Warpath

“I don’t see a Clarence Petticoat in our system. I don’t know what to say.” She starts to look around for help.

Before she goes and gets a manager who might be more concerned about HIPPA law than my bullshit gay relationship, I say, “Well, miss, I used to do this also. Data entry, records keeping, phones, that kind of thing. Maybe I could make some teeny-weenie suggestions?”

She just looks at me and says, “Sure.”

“He said the University hospital. I could have the date wrong...but I doubt it. Maybe you could check the entire week’s schedule?”

“Sure. We should have all the scheduled procedures in the system...let’s see...” Keystrokes, more keystrokes. She sits back, types something else. Huffs out.

“I’m not seeing Mr. Petticoat slated for anything cardiovascular or otherwise in the entire month. I’m so sorry, sir. I’d hate to ask you to call him but I’m just not sure what I can do.”

He lied about Dan Martins and Carla Gabler. He lied about a potentially lethal surgery. What else now? What the shit is going on?

The young secretary looks up and sees my face. She doesn’t say anything. I can’t queer-up this kind of fury. The girl believes my boyfriend is lying to me about something. Worse. A client is lying to me about something. Something tense that might end poorly.

“Never mind.” Ice. Finished. I push away from the counter.

“You’re welcome,” she calls after me.

I walk into the lobby. A large cardboard box is set up to collect clothes and toys for children in the hospital burn unit. I drop the teddy bear inside. I walk out the front door and let go of the balloon. It sails off into the gray morning sky off towards a cold death somewhere alone.

Something is happening next Monday that requires this whole thing to be wrapped up. Something Petticoat felt he had to lie about. What was he planning on doing if I found out he lied?

I should ask him.

At gunpoint.

11

Running around. Mundane.

I meet with Rose MacHowell at her new office in Precinct 3. She has all the paperwork required for me to request a DNA sampling from Sheila Petticoat’s case. All nice and neat. Everything I need to sign is highlighted. Marked with an X. It still takes twenty minutes to go through.

We catch up for a while and I ask her to get ahold of her husband so I can take them to lunch. We meet him at a nice place where the appetizers are forty dollars and sodas are not on the menu. Lunch is pleasant. Rose has her shield displayed on her belt and her compact semi-auto handgun on her hip for the world to see. My iron is stashed under my jacket and I wonder if the wait staff can see it. I’m always curious how sneaky I am with it.

Rose, her husband and I part ways at the restaurant’s front door. She says she’ll get the paperwork filed today and expedited as fast as she can.

“Hopefully no later than Friday,” Rose says, patting me on the shoulder. “Friday by the very latest.”

I pull up in front of Petticoat’s office, ready to acquire some answers, even if he has to eek them out around my squeezing mitts.

The office complex is very modern. It can’t be older than a few years. Three stories. A pediatric dentistry practice occupies all the first floor except for the building lobby. The second floor looks like it has lawyers. The third has accountant next to one person’s name. Petticoat has a corner space. I take the stairs.

His office door is closed, locked. A printed sign is attached to the door reading CLOSED and then a phone number. I call the number. Office line. I hear the fucking phone inside ring. Aggravating. Who tells people the office is closed but still wants them to call the unoccupied office? I dial his cell phone. On the second ring he answers.

“Mr. Buckner. How are you?”

“Clarence. I stopped by your office. I want to talk to you.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m at the hospital. They want to run a bunch of tests before the operation. Blood work, EKG, you know the type.”

I hear a ghostly noise in the background. I know what it is, but I need to stall him so I can hear it again. To make sure.

“The University hospital, right?” I ask.

“Yeah. Good folks.”

“You might want to reconsider who cuts you open,” I say. “I hear that hospital doesn’t have the survival rate the other area hospitals do. Just saying.”