BLIND TRIAL by Brian Deer (good books to read for adults .txt) 📕

T-shirt and blue surf shorts, he was more an athlete or an artist than a suit. He was courteous, attentive. He acknowledged her fears. And the way he jumped in front of that train… But when she called him Sunday evening, he sounded distant, preoccupied, as if his interests were already elsewhere.

She reopened the Lancet, clicked to the job ads, then heard squeaks in the corridor outside.

HE LEANED on the doorframe. “You busy, or what?”

“Oh, hi Ben. You’re here. No, not at all. Thinking how to get home. Want a coffee?”

He didn’t want a coffee: he was wired already. “I’m up for whatever you got.”

She led him to a kitchen on Wilson’s corridor and pulled two china cups from a shelf. She seemed somehow different to the way he remembered. Less lady. More doctor. Still hot.

In DC, she’d struck him as a pretty relaxed person: a slim and tight, wildcatting whistleblower. But now, filling a kettle under white, fluorescent light, she looked tenser than a migraine headache.

She shoveled the cups with instant Nescafé. “Will Dr. Mayr be long, do you know?”

“No idea. Probably hours.”

“Only it’s my car’s actually off the road, and I’m hoping to get a ride from someone. So, I don’t know whether to wait or not to speak with her.”

“You come to the right place. We got a rental at the airport.” Ben thumbed over his shoulder. “Left it in some parking structure, that way.”

Sumiko lowered her voice and pointed with a finger. “Actually, it’s that way. But near enough.”

After two gulps of coffee and a shared ginger biscuit, she led him downstairs and along a cement path to where he’d left a powder white Nissan Sentra.

Now there was no doubt about it: the foxy lady was back, joking about the seatbelt like she’d never worn one before and fingering the parking brake. As the car turned onto Twenty-Second Street and climbed Potrero Hill, on the city’s east side, she even drummed on her knees to Metallica.

But she hadn’t forgotten Wilson. That was too much to hope for.

“Can I ask you a question?” she said. “And please be honest.”

“Course. That’s important. Ask away.”

“Honestly, do you think she’s really going to do something about him? I mean, not just try to make me think she’s investigating by coming out here. Do you think she might actually nail him?”

Ben slowed at an intersection and took a sideways glance through a pair of Maui Jim Beachcomber shades. He’d bought them that morning at Hartsfield-Jackson airport while waiting for Doc Mayr to show.

“Certainly. Of course. Why wouldn’t she? She’s been giving him a proper hard time you know. Recorded and everything.”

“Good.”

“Says she’ll interview Ardelia, Nurse Aderonke, and anybody else who knows anything. ‘Source data verification,’ she says, as well. Going to check all kinds of records and stuff.”

“That sounds hopeful, I suppose.”

Now she sneaked a glance at him, as if she figured he wouldn’t notice. And it wasn’t just a glance, but a checkout. “Where are you staying? You know you look very tired. You must have gotten up early this morning.”

This lady was getting personal. She was definitely up for something. She was about as hard to read as a boarding pass.

“Booked at the Hyatt. On Union Square.”

“That’ll be expensive. So, it’s real, this inquiry then? It’s not only to keep me sweet?”

“Course it’s for real. It’s a special assignment. And that’s from senior management.”

She looked at him again: the full up and down. From his shades to his chest to his crotch to his foot as it moved from brake to gas. Here was a boarding pass to a warm, wet place. Dinner and a fuck and a raise.

Her gaze persisted. “You know anything about fish, by any chance?”

“Fish? What, you mean like salmon and stuff?”

“No, I mean tropical fish. Tropical fish is my hobby. And one of my latest has died, and I can’t think why. It’s a Banggai cardinalfish.”

Ben pursed his lips and nodded. “Banggai cardinalfish? Ahh. Good choice. Usually, it’s the temperature of the water, or sometimes the food you’re giving them that can be a factor. Otherwise, it might be some kind of illness.”

“I wondered if one of the others might have killed it.”

“Can happen too with those, possibly.” Now he was the fish doctor. Fish, he knew nothing about.

“Would you like to come up and take a look.”

ON THE CREST of Potrero Hill, at Twentieth and Missouri, Sumiko pointed to a three-story apartment building with wooden siding the color of duck eggs. It straddled the corner, with three front doors, and awesome views north and east: the first downtown and a slice of the Bay Bridge; the other across water to where a black-hulled container ship rode an orange smog in front of Oakland.

“That’s my place,” she said, as he spun the wheel to park with the Sentra’s nose to the sidewalk. “Up there on the top, with the curtains.”

He edged the car forward till its tires bumped the curb, locked the brake, killed the engine, and looked up. It was hardly three hours since he landed at San Francisco, and his assignment was on track for completion. Fuck first, then dinner, phone Hoffman, fuck again. Then plan a few days of fun together.

“Nice location and…” He stopped mid-thought, distracted by a spooky coincidence. He’d parked alongside another white sedan and noticed that it too was a Sentra. The same powder white, the same four doors, the same charcoal interior and silver multi-spoke wheel trim. Also factory new. Identical.

“Hey, Potrero Hill Autos.”

Sumiko gasped. “Yes, and I think…” Her words faltered. “I think, yes, and ahh, I think…”

Together, they gazed at the car to their right and especially its front nearside window. The drivers’ seat was occupied by a black-haired man: a man they’d both seen before.

“Actually, Ben, now I remember… I’m afraid I need to make some phone calls about my Beetle. The transmission’s failed, and I’m waiting on an estimate. Maybe a better idea, let’s think, let’s think, would be