“Because he doesn’t believe I was framed for manslaughter. I had nothing to do with that woman being killed. I swear.”
“Look, Max, I know very little about your case,” I said, getting a bit annoyed. “All I heard was you were playing a head doctor without a licence and conned some hard cash from your patients. Is that correct?”
“That’s all true, but I was helping them figure out their problems. I’m not lying.”
“Hey, trust me when I say I don’t care,” I stated. “The other part of your sorry tale was that a patient died and you were convicted of her death.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Keep going—time’s running out,” I instructed. “Why should I believe you and not your jury? Are you saying she jumped to her death and that you weren’t in your office when it happened? Did she slip on a banana peel or something? Tick, tick, tick, Max.”
“I . . . ah . . . I . . .”
“Spit it out before it’s too late, Max,” I demanded.
“I was there.”
“And?”
“I can’t say any more over the phone.”
“The word can’t isn’t in my vocabulary.”
“This call will terminate in 30 seconds.”
“You’ve got to help, Steve.”
“Help you what?”
“Find him.”
“Find who?”
“The man who killed her.”
“Now you’re saying this woman was murdered but not by you? Is that what I’m to understand?”
“Yes. You’ve got to find him before he kills again.”
“This guy didn’t have a scraggly beard and one arm, did he? Because Harrison Ford and David Janssen both had a heck of a time tracking him down in The Fugitive.”
“I know it sounds nuts, I do.”
“I guess you’d be qualified to make that judgment, right? What’s that saying—Doctor, heal thyself?”
“Please take a look at my court file. Treat this like a cold case investigation. I swear this guy has got to be stopped.”
At this stage in our conversation, I wished I had pressed 2-2, but I figured in less than a minute my dealings with Max would come to an end.
“Cold case files are for retired coppers or wet-behind-the-ears rookie detectives who’ve played too many games of Clue. That’s not me,” I said, as I followed the second hand on my watch continue to count down the final minute. “Just because you have twenty–four hours a day to go over your trial and conviction doesn’t mean I do.”
“This call will terminate in 15 seconds.”
“Sure you do, Stevie,” Max replied, his voice unexpectedly cold, almost menacing in tone. “With your licence suspended, it’s not like your P.I. business is going anywhere these days.”
“So I have the time, big deal,” I countered. “Give me one good reason I should help, besides for old time’s sake?”
Ten seconds to go, I thought.
10-9-8-7-
His delivery was slow and deliberate. “I’ll give you two: Maria and Linda.”
The line then went dead.
“This call has been terminated.”
***
I had barely taken a breath when there was a rap at the front door. I slammed down the phone and made a beeline to the foyer, screaming at the top of my lungs, “You better start running, you sick bastard. I’ve had enough of this sh—”
I grabbed hold of the handle and almost ripped the door from its hinges. Instead of encountering one of Max’s henchmen on the porch, I was confronted by a terror-stricken Dawn. We stared at each other in stunned disbelief for several moments, before she broke eye contact to glance down at my hands.
“I was going to make a run for it,” she said slowly, “but feared you might be armed with a kitchen knife or something.” She paused, then continued, “And the last image I want my mom to have of me is of being attacked by a madman wielding a meat cleaver.”
“You’re a good daughter,” I replied, trying to ease the tension. “I wasn’t yelling at you, I swear.”
“In the back of my mind I knew that,” she said. “I’ve never been called a sick bastard before but there’s a first for everything, right? I wondered if you had started drinking again and the alcohol mixed with your medication had an adverse effect on your mental state.”
“I’m not on any medication.”
“That could be your problem,” she deadpanned. “Maybe you should be.” Her facial muscles relaxed and a smile formed on her lips. “An anger management class or two wouldn’t hurt either.”
“I am so sorry, Dawn,” I apologized again. “I received some disturbing news on the phone and believed the caller had sent someone over to further illustrate their point.”
“You need some new friends,” Dawn advised. “Forget about those high school losers you used to hang out with. Was the guy on the phone—Mr. Sick Bastard—looking for money?”
“How much does a pound of flesh cost these days?” A quizzical look came over Dawn’s face. I couldn’t tell if she was repulsed or confused. “Forget I said that. It’s not about money—at least not yet.”
With both our blood pressure rates stabilized, I asked Dawn inside.
“You’re sure it’s safe?”
“I promise nothing will happen that will give your mother nightmares.”
I scanned the street before closing the door, expecting to see someone or something out of place, but found nothing amiss.
Too bad, I thought, internally still wanting to cause great physical pain to my unseen tormentor.
“Your watch is on the coffee table,” I told Dawn.
“This place looks bigger in the daylight,” she said as she walked into the living room. “And there’s your precious TV, right where I left it. Safe and sound,” she added as she put on her watch. “Without this, my shift seemed to go on and on and on.”
“I know what you mean,” I agreed, trying to keep the conversation casual. “I’m sorry about all the questions earlier. It’s just that—”
“You
