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He paused, considering the offer.
"Make it twenty-five percent, and you have a deal."
“Sold,” she replied with a smile.
“If I can’t go to the cops once you get paid, how do I know you won’t stiff me?” he demanded, the wheels suddenly turning in his head. “Or how do I know your petite protector here won’t just do me in?”
“One, that wouldn’t be great for my reputation or my business, Dr. Hiller,” she pointed out. “And two, I’m trying not to take offense at your attack on my personal character. Would Hobie have hooked us up if he thought I was a welcher?”
Hiller’s whole face scrunched up in discomfort.
“Fine,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“In the last five days, have you treated anyone with a left knee injury, in particular, a tall, skinny male in his early twenties?”
“No,” he said immediately. “Does this mean I’m out of the reward?”
"Not necessarily," she replied. "This is a big city, and you're just one doctor. Can you give me the name of anyone else you think might be a good candidate for the job?"
“That depends,” Hiller said. “I need more information. Why is this guy not just going the conventional route and visiting a hospital? Can he not afford it? Is he worried about being put in the system? And what part of town are we talking about?”
Though Kat was hesitant to share too many details that would reveal who she was after, the questions were reasonable, so she did her best to answer without making it clear that her target was Mark Haddonfield, the Clone Killer.
“Money likely isn’t the issue,” she said. “He was based in the West L.A. area, but he would have tried to get away from the heat on him around there and he’s definitely looking to keep a low profile. I'm assuming he moved closer to us downtown, where these kinds of services are more prevalent. That's just a guess, but I'm starting there. I'll expand the search area as needed."
Hiller nodded intently as if he was listening to a patient list their symptoms. He almost seemed doctorly.
“I gather that this guy is high profile enough that he might worry about his caregiver turning him in for the reward outright, is that right?”
“A reasonable assumption,” Kat confirmed.
Hiller paused before responding, downing his shot of whiskey.
“Then I’m skeptical that he went to see any individual doctor who…operates as I do. He’d want greater anonymity. My bet is that he’d go to an underground clinic. The personalized attention might not be as great, but neither would the scrutiny.”
“That makes sense,” Kat said, “so where might he go?”
“I can think of two clinics that operate under the radar in this part of town,” Hiller said. “but they cater to different clientele. One is for people who are more of what I call ‘system victims.’ We’re talking homeless folks from Skid Row and abused women who need care but don’t want a hospital to pursue charges against their abuser for fear that it will make the situation worse. They also treat undocumented immigrants who worry that they’ll be deported if they go to a legit hospital or clinic. The place is run by reputable medical folks who are doing this either pro bono or at vastly reduced rates because they believe in the work.”
“And the other clinic?” Kat asked.
“That’s for folks avoiding the law for more nefarious reasons,” he said simply. “We’re talking dudes who got shot robbing a place or got stabbed in brawl in a bar like this. They know they could get arrested if they’re found. The people who work at that clinic keep their mouths shut for cash in hand. They’re usually not as proficient as guys like me, but they won’t rat anyone out either. They know that the consequences would outweigh the benefits. So the question for you is: what kind of fella are we dealing with here?”
Kat didn't need to think about it too long. Haddonfield might be a serial killer, but he was also a gangly college kid barely out of his teens, who, until recently, was more focused on making the Dean's List than committing murder. He'd want to go where he'd be viewed with sympathy and support and could count on the staff to stay quiet out of a sense of goodwill. He wouldn't want to have to rub shoulders with hardened criminals who might steal his money while he waited to be treated.
“Option number one,” she said emphatically.
“Okay,” Hiller said, swigging the last dregs of his beer. He pulled out a pen and wrote the address on a cocktail napkin. “They don’t open until noon today, so you’ll have to wait. And I should warn you, even though this clinic is more victim-centered, the place is still pretty rough. Some of the homeless patients are volatile and the security—mostly bar bouncers doing this gratis—tend to be surly, impatient types. That’s why the clinic opens so late. Bouncers don’t do early morning security, no matter how generous they are.”
After he finished talking, Hiller waved at the bartender and pointed to his empty glasses.
“Thanks,” she said, standing up. “In lieu of immediate payment, I’ll get your next round.”
“Just one round?” he objected.
“That’s my a.m. limit on free drinks, Jackson,” he told him.
“Dr. Hiller,” he reminded her.
