The Clinic Read Free Page B

booths were empty and we sat in a corner, away from sports on big-screen and frightened people trying to connect with strangers. Midway through the meal Robin left for the ladies’ room and Milo said, “Guess what I got for Christmas?”
    “Christmas is months away.”
    “Maybe that’s why this is no gift. Cold case. Three months cold: Hope Devane.”
    “Why now?”
    “ ’Cause it’s dead.”
    “The new lieutenant?”
    He dipped a shrimp in sauce and put the whole thing in his mouth. As he chewed, his jaw bunched. He kept looking around the room even though there was nothing to see.
    New lieutenant, same old pattern.
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    He was the only acknowledged gay detective in the LAPD, would never be fully accepted. His twenty-year climb to Detective III had been marked by humiliation, sabotage, periods of benign neglect, near-violence. His solve record was excellent and sometimes that helped keep the hostility under the surface. His quality of life depended upon the attitude of the superior-of-the-moment. The new one was baffled and nervous, but too preoccupied with a dispirited postriot department to pay too much attention to Milo.
    “He gave it to you because he thinks it’s a low-probability solve?”
    He smiled, as if savoring a private joke.
    “Also,” he said, “he figures Devane might have been a lesbian. “Should be right up your . . .
    ahem ahem. . . alley,Sturgis.’ ”
    Another shrimp disappeared. His lumpy face remained static and he folded his napkin double, then unfolded it. His necktie was a horrid brown-and-ochre paisley fighting a duel with his gray houndstooth jacket. His black hair, now flecked with white, had been chopped nearly to the skin at the sides, but the top had been left long and the sideburns were still long—and completely snowy.
    “Is there any indication she was gay?” I said.
    “Nope. But she had tough things to say about men, so ergo,ipso facto. ”
    Robin returned. She’d reapplied her lipstick and had fluffed her hair. The royal-blue dress intensified the auburn, the silk accentuated every movement. We’d spent some time on a Pacific island and her olive skin had held on to the tan.
    I’d killed a man there. Clear self-defense—saving Robin’s life as well as mine. Sometimes I still had nightmares.
    “You two look serious,” she said, slipping into the booth. Our knees touched.
    “Doing my homework,” said Milo. “I know how much this guy enjoyed school, so I thought I’d share it.”
    “He just got the Hope Devane murder,” I said.
    “I thought they’d given up on that.”
    “They have.”
    “What a terrifying thing.”
    Something in her voice made me look at her.
    “More terrifying,” I said, “than any other murder?”
    “In some ways, Alex. Good neighborhood like that, you go for a walk right outside your house and someone jumps out and cuts you?”
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    I placed my hand on top of hers. She didn’t seem to notice.
    “The first thing I thought of,” she said, “was she was killed because of her views. And that would make itterrorism. But even if it was just some nut picking her at random, it’s still terrorism in a sense. Personal freedom in this city kicked another notch lower.”
    Our knees moved apart. Her fingers were delicate icicles.
    “Well,” she said, “at leastyou’re on it, Milo. Anything so far?”
    “Not yet,” he said. “Situation like this, what you do is start fresh. Let’s hope for the best.”
    In the kindest of times optimism was a strain for him. The words sounded so out-of-character he could have been auditioning for summer stock.
    “Also,” he said, “I thought Alex might be able to help me. Dr. Devane being a psychologist.”
    “Did you know her, Alex?”
    I shook my head.
    The waiter came over. “More wine?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Another bottle.”

    The next morning, Milo brought me the boxes and left. On top was the academic resume.
    Her full name was Hope Alice Devane. Father: Andre. Mother: