over.
Chapter 12
Dr. Payton Rainer had his office in a converted hotel on Eleventh Street near St. Andrews. Standing two stories, it had a courtyard in the back and was surrounded by a cement privacy wall on all sides.
When I rang the bell next to the locked front gate, a large man in a gray suit came out to greet me.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked.
“I’d like to see Dr. Rainer,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
I shook my head.
“Then, I’m sorry, sir, but that’s quite impossible.”
“That I don’t have an appointment?”
“That you could ever see Dr. Rainer without one,” he said.
“Tell him I’m a friend of Freddy’s.”
“Freddy no longer works here, sir.”
“On account of he’s dead,” I said. “I know. That’s why I want to talk to Rainer.”
“If you wish to wait, I’ll check with Dr. Rainer,” he said.
“I don’t wish to wait,” I said. “I wish to be inside, but if I have to wait I wish not to wait long.”
He walked back inside and I waited. Contrary to my wish, I had to wait a while.
The traffic on Eleventh was steady in both directions, Fords mainly, but a few Pontiacs, Packards, and Oldsmobiles mixed in.
A few of the people riding by saluted me, others yelled things like, “Thank you for what you did, buddy.”
I laughed and shook my head. I knew patriotism was high, but so was stupidity.
That was low—and it wasn’t true. They didn’t mean anything but good will. I was just sore, sick of being less than what people assumed.
When the big man finally returned, he was not alone. He was accompanied by an average-sized man he made look small, who wore a white lab coat and had a stethoscope hung around his neck. His skin was the color of tea stains and he had black eyes and black wavy hair.
Though his nationality was indeterminable, he looked foreign, and my guess was he’d talk with an accent, his degree in medicine, if he had one, wouldn’t have come from the states, and Payton Rainer wouldn’t be the name his mama gave him.
Both men stopped a few feet from the gate.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked.
He spoke with an accent, but I couldn’t figure out what kind it was.
“You Dr. Rainer?” I asked.
“I am.”
I handed him my card through the bars of the gate. The big man stepped forward, took it, and handed it to him. He glanced down at it and when he looked up again, his demeanor had changed.
“Then I’d like to come in and talk to you about Freddy.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you in,” he said. “We have patients with very sensitive conditions. No one is allowed in.”
“What kind of doctor are you?” I asked.
“The same kind of detective you are,” he said. “Private.”
“What kind of medicine do you practice?”
“I heal the whole person,” he said. “Spirit, mind, and body. They’re all connected, you understand.”
“Any idea who killed Freddy Moats?”
“That is a matter for the police,” he said.
“What do you have on Mrs. Lewis?”
“I don’t understand the question,” he said.
“Was she a patient of yours?” I asked, surprising myself by my ability to use the term “patient” without busting up.
“I cannot confirm or deny if someone was a patient,” he said.
His use of the word “was” wasn’t lost on me.
“I’m afraid I really must return to my patients.”
“Is Mrs. Lewis inside there right now?” I asked.
“Good day, Mr. Riley,” he said, bowed his head slightly, and turned and walked away.
And there was nothing I could do about it. The gate was too solid, and the wall too high for a right-handed man who only had his left.
Chapter 13
I walked down the block to a Gulf service station and called Pete Mitchell at police headquarters. He wasn’t in, but when I gave the desk sergeant my name, he took down the number and my location and said he’d have Detective Mitchell call me right back.
He did.
“Jimmy?”
“Yeah?”
“Where are you?”
I told
Chapter 12
Dr. Payton Rainer had his office in a converted hotel on Eleventh Street near St. Andrews. Standing two stories, it had a courtyard in the back and was surrounded by a cement privacy wall on all sides.
When I rang the bell next to the locked front gate, a large man in a gray suit came out to greet me.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked.
“I’d like to see Dr. Rainer,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
I shook my head.
“Then, I’m sorry, sir, but that’s quite impossible.”
“That I don’t have an appointment?”
“That you could ever see Dr. Rainer without one,” he said.
“Tell him I’m a friend of Freddy’s.”
“Freddy no longer works here, sir.”
“On account of he’s dead,” I said. “I know. That’s why I want to talk to Rainer.”
“If you wish to wait, I’ll check with Dr. Rainer,” he said.
“I don’t wish to wait,” I said. “I wish to be inside, but if I have to wait I wish not to wait long.”
He walked back inside and I waited. Contrary to my wish, I had to wait a while.
The traffic on Eleventh was steady in both directions, Fords mainly, but a few Pontiacs, Packards, and Oldsmobiles mixed in.
A few of the people riding by saluted me, others yelled things like, “Thank you for what you did, buddy.”
I laughed and shook my head. I knew patriotism was high, but so was stupidity.
That was low—and it wasn’t true. They didn’t mean anything but good will. I was just sore, sick of being less than what people assumed.
When the big man finally returned, he was not alone. He was accompanied by an average-sized man he made look small, who wore a white lab coat and had a stethoscope hung around his neck. His skin was the color of tea stains and he had black eyes and black wavy hair.
Though his nationality was indeterminable, he looked foreign, and my guess was he’d talk with an accent, his degree in medicine, if he had one, wouldn’t have come from the states, and Payton Rainer wouldn’t be the name his mama gave him.
Both men stopped a few feet from the gate.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked.
He spoke with an accent, but I couldn’t figure out what kind it was.
“You Dr. Rainer?” I asked.
“I am.”
I handed him my card through the bars of the gate. The big man stepped forward, took it, and handed it to him. He glanced down at it and when he looked up again, his demeanor had changed.
“Then I’d like to come in and talk to you about Freddy.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you in,” he said. “We have patients with very sensitive conditions. No one is allowed in.”
“What kind of doctor are you?” I asked.
“The same kind of detective you are,” he said. “Private.”
“What kind of medicine do you practice?”
“I heal the whole person,” he said. “Spirit, mind, and body. They’re all connected, you understand.”
“Any idea who killed Freddy Moats?”
“That is a matter for the police,” he said.
“What do you have on Mrs. Lewis?”
“I don’t understand the question,” he said.
“Was she a patient of yours?” I asked, surprising myself by my ability to use the term “patient” without busting up.
“I cannot confirm or deny if someone was a patient,” he said.
His use of the word “was” wasn’t lost on me.
“I’m afraid I really must return to my patients.”
“Is Mrs. Lewis inside there right now?” I asked.
“Good day, Mr. Riley,” he said, bowed his head slightly, and turned and walked away.
And there was nothing I could do about it. The gate was too solid, and the wall too high for a right-handed man who only had his left.
Chapter 13
I walked down the block to a Gulf service station and called Pete Mitchell at police headquarters. He wasn’t in, but when I gave the desk sergeant my name, he took down the number and my location and said he’d have Detective Mitchell call me right back.
He did.
“Jimmy?”
“Yeah?”
“Where are you?”
I told
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