Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script Read online

  To Madison, author of "The Adventures of Kitty Wonder," who has promised to support me one day with her writing.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, Dr. Doug P. Lyle was an invaluable asset, available day and night for my insane medical questions. Any errors are entirely my fault and I am already deeply embarrassed about them.

  I couldn't have written this book without technical assistance in matters of law, technology, ballistics, accounting, and computer science from Robert Bruce Thompson, Stuart Dumas, Paul Bishop, Jason Stoffmacher, Jacquelyn Blain, Gerald Elkins, and Gary G. Mehalik.

  And finally, special thanks to Tod Goldberg, William Rabkin, Gina Maccoby, Dan Slater, and most of all my wife,

  Valerie, for their continued enthusiasm and support.

  PROLOGUE

  Over the years, dozens of hospital administrators have tried to force Dr. Mark Sloan, Community General's eccentric chief of internal medicine, to follow some simple rules of conduct.

  All they asked was that he maintain a professional demeanor, attend regular administrative meetings, operate his department within a strict budget, and not indulge his inexplicable interest in homicide investigation on hospital time.

  By and large they were an impressive bunch of administrators. Smart, capable, often fearsome, but Dr. Sloan had conquered them all.

  That wasn't going to happen with Noah Dent. Community General's new chief administrator was fresh from the Hollyworld International corporate office in Ft. Lauderdale, where the thirty-one-year-old had been a rising star in the acquisitions department. Although primarily known for its amusement parks, Hollyworld had diversified into cruise lines, fast-food franchises, office buildings, and hospital ownership.

  Dent's aggressive, take-no-prisoners approach to the hostile takeover and absorption of businesses into the Hollyworld corporate family impressed his superiors, who felt he was just the right person to wring a wider margin of profitability from Community General.

  Before Dent was transferred to his new post in Los Angeles, he put together a detailed file on Mark Sloan and the administrators the doctor had defeated. Now, in advance of Dent's first meeting with Dr. Sloan, the administrator once again studied the case histories of his immediate predecessors to see what lessons he could learn from their embarrassing failures.

  Kate Hamilton came to Community General after steering two mismanaged hospitals from the brink of bankruptcy to profitability. But within a year, Dr. Sloan defanged her, convincing her to quit her job, sell her home, and use the proceeds to establish a nonprofit food bank in the inner city.

  Norman Briggs, her successor, showed great promise as a hard-line bottom-liner, having spearheaded the hostile takeover of the hospital by Mediverse Corporation. But somehow Dr. Sloan managed to compromise Briggs completely. Not only did Briggs let Dr. Sloan use hospital resources and staff as he pleased in his murder investigations, but the administrator became his eager flunky.

  When Community General was sold to Healthcorp International, they brought in General Harold Lomax, who'd spent ten years running battlefield medical operations for the United States Marine Corps before being lured into the private sector. Healthcorp was certain that Lomax could bring Dr. Sloan, and the Community General budget, under control. But eight months later, Lomax resigned with an extreme case of irritable bowel syndrome and left behind a hospital literally in ruins, decimated by a serial bomber stalking Dr. Sloan.

  From what Dent could tell, it wasn't that Dr. Sloan possessed any Machiavellian political skills. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He wore his administrative adversaries down with his utter affability, gentle humor, and relentless good will.

  Those days were about to end.

  Noah Dent was immune to humor and goodwill, especially where business was concerned. Mark Sloan would find himself powerless against him.

  Mark showed up promptly at the appointed hour, which was at the end of a long shift on a weekday afternoon. Dent had chosen that time purposely to catch Mark at his lowest ebb, when he was tired and off his game. Even so, Mark entered flashing a warm smile and extending his hand.

  "Welcome to Community General," Mark said. "I'm Dr. Mark Sloan, but I hope you'll call me Mark."

  Dent offered the tightest of polite smiles in return as he shook Mark's hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Sloan. Please, take a seat."

  He motioned Mark into his spartan office and tried to hide his disappointment. In the flesh, Mark Sloan just didn't live up to Dent's expectations.

  Although Dent knew Mark's weapons were his charm and good-natured humor, he still expected the doctor to be an overpowering force of nature, to fill a room with his indomitable personality. But compared to the corporate executives Dent had symbolically beheaded in the past—men who commanded a room and exuded hurricane-strength charisma—Dr. Sloan seemed decidedly weak. He was just a white-haired old doctor in a wrinkled lab coat.

  Mark took the seat that was offered to him and smiled as warmly as he could, considering the chilly temperature of both the room and the man who inhabited it.

  "I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to get together until today," Mark said. "My life has been kind of chaotic lately and is only just settling down again."

  "Indeed." Dent settled into his chair behind his desk and opened the file in front of him. "You've been traveling a lot over the past few weeks. Hawaii, Colorado, New Mexico, Palm Springs. Quite an itinerary."

  "I wish I could say it was for pleasure, but I was helping the authorities pursue a killer," Mark said, well aware that Dent already knew that. The details had been widely reported by the media, mostly because the case involved the kidnapping and murder of a Las Vegas casino owner's teenage daughter.

  "I'm sure the FBI and the LAPD appreciated having an internist on the case," Dent said. "I just wish you put as much effort into your duties at this hospital as you do playing amateur sleuth."

  Mark was prepared to defend himself to Dent; it was something of a ritual for each new administrator to try to exert some control over him. But he didn't expect such a direct attack.

  "I've been on the staff of this hospital longer than any other doctor here," Mark said. "I've treated generations of families and trained countless physicians over the past forty years."

  "I don't doubt your qualifications, Dr. Sloan, or your skills as a physician. You're a respected member of your profession," Dent said. "What I question is your commitment to this hospital and your blatant abuse of the privileges you've been granted here."

  "I haven't been granted anything, Mr. Dent. Whatever I have, I've earned." Mark was surprised how quickly Dent had managed to get under his skin.

  Dent sighed wearily. "An inflated, and misplaced, sense of entitlement. That's usually the excuse employees use to justify to themselves stealing office supplies, padding the expense account, and making long-distance calls on office phones."

  "I admit sometimes I forget to take my pen out of my pocket before I go home," Mark said. "If you like, you can deduct the cost from my paycheck."

  Dent referred to the file in front of him. "Your son, Steve, is a homicide detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. Frequently over the years you've assisted in his investigations."

  "I'm a consultant to the police," Mark said.

  "Really?" Dent said. "Do they pay you?"

  "No, I volunteer my time."

  "That's not all you volunteer," Dent said. "You also freely offer the resources of this hospital and the services of its employees. Who do you think pays for the overtime when Dr. Bentley pulls an all-fighter dissecting a corpse for you?"

  "Amanda is the adjunct county medical examiner," Mar
k said. "The county compensates her for her work."

  "Yes, they do, for the work they order, not the work you ask her to do," Dent said. "Let's be honest, Dr. Sloan. The medical examiner's satellite office is here for your amusement and convenience—a personal playground cleverly paid for by our shareholders and Los Angeles taxpayers."

  "The medical examiner's office is here because they desperately needed additional manpower and more morgue space," Mark said. "We're providing a service to the community."

  "But it was you who suggested they open their morgue here at Community General and staff it with one of our pathologists."

  "Because it was a fast, simple, and inexpensive way to solve a serious problem facing the county and help shore up the hospital's finances at the same time."

  "And it brought you a constant supply of fresh corpses to play with," Dent said, shaking his head with disgust. "I don't know how you managed to pull it off, Dr. Sloan."

  "As I recall, the board voted unanimously for the project," Mark said stiffly, trying to keep his rising anger in check.

  "The same board that drove Healthcorp International into bankruptcy," Dent said. "Which is why they no longer own this hospital and we do."

  "I can't tell you how thrilled we all are about that, too," Mark said. "I've always wanted to work for a division of an amusement park company."

  "Hollyworld International has diversified into many areas," Dent said. "But we treat each of them as if they were our core business."

  "Which is to make as much money as possible," Mark said.

  "Of course," Dent said. "You say that like it's a bad thing. Making money is the whole point of operating a business, Dr. Sloan."

  "I don't look at medicine as a business."

  "That is abundantly clear," Dent said. "You look at it as a way to subsidize your detective work."

  "It's unfortunate that you see things that way." Mark glanced at his watch and rose from his seat. "As much as I've enjoyed our chat, I'm coming to the end of a long shift. I should be getting home."

  "Well, that's one thing we agree on, Dr. Sloan," Dent said. "In more ways than one."

  * * *

  Cleve Kershaw was irresistible and he knew it. He had the complete package: money, charm, and power. Looks had nothing to do with it, though by his estimation he was no slouch in that department, either.

  Part of his undeniable allure, he knew, was his casual self-confidence, which came from having an accurate sense of who he was and where he stood in the Hollywood universe. He was a player. Certified, bona fide, and blow-dried. Somebody who made things happen. Somebody that nobodies aspired to be. A producer, with a capital "P."

  "God, it's beautiful," Amy Butler said, standing on the wide deck of Cleve's Malibu beach house, the gentle breeze rippling the thin fabric of her sheer, untucked blouse as she admired the view. "Just awesome."

  Cleve was also admiring an awesome view—at least what he could see of it when the wind hit her shirt just right.

  Amy was irresistible and probably knew it, too. She had it all: beauty, youth, and innocence, though the fact she was with him now put that last quality in doubt. Not that he cared. Amy's ability to project innocence she didn't have revealed a natural talent for acting, which was more valuable than innocence, anyway.

  Amy was in a great shape, but not in the surgically enhanced sense—also a plus. She was a one hundred percent natural beauty with a lean, strong, supple body. There didn't seem to be a molecule of body fat on her. She exuded so much youthful vitality, she made Cleve feel elderly at forty—but not so elderly that he doubted for one second that he'd have her in bed before the afternoon was over.

  They were two irresistible people who wouldn't be resisting each other much longer.

  "Do you live here?" she asked.

  Cleve shook his head. "This is just where I go to get away from it all."

  "Get away from what?"

  He shrugged. "The hustle and bustle."

  "I thought you liked the hustle and bustle," she said with a sly grin.

  "It depends with whom," said Cleve, so smooth his words could be poured. He saw himself as Dean Martin in his prime, only without the singing voice.

  "So where do you live?" she asked.

  "I got a place in Mandeville Canyon."

  It was a loaded and carefully premeditated reply. By calling his house a place, he made it seem unremarkable, which made him come across as relaxed, easy-going and self- deprecating—the very definition of charm.

  By slipping in that his place was in secluded Mandeville Canyon, he was actually saying he lived in a mind-blowing estate and that he could afford the ridiculous extravagance of owning two magnificent homes, each worth a high seven figures, that were barely twenty miles apart.

  If all the subtext in that deceptively simple remark didn't make her swoon, she wasn't a woman.

  'The movie business has been very good to you," Amy said.

  It was a good thing she was holding on to the rail, Cleve thought, or she might swoon right into the surf.

  "It's going to be very good for you, too."

  "Starting when?" Amy said, her eyes sparkling with mischief and possibility.

  "Starting now," he said.

  The formal seduction had begun at lunch at Granita. The informal seduction began six months ago when he saw her picture in an LA Times ad for Macy's fall clearance sale. What most people saw, if they noticed her at all, was a fresh faced girl modeling a discounted sports bra. What Cleve saw was a potential action superstar. He tracked her down, talked her into dumping her agent, and immediately began remaking her.

  Of course, she knew Cleve was married, and who he was married to. Everybody did. That was half the attraction for her. Maybe two-thirds. She knew exactly what he was bringing to the party. But so far, she'd been doing all the partying. There hadn't been any festivities for Cleve yet.

  That was about to change.

  After lunch, Cleve invited her to see his "little beach place" just down the road. Amy said sure, left her Volkswagen Bug in the lot, and let him drive.

  She'd ceded control of the afternoon to him the moment she'd slid into the hand-stitched leather interior of his Mercedes SL. Of course, she'd ceded control of so much more six months ago.

  And now here they were at his beach house on an exclusive stretch of sand on a bright, sunny, perfect California afternoon. What was going to happen next was as inevitable as the setting of the sun, the dawn of a new day, and the thousand-dollar minimum he spent every time he took his Mercedes in for service.

  Cleve went inside and uncorked a bottle of champagne.

  "I hope you like Dom Perignon," he said, filling their glasses.

  "What are we celebrating?" she asked as she joined him.

  "The future," Cleve said.

  They clinked their glasses together, unaware that they were sharing a toast to their last two hours alive.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mark Sloan was many things: A doctor, a detective, and an amateur magician. But he wasn't a great painter, or even a mediocre one. The seascape he was trying to paint certainly proved that to him.

  He was sitting outside at an easel on the second-floor deck of his Malibu beach house, trying his best to capture on canvas the inspirational beauty of the frothy surf, the rolling dunes, and the seagulls floating gently on the breeze.

  But there was something missing from the painting and Mark had a pretty good idea what it was.

  Talent.

  What he'd painted looked like a lopsided blue cake being attacked by a swarm of huge, feathered mosquitoes.

  Mark wasn't surprised. He'd never been able to draw, much less paint, but the art supplies were a birthday gift last year from his son. Steve thought his father might enjoy painting in his free time as a way to relieve the stress of being chief of internal medicine at Community General Hospital.

  At least that's what Steve said. What his son really wanted was for Mark to occasionally find something else to do bes
ides poke into whatever homicides Steve was investigating for the LAPD.

  It wasn't that Steve didn't appreciate Mark's uncanny deductive skills. If he didn't, he would have moved to another city and another police department years ago, far from his father's considerable shadow. Steve genuinely admired and respected his father's innate ability to solve crimes and was grateful to have him to turn to. Even so, Steve had few real opportunities to prove his own abilities within the department, and as much as he admired his father, he still wanted to establish his own reputation apart from him.

  So every year, Steve presented his father with a new potential distraction in the guise of a birthday present. A set of golf clubs. Elaborate model airplanes to assemble. A fishing pole and two dozen colorful lures.

  With his next birthday fast approaching, Mark felt obligated to finally give last year's present a try. At least with this present, he wouldn't break any windows, glue his hand to any tables, or catch his own buttock with a three-hooked galactic spinner. So when Mark got back home from his shift at the hospital late that afternoon, he finally lugged out the easel, the canvas, and the paint onto the deck, faced the ocean, and began work on his masterpiece.

  Mark regarded his seascape for a moment and had a great idea. He'd give the painting to Steve as a gift. Better yet, he'd surprise Steve by hanging it in his son's place. Maybe that way he'd get a good present from Steve this year.

  There were many advantages to sharing a house with his son and the opportunity to play a joke like this on Steve was one of them.

  He wondered how long Steve would keep the feathered mosquitoes on the wall before the painting was destroyed in a freak accident.

  The idea amused Mark so much, he was seriously considering the idea of painting an entire series of awful paintings for his son. But he quickly forgot about all that when he heard the two gunshots.

  He instinctively turned in the direction of the shots, the sharp cracks still reverberating in the air. It sounded close—maybe only a few houses away. Almost immediately there was another shot, then one more.