Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant (2 page)

"Where is she?" he shouted.

"Next door."

And that was it. Roger stared at the phone. Next door? What the hell did that mean? He crawled back out of the car, stood up, and looked through the wrought iron fence that surrounded his property. There was nothing next door, just tractors and bulldozers and miles of graded desert.

Something caught his attention on the pad beside his fence, at the outermost edge of light cast by his flood lamps. A metal pipe stuck a foot or so out of the ground, right at the spot where he'd watched crews digging a gigantic hole over the last few days. Something sparkled around the pipe, attracting him like a tourist to the blinking lights outside of one of his casinos.

Roger quickly scaled the fence and dropped down on the other side. He ran over to the pipe, recognizing with a pang of fear what was catching the light before he got there.

It was his daughter's necklace.

He realized everything in one horrible instant.

She had been just a few yards away from the house the whole time.

She was buried alive.

Frantic, Roger dropped to his knees beside the pipe and yelled down into it.

"Connie? Can you hear me?
Connie
?"

He heard his voice bouncing off a hollow space below, but Connie didn't reply.

"Hold on, honey, we're going to get you out."

It took another hour just to get a construction crew out there to set up lights and operate the excavator. The gigantic scoop clawed at the earth, revealing a metal storage container buried a few feet below ground.

Roger jumped down onto the container and opened it up. The first thing he saw illuminated in the narrow space were five plastic jugs of Sparkletts water. The next thing he saw was Connie, curled up in a corner, her hastily bandaged hand clutched to her chest, her eyes wide open.

He dropped into the container and went to his daughter, taking her in his arms, stroking her hair. But she was cold and unyielding and beyond his comfort, her eyes staring for ever into the abyss of death.

CHAPTER ONE

Although Dr. Mark Sloan often recommended that his patients relax, and take a vacation, he studiously avoided following his own advice. He found the practice of medicine, as chief of internal medicine at Community General Hospital, and the intellectual challenge of solving homicides, as an unofficial consultant to the LAPD, far more relaxing and energizing than sunning himself on a beach somewhere.

Besides, he lived at the beach. What would be the point of going to another beach to do nothing when he could do nothing at home?

Not that he would ever do nothing at home, not when there was so much interesting work he could being do instead.

That was classic workaholic thinking, according to his friend Dr. Amanda Bentley, a confirmed workaholic herself who juggled two jobs as the hospital's pathologist and as an adjunct county medical examiner.

She was among Mark's friends who tried to convince him that he didn't have to lie around somewhere, that he could enjoy an active vacation, exploring foreign countries and meeting people from different cultures.

While Mark conceded his friends had a point, he knew he'd soon be bored and anxious, stressed out and miserable, exhibiting all the symptoms of a man who desperately needed a vacation.

The same symptoms that his son, Steve, an LAPD homicide detective, had been showing for weeks. Mark urged his son to take a much needed, and long overdue, vacation. Steve reluctantly agreed on one condition—Mark had to come with him.

Steve lived with his father, so Mark knew the last thing his son really wanted to do was go on a vacation with him.

Mark saw the condition for what it was: a transparent ploy to avoid taking time off from work.

So Mark called his bluff.

Which was why the chaise lounge closest to the activities hut at the Kiahuna Poipu Shores resort on the garden island of Kauai had become an impromptu beachside medical clinic, where Dr. Mark Sloan happily treated the minor injuries of his fellow guests.

Mark looked like just another tourist, in his wide brimmed Panama hat, colorful aloha shirt, baggy white shorts, and flip-flops—except for the stethoscope around his neck. He sat on the, edge of the chaise lounge facing Buddy, a chalk-skinned and sunburned teenager from New Jersey who'd scraped his legs on sharp coral while snorkeling in the shallow bay.

Buddy winced as Mark finished gently dabbing disinfectant cream on his wounds.

"If you keep those scrapes clean and dry, they should heal just fine," said Mark, sorting through the grocery bags beside him for the right Band-Aid. He'd stocked up on some basic medical supplies at a tiny market in Old Koloa Town. "But you're going to have to stay out of the water for a few days."

"You're joking, right?" Buddy asked.

"The water will sting and you risk infecting the wounds," Mark said as he carefully applied the "Besides, you're already pretty badly sunburned—your skin could use a rest. I don't want you going outside again unless you're wearing a shirt."

"But I'm only here for two more days," Buddy whined as he stood up. "What am I supposed to do?"

"I'm sure there's plenty that you haven't done," Mark peeled off his surgical gloves and dropped them in the trash can, on which he'd thoughtfully taped a bright yellow-and-black DANGER: BIOHAZARD placard.

"Not all the pleasures of Kauai are in the water." Mark exchanged the damp towel on Buddy's chaise lounge for a fresh one from the stack he kept near his supp1ies "You can enjoy the spectacular views from Waimea Canyon, which Mark Twain called 'the Grand Canyon of the Pacific.' Or you can take a boat ride up Wailua River. Or you can go horseback riding to Kalihiwai Falls. Or do some shopping at the—"

The kid interrupted Mark midlist, thanked him for his help, then shuffled away sadly, idly scratching his red shoulders. Mark shrugged and tossed Buddy's towel in the hamper in front of the activities hut.

"How would you know what there is to do?" asked Moki Kaohi, the young Hawaiian man behind the counter. He wore the hotel's uniform floral shirt and shorts and spent his days making sure guests had all the fun he wished he was having. "You've been sitting here for three days handing out Band-Aids and ice packs."

"I've heard about it from my son," Mark replied. "He's been all over the island, waterskiing, surfing, hiking, and snorkeling."

"Have you considered going with him?" Moki asked

"I wish I could," Mark said, "but my patients have been keeping me pretty busy."

"Your
patients
?"

"It's been one thing after another with them," Mark sighed wearily, motioning with a wave of his hand at the vacationers splashing in the massive pool and frolicking in the crashing surf. "Sunstroke, coral scrapes, stubbed toes, twisted ankles; even a lady who stepped on a sea urchin. Frankly, I'm a little understaffed."

Moki looked at him in astonishment for a moment, then said, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave Dr. Sloan."

Mark was shocked. "You're throwing me out of the hotel?"

"No, of course not. We're pleased to have you as our guest," Moki stepped out of the hut with a big smile on his face. "I just need you to move. This is where we do the barbeque buffet and salad bar every Saturday."

Moki tilted his head toward a half-dozen kitchen staffers standing off to one side, looking at Mark impatiently as they waited with their barbeques, chafing dishes, tables, and ice boxes.

Mark hadn't noticed them before, and now that he did, he was terribly embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Moki. I didn't mean to hold up the barbeque," Mark scrambled to his feet and quickly started gathering up his supplies. "Where would you like me to set up my triage?"

"Actually, I think we can manage without one for an hour or two," Moki picked up Mark's grocery bags. "Why don't you let me take your things back to your room, while you enjoy a nice long walk?"

Mark looked over the scene around him. People bodysurfing and boogie boarding in the mild waves. Children building sand castles on the pristine beach. Couples strolling hand in hand in the frothy surf. Kids charging down the water slides, squealing with delight. Bartenders mixing tropical drinks at the swim-up bar in one of the pool's rocky grottos. Afternoon nappers sprawled lazily in hammocks strung between the palms. Sunbathers lying side by side on row after row of chaise lounges, each reading one of the same ten best-selling paperbacks.

"Things do seem to be under control for the moment," Mark said, handing over his stethoscope. "I suppose I could take a short break."

"Take your time," Moki said. "Please."

Mark sighed, slipped on his sunglasses, and reluctantly strolled down to the clean white sand. As soon as the doctor was out of sight, Moki tossed Mark's things in the hut, tore the DANGER: BIOHAZARD warning off the trash can and quickly carried the receptacle away, holding it from his body at arm's length.

As Mark walked on the beach, soaking his feet in the warm surf, it occurred to him that he hadn't seen much of Steve since they arrived. His son was off early every morning, eagerly looking forward to some adventure or another. Not the behavior Mark expected from someone who, only a few days ago, was so reluctant to go on vacation.

Mark was beginning to wonder who'd actually played whom. Still, he couldn't get too upset. Steve was enjoying the relaxation he needed, and that was all that mattered. Mark would find ways to occupy himself.

It wasn't that Mark was blind to the enchantments of Kauai. He appreciated the smooth sand with its almost sugarlike consistency and the astonishingly clear azure sea. He marveled at the tropical plants, the jagged mountain peaks, and the quaint plantation architecture. He breathed in the moist, clean air and admired the bright blue skies.

He did all that during the drive from Lihue airport and his first hour at the resort.

It was great, wonderful, terrific.

Now what?

He didn't feel like bodysurfing and getting tossed by the waves. He didn't see the interest in snorkeling, paddling around to look at fish he could see in the aquarium at his dentist's office. He didn't want to drive around sightseeing; he spent way too much time in his car at home. And just thinking about horseback riding made his back ache.

Mark supposed he could keep on treating the minor medical needs of the hotel guests for the next week, but that wouldn't keep him sharp. His mind was craving a challenge beyond applying Band-Aids, doing crosswords, or finishing a John Grisham novel.

Maybe he'd call Jesse Travis, the ER resident and his young apprentice of sorts, and have him FedEx the stack of medical journals in his office that he'd been meaning to get to for so long.

The beach curved along a small bay with sprawling resorts on either end and lavish private homes in between. The houses were tucked back behind low fences and ringed by palm trees and bougainvillea.

Most of the homes were raised on stilts a few feet above the ground to avoid flooding and to allow rising surf to pass under them. But the height would offer them little protection if another hurricane, like the one that ravaged the island in 1992, pounded the shore. Amid the row of homes, the cement ruins of a three-story condo complex still stood wrapped in vines, as if to warn the home owners they were on borrowed time.

Mark noticed that there were fewer sunbathers on this stretch of sand, and they seemed to be mostly locals. Few tourists appeared willing to venture beyond the range of a waitress with a drink menu. The sunbathers shared the beach with three monk seals who lazed undisturbed on the dry sand, as blasé as seasoned movie stars to the dozens of cameras and camcorders trained on them at any given moment.

One of the seals rolled over and huffed as Mark passed at a respectful distance. Mark huffed back, but the seal was unimpressed.

Mark turned to look at the sea, enjoying an ocean view unobstructed by clouds, fog, or a brown layer of smog. He could see a swimmer beyond the waves, cutting a smooth, confident course along the shore. The man was moving at a precise, even clip when he suddenly faltered, let out a cry of pain and surprise, splashed about, and then swam toward shore, clearly in distress.

Something was very wrong, but Mark had no idea what it could be.

Mark waded into the surf to meet the man, who he could see was in his forties, deeply tanned, and well-muscled, with flecks of gray in his close-clipped hair.

The man staggered out of the water, dragging one leg behind him, clutching himself and wincing in pain.

Mark rushed to his side and helped him to the beach. "I'm a doctor. What happened?"

"Swam into a school of jellyfish," the man hissed between clenched teeth. "It felt like swimming into a beehive."

Mark could imagine how easy it would be to swim in amid the transparent creatures and not realize it until they were stinging you with their poison tentacles.

"How did you hurt your leg?" Mark asked, leading the man back toward the Kiahuna Poipu Shores resort.

"Playing football in college," the man said. "One tackle and I was finished as a quarterback."

"Have you ever had an extreme or allergic reaction to bee stings, mosquito bites, anything like that?"

"No," the man gasped.

"You're a quite a swimmer."

"I live on the beach," he said, wincing. "I do a mile every day, rain or shine."

"Ever encountered jellyfish before?"

"Once. And when I came out of the water, a big old Hawaiian peed on me." The man gave Mark a worried look. "You're not going to pee on me, are you?"

"Don't worry, modern medicine has progressed beyond that." Mark smiled and led him to a chaise lounge. "Wait right here."

Mark rushed to the barbeque buffet, where he was surprised to find Steve among the long line of guests who were helping themselves to lunch. His son was barefoot, wearing shorts and a tank top that showed off his strong shoulders and dark tan. Anyone looking at Steve standing there would have pegged him as a surfer, certainly not as a cop.

"Hey, Dad," Steve said. "Where's your little clinic?"