“Why do you care what George thinks?” She was pouting now.
Clayton brushed her off. “He’s under my charge. It’s part of my job.”
“What is it about these deaths? What are they to you?”
Clayton paused. “It all relates to George Wilson’s state of mind. That’s all I can really say about it at this point.”
She looked hurt.
Clayton knew he might very well need her help again, so he swallowed his pride and buttered her up. “Thank you for your efforts. Really! You’ve been a tremendous help, but now I have to run. Sorry! I’d love nothing more than to stay and have a drink and then… have a little fun. And we will do that soon. I promise. In fact, Saturday at Spago Beverly Hills. It will be a great evening. But for now I want you to continue to monitor George closely. Just for the next few days. And you let me know right away if he decides to act on his concerns. Okay?”
Debbie was not happy with having to go on seeing George, and even less so about the possibility of Clayton putting her off. “Despite what you might think,” she said, “I have some plans myself in the near future. I’m not just sitting around waiting for you to call.”
He put his arm around her waist. “This is important.” He bent down and kissed her. God, he resented Thorn for putting him through this.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “And you better not cancel on me for Saturday night!”
“Not a chance. I promise. I’m looking forward to it.” Clayton gave her a wink as he opened the door. “No worries. It’ll be a wonderful evening.” Once outside, he literally ran to his car. He had brought his Lexus SUV since he didn’t like to leave his Ferrari parked on city streets. Starting the car, he hoped to hell his date was still waiting for him. As he accelerated away from the curb, he wondered when he should tell Thorn the bad news about George’s interest in iDoc reservoirs.
31
George was off from work for the Fourth of July for the first time since coming to Los Angeles, but he had no desire to spend it at the beach. Instead, he wanted to use the day digging into Kasey’s, Sal’s, and Laney’s deaths. The first thing he planned to do was get in touch with Sal’s primary-care physician, Dr. Roland Schwarz. George had had the opportunity to talk with him briefly six months previously on Sal’s behalf. Sal had been confused about the doctor’s orders, and George stepped in to clear them up. He remembered that Schwarz, although somewhat curt, had been cooperative and reasonably knowledgeable.
George dialed Schwarz’s office number with the intention of leaving a message. He was caught off guard when Schwarz himself answered the phone.
“This is Dr. Schwarz, how may I help you?” Schwarz bellowed brusquely.
“Hello, Dr. Schwarz,” George stammered, not prepared to talk to the man himself. “This is Dr. George Wilson calling. I’m at L.A. University Medical Center. We spoke on the phone a few months back regarding a patient by the name of Salvatore DeAngelis. I’m calling now with a few additional questions.”
“I’m seeing patients today,” Schwarz snapped. “If you academic types want to talk, you can come by the office.” With that he hung up.
George was so amazed that the man was seeing patients on the Fourth of July that he hardly even registered the guy’s rudeness. If the man wanted him to come to his office, George would oblige.
Dr. Schwarz’s practice was in Westwood Village, on a quaint, tree-lined street normally populated with throngs of UCLA students. But as it was a summer holiday, the streets were quiet; anyone who wasn’t on break was down at the beach for the day. It was, after all, Southern California.
The medical center where George worked was within walking distance from Schwarz’s office, so George was able to use the hospital garage for his car and make his usual breakfast run. He finished his bagel walking down Braxton Avenue, looking for the doctor’s building. He found Schwarz’s name on a faded shingle bolted onto an old Mission-style ediface.
George stepped inside and surveyed the room, noting that there wasn’t a receptionist, a secretary, or even a nurse present, just a half dozen patients waiting to be seen. They all looked up, evaluating George as he walked in. He gave them a quick grin and took an empty seat, not wanting to risk looking as if he were going to cut the line. Once he settled into a seat everyone relaxed.
George waited while several people who had arrived before him were seen. Schwarz would poke his head out of the adjacent room and call a name off a clipboard, then usher in the patient. Glimpsing the interior, George could see that the entire office consisted of just two rooms: the waiting room and a combination exam room/office. George understood that his name wasn’t on the clipboard and that if he didn’t get up and nab Schwarz he’d be sitting there until closing time.
The next time Schwarz popped his head out George made his move. The man whose name had been called stood up at the same time, creating a moment of confusion. George apologized, saying that he was a doctor and was only there to have a quick word with Schwarz.
Schwarz watched the exchange over the top of a pair of bifocals. George turned to him expectantly but was unceremoniously told to take a seat. Chastened, George did as told while watching Schwarz usher his patient inside.
George scanned the room. Everyone was staring at him as if he were an intruder bent on making their wait longer. Finally, Schwarz reappeared.
“Doctor?” Schwarz called to George.
George jumped up and hustled into the exam room. What immediately caught his attention was the computer monitor on Schwarz’s desk. It was one of those massive old-school cathode ray tubes that took up the entire desktop. George hadn’t seen one in years. By appearances, Schwarz was as old-school as it got. He had a full gray beard with a balding pate and a set of bifocals that dangled by a string around his neck. To his credit, he wore a clean, crisp white coat and a well-knotted if out-of-style tie. One thing he had going for him, at least, was that he projected an aura of knowledge and trust. But he wasn’t friendly. He was cantankerous and curt toward George, just as he had been on the phone. He didn’t invite George to sit down. Instead he said, “I don’t have a lot of time, so get to the point.”
“I appreciate your seeing me,” George began, “and I’m amazed that you’re seeing patients on the Fourth of July.”
“I have no choice but to see patients on holidays. I’m being squeezed by insurance companies and their reimbursement rules. Just to make ends meet, I practically have to work twenty-four-seven.”
“I can imagine how difficult it is.”
“No, you academic doctors have no idea,” Schwarz replied, shaking his head. “What type of doctor are you anyway? A specialist?”
“Yes,” George admitted, almost as if apologizing. He felt reluctant to say he was just a resident.
“I assumed as much. Why are you here, then? Be quick! I need to get back to seeing patients.”
“It’s regarding Mr. Sal DeAngelis.”
Schwarz ambled over to an old-fashioned file cabinet and fingered through a batch of folders, locating the one with Sal’s name on it. He opened the file and looked up at George. “Okay. What?”
“First, did you notice any suicidal ideation in the patient?”
“For Chrissake,” Schwarz complained with a grimace. “Are you a psychiatrist?”
“No. I’m a radiologist.”
“I have no idea if DeAngelis had suicidal ideation.” He glanced through Sal’s chart. “I never wrote that, but the man was a pain in the ass.” Schwarz ticked off Sal’s indiscretions. “He couldn’t remember anything I told him, he never took his medicines as ordered, and he was always losing track of his blood sugar. What else do you want to know?”