The Accidental Detective

don’t you want a photo or something?”
    “Maybe for my dad. His name is Pat.”
    He walked over to the sleek, modern desk, which didn’t look as if it got much use, and extracted a glossy photo from a folder. “Nothing for you?”
    “No, that’s okay.”
    Bandit gave her a quizzical look. “If I told you I had an ERA under four, would that impress you?”
    “No, but I would pretend it did.”
    T HE DOORMAN PROVED to be a nosy little gossip. Tess wouldn’t want to live next door to him, but she wished every investigation yielded such helpful busybodies. He not only remembered the motormouth delivery “boy,” but he remembered his car.
    “A dark green Porsche 911, fairly new.”
    “You gotta be kidding.”
    “Why would I make that up? Guy got out in a rush, handed me his keys like he thought I was the fuckin’ valet. I told him to go up and I’d watch his precious wheels. He even had vanity plates—‘ICU.’”
    “As in ‘Intensive Care Unit’?”
    “Could be. Although, in my experience, the doctors drive Jags while the lawyers who sue them pick Porsches. Hey, do you know the difference between a porcupine and a Porsche?”
    “Yes,” Tess said, refusing to indulge the doorman’s lawyer joke, on the grounds that it was too easy.
    Everything was too easy. She ran the plates, found they belonged to Dr. Scott Russell, who kept an office in a nearby professional building. Too easy, she repeated when she drove to the address and saw the Porsche parked outside. Too easy, she thought as she sat in the waiting room and pretended to read
People,
watching the white-jacketed doctor come and go, chatting rapidly to his patients. He had a smug arrogance that seemed normal in a doctor, but how would it go over in a delivery boy? A motormouth, the doorman had said. As if he were on a social call, Bandit had said. The doctor may have dressed up like a delivery boy, but he hadn’t been prepared to act like one.
    The only surprise was that he wasn’t a surgeon or a gastroenterologist, but an ophthalmologist specializing in LASIK. ICU—now she got it. And wished she hadn’t. But his practice, billed as Visualize Liberation, was clearly thriving. He presided over a half-dozen surgeries while she waited. It was easy to keep count, because each operation was simulcast on a screen in the waiting room, much to Tess’s discomfort.
    By 2:45 P.M. , the last patient had been ushered out. The receptionist glanced curiously at Tess.
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “No, but I need to speak to Dr. Russell.”
    “It’s almost three P.M. He doesn’t see anyone after three, not on Wednesdays.”
    “He can see just me now, or meet with me and the Baltimore city police later.”
    “But it’s three P.M. and it’s
Wednesday.
”
    “So?”
    “That’s trade deadline. The last girl who interrupted him on a Wednesday afternoon got fired.”
    “Luckily, I don’t work for him.”
    Tess walked past the receptionist, assuming someone would try to stop her. But the receptionist sat frozen at her desk, face stricken, as if Tess were heading into the lion’s den.
    Dr. Russell was on the phone, a hands-free headset, his back to her as he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the windowsill.
    “—no, no, Delino is healthy, I swear. You always think I got inside information because I’m a doctor, but all I know is eyes, not backs. I want to trade him because I don’t need run production as much as I need pitching, so I’m unwilling to give you him for a closer. Look, you’re not even in the hunt for one of the top four slots. It’s bad sportsmanship to refuse a good trade just because you don’t want me to take first place.”
    “Hey,” Tess called out. “ICU. Get it?”
    When he turned around, his narrow, foxy features were contorted with rage. “I am BUSY,” he said. “I know everyone wants to consult with me, but the other doctors here are quite competent to do the intake interviews.”
    “I’ve got twenty-twenty vision,” Tess said. “So does the doorman who saw you and your car at Harbor Court when you delivered food to Bandit Gonzales. Here’s a tip—the next time you attempt a felony, don’t use a Porsche with vanity tags.”
    “I’ll call you back,” he said into the headset. “But think about Delino, okay?” Then to Tess: “Felony? He didn’t get that sick. I love Bandit Gonzales and would never hurt him. I’m counting on another win from him in his next