"Did I wake you? Peters asked.
"No. I was already up and drinking coffee.
"I should have called earlier-in the week, I mean-but we've been having too much fun. By the way, how are the fingers? Heather wanted me to ask. She's been worried sick about it.
Heather knew about my fingers, too? Did every goddamned person in the whole world know about my fingers but me?
"They're giving me a little bit of trouble, I admitted reluctantly. "As a matter of fact, I have an appointment to see the doctor today.
"I hope it's nothing serious, Peters said.
"Naw, I replied, with as much casual unconcern as I could muster despite the hours of worry. "I'm sure it isn't. When are you coming home?
"Saturday night at the latest, he replied. "The girls have to be back in school by Monday. We've kept them out a full week as it is. It'll take all day Sunday to get squared away, to get ready for work and school.
"Call me when you get in.
"Will do. Anything doing at work? Peters asked.
Ron Peters had been kicked upstairs. His new position in the media relations department had him rubbing shoulders with nothing but polished brass, big shots, and members of the press. I could hear the frustration in his voice and knew he missed the real world of the fifth floor and the easy camaraderie that goes along with being a detective.
"We're working the Kurobashi case, I said.
"I read about that one, Peters returned. "It was big enough that it made the regional section of the Oregonian. It sounds interesting.
For the next few minutes I forgot about my fingers while Peters and I discussed the case. Talking things over with him always helps clarify my own thinking. He agreed with my conclusion that things didn't look very good for David Lions.
"Have you talked to anyone who's working on the Lions case in Illinois? Peters asked.
"Not yet, but that's good suggestion. I should do it now. Call Schaumburg before the rates change.
"I'll let you go then, Peters said. "Take care of yourself, and those fingers too. Heather feels terrible about it, even though we've all told her it was an accident. She's afraid you're mad at her.
"Tell her not to worry. She's still my favorite toothless kid.
Peters laughed. "Right. I'll do that.
Minutes later I was talking to a lieutenant named Alvin Grant in the Detective Division of the Schaumburg, Illinois, police department. He knew all about the phony David Lions.
"He's gone. His lawyer came in and bailed him out.
"Did he tell you how he came to have the card? I asked.
"Sure. Said he bought it for fifty bucks from some dude at the airport.
"Did he say what this guy looked like?
"It wasn't the real David Lions, if that's what you're thinking, Grant said. "We talked to Dana Lions and got a complete description of her father. I talked to a Detective Halvorsen from out there in your neck of the woods as well. Believe me, this character isn't your David Lions. No way.
"What did he look like?
"The one who sold the card? Fairly tall, good-looking, dark. Wore gloves. From Grant's description the guy sounded a whole lot like Pamela Kinder's self-styled God's gift to women.
"While he was in custody, we managed to convince the little puke that he needed to do a composite drawing of the guy who unloaded the card, Grant continued. "He had to finish before we let him out. I offered to FAX it to Halvorsen, but he said the resolution on their machine isn't very good. So I'm sending it Fed Ex. He said you might want a copy as well.
"I do, I said. "Send it the same way. To my attention at Seattle P.D. They'll see that I get it.
On my way to Dr. Blair's office, I called Big Al on the car phone to tell him I'd be late. At 8:15, a full forty-five minutes early, I was sitting in the waiting room of Orthopedic Associates, conscious of nothing but the throbbing pain under my bandage. A brusque, businesslike nurse took me into a treatment room at 8:55 and expertly removed the bandages and splints, clicking her tongue in disapproval at the grimy condition of the bandage.
She left the room briefly, and for the first time, I got a look at my fingers. They were ugly, more purple than black and blue, and wildly swollen. The nails were blackened by the pools of blood trapped beneath them. The nurse came back in and caught me examining my nails.
"Pretty bad, aren't they? Wait a few days until the swelling goes down. They'll look like a matched set of pancake turners.
There's nothing like a little cheer and comfort from a lady in white.
When Dr. Blair finally appeared, he looked a whole lot more like Santa Claus than some of the department store models I've seen lately, but personality-wise, he was anything but jolly, and certainly no better than his surly nurse. He studied my fingers through thick bifocals.
"What's the matter with them? I asked.
"Nondisplaced ungual tuft fractures, he said.
"What's that?
He looked up at me, briefly meeting my gaze. "They're broken, he said with no trace of a smile. He turned to the nurse. "Bring me a paper clip, would you please?
"A paper clip? I yelped. That didn't sound very medicinal to me. "What are you going to do?
"Drill 'em, he relied casually. "Like I told you on the phone. It's the blood under your nails that's causing the pain.
He turned to a small cupboard beside me, reached into a drawer, and brought out a cigarette lighter.
"What's that for? I asked warily.
Dr. Blair didn't answer. The nurse returned to the treatment room and silently handed him a paper clip. He straightened it with utmost concentration. Once it was flat, he held it with a hemostat and began heating the straightened end with the lighter. When the end of the paper clip was glowing red hot, he took hold of my hand and pressed the hot metal to one of my blackened nails. I winced, expecting some pain while the paper clip sank easily through the nail as though it were melting plastic.
When the hole went all the way through, the trapped blood squirted into the air. "It doesn't hurt because the blood cushions the pain, he explained.
I couldn't help wishing he had told me that before the operation rather than after it. I may be a homicide detective, and legend has it that homicide detectives are all tough macho types, but I was feeling more than a little queasy by the time he finished burning through the third nail.
When he was done with the last one, Dr. Blair retrieved the splints and began to rebandage my hand. "Just how much do you drink, Detective Beaumont? he asked.
"I beg your pardon?
"How much?
"No more than anybody else.
"When I talked to you on the phone last night, you sounded as though you had never heard that these hematomas needed to be drilled. And a few minutes ago, you seemed surprised to find out that the fingers were broken. We went over all of that Sunday night. In fact, I gave you a piece of paper, a form with written follow-up instructions on it.
"I don't remember seeing it, I said.
"You stuck it in the pocket of your tux.
I remembered the tux then, a rental that had been returned with the other wedding party duds on Monday morning. The Belltown Terrace concierge had handled the transaction.
"No wonder I couldn't find it, I said. "The paper must have gotten sent back to the rental company.
Dr. Blair wasn't paying much attention to my excuses. Finished with the bandage, he said, "Take off your shirt, loosen your belt, and lie down here on the table. I want to check something.
"Look, I objected, "I broke my fingers, not my ribs.
But you don't argue with doctors, or at least I don't. Obligingly, I lay down on the table and he poked me in the gut.
"Did you know your liver is enlarged? he asked after a few moments of prodding.
"My what?
"Your liver's down three centimeters. How long's it been like that?