Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

case, it's not a bad idea to imply that someone else might have done the killing. Possible suspects can include God with a lightning bolt or vengeful Colombian drug dealers stalking Faye Resnick.

"Did you leave Dr. Schein alone in the room with the patient?" I asked in a tone suggesting this would constitute a grave offense.

"Yes," she said, a bit defensively. Good.

"And he wasn't there when you raced into the room at eleven-fifty-one?"

"No, he wasn't."

"So, apparently, he quietly left the room and the ICU without being observed?" I wanted to say sneaked out, but Socolow would have pounded the table, and this got the point across anyway.

"Yes, I suppose he did."

"Did Dr. Schein speak to the patient?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there."

"And I suppose the answer would be the same if I asked whether Dr. Schein did anything to help Mr. Bernhardt."

"Again, I wasn't in the room, but of course, Dr. Schein was not there to treat the patient."

"Why was he there?"

"I'm not sure I understand the question," she said.

"Had Dr. Schein ever visited your ICU before?"

"Not that I recall."

"I'm just wondering," I said. "If Mr. Bernhardt was still groggy from the anesthesia, he couldn't carry on much of a conversation. I wonder what Dr. Schein was doing in there."

"In times of trouble, some people just like to be with those they care about," she said.

"Some people do," I agreed.

26

Lead-Pipe Arteries

I missed the hibiscus flowers in bloom.

Rising early, rushing to court, coming home after dark. The delicate blood-red flowers open in the morning when the sun is up, then close at dusk.

Hibiscus rosa-sinensis, Charlie Riggs calls my flowering bushes. Red, violet, and yellow, they grow in a tangle in the backyard. At dawn, I stood at my kitchen counter, slicing a papaya. The coffee gurgled and dripped through the filter into the pot. Somewhere outside, a cat wailed—an eerie, almost human scream. To the east, orange streaks appeared above the horizon, but in my overgrown yard of bushes, weeds, poinciana, live oak, and chinaberry trees, the world was still painted in dusky grays.

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Bare feet padding against the oak. She wore my old Penn State away jersey, the white one with the blue numbers. A faded grass stain on the belly. Had I made the tackle or ended up with a faceful of dirt? Who knows? No jazzy stripes or lightning bolts, no name on the back, no Nike swoosh in those innocent days, just number 58. Plain and simple. Like me.

She came up from behind and hugged me, laying her head on my shoulder. "You talked in your sleep," she said, "but I couldn't make out the words."

"Maybe I was practicing my inauguration speech for the Supreme Court."

"No. You were agitated."

"I was dreaming."

"Tell me."

"I don't remember," I lied.

"Uh-huh."

Chrissy let go and poured herself a cup of coffee. She didn't light a cigarette. I'd been trying to get her to stop. I try to be a good influence on my clients. Don't kill anyone else and please stop smoking.

Outside the window, a bird cawed. I didn't see it, but I knew it was the black fish crow that had built a nest in the live oak tree. Charlie Riggs had told me that the crows are extremely loyal and mate for life. Unlike the black-capped chickadees.

"We used to think most birds were monogamous," Charlie had said, "but we were wrong. The female chickadee will sneak out of the nest for a tryst with a male who ranks above her mate in the bird hierarchy. A queen bee will mate with two dozen drones in a day, and they'll all die when their genitals explode."

"Is there a lesson in this?" I'd asked.

"The mammals are the most promiscuous," Charlie had continued. "Probably less than two percent of the species practice monogamy."

Certainly not ours. In the backyard, the bird cawed again, though it was more like a cah, my crow picking up a Boston accent.

I squeezed a lime over the papaya and tried to catch a glimpse of the bird. No luck.

"Jake, what are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"That's impossible."

It didn't seem like a question, so I didn't answer.

"I'm frightened when I wake up and you're not in bed," she said. "I always think you've left me."

"I woke up early. That's all."

My dream was still with me. A naked woman. Chrissy? Who could tell? The director hadn't called for any close-ups, and the lighting was bad. I walked into the picture, reaching out, my hands cupping her full, bare breasts. A grinding sound, and then the pain. Her nipples became drill bits, stabbing me, cutting through my palms. It was so damn obvious I didn't even need to call Dr. Santiago for her analysis.

I had awakened in a sweat and crawled out of bed. Chrissy stirred beside me, but I made it downstairs without waking her. I slipped a CD into the player, turned the volume down low, and listened to Sade whisper that I was a smooth operator. Right.

What was I doing? Where was I headed? I am a man without a plan, a defined goal. Careening through life, bouncing off immovable objects, finding friends, battling foes, losing lovers. Drifting on the currents, so near, so far from shore.

In the middle of a trial, there is nothing else. There is nothing that happened before; there can be no life after. All-consuming, this trial more than any other.

Because of her. Now I didn't know which was worse, losing her or letting her down.

The world seemed to be closing in. Abe Socolow was wrapping up his case. Yesterday, a fingerprint expert had testified that Chrissy's latents were on the Beretta that was recovered at her feet. Then came the assistant medical examiner, whose testimony as to cause of death was even more important than Dr. Quintana's because she had done the autopsy.

Dr. Mai Ling wore a white lab coat, a photo ID clipped to her pocket. She was petite and short-haired, prim and fastidious, and