He walked to the back of the store and was pleased when the pharmacist told him that his two new prescriptions were ready, along with his seventeen refills. Even better, his one-month supply of meds came in at less than a grand. He took the news as a good sign, then returned to the SRX Crossover and dug out his daily planner.
In the back of the book he kept a master list of the medications he used and their possible side effects. As he added the new drugs to his list, the eye drops didn’t even appear noteworthy. He could handle burning sensations, redness, discharge, eye pain, itching, and stinging. Although he wasn’t too crazy about foreign body sensations or blurred vision, these were only listed as possible side effects and he hoped that he would do better than last night and beat the odds. But when he read the list for restless-leg syndrome, things became more tricky and he paged through his primary medications looking for a conflict. According to the pharmaceutical company, there was a chance the drug could make him feel faint, or dizzy, or even sweaty if he stood up. He could become nauseous and possibly vomit, or fall asleep in unlikely places. If he began to experience new or increased gambling, sexual, or other intense urges, it was recommended that he call his healthcare professional immediately.
Cava stared at that last one for a long time, wondering what they meant by other intense urges. Whether or not the intense urges he already experienced on a daily basis could be considered other. And if not, whether they were listed in the fine print or posted on the pharmaceutical company’s Web site.
After careful consideration and review he decided that the risk was worth the benefit just like they said on TV.
Ripping open the kit, he skimmed through the dosing instructions, tossed a pill into his mouth and knocked it down with a sip of green tea. Then he opened the dry eye medication, tilted his head back, administered a single drop in each eye, and blinked.
He let out a deep sigh, filling his lungs with air and waiting for the grim reaper to knock on his door. After five long minutes of nothing, he made a mental inventory of his body, wiggled his toes and noticed that those funny sensations in his legs were gone. He sat up and leaned into the rearview mirror. His eyes felt cool and clean, almost as if he’d just received a new set. Even more important, his mind had cleared. When he examined his hands, they weren’t rock steady or even kill steady. But the tremors appeared nearly imperceptible.
He might not be the road warrior anymore, or even the skilled surgeon who showed so much promise at med school. But he was in the zone again. On the diet and feeling good again. Locked and loaded and walking away from the wreckage like an action figure with no back door and bullet proof skin.
Cava gazed through the wrought iron gate at Fontaine’s house, calculating the risks before making his move. It was still only 7:30 a.m. Because the break-in would be performed in broad daylight, entering the property from the golf course around back wasn’t a viable option. The only way in was to drive up to the house in his SRX like he belonged there. Get out in his suit and tie, and walk to the back door without hesitation. That meant climbing the six-foot wall and opening the gate manually. About thirty seconds of exposing himself to actual danger.
He looked through the gate and spotted the control box tucked away in the garden. Then he turned and scoped out the neighborhood. Directly across the street was the empty lot with the wall and that pile of high-end dirt no one had stolen yet. To the left and right, the mansions were barricaded by fences, dense shrubs, and trees with no real view from the street unless you were sitting on the upper-deck of that shitty tour bus.
The risk was minimal.
Cava climbed out of the car. Lifting himself onto the wall, he dropped down on the other side and found the control box. While most security gates had a lever on the outside for easy access, this one was on the inside of the unit and painted a bright orange. Cava flipped the switch and watched the gate open, then pushed it back. Returning to the SRX, he glided up the drive and pulled in front of the guest house.
He waited a moment, letting that imaginary target between his shoulder blades fade into oblivion. The one that he had worn on his back while overseas. The gate was closing behind him and he could feel a certain rush. When he got out of the car, he scanned the property and realized his good fortune. Fontaine’s neighbors couldn’t see him through the shrubbery. Their view was limited to the lower terrace and the tables where he had seen the bodyguards smoking cigarettes Saturday afternoon. It didn’t seem to include the pool or hot tub or the terrace and gardens running against the back of the house.
Cava was invisible. He owned the place now.
He climbed the steps, moving swiftly across the flagstone and peering through the glass door into the kitchen. His good luck held as he spotted the alarm on the inside wall, eyed the control panel, and noticed that the system hadn’t been armed. Even better, the doorknob looked as if it was as old as the house. An ornamental brass number that rattled when Cava shook it.
Raising his foot, he gave the door a decent kick and watched it pop open. It had been easy. Almost too easy. As he stepped inside, he examined the doorjamb and wondered why Fontaine hadn’t thrown the deadbolt. From where Cava stood it looked like the man had a lot to protect. Still, it was another good omen. There was no visible damage. No sign of forced entry. And no sirens approaching in the distance. If anyone stopped by, he could talk his way out of it.
But that didn’t mean his heart wasn’t pounding.
He closed the door and spent five minutes perusing the kitchen. The appliances appeared new and expensive, the room extraordinarily well equipped. He noted the eight-burner stove with the built-in grill. The crystal glassware in the cabinets and the fine china. But when he got to the knife drawer, he stopped and stared at the contents for a long time. The blades were dull and this surprised him. No matter what he might think of Fontaine, no matter what he might have been told by others, the man had a reputation as an experienced surgeon. Yet, his knives were old and didn’t look as if they were well maintained. He even kept an electric knife in the drawer-what amounted to a wood saw with a safety switch-as if he had no idea or training and couldn’t carve a piece of meat without electricity.
Cava shrugged it off, exiting the room and cruising through the first floor with little interest. Except for that drawer, everything in the house was rich and luxurious. And it was more than obvious that the Beverly Hills doctor enjoyed living large and showing off to his friends. He looked at the art on the walls. A collection of Faberge eggs in a display case. A small but well-laid-out gym with its own entrance to the hot tub on the rear terrace. When he reached the den, he glanced at the Christmas tree beside the TV but didn’t see a desk.
Disappointed, he hurried up the circular staircase, legged it down the hall, and found the doctor’s desk in a study overlooking the pool and a view of the golf course. It was a long narrow room with a gas-burning fireplace and built-in bookshelves lining the walls. A comfortable room, if it hadn’t been so chilly, with a couch, two reading chairs, and a row of casement windows providing plenty of natural light.
But the key word was privacy. The room had the look and feel of a place reserved for Fontaine, and only Fontaine, and this was what Cava had been hoping for.
He suddenly became aware of his heart pounding again. The need to not tempt the Fates and get out of the house as quickly as he could. After checking his watch, he sat down at the desk and rifled through the doctor’s papers. He found a handful of patient files, along with a three-ring binder that contained the results from a research project on asthmatic children conducted over the past few years.