OGILVIE, TALLANT & MOON
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
I
March
Thursday Evening
EVERYONE ELSE HAD gone home when the phone rang. Charlie Moon stopped in the door, one hand on the light switch.
The phone rang again, a frightened sound in the dark office. In three more rings the machine would record the caller’s message.
Charlie hesitated, listening to the urgent ringing. Then with a sigh he put the lights back on and walked to his desk. “Ogilvie, Tallant and Moon,” he said. “Charles Moon speaking.”
The voice on the other end gave a little cry. “Charlie. Thank God I caught you. I’ve got to see you. It’s very important.”
“Miranda?” He had never heard her this upset. “What’s the matter?”
“I was afraid you’d gone home already.”
Frowning, he picked up a pencil and pulled his note pad nearer. “What is it, Miranda? What’s happened?”
“The Weed boy died on Tuesday,” she said abruptly, then waited. Charlie pictured her biting her lip as she always did when she was worried. “His parents are suing me. Just like that. Their attorney called the clinic today. They’ll serve me tomorrow.”
“What are their grounds?” He tried not to anticipate.
Miranda gave a mirthless laugh. “Malpractice.” Then her voice broke. “Oh, Charlie, what am I going to do?”
It took only a moment for Charlie to flip through his desk calendar. “What’s your schedule like?” he asked.
“Same as always, for the time being.”
“I’m in court tomorrow and Monday. How about Tuesday? Can you make it by the office around two?”
“I’ve got a staff meeting at one.”
Again Charlie consulted his calendar. “Make it eleven then. Eleven on Tuesday. Got that?” He jotted down the appointment, circling her name.
“Yes, but what about now?” Irritation had crept into her tone. “I’m in trouble now, Charlie. I don’t think the Weeds are going to wait.”
Charlie chuckled. “The law is very slow, Miranda. We have thirty days to respond.” When he heard her swear softly, he went on: “Tell me about the Weed boy. What did he die of?”
“Apparently he died of Parkinson’s disease.”
“Apparently?”
Miranda was calmer now that she was on familiar ground. “Parkinson’s disease is controllable with L-dopa. Since I’ve had him on the drug, I thought it was under control. He was responding to it quite well.”
“Any reason to think he wouldn’t continue to?”
“Well, he was pretty young, and that’s always chancy. He did occasionally resist the drug. When that happened, we increased the dosage until he responded.”
“Okay. That’s normal, I take it?” He heard her murmured assent and went on. “Anything unusual about the case? Anything that required special attention other than your regular service? Was there anything peculiar about his particular case of the disease?”
“Not really.” Miranda hesitated. “Can I see you, Charlie? I . . . I don’t want to talk about Sparky. Can’t it wait?”
“Not for long,” Charlie said firmly. “I’m tied up this evening, Miranda,” he went on, somewhat gentler. “What about Saturday? I’m planning to go hiking out at Point Reyes. Some cartographic firm over in Oakland’s got a good map out of the place. It looks like fun.”
“What time?” She sounded harried. Charlie guessed she was still at the clinic. “I’ve got two appointments around four. But it would be so good to get away for a while.”
“I’ll pick you up at nine thirty. I’ll bring the lunch if you’ll bring the beer.” He forced cheerfulness into his voice. “The weather report looks good. Take a sweater just in case.”
“All right, nine thirty Saturday. But, Charlie—”
“We can talk about it then, if you want to.” He flipped the page of his memo pad. “You did say Parkinson’s disease, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Parkinson’s.”
“Good. See you Saturday.” He scribbled “Parkinson’s disease” on the pad, putting a question mark after it. “Don’t let them rattle you, Miranda. Don’t say anything; don’t volunteer anything; don’t mention or discuss the case in any way. If you get hassled, tell them that your attorney is a bastard and he insists you do it this way. Okay?”
He could hear the beginning of a smile in her voice when she said, “Okay, bastard. I’ll be ready at nine thirty.”
“Right.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
Charlie Moon was still Indian enough to find thanks awkward. “It’s my job. That’s what I’m here for.” He hoped that would stop it, for the repayment ritual for gifts and thanks was long and uncomfortable. “Saturday, then.”
“Saturday. Good night.” Her end of the line went dead.
Charlie weighed the receiver in his hand before he hung up. Malpractice was very, very sticky. He did not want to believe Miranda was guilty.
On the way out he left a note for the receptionist.
“Lydia,” it read, “find out everything you can on Parkinson’s disease. What is it? What does it do? Who catches it? Why? When? I need the material—he almost wrote tomorrow—tonight. I offer dinner at the Blue Fox and the show at McGoon’s as a bribe. Charlie.”