related?”
“Two people end up dead, who just days before are seen talking. One of them clearly was murdered. The other, Evan, at the very least, there are some open questions . . .”
“The kid jumped off a cliff, doc! Who are you now, the Amazing Kreskin?” He put his palm on the top of the tall stack of files. “ See these? I’ve got four gang killings, a hit-and-run, and two likely drug ODs to process.” He pulled out a red one from on top. “See this one? The son of a prominent builder in town. Tight end on the high school football team. OxyContin OD. Everyone’s all over me . . . And these . . .” He wheeled around to the other stack of files sitting on the credenza. “These are all disposed of, awaiting my final sign-off. If I can get to them.” He picked one from near the top. “ Your nephew .”
“I know there’s some kind of connection between the two cases.”
“I’m sorry, doc, but I don’t work for you.”
It was clear that the comments on the news had cost me what little equity I had with him. It was also clear the hospital wasn’t exactly going to be an ally now, not that they ever were.
“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about that interview. We were all a little frustrated the other day. My nephew died. No one was returning our calls. I was leaving town. I was just trying to do whatever I could to get them some attention.”
“Attention? What the hell have I been devoting to it, doc— spare time ?” He drilled a look of displeasure at me. Finally he let out a breath. “ Gimme a name. ”
“A name?”
“The name of your nephew’s friend,” he answered impatiently. “The one who conveniently spotted the two of them together.”
“Miguel,” I said. “Miguel Estrada. Apparently, he and Evan were basketball buddies. According to him, Zorn was asking around for Evan at the courts.”
“Asking around . . .” He twisted in his chair and punched Miguel’s name into his computer. He waited a few seconds, putting on thick black reading glasses, then sort of smiled cynically as he shifted the screen around to me. “You talking this Miguel Estrada?”
There was a photo of Miguel, shaved head, tattoos and all. A mug shot. Along with a police record that stretched down the entire page. I’ve had some setbacks . . .
My heart sank.
Sherwood ticked them off: “Sale of banned substances, sale of prescription drugs, failure to show up for court hearings. Falsifying doctor’s prescriptions. Shall I go on? We’re not kids here, doc. Before we jump to any conclusions, you think perhaps we ought to consider the source?”
“He told me this early last night,” I said. “Before the Zorn story even broke.”
“He gave you Zorn’s name? ” The detective’s eyes widened and I saw where he was heading. An ex-cop was dead. Maybe this Estrada kid was involved.
“He didn’t know the guy’s name,” I said, defending him. “He just described him to me. Fifty or sixty. White hair. From Santa Barbara. Slight limp. Birthmark on his cheek. This morning, as I was about to leave, I saw the news.”
“Well, you should’ve just kept on going!” The detective glared at me. “ Look ”—he pulled the monitor back around, shrugging—“even if this kid is somehow on the level and they did talk, so what? Why are you so sure there’s a connection?”
“Because two people who had contact with each other just a few days ago are dead. And one of them was clearly murdered; the other . . .” I didn’t say that maybe Evan’s death wasn’t quite as clear as everyone thought. “If this wasn’t about some welfare kid who was half off his rocker, you would look further—”
“Half? ” The detective held back a smile, a tiny crease of his lips. “No one’s even agreeing that they were in contact, doc.”
“Look, I’m sorry I made things difficult for you. Please, I’m just asking you to take a look. I know you’ll find something.”
He took off his reading
“Two people end up dead, who just days before are seen talking. One of them clearly was murdered. The other, Evan, at the very least, there are some open questions . . .”
“The kid jumped off a cliff, doc! Who are you now, the Amazing Kreskin?” He put his palm on the top of the tall stack of files. “ See these? I’ve got four gang killings, a hit-and-run, and two likely drug ODs to process.” He pulled out a red one from on top. “See this one? The son of a prominent builder in town. Tight end on the high school football team. OxyContin OD. Everyone’s all over me . . . And these . . .” He wheeled around to the other stack of files sitting on the credenza. “These are all disposed of, awaiting my final sign-off. If I can get to them.” He picked one from near the top. “ Your nephew .”
“I know there’s some kind of connection between the two cases.”
“I’m sorry, doc, but I don’t work for you.”
It was clear that the comments on the news had cost me what little equity I had with him. It was also clear the hospital wasn’t exactly going to be an ally now, not that they ever were.
“Look,” I said, “I’m sorry about that interview. We were all a little frustrated the other day. My nephew died. No one was returning our calls. I was leaving town. I was just trying to do whatever I could to get them some attention.”
“Attention? What the hell have I been devoting to it, doc— spare time ?” He drilled a look of displeasure at me. Finally he let out a breath. “ Gimme a name. ”
“A name?”
“The name of your nephew’s friend,” he answered impatiently. “The one who conveniently spotted the two of them together.”
“Miguel,” I said. “Miguel Estrada. Apparently, he and Evan were basketball buddies. According to him, Zorn was asking around for Evan at the courts.”
“Asking around . . .” He twisted in his chair and punched Miguel’s name into his computer. He waited a few seconds, putting on thick black reading glasses, then sort of smiled cynically as he shifted the screen around to me. “You talking this Miguel Estrada?”
There was a photo of Miguel, shaved head, tattoos and all. A mug shot. Along with a police record that stretched down the entire page. I’ve had some setbacks . . .
My heart sank.
Sherwood ticked them off: “Sale of banned substances, sale of prescription drugs, failure to show up for court hearings. Falsifying doctor’s prescriptions. Shall I go on? We’re not kids here, doc. Before we jump to any conclusions, you think perhaps we ought to consider the source?”
“He told me this early last night,” I said. “Before the Zorn story even broke.”
“He gave you Zorn’s name? ” The detective’s eyes widened and I saw where he was heading. An ex-cop was dead. Maybe this Estrada kid was involved.
“He didn’t know the guy’s name,” I said, defending him. “He just described him to me. Fifty or sixty. White hair. From Santa Barbara. Slight limp. Birthmark on his cheek. This morning, as I was about to leave, I saw the news.”
“Well, you should’ve just kept on going!” The detective glared at me. “ Look ”—he pulled the monitor back around, shrugging—“even if this kid is somehow on the level and they did talk, so what? Why are you so sure there’s a connection?”
“Because two people who had contact with each other just a few days ago are dead. And one of them was clearly murdered; the other . . .” I didn’t say that maybe Evan’s death wasn’t quite as clear as everyone thought. “If this wasn’t about some welfare kid who was half off his rocker, you would look further—”
“Half? ” The detective held back a smile, a tiny crease of his lips. “No one’s even agreeing that they were in contact, doc.”
“Look, I’m sorry I made things difficult for you. Please, I’m just asking you to take a look. I know you’ll find something.”
He took off his reading
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