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“Get the defibrillator charged up.”

“Give him some Epinephrine... an amp of Bicarb...”

“Draw some gases.”

“Get ready to defibrillate.”

A stream of personnel squeezed into the room while others hurried out with specimens for the lab. In a matter of moments, plastic bags and bits of paper littered the floor. The duty nurse ripped away the hospital gown and squeezed gel onto Ivan’s chest.

Watching the activity through the window, an icy fear chilled Claudia to her bones.

We shouldn’t have pressed so hard.

The doctor barked, “
Clear
” and applied the paddles.

Ivan’s body bucked on the bed.

Again the doctor called, “Clear!” Electricity slammed through Ivan a second time.

A third.

Twenty minutes into the crisis, the doctor came out into the hall, wearing the face of one who has looked death in the eye too often for it to make much of an impact anymore. He assured them it wasn’t their fault; that Ivan had not succumbed because of their questions.

“We’ll have to wait for the autopsy to be sure,” he said, “but it was probably a subdural hematoma... a blood clot in the brain. We’re able to revive the patient in about sixty percent of the cases, but I’m afraid this wasn’t one of them.” He patted Claudia’s arm in a practiced way. “Don’t blame yourselves; it most likely would have happened anyway.” Outside, the sun still shone brightly. Two orderlies strolling behind them were cracking jokes. An elderly woman steered her husband’s wheelchair. Life went on as usual outside the hospital walls, but not for Ivan.

The day, which had started out so promisingly, had turned Kafkaesque. “I don’t care what that doctor said,” Claudia said bitterly. “We shouldn’t have pushed him so hard.”

Jovanic’s mouth was set in a hard, thin line, and she was having trouble reading his emotions. But when he spoke, he surprised her again with an unexpectedly gentle tone.

“We had to,” he said. “Those couple of words you got him to write are the only clue we’ve got. If we can’t find the tape, we’re up shit creek. Assuming it actually exists.”

“It won’t matter much to Ivan, will it?”

“We have to get the guy who did this,” Jovanic said, anger building in his voice. “We’re talking about a murder charge, now.”

“Yes, of course. You have to catch him.”

“You got any idea what he was talking about?”

Claudia took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, shaking her head. “No. We know he wrote ‘tape’.” She looked down at Jovanic’s notebook still clutched in her hand, and returned it to him. “And he said ‘brand,’ or something that sounded like it.” She sighed heavily. “I just don’t know.”

“So what the hell is on this tape he was so anxious for you to have?”

Claudia thought of the photos she had acquired from Earl Nelson, still in their envelope on her desk. The handwriting on them hadn’t provided any clues about the authorship of Lindsey’s alleged suicide note, but now she remembered that Nelson had mentioned videos.

“I bet it’s sex videos. Videotaping her clients and blackmailing them is exactly the kind of thing Lindsey would do.”

The cell phone was already out of Jovanic’s pocket and he was punching buttons. “I’ll call the property manager and make sure we can get into the penthouse. We’ve got to find that tape.”

They reached Claudia’s Jaguar. “I wonder who’ll take care of burying him,” she said as she unlocked the door. “I’d like to attend, if there’s a service.”

“I’ll talk to the people at his office and let you know.” Jovanic opened the door for her. “But first, I’ll follow you home.”

“Don’t bother, I’m fine.” She didn’t feel fine. She felt punch-drunk, and appalled at the ruthless way Jovanic had pressured Ivan. But at the same time she knew it was more crucial than ever to discover the true cause of Lindsey’s death and, now, of Ivan’s, and she was determined to participate in finding the answers. “Are you still meeting with Doctor Bostwick?” she asked.

“I’m heading over there now.”

“I’d still like to go, if you’re willing to take me.”

He stepped into her space, just a little too close. “Sure you’re up for it?”

She stood her ground, staring back at him eye-to-eye. “Listen, Columbo, I’m involved up to my eyelashes in this case. I’m not about to sit around at home like some meek little mouse, waiting by the phone to hear what happens next. Ivan was my client. We weren’t exactly bosom buddies, but I owe it to him to follow through. Besides, I’ve done a lot of police consulting, so you shouldn’t get in too much trouble for letting me tag along.”

He put up his hands in mock protest. “Fine, okay! How about I drive?”

“Why? You still think I’m not up to it?”

“Nope.” A half-smile dimpled one cheek. “I just always wanted to drive a Jag.” No one but Claudia was allowed to drive the Jag.

Ever.

She tossed him the keys and went around to the passenger side. He opened the door for her, climbed into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine, reverently caressing the burled-wood dash. The smile he gave her almost made her forget his merciless prodding of Ivan.

Charles Randolph Bostwick III, MD, owned a venerable old building of medical suites on San Vicente, a mile or so east of Cedars. Jovanic drove into the subterranean parking garage and parked the Jag on the second level next to a late-model Rolls Royce that had been polished to a high sheen. The Rolls occupied the space closest to the elevator and bore a personalized license plate: “HARDUP.”

“There’s a good word for that,” Claudia said, curling her lip in distaste. “
Rodomontade
.”

Jovanic stood aside, allowing her to precede him into the elevator. “You just swallow a dictionary?”

“It means braggadocio. I hate that kind of crap.”

“What do you want to bet that’s Bostwick’s car?”

“No takers on that one. Is he expecting us?”

He grinned nastily. “The element of surprise works wonders. No time to invent an alibi.”

“How do you know he’ll see us?”

“He’ll see us.”

In the lobby they switched elevators and rode to the eighteenth floor, headquarters of the Bostwick Maxillofacial Surgery Group, which also occupied the floors three and four.

Walking into a vestibule decorated with understated elegance, they found a woman seated behind an antique writing desk, working at a computer. She glanced up with a smile of anticipation. “Good afternoon, may I help you?”

In her demure, white silk blouse with its Peter Pan collar, and a soft cardigan sweater, she could have stepped out of the Donna Reed Show of the Fifties.

Probably wears pearls and high heels while she bakes chocolate chip cookies for the kids.

Jovanic flipped her his badge. “Detective Joel Jovanic, LAPD. I need a few moments with Doctor Bostwick, please.”

The smile instantly vanished, replaced by a worried frown. “Oh dear,” the Donna Reed clone said in a breathless voice. “Uh... can
I
... uh, help you? The doctor is with a patient...” She broke off mid-sentence. “There’s someone already waiting to see him.”

Catching the glances they cast at the empty lobby, she hurried to explain. “We have private waiting rooms. I’m sorry, but the doctor is already forty minutes behind schedule. I don’t see how... perhaps you could... there’s an office manager downstairs... down on the fourth floor.”

“This won’t take long,” Jovanic assured her. Something about the set of his jaw must have convinced her that he wasn’t going away. Or maybe it was the purposeful way he looked around, as if he might start looking for the doctor himself. Donna Reed glanced uncertainly at Claudia, perhaps hoping for some moral support. When none was forthcoming, she pressed her lips together in disapproval and touched a button on the phone.

They heard a beep, shortly followed by an irritable voice that boomed through the intercom. “What is it, Frances? I’m in a consult.”

“I’m so sorry, Doctor, please excuse me,” the woman stammered. “Um, uh, when you have a moment... there’s, uh... there’s someone here... someone who wants to speak with you.”

“I told you not to bother me,” the voice snapped back.

“I’m really sorry, Doctor, but I, um... I think it’s important... if you could just...” Was her inability to finish a sentence her natural mode, or a sign of habitual intimidation? In her imagination, Claudia gave the woman an overbearing husband who believed in wifely submission. He would have made her a doormat through years of abuse that was seconded by her employer.

Somewhere out of sight, a door slammed. A man in a snowy full-length lab coat with his name embroidered on the pocket careened around the corner and charged toward them with the force of a storm trooper.

Frosty blue eyes glared through gold-rimmed granny glasses that perched on the end of a well-shaped nose. He was past his prime, but would have still been handsome if his face hadn’t been twisted in temper.

He strode right up to Jovanic and for a moment Claudia thought he was going to jab him in the chest. She didn’t know Jovanic well, but something told her it was lucky for the doctor that he stopped short.

“Who are you and what do you want?” the doctor demanded.

Claudia had met men of Bostwick’s ilk before. Anal-retentive, bad-tempered, hating life, even when life had been good to them. She could guess what his handwriting might look like: heavy pressure, extreme right slant, long lower loops and plenty of sharp strokes. A man with a personality this angry might prefer red ink for emphasis.

Jovanic flashed his badge. “Detective Joel Jovanic,” he said. “LAPD. I’m sorry to disturb you, Doctor, but we need a few minutes of your time.”

“I’m trying to run a medical practice here. I don’t have time for bullshit. I’m not interested in tickets to the policeman’s ball.”

“This is a murder investigation, Doctor,” Jovanic announced, smooth as glass. The threat in his voice was nothing more than a subtle undertone. “It involves a former patient of yours, Lindsey Alexander. Perhaps we could speak in private?”

Bostwick swung sharply on his heel and returned the way he had come. “Ever hear of making an appointment? You’ve got five minutes.” To the woman at the reception desk: “Get Myron Gershman on the phone, then get Ron up here to finish the consult.”

Claudia and Jovanic followed Doctor Bostwick to a door at the end of the hall. Hewn from black walnut and polished to a high gloss, it had a brass plate with his name engraved on it.

He unlocked the door and they walked into a room that must have spanned the width of the building. Bostwick stepped onto a raised dais upon which stood a long table covered with stacks of books and papers. Standing above them. Putting psychological distance between them.

Behind him was an unobstructed view of the Hollywood sign. At the other end of the long room was a life-size jungle tableau in a glass case, where a magnificently maned lion tore at the bloody flesh of a downed zebra. A taxidermist’s dream.

Bostwick caught Claudia’s stare and mistook it for admiration. “Bagged him myself,” he declared with pride. “African safari, 1973.”

Before she could launch into her views on trophy hunters, Jovanic broke in. “About Lindsey Alexander...”

“I have no intention of talking to you about any of my patients,” Bostwick said. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“That privilege ended when she died,” Jovanic said, brushing off the sarcasm. “Perhaps you’ve heard of
that
. We’re not here to talk about your doctor-patient relationship.”

Bostwick swung his cold gaze onto Claudia. “Who are you?”

“Claudia Rose...”

“Ms. Rose is helping with the investigation,” Jovanic interrupted her with a warning look. “Why don’t you tell us about your
personal
association with Lindsey, Doctor.”

“There
was
no personal association. She was my patient. That’s all there is to tell.”

“That so? Do you have office hours on Saturday?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“She had an appointment with you on the day she died.”

“So what?” Bostwick retorted. “She killed herself, didn’t she?”

“Did she?”

The doctor puffed out his chest, managing to look like the injured party. “Why are you asking
me?
I know
nothing
about her death.”

The intercom sounded and the receptionist’s timid voice came over the speaker. “Uh, excuse me, Doctor Bostwick, I have... uh, Mr. Gershman is on the line.”

Bostwick threw them a smug look and pressed the speaker button. “My attorney,” he announced. Then, addressing the speaker, “Myron, there are some detectives here, asking questions about a patient of mine who recently committed suicide.”

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Are we on speaker?”

Bostwick affirmed that they were.

“Detective? I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I’m going to advise my client not to answer any questions without my being present. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to make an appointment for a time when we can all meet.”

Jovanic inclined his head at the doctor and replied to the speakerphone. “Certainly, sir. We’re just asking a few questions, but if you think your client needs an attorney, you’re welcome to bring him to the Wilshire Division police station this afternoon and we can conduct the interview there.”

“Now wait a goddamn minute,” Bostwick interjected. “I’m not going to any police station! I’ve done nothing wrong. If my patients got wind...”

“Hold on, Charles.” The lawyer’s voice bled in and out as his words crossed with the doctor’s over the speaker. “I can’t leave the office just at the moment, but...”

Anger stained the doctor’s cheeks an alarming scarlet and Claudia felt a flicker of concern. He was a total jerk, but after what had just happened to Ivan, she wasn’t anxious to witness him having a heart attack.

“Why the hell do I pay you that fat retainer every month if you aren’t here when I need you?” the doctor growled at the speaker phone.

Gershman had certainly danced this two-step many times before, and he had the routine down pat. His tone was conciliatory but firm. “Charles, I have another client here at the moment, but I can be there in about a half-hour. We’ll meet in your office at one o’clock. Detective?”