Royal Pains : Sick Rich (9781101559536)
Read Royal Pains : Sick Rich (9781101559536) Online
Authors: D. P. Lyle
Praise for the
Royal Pains
Series
by D. P. Lyle
Â
“
Royal Pains
was a very enjoyable, light mystery. It had enough action [and] twists to keep you guessing and interested, and the characters are people you want to get to know better. . . . The medical scenes are well written in plain English. You will be entertained and learn some things you may not have known at the same time.” â
Suspense Magazine
Â
“This is the first television tie-in book I have read since I was a teenager, but if D. P. Lyle writes another, it will not be the last. . . . [T]here is a realism to the medical cases that comes from Lyle's long career in medicine. Pick the book up for your summer vacation even if you are only going as far as the wading pool in the backyard. It is a fun read!” âKings River Life Magazine
Â
“The relationship between Hank and Evan is fun, but Divya steals the spotlight. Her sense of humor is fun and intelligent, and she keeps the brothers on their toes. . . . [A] great summer read!” âFresh Fiction
Â
“D.P. Lyle writes novels with TV tie-ins that are fun to read.” âGenre Go Round Reviews
Â
“Lyle's work is well-known.” âExaminer.com
The
Royal Pains
Series
First, Do No Harm
Sick Rich
Sick Rich
D. P. Lyle
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, January 2012
Copyright © Universal Studios Licensing LLC, 2012
All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN
and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are many people who made this book possible. I want to thank each of them.
My wonderful agent, Kimberley Cameron, of Kimberley Cameron and Associates.
My equally wonderful editor, Sandra Harding, who offered needed advice, criticism, and more than a few laughs along the way.
All the great folks at Penguin, including the publisher of New American Library, Kara Welsh.
Debbie Feiner, Patricia Masters, and Dr. James “the Hawk” Hawkins for lending their names to characters in this story.
A special thanks to James Fabrick, aka Jimmy Jam, aka Rat Boy, aka Blind Lemon Laguna Beach Fabrick, for his help with all things surfing.
The Hamptons: Home Sweet Home
I'm Dr. Hank Lawson. I live in the Hamptons. Specifically, in the guesthouse at Shadow Pond, a sprawling estate owned by the mysterious Boris Kuester von Jurgens-Ratenicz. I call him simply Boris. The reason for this should be obvious.
The Hamptons weren't my first choice for a place to practice medicine. Nor the second, third, or any other number you wish to attach. In fact, they didn't even make the list. Weren't on my radar.
But life sometimes pushes you along a path you never considered. You're rolling along, have a great job, a fantastic fiancée, a glowing future. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and violins provide your life's background music.
Until the train jumps the rails.
The music stops, the birds fly away, clouds darken the sun, and your life looks like the rubble left behind by a hurricane or a tornado or a tsunami.
That's what happened to me.
I ran a very busy emergency department in a large and prestigious hospital. I was respected by my colleagues and admired by the hospital administration.
Until the train jumped the rails.
I should point out that an emergency room is a very dangerous place, perhaps second only to an aircraft carrier deck during flight operations. People die there all too often. Heart attacks, strokes, auto accidents, shootings and stabbings, runaway infections, and a long list of other maladies can do in even the healthiest among us. And on many occasions do so in short order. I had seen it all and weathered every storm.
Until the train jumped the rails.
My train wreck came in the form of a cardiac death. Not uncommon, but this time the patient was Mr. Clayton Gardner, a man worth billions, with a
B
, and as fate would have it the major donor to the hospital. I did nothing wrong and in fact nearly saved Mr. Gardner. The board felt otherwise, so I was fired and blackballed from the medical community. No job, no future, and no fiancée. Nicki, who I thought was the love of my life, bailed on me, too. She apparently decided that she needed to marry a real doc, not one who had been kicked to the curb.
The train had not only jumped the rails but had tumbled into a deep, uninhabited gorge.
Unable to deal appropriately with this mountain of setbacks, I drank beer and watched weeks of reruns on TV. This actually made me feel better. Self-pity will do that. It can also be addicting. It hooked me and I settled nicely into a routine of doing nothing. Lucy, Ethel, and I became BFFs.
This stage of my life didn't last long, though. My brother, Evan, came to the rescue. Not that I went willingly, since I expected that whatever Evan planned would simply be another one of his harebrained schemes. When we were kids it seemed like he came up with two or three a week. Most were stupid and harmless, but a few got us in trouble. Nothing major, but we not infrequently found ourselves on the hot seat. Those are stories for another day. This time his idea was a trip to the Hamptons for Memorial Day weekend. The last thing I wanted to do. But Evan is persistent if nothing else. He also pointed out that I was becoming a slob and rapidly approaching flat broke.
What harm could a trip to the Hamptons do?
Maybe it would cheer me up?
Pushing my doubts on that point aside, I gave up the argument and said yes. My brother is very good at winning wars of attrition.
This little adventure into the wilds of the Hamptons led to a party at Shadow Pond, where I saved the life of one of the guests. A young woman who had inhaled a nasty pesticide while savoring a fragrant rose in Boris's massive garden.
As a way of saying thanks for my having aborted a medical, social, political, and financial disaster, Boris gave me a gold barâyes, a real solid gold barâand settled Evan and me into his guesthouse. He became my first patient.
From there my concierge practice grew. I'm not sure how, since I fought it for months, unconvinced that that type of medicine was right for me. But like breaking in a new pair of jeans, it soon became comfortable.
Now HankMed, the name Evan dreamed up for my practice, is very successful. It still consists of Evan, HankMed's self-anointed CFO, Divya Katdare, my self-hired physician assistant, and me. Our patient list has grown, we are solvent, even profitable, and once again the future looks bright.
I wish I could feel at ease with that, but the truth is I had my future blow up once before and I know it could happen again. Evan says I worry too much. That it's in my nature to do so. Divya cautiously agrees. I believe I'm a realist.
Chapter 1
“I think a pirate would be cool.” Evan danced around the room, waving his arm as if brandishing a sword.
“You mean like Zorro?” Divya asked.
“Or Errol Flynn.”
“Go with Zorro. The mask would be a definite improvement.”
“Maybe an eye patch.” Evan flattened his palm across his left eye. “Yeah, that would be cool.”
“Did they have pirates in colonial America?” Divya asked. “Or was that later?”
“Sure they did. Blackbeard? Remember him?”
“Vaguely.”
“He was ferocious. And studly.”
“Neither being a word I'd use to describe you.”
It was after sunset and the wedge of sky I could see through the windows darkened by the minute. I was sitting on the sofa, working on my laptop, listening to Evan and Divya argue. Their relationship seemed to be built around arguingâlike two five-year-olds who had to share the same sandbox. This time the subject was costumes.
It didn't start that way but rather began while they were going over HankMed's finances. Divya suggested a new method for record keeping; Evan immediately resisted, saying he was the CFO and the one who should decide how the ledgers were kept. He was probably right, but I had to admit Divya's suggestion made sense. I was smart enough to stay out of it and let them lock horns. Now they had shifted to a discussion of costuming.
One of my patients, Nathan Zimmer, was throwing the must-be-seen-at Fourth of July party next weekend. It was the buzz of Hamptons society. The theme was 1776. Colonial attire. Evan couldn't decide what to wear. He had run through a dozen suggestions, Divya shooting down each one.
“Maybe you could go as Thomas Paine's long-lost cousin,” Divya said.
“Thomas Paine? He was cool.”
“Yes, and a royal pain. Not unlike you.”
“Then you could go as King George. Another royal pain.”
Divya laughed. “That was actually clever. For you.”
Evan was undeterred. “Maybe I could be Ben Franklin. I love his little glasses.”
“I'll avoid any reference to you flying a kite or getting electrocuted.”
Evan finally gave up swashbuckling and sat down at the kitchen table. Divya sat on the opposite side, laptop open, papers spread over the surface. The aroma of the lasagna Evan had made drifted from the oven.
My stomach growled. Apparently loudly.
“Somebody's hungry,” Divya said.
“It's almost ready,” Evan said. “As soon as Jill gets here I'll take it out of the oven.”
Jill was Jill Casey, my on-and-off girlfriend and the administrator of Hamptons Heritage Hospital. She'd had a meeting that ended at seven and had just called saying she was on the way.
“I think you should quit fretting so much,” Divya said. “It's just a costume.”
“It's an important decision,” Evan said.
“It's a costume,” I said, immediately regretting jumping into the conversation. Some things are best left undisturbed.
“A CFO's costume,” Evan said. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“What reputation might that be?” Divya asked.
“A CFO's costume needs to suggest wealth and success. Let people know that you're cool and someone important.”
“That would be you,” I said. “Cool and important.”
“In his own head,” Divya said. She tapped her pen on the tabletop. “And you think a pirate costume would suggest a wealthy and successful CFO?”
Evan stared at her, apparently speechless. Not a common condition for him.
Divya shrugged. “I suspect that nowadays a CFO who plundered Wall Street might be considered a pirate, but I don't think that's the HankMed image we are going for.”
“Why not go as a bookkeeper?” I asked. “It's a small step from accountant.”
“There's a big difference.” Evan was now getting worked up. “Accounting takes years of school.”
I raised my hands. “Sorry.”
Evan wasn't finished. “That would be like me calling you a physician assistant.”
Divya raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly is wrong with that?”
“It's fine. For you but not for Hank.”
Now Divya's jaw set. “Because I'm a woman?”
Evan hesitated, obviously measuring his words. Good idea. You never want to have Divya's ire aimed at you. She can melt you with a look and her words can incinerate.
“No, that's not what I meant,” Evan said.
Divya waited. Me, too. Except I was holding my breath.
“I meant you didn't go to med school. Hank did. Most bookkeepers don't have degrees in accounting. I do.”
I was impressed. All in all not a bad recovery.
“Either way, you already have accounting-slash-bookkeeping costumes,” Divya said. “Go rummage through your closet.”
“I don't think I have anything colonial.”
Divya nodded. “Good point.”
“What are you going to wear?” she asked me.
“Nothing.”
“That's an interesting costume.” She laughed. “Could get you arrested, though.”
“What I meant is that I'll go as me.”
“That way no one will recognize you,” Evan said.
“That way I won't look like a fifth grader.”
“Costume parties are fun,” Evan said. “It's a chance to be a child again.”
“My point exactly.”
“What about you?” Evan asked Divya. “What are you going to wear?”
“I haven't decided.”
“Maybe you should be an Indian princess?”
“In case you haven't noticed, I
am
an Indian princess.”
“That's not the kind I was talking about.”
“Are you saying I would make a good squaw?”
Evan stood and walked across the kitchen to the oven and pulled open the door. The aroma of the lasagna intensified. My stomach growled again. Evan removed the lasagna from the oven and placed it on the counter. “That needs to sit for about ten minutes and then we'll be ready to eat.”
“You didn't answer my question,” Divya said.
“I think you'd look great in one of those buckskin dresses with feathers in your hair. Maybe beaded moccasins, too.”
Divya's glare launched a few arrows his way. “Perhaps you could go as a singing cowboy. A soprano if you don't watch out.”
The door swung open and Jill came in.
“Sorry I'm late,” Jill said. “I hope you didn't wait for me.”
I closed my laptop and placed it on the table beside the sofa. “Not at all. We're waiting for the lasagna to cool. And I've had the pleasure of listening to Evan and Divya argue over costumes.”
Jill placed the bottle of wine she'd brought on the table. “Any decisions made?”
“No,” Divya said. “Evan isn't capable of making such decisions.”
“That's not true,” Evan said. “I just need to be sure the costume makes a statement.”
“Statement?” Jill asked.
“Evan thinks his outfit should suggest power and wealth,” I said. “Be CFOish.”
Jill laughed. “Not sure what that would be.”
“Something cool and professional,” Evan said.
“Why not go as a bookkeeper?” Jill said.
Evan stared at her. “Do you and Hank compare notes?”
“What about you?” Divya asked Jill. “What are you going to wear?”
Jill sat next to me on the sofa. “It depends on Hank.”
“He said he was going to wear nothing,” Divya said.
Jill laughed. “That could get interesting.”
“Actually I said I was going as myself,” I said.
“That works for me,” Jill said. “I've got so much going on right now that looking for a costume is the least of my worries.”
Jill's project, and major headache for the past three months, was organizing the First Annual Hamptons Health and Fitness Fair at the high school. With the Fourth of July falling on Monday, the fair would be held on Saturday and Sundayâthe second and third. It was not only to promote fitness and a healthy lifestyle but also to raise money for the high school, Hamptons Heritage Hospital, and Jill's community clinic.
“What's the latest?” I asked.
“We have all the tent booths set up around the track and football practice field. I saved HankMed a prime corner one. Near the entrance and directly across the field from the Hamptons Heritage booth.”
The booths went for a thousand dollars each, but Jill had comped ours since we would be providing care to the attendees and those who would participate in all the athletic events she had planned.
“Thanks. We'll come by tomorrow and check it out.”
“Looks like I'll be there all day, so anytime.”
“What about the weather?” Divya asked. “Isn't it supposed to rain this week?”
Jill nodded. “They said maybe Wednesday or Thursday but the weekend will be clear.”
“They're only right about half the time,” Evan said. “You'd think they'd have weather prediction wired by now.”
“It's not an exact science,” I said.
“But there're a gazillion satellites that can see things all over the world. They should be able to tell us if it's going to rain or not.”
“I think it's particularly unpredictable this year,” I said. “Isn't this a La Niña year? Or is it El Niño? I can't keep those two straight.”
“Me either,” Jill said. “All I know is that the weather guy says it'll be clear this weekend.”
“Either way, I'm sure everything will work out just fine,” I said.
Evan tossed the Caesar salad he had made in a large wooden bowl. Divya cleared away her papers and laptop. Evan then carried the lasagna and the salad to the table, placing the former on a large quilted pad. Plates and flatware followed.
“Dinner is served,” Evan said.
While we ate, the conversation turned to Evan's fund-raising. He had taken on the task of selling the booths and collecting donations from local businesses and the Hamptons' more wealthy citizens. A job that required schmoozing, something Evan held a PhD in.
“I honestly don't know how I could have pulled this off without Evan's help,” Jill said. She looked at him and smiled. “He's been a real trouper.”
Evan beamed and his chest expanded a few inches.
“He is a salesman,” I said. “Annoying at times, but he can sell.”
“When you have a good product, selling it is easy,” Evan said.
“Well, you've done an incredible job.”
“Almost all the booths are sold,” Evan said. “Only two left. I have a couple of appointments tomorrow, so those should be filled then.”
Evan went on to rattle off the names of some of the companies that had donated money, concluding by saying that they had already passed their goal.
“Really?” Divya asked.
Jill nodded. “Actually we're way over our goal. And that's not counting whatever comes in from Evan's charity walk on Sunday.”
“I'm impressed,” Divya said. She lifted her wineglass. “A toast to Evan.”
We clinked glasses and took sips.
“What do you want?” Evan asked.
“Me?” Divya replied. “Why would you ask that?”
“You're being nice.”
“I am nice.”
“Just not to me.”
“You rarely deserve it. This time you do.”
There's nothing like the sounds of home.
The conversation returned to the health fair but unfortunately just as quickly flipped back to costuming. Not a subject that interested me a great deal but one that Evan had his teeth into. Obsession and Evan are old friends.
“I still like the idea of a swashbuckler,” Evan said. “I can see myself as Blackbeard.”
“Or perhaps the Scarlet Pimpernel,” Divya said.
Jill laughed so hard she nearly choked. When she got her breath back she said, “You'd look so cute in tights.”
“You guys are funny,” Evan said. “I'm talking about a sword and an eye patch and maybe a jug of rum.”
“Rum?” I asked. “That's what we need. Evan the drunk pirate.”
“I wouldn't fill it with real rum. Maybe tea or lemonade.”
“That's so Pimpernel,” Divya said. “A lemonade-drinking swashbuckler. Mr. Flynn must be spinning in his grave.”
“Maybe we should all visit that cool costume shop in East Hampton,” Jill said. “They even supply the local theaters. They'd have all types of costumes.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Maybe then Evan can make a decision and I won't have to listen to this anymore.”
“I wouldn't bet on that,” Divya said.
I could almost see Evan's mental wheels turning and then the light behind his eyes snapped on.
“I've got it,” he said. “A spy. I could go as a Revolutionary spy.” He took a bite of lasagna, his head bobbing as he chewed. “That would be so cool. After all, Evan R. Lawson is a superspy.” He held up his cell phone, aiming it at Divya.
Evan R. Lawson is a superspy.
Evan had once tricked Divya into saying a couple of nice things about him and had recorded her voice. He replayed them from time to time to annoy her. Like now.
“When are you going to delete that?” Divya asked.
“Probably never. I have another one if you'd rather hear that.”
Evan R. Lawson is right.
Divya rolled her eyes. “You're impossible.”
“But I have proof that you think I'm a superspy and that I'm right.”
“It was an isolated incident punctuated by a moment of weakness.”
“A spy might work,” Jill said. “You could wear all black and a long trench coat.”
“I could be like James Bond or Jason Bourne or George Smiley,” Evan said.
“Maybe Inspector Clouseau,” Divya said.
Evan R. Lawson is a superspy.
Evan looked at Divya. “And you could be Mata Hari.”
“Just so I don't have to be Rosa Kleb.”
“She did have cool shoes,” Jill said. “Not cool-looking, but that little knife blade in the toe could come in handy. Every time I have to negotiate with a vendor.”
