A Night at the Operation Read Online Free PDF

tightly together, but I managed to squeeze out, “No.”
    “So you see my dilemma.”
    I stopped pacing and considered Dutton. I hadn’t known him long, but had discovered, on a number of occasions now, that he was an honest man in a difficult job, and he cared. He could be a little manipulative when the situation called for it, but he always had a solid reason, and his judgment usually turned out to be sound. So I couldn’t understand why he was being so cagey about Sharon’s predicament.
    “No, I can’t see your dilemma,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense that you’re even bothering with this until there’s some imminent danger or a crime has been committed. Has anyone contacted Gregory with ransom demands? Have you found some evidence that Sharon’s been hurt, or . . .” I didn’t want to say it, so I didn’t. Sharon couldn’t be hurt, or . . . anything . Sharon was too important to my sanity.
    “No, Elliot. I told you,” Dutton said. “I don’t believe the doctor is in any danger right now.”
    “Then I don’t get it. If you don’t think she’s the victim of a crime, what do you think she is?”
    Chief Dutton let out a good deal of air. “A suspect in one,” he said softly.

4
     
     
     
     
    “IT seems there’s a man named Russell Chapman, a patient of your ex’s.” Dutton was driving and I was looking out the window.
    I don’t own a car; I’m probably the last New Jerseyan left who doesn’t express his personality through a choice of automotive transportation. I try not to contribute to the global environmental crisis and the stranglehold of the big oil companies on the American consumer. So I ride a bicycle most of the time, and I get other people to drive me around, or borrow a car when necessary. We all make compromises.
    “Okay, so he’s a patient of Sharon’s,” I said. “What’s wrong with him?”
    “Mostly, what’s wrong with him is that he’s dead,” Dutton answered. “He died last night.”
    Suddenly, the view of Edison Avenue approaching Comedy Tonight wasn’t all that fascinating; I swiveled my head toward Dutton and looked for some clue to his thoughts. He was watching the road.
    “Doctors have patients die all the time,” I told him. “It’s a hazard of the profession.”
    “This one didn’t die of natural causes,” Dutton said.
    That took a second to sink in. “You think Sharon killed this guy Chapman?” I asked, and my voice was unusually high, just on the south side of screechy.
    “No, and stop doing a Julie Andrews impression.” Dutton has a Sound of Music fetish. “Chapman killed himself last night. Took a bottle of Valium.”
    “He must have been really tense,” I said. When I’m nervous, my natural sarcasm comes closer to the surface. Forgive me.
    “Yeah.” Dutton wasn’t so forgiving.
    We pulled up in front of Comedy Tonight and Dutton, although in an unmarked car, stopped illegally at the curb. I sat there and looked at him. “I don’t get it. If this guy OD’ed in his own home, why are you concerned where Sharon is? Come clean, Chief.”
    Dutton put the car in park and didn’t so much sigh as simply exhaled. When I’d first met him, Dutton had reminded me of Yaphet Kotto, but today he was much more in a Ving Rhames mode.
    “The thing is, Elliot, that Chapman’s daughter says Dr. Simon-Freed had given her father a diagnosis yesterday. Inoperable, incurable brain cancer. No chance, virtually no treatment, very little time. And she prescribed the Valium to take the edge off.”
    People walked by on Edison Avenue, walking a little faster because the early December chill was being accompanied by a nice strong northeasterly wind. Riding home tonight on the bicycle after midnight would be a real treat.
    I saw a sinister picture forming, but I couldn’t quite make it out yet. “That happens,” I told Dutton. “I lived with Sharon for years. Doctors have to give people bad news. And then they try to help with something that will