One of the waiting patients nudged the woman next to her and pointed at us. Murmurs circulated; vocal relay race fueled by curiosity.
The weary woman stepped away and found a seat. The gray-haired woman said, “Yes?”
Milo leaned close, showed his card, coveringHomicidewith his thumb. His voice was soft, conspiratorial. “Is Dr. Cerillos in?”
“She’s with a patient.”
“Could you please tell her it’s about Richard Gurnsey.”
“Who’s that?”
“A friend.”
The receptionist cocked an eyebrow. “She’s booked until seven, why don’t you try later?”
“We may have to,” said Milo. “But if you could tell her.”
“The police, huh?” Loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Yes, ma’am. We’d appreciate if—”
“Thepolice,” she repeated, cranking up the volume. As if sharing a joke with an audience. “Hoe-woldon.”
She got up slowly, walked to the right, and disappeared. Half a minute later, the door to the inner office opened. “Must be a good friend. Fifth door to the right.”
Returning to her desk, she shuffled forms and held up a finger. “Ms. Langer? Step back up for a sec.”
—
The fifth door was open. To the left, the names of three M.D.’s and a trio of racks for charts.
Inside, room for one practitioner at a time. The white-coated woman behind the desk was in her thirties, narrowly built and buttermilk-pale but for the merest sprinkle of freckles across broad, flat cheeks and a nub nose. Cute in an elfin way. A high-backed desk chair made her look small.
She said, “Please close the door,” and avoided looking at us.
The tint of her eyebrows said her hair had probably begun as strawberry blond. She’d dyed it flame orange and styled it ragged and boy-short. Three thin gold hoops glinted in her left ear, four decorated her right.
Once we’d sat down, she aimed rusty-brown eyes at us. One hand drummed a memo pad atop the desk; the other clutched the tubes of a stethoscope. More framed paper than free space on the wall. I found hers on the far right. M.D., Stanford. Internship, residency, and fellowship in high-risk pregnancy, UC San Francisco.
Milo said, “Thanks for seeing us, Doctor.”
“I’m really pretty busy.”
“Then special thanks.”
“The police about Rick? Has he done something?” Ellen Cerillos plucked at a white lapel.
“Doctor, I’m sorry to have to tell you this but Mr. Gurnsey’s deceased.”
Cerillos’s mouth dropped open. Smallish, misaligned teeth. The lack of childhood dental privilege said maybe a poor girl who’d worked her way up. “I don’t understand—deceased? How?”
“I’m afraid he was the victim of a homicide.”
“Oh, my God.” Cerillos sank back in the enormous chair.
Milo said, “You asked if he’d done something. What came to mind?”
“Nothing. It’s just…if the police were here…I mean I didn’t assume anything had happenedtohim.” Both hands took hold of the stethoscope.
