Read Online The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest by Robin Hathaway - Free Book Online Page B

of high tech.”
    â€œAnd high time. Your patients must be tired of sending those smoke signals.” Rafferty’s work as Chief of the Detective Division required the use of highly sophisticated electronic equipment every day. “You’ll get used to it, Doc. Pretty soon, like the lady who’s just discovered shopping on the internet, you’ll wonder how you did without it.”
    A waiter plunked two perfect martinis in front of them, followed by a plastic bowl of peanuts. The doctor and policeman were regulars. They didn’t need to order. Rafferty grabbed a handful of peanuts. Only a few escaped his grasp. That was OK—Fenimore hated peanuts.
    The first thing you noticed about Dan Rafferty was his size.
Doorways shrank when he graced them and people of normal stature became puny by his side. The most solid chairs seemed suddenly flimsy when he sat on them, and silverware—even the blunt, substantial kind that the Raven provided—looked exquisitely fragile in his hands.
    He had black hair and blue eyes. The hair was dusted with gray now, but the eyes had lost none of their intensity. The detective had risen through the ranks, starting as a foot patrolman like his father. His pet peeve was muggers—bullies and thugs who preyed on the old and the weak. He was famous for his ability to walk that fine line between protecting the innocent from harm and protecting the rights of those accused of harming. He had been happiest when he had worked on the street. But at forty-five, the department had decided he, like the aging athlete, couldn’t move fast enough. They promoted him to Chief of the Detective Division—a desk job full of paperwork, endless meetings and bureaucratic red tape. He longed to be back on the street. Once he told Fenimore, “You’re lucky, Doc. You can practice till you’re in your grave.” Fenimore had agreed at the time. But that was a few years ago. Now he wasn’t sure. More and more doctors were joining HMOs and moving their offices into the hospitals. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out as a solo practitioner.
    When their steaks arrived, Rafferty said, “What was that thing you wanted to talk to me about?”
    Fenimore shook out his napkin and filled him in on the Ashley case. When he finished, Rafferty asked to see the note. Fenimore handed it over. The detective felt the paper carefully, then held it up to the little table lamp, searching for a watermark. “Nothing here.” He handed it back. “Have you got the photograph?”
    Fenimore produced it from a folder he’d brought with him.
    â€œThis is just a photocopy, you know.”
    Fenimore knew.
    Rafferty flipped it over. His expression didn’t change when he
saw the inscription, but he said, “Let me take this to our lab and run some tests.”
    Fenimore nodded, carefully drawing two more items from his folder—the piece of twine that had held the photo to the carcass, and the envelope with its ugly stain and perforations in the corner.
    Rafferty studied these exhibits briefly. He poked the twine through the two perforations. A perfect fit. “What did you say that fellow wanted your patient’s farm for?”
    â€œA trash disposal plant.”
    â€œBullshit. The city’s not planning anything like that. Jersey would have a cow!” He laughed at his feeble joke.
    Chalk one up for Doyle, Fenimore thought.
    They relaxed after that, exchanging views on the general news and last night’s baseball game. Rafferty was an ardent Phillies fan. No amount of poor performances could dampen his enthusiasm. Fenimore rooted for them too, but more quietly. And he could never resist needling his friend after the Phils had suffered one of their inexplicable losses to an obviously inferior team.
    â€œAhh—just an off night,” Rafferty said. “They’ll be back in form tomorrow.”
    â€œThey need some new