper. He did handle cash with a practiced ease. The
bartending and acting résumé would explain his plastic charm. We could check up
on his story, but I instinctively felt like he was telling the truth. So far.

He scrawled on the notepad, ripped off
the page, and handed it to Mrs. Lee with a little flourish. "Here are a
few of my buddies who were there."

"Thank you," she said.

I fought not to show my disappointment,
mind scrambling for another question. If he was upping the ante so quickly,
Mrs. Lee might not be able to afford many more strike-outs.

But Mrs. Lee had her bat at the ready.
Her voice was flat, the words evenly spaced and unmistakable. "Who killed
my daughter?"

Chapter
33

Mike hesitated. A flicker crossed his
face—shame?
 
Caution?—before
he slipped back into his usual mode. "What? And no money on the
table?"

"How much do you want?" Mrs.
Lee's voice shook on the last syllable.

I reached out toward her, but she swung
her shoulder away while still focused on Mike. This was between the two of
them. I was there as backup, and as a courtesy, nothing more.

Mike stirred his coffee and sipped it. I
got the feeling he was delaying not to be a jerk, but because he was making up
his mind.

Mrs. Lee slipped her hand in her purse
and grabbed some bills. She slapped them on the table without looking at them.
I saw a flash of brown and a man's face: hundreds, then. She was breathing
hard, almost panting.

My heart broke. I concentrated on glaring
at Mike instead.

Finally, he met her eyes once before
turning back to his coffee. "I'll tell you one thing. I don't know for
sure." He made no move toward the money.

I opened my mouth, but Mrs. Lee was
quicker.

"But you know something?" she
demanded.

He shrugged and sank into his seat.
"I'm not sure."

"Tell me!"

I winced at the rawness her voice. She
was only two steps away from a scream.

"I told you. I don't know." He
stopped. "But I'll tell you, the guy who stole the truck—this chick
asked him to. He didn't want to. He was gonna go straight." He spoke to
the table.

I held my breath. I knew, and I was
pretty sure Mrs. Lee knew, that "the guy" was Mike and we were
talking about the car that had killed Laura Lee.

"So, okay, he did it anyway. He left
it in a parking lot and went to work. The next day, he found out...it was that
truck. The police found the wreck back in the same parking lot."

He threw his napkin on the table and
stood up so fast, his chair rocked on its hind legs. He took a deep breath,
muttered something, and marched out of the café without a backward look.

I jumped to my feet. I might have been
able to catch him. But I happened to glance at Mrs. Lee. She was crying
silently, rivulets streaming down her face, eyes hazy with pain. The last batch
of money was still sitting on the table.

When I looked up again, Mike had
disappeared.

I thought I knew who the murderer was,
and it wasn't him.

I folded the money. It was crisp. I tried
not to imagine her going to the bank and withdrawing the bills, praying it
would buy her justice. "Mrs. Lee. We have to go." I tried to push the
money into her palm.

She brushed me away. "He said sorry.
That's what he said.
Sorry
."

"Mrs. Lee."

"Laura. Oh, Laura." She folded
her arms around herself and bent in half. "Oh, my beautiful girl. Oh, my
heart."

I shoved the money in my pocket and
rubbed her shoulder, wishing I knew what to say.

She groaned, just a puff of air, but I
smelled sour coffee and despair. I folded her in my arms. She stiffened. Then
she sobbed so hard, my shoulder grew damp, my arms ached from holding her up,
and her agony made my body rock, too. I felt people looking at us, but I
studiously ignored them until I saw one in particular, framed in the doorway.

Ryan.

He marched toward us. At the sound of
footsteps, Mrs. Lee pulled herself off of me and groped for a napkin to blow
her nose.

"Thank God you're here. Can you take
her home?" I said to him. It was not a time for hello kisses and profound
thank-yous, especially since my pager started to scream.

"Yeah,
no problem."

I
showed him the lists of buddies. "I can't explain right now, but these
people are Mike Martinez's alibi. Do you think you'd be able to start to check
them out? Or at least make copies so the police can do it?"