Near Death by Glenn Cooper

thug.
    “Hey buddy!” Cyrus called out. “Easy with the language, this is a children’s hospital.”
    Emily had been holding her own, steering the man toward neutrality, encouraging a quick exchange of paperwork but seemed relieved to see Cyrus.
    The fellow gave Cyrus the finger. “This is none of your fucking business, man.”
    Cyrus kept moving forward. “You see, that’s what I’m talking about. This place is full of sick children and upset parents. They don’t need this. Trade your numbers and move on.”
    “Go screw yourself. She backed into me.”
    “I’m sorry, but you were coming down the ramp awfully fast,” Emily added in her defense.
    “The bitch shouldn’t be driving.”
    Cyrus strode forward until he stood toe to toe with the man but half a head taller. “You’re talking to my daughter’s doctor.”
    The fellow seemed momentarily confused by the amalgam of calmness and menace in Cyrus’s tone. “Back off, man, I don’t care who I’m talking to. She’s cost me a grand on my deductible.”
    “Your medical bills are going to come in way higher, pal,” Cyrus said evenly, watching the man’s fist ball up. “Not to mention your legal bills if you take a swing at me.”
    “Mister O’Malley, please, I’ll be all right,” Emily protested. “Why don’t I just call security?”
    Cyrus pulled an old cop maneuver, unfitting perhaps for an FBI agent, but instinctively satisfying. He pulled his coat and jacket back to reveal the butt of his gun snug against his upper chest. “Security’s already here, Doctor Frost.”
    “What are you, some kind of cop?” The man backed off a step.
    “Yeah, I’m some kind of cop. And let me ask you something. This lot’s for hospital visitors. Something tells me you’re not here for that. What’s your story, pal?”
    “I’m a district manager for a liquor wholesaler,” the man said obligingly, staring at the gun. “I’ve got clients in the neighborhood.”
    “Okay, liquor man,” Cyrus growled, “take the doctor’s insurance info and hit the bricks. Now.”
    Within a minute the BMW was gone and cars started snaking up the ramp again. Cyrus trotted back to his car to unclog the down ramp but not before Emily, staring at him in sweet amazement, said, “Thanks for your help.”
    He smiled back, gave her a casual salute and was off.
    The headquarters of the Harvard University Information Services department was at Holyoke Center, a sixties piece of architecture that still seemed to work as a counterpoint to the ancient red bricks of Harvard Yard. Cyrus blew in, not tragically late, as everyone had just exchanged business cards, not yet past the chitchat.
    Avakian had been cracking up the other men with one of his stories. The assistant provost for Information Technology, a lieutenant from the university police and an IT manager from Harvard’s Soldier’s Field Road facilitywere huddled with him in a conference room, a couple of black binders lying conspicuously on the table.
    Cyrus apologized, went through the introductions and started the meeting with his thanks. He acknowledged that the university didn’t have to cooperate with their request for information but because it was a private institution it had the prerogative to do so. Subpoenas, probable cause arguments, all the insurmountable hurdles for an investigation at this stage were conveniently mooted by their helpfulness.
    The assistant provost was happy to make some remarks and move onto another meeting. “Look, Special Agent O’Malley, we’re always interested in assisting outside law enforcement whenever possible. And we’ve got a mandate to protect all our employees and students to the maximum extent possible. If we’ve got a bad apple, we should know about it.”
    “Absolutely,” the police lieutenant agreed, “especially in a homicide investigation.”
    Cyrus was quick to respond. “We’re too early in this investigation to have any suspects. We’d just like to be able to