“Yes, I did. I’m thinking of doing that.”

“Well, I hope you will. If there’s anything I can do—”

“Actually,” Adrienne said, jumping in on cue, “there is!”

Duran regarded her with a wary eye. “And what’s that?”

“My sister’s medical file…”

“What about it?”

“I was hoping I could have a copy.”

Duran thought about it. Finally, he said, “I don’t see the point.”

“I’ll bet you don’t,” Bonilla remarked, half to himself and half to Duran, drawing a look of rebuke from Adrienne—who turned to Duran, and said, “I am the next of kin, you know.”

“I realize that, but… “ He sighed. “Look,” he said, “making a copy is out of the question—”

“I can have it subpoena’d,” she told him in a cool voice.

“I know you can. And I’ll produce it when you do. Until then… “ Seeing the scowl on her face, he said, “It’s a professional issue. But if you’d like, I could let you look at it—here, in my office. Would that be okay?” She had been about to turn on her heel and storm off, so the offer took her by surprise—and Bonilla, too. “It’s in here,” Duran added, and gestured for her to follow him down the hall to his consultation room. Bonilla padded after them, ready for a shark attack.

Once in the room, Duran went to his desk. Bonilla stayed with him, as if he were playing man-to-man. Glancing at the monitor on Duran’s desk, he remarked with a chuckle, “Your computer’s on the fritz, Doc. You got an ‘unknown host,’ or somethin’.”

Duran ignored him and, taking a small key from his pocket, turned toward the two-drawer filing cabinet behind his desk. Unlocking it, he pulled open the top drawer, the contents of which were so conspicuously few that Adrienne and Bonilla exchanged glances. Withdrawing a manila folder from the drawer, Duran handed it to Adrienne and leaned back against the edge of the desk.

The tab on the file was neatly typed—Sullivan, Nicole—but the file itself was absurdly thin. She could feel that. It was almost empty. But it didn’t matter.

Even a single page would tell her what she wanted to know—which was how Nikki had ended up in Duran’s office. If he was a fraud, who’d referred her to him?

Wordlessly, she laid the file on Duran’s desk, and slowly opened it.

Inside was a single, 8×10 glossy photograph of her sister. Slightly out of focus, it seemed to have been taken in an airport. Nikki’s expression was one of bored distraction, as if she were waiting for her luggage to arrive—which, in fact, she probably had been.

Adrienne turned the photo over. On the picture’s reverse was a single word, scrawled in blue ink: Subject. There was nothing else.

Looking up at Duran, she did her best to keep her voice steady, as she asked, “Is this a joke?” The words quavered with anger.

Duran seemed puzzled by the question, then let his eyes drift toward the open file. Seeing the lone photograph, he frowned, then pushed away from the desk, suddenly agitated. “There’s supposed to be a face sheet!” he protested. “And tests. Information about medication, and… consent forms! Where’s the GAF?”

With a snort, Bonilla strode to the filing cabinet and, one by one, pulled out the drawers—which contained only a single file. De Groot, Henrik. Bonilla opened it, and found a photo like the one of Nikki, a candid shot taken in what looked like a public square. Swearing to himself, he tossed it on the desk, and turned to Duran.

“This is your ‘practice’?” he asked. “These are your notes?”

“Of course not,” Duran replied.

“I oughta kick the shit outa you right here,” Bonilla growled.

Duran shrugged, a gesture more of haplessness than defiance. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he told them.

Adrienne was as angry as she’d ever been, but even so, she wanted to warn Duran that Bonilla had several levels of testosterone and, knowing the signs as she did, the possibility of violence was very real.

And a bad idea. If Bonilla hit him, they’d both be up on assault charges. And with her civil suit pending, she’d probably be suspended or disbarred. She could imagine the judge: You assaulted the defendant in his office because he wouldn’t give you a file when you asked for it?

Even now, she could see Bonilla’s fuse, never very long, burning toward its end. He was standing sideways toward Duran with his head cocked, and his right shoulder lower than his left. It was the kind of stance that almost always preceded a roundhouse.

“Eddie,” Adrienne warned. The detective’s eyes shifted to her’s. “Don’t,” she ordered.

In reality, of course, Bonilla’s “fuse” was a lot longer than people realized. It was very much to his advantage that people should think that he, Edward Bonilla, was a walking time bomb. As long as they thought that he might go off in their faces, people tended to be more tolerant, if not more respectful.

Even so, he was within an inch of taking Duran’s head off—when they heard someone pounding on the front door.

Bonilla looked disappointed. “You got a customer, or something?” he asked.

Duran shook his head. The pounding got louder. “They’re supposed to buzz,” he said to no one in particular. “If they aren’t buzzed in, security’s supposed to call.”

“Yeah, well, this guy sounds like he’s got something acute.”

Together, they left the consulting room and walked down the hall to where it opened out, leading into the kitchen on one side and the living room on the other. Adrienne and Bonilla went into the living room, while Duran headed for the door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Police.”

“Hello!” Bonilla exclaimed, and turned to Adrienne. “I’m impressed. Looks like you got some pull.”

Not likely, Adrienne thought. When she’d filed the complaint against Duran, the cop who’d taken the report had practically fallen asleep.

Opening the door, Duran found two men in overcoats standing in the hallway, looking grim. One of the men flashed an ID of some kind, and asked if he was talking to Jeffrey Duran. Duran said that he was, and the shorter man wondered if he and his partner might come in. “There’s been a complaint,” he said. “We were hoping you could clear it up.”

Duran made a be my guest gesture, and the men walked in.

The first cop was short, with alert green eyes, reddish hair and a face strewn with freckles. A real leprechaun. Behind him was a much bigger man, with broad shoulders and a shuffling walk that reminded Adrienne of a bear. Neither of them was in uniform.

“Two dicks!” Bonilla remarked. “I’m amazed.”

The Leprechaun cocked his head. “And who are you?”

“Visitor Number 1,” Bonilla told him. “She’s Visitor Number 2. You got some ID?”

The Bear shifted his shoulders, like a boxer waiting to begin. The Leprechaun smiled in a way that was meant to be ingratiating, and asked, “Is this your apartment?”

“No,” Bonilla replied. “That’s why they call me Visitor Number 1. You got some ID?”

The cop grinned in a patronizing way and, with a sigh, produced a small carrying case emblazoned with a badge.

Bonilla peered at it. “The reason I’m askin’ is, I never saw two plainclothes assigned to a misdemeanor report, y’know?”

The Leprechaun shrugged, and turned to Duran. “Maybe you should go into the other room,” he suggested.

“I think we ought to leave,” Adrienne said, and started for the door. The Bear stepped into her path. She stepped to the left. So did he.

“What is this?” Duran asked, glancing from one to another.

Bonilla kept his eyes on the Leprechaun. “So what precinct you with?”

The freckle-faced man hesitated for a moment, and then replied, “The 23rd.”

Bonilla chuckled. “‘The 23rd’,” he repeated. “Like Hawaii’s the 59th province.”

The Leprechaun frowned, certain he was being dissed, but not quite sure how.