Doing It Right. MaryJanice Davidson

the etiquette here?”

      She blinked. “Uh … that won’t be necessary. Dr. Dean—”

      “Jared.”

      “—may I say, you’re taking this remarkably well?”

      “Work in an ER for a year,” he said, suddenly grim. “You learn to recover your equilibrium pretty damned quickly.”

      “Touché,” she said quietly.

      “So now what?”

      “Now you don’t get killed.”

      “I mean, what happens now? What do we do?”

      “We?”

      “We’ve got to sic the cops on the bad guy, right? Do we, er, drop a dime on him?”

      “No cops!” she yelped, startling him. She hadn’t been this rattled when Uggo had been trying to smash her face in. “We’ll keep you out of trouble until this blows over. End of plan.”

      “Blows over?” he practically shouted. “I have to—we have to put our lives on hold until ole One Eyebrow goes away? Forgive me, but I thought you were a little more pro-active than that.”

      “You’re right,” she admitted, “but when the law is involved, I can’t be as pro-active as I’d like.”

      “But … aren’t you in trouble, too? Won’t Jerk-off try to kill you?”

      “Oh, he’s been trying,” she said casually, as if a large, frightening, ugly man trying to kill her was of as much consequence as a threatened spring shower. “For years. He’ll never get me. Too dumb. Too slow.”

      “Too lame a bad guy, sounds like,” he muttered. “It’s almost embarrassing to be on his shit list.”

      She frowned. “This is serious. You’re a sitting duck because you’re different.”

      “You mean because I have two eyebrows?”

      She giggled into her cup and he was absurdly pleased with himself. “I mean, you’re a citizen. A taxpayer, one of the good guys. Not like Carlotti.”

      He pounced. “Not like you?”

      The smile vanished, poof! “You ask a lot of questions, Dr. Dean.”

      “Jared. And you’re still in trouble with this guy, same as I am. Who’s going to look out for you? I mean, if you get sick or short of breath or have chest pains, I’m your man, but if a hit squad starts shooting at you to shut you up, I’ll be the one cowering in the corner with my hands over my ears.”

      She smiled and tried to hide it, but he saw it and grinned back at her. “Carlotti knows he has nothing to fear from me in court,” she explained, getting up to refill her cup. She disdained the sugar locker and drank it black, making an appreciative face. He couldn’t believe it—of all the things to happen this evening, beautiful Kara enjoying the hospital’s interpretation of coffee was the strangest. “I can’t testify against him.”

      She didn’t elaborate, but Jared was able to figure that one out. There were only two reasons not to testify against anyone: fear—which Kara didn’t seem to know the meaning of—and having something to hide. You didn’t testify for the D.A. if the D.A. had something on you as well.

      He wondered what she had done.

      “So let’s go see the D.A.,” he said, seizing the bull by the horns.

      “You may, if you like,” she said quietly, “but you’ll go alone and I would prefer to wait and see what happens.”

      Which meant she knew a lot more than she was telling. He had the feeling that if he insisted on seeing the D.A., he’d for a fact never see her again.

      He instantly decided that was an unacceptable course of action. Screw the risk to his personal health! He had to get to know this woman.

      “So … what?”

      “We wait until Carlotti is arrested. It shouldn’t be long. A lot of people are looking for him.” She said that with cool relish and he made a mental note to never get on her bad side. “When he’s arrested, you’re out of danger.”

      “Doesn’t he have hench-thugs who could still get me?”

      She nodded. “In theory. But they won’t make a move without him breathing in their ears. You can see the D.A.—his name is Thomas Wechter, by the way, second floor of the courthouse, take a left past the water fountain—and tell him your story, tell him you’re willing to testify, ask to see the rest of his case. If he has one.”

      “What about you?” he asked, trying once again, even though he knew it was useless. The same tenacity that made other doctors literally pull him off a DOA wouldn’t let him back away from this. “You were wronged by Carstupidi. You should testify that he tried to kill you! I mean, Jesus, that big bully, if you hadn’t cleaned his clock, I would have.”

      She snorted and he raised an eyebrow at her. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I was just picturing you and Carlotti—but you were talking about the D.A. I can’t testify. It’s all up to you.”

      “What are you afraid of?” he asked boldly, sure she’d rebuff him, or deny fear. Instead, she just gave him a level look.

      “Nothing I could explain to you,” she said quietly, then got up, poured the rest of her coffee down the sink and walked to the window. She took the cup with her, he noticed. After a moment, he got it—she was so paranoid, she wouldn’t take a chance on leaving fingerprints behind. Interesting. “See you around, Dr. Dean. I’ll be in touch.” She stepped up to the windowsill.

      “It’s Jared,” he yelled, darting after her, “and use the door, for God’s sake! Look, it’s right here.” He rattled the doorknob invitingly; she ignored him. “I can walk you to the main entrance. Ha! Some bodyguard!” he screamed and that got her attention; she paused and turned, looking at him over her shoulder, one foot already on the ledge. “Leaving me here to rot! I’m easy pickings for Carlotti’s hench-morons.”

      She smiled. “Hardly. I’ll be close. Good night.” “Wait!” But the window closed firmly and when he darted to it to look out, it was so dark he couldn’t see her anymore.

      Ten hours later, he let himself into his apartment. A long shift, but a busy and rewarding one—only one death and that one a DNR, an eighty-seven-year-old woman who had been praying for death for the better part of a year, according to her calmly tearful daughter. Tough, but it could have been so much worse. Was so much worse, frequently.

      He often wondered how he had ended up where he was—a physician, someone who dealt with death every day. In school he’d been an amiable goof-off, the class clown, never taking anything or anyone seriously. Strange that he had been drawn to a career that was, at times, absolutely the furthest thing from humorous.

      It wasn’t that he’d lost someone close to him, had been marked forever by the death of a parent or close friend. Hell, he’d never had so much as a pet die on him. But in college he’d taken an EMT course, and as part of the training he had to volunteer at a busy metro hospital.

      Looking at the suffering around him, he watched the doctors and nurses ease that suffering, pull off miracle cures, reunite families. He remembered thinking, That looks a helluva lot more satisfying than working in an office or going out to L.A. to do stand-up. Making people laugh is one thing. Giving them their lives back is another. He had gone home that night and applied to five premed programs. His father, seeing his slack-ass son filling out college applications instead of watching Friends reruns, had nearly wept with relief.

      He was walking through the living room, intent on the kitchen and a sandwich, when he saw Kara was deeply asleep on his couch, curled under a yellow fleece throw. He nearly walked into the end table.

      He turned around, tiptoed back to his front door, and examined