Rachel Alexander 09 - Without a Word

difficult to take her eyes from Dashiell’s eyes.
    “That’s how I got him,” I said, neglecting to add that he’d been a puppy at the time and that by removing him from where he was, I’d saved him from a life, or a death, in the pit, the dirt-floored ring where illegal dogfights took place.
    “He’s house-trained,” I said, “and anyway, we’ll be in and out in a minute.”
    She opened the gate and then turned to face me. “I don’t guess there’d be any harm in it. But I’ll be right there with you every minute.”
    “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I said, following her into the small courtyard. She unlocked the wrought iron gate and then two locks on the inner door.
    The waiting room, not unexpectedly, was full of toys and books, with cheerful pictures of animals on the walls, everything in pale peach, including the carpet. Ms. Peach punched a code into the alarm system to disarm it.
    “I bet you’re the one who’s responsible for this,” I said. “It’s perfect.”
    Ms. Peach beamed, opened a drawer on the other side of her desk, dropped in her purse and locked the drawer. “Dr. Willet wanted to redecorate shortly after I was hired. He asked me to find someone. I said, ‘Why spend all that extra money? I did the office at my last job,’ I told him. ‘I can do this one, too.’ ”
    “And he agreed?”
    “He was delighted.”
    She led me to the second office down the long hallway. She opened the door, stepped back and let me pass.
    Dr. Bechman’s office was done in beige, and like the waiting room, walls and carpet were in shades of the same color. His rather imposing desk was in the center of the room, bookshelves were to my right, three chairs faced the desk, a place where the child and his or her parents might sit and talk to the doctor.
    Dashiell dipped his head and began soaking up the scents on the rug, right at the place where Dr. Bechman must have fallen.
    “What is he doing?” Ms. Peach asked, as if it was now registering for the first time that I’d brought a dog into the doctor’s perfect office.
    “Just checking out the scents on the carpet,” I told her.
    “There are no—”
    I held up my hand. “That’s just the way dogs view the world,” I told her.
    She watched him a moment longer, as if he might do something untoward in this sacred space, while I looked around the room. Behind the desk, on the windowsill, facing the patients’ chairs, were the obligatory photos of the doctor’s family, an expensively turned-out wife who, my guess was, looked years younger than her age and two well-groomed teenage boys.
    “That would be Mrs. Bechman,” I asked, pointing, “and the children?”
    “A lovely person.”
    “You’ve met her?”
    “Just on the phone, of course.”
    “Never here?”
    She shook her head.
    “So she doesn’t work in the city?”
    “Mrs. Bechman?” Ms. Peach smiled, the kind of smile that lets you know how perfectly silly your question was. “No shopping trips and then lunch with the doctor?“
    “Oh, Dr. Bechman never went out for lunch. He just worked straight through, same as Dr. Willet and Dr. Edelstein, busy, busy, busy.”
    I took a step toward her. For a moment, I thought Ms. Peach would take a step back, but she just stiffened.
    “I’ve been so rude,” I said in a stage whisper. “I should have asked you right away. Was it Dr. Bechman who hired you? Is your job in jeopardy now?”
    “Oh, no. I mean, yes, it was Dr. Bechman, but I work for the whole office. I’m sure . . .“ And then the doubt I’d planted was written all over her face.
    “I imagine they’ll find someone else to share the office, or buy his practice. After a decent interval, of course.”
    “Of course.”
    Ms. Peach was fussing with her hair.
    I picked up one of Dr. Bechman’s cards. “Another pediatric neurologist, perhaps.”
    “I’m sure Mrs. Bechman will sell the practice. It’s customary.”
    I nodded. Dashiell lay down.
    “We’ve had several inquiries already,” she whispered.
    I nodded again, picking up a heavy paperweight from the doctor’s desk, turning it over in my hands and then putting it down an inch or so from where it had been. Ms. Peach reached by me and moved the paperweight back to its proper place.
    I took a step toward the bookshelves. “The cops have been by a lot, I bet.” My back to Ms. Peach.
    “They’ve been wanting to take Madison’s records, but they need a court order. Anything between doctor and