Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [30]
“Yeah, right.”
“Look, Nat, can we talk about this later today, or tonight? I’m staying in the city.”
Pauline has a gorgeous house in Marin, overlooking the water. But she keeps a three-story loft downtown, near the ballpark.
“Come by tonight and we’ll make good on the drinks we missed, and I’ll tell you about Chuck.”
Before I can tell her that’s not going to happen, she adds, “I really gotta go. I’m on Internet time.”
She hangs up.
From my backpack, I pull out my laptop. I find a weak signal in the waiting room. I call up a browser and I search for “Adrianna.” It is a fool’s errand. There are several million of references.
Is Adrianna a resident of Magnolia Manor? That makes no sense in that Vince seemed baffled that Grandma had mentioned the name Adrianna.
From my pocket, I pull one of the shell casings I found on the ground outside my flat after this morning’s drive-by shooting. The brass housing looks to measure less than an inch in length, the width of a ring finger.
Into Google, I type: “identify shell casing.” I get countless hits—about collections of artillery shells, lamps made from old casings, and on and on—but not the clearinghouse site I’d imagined would let me precisely identify my bullet, or the gun that fired it.
“All that surfing can rewire your brain,” a voice says.
I look up to see Dr. Laramer.
“You’re looking well, Mrs. Idle,” he says to my companion on my right.
I close my laptop.
“Hello, Doc,” I say. He wears blue scrubs and flip-flops. “Is it casual footware Friday?”
“It’s Thursday,” Grandma says.
She’s right.
He looks at her and cocks his head.
“Interesting,” he mutters.
Chapter 15
“What?” I ask.
He ignores me and walks to the outer office door. He turns the latch and locks it. Except for us, the reception area is empty.
“Trying to keep us in, or somebody out?” I ask.
“I like a peaceful lunch hour but I’m making an exception for a family friend.” It’s not clear if he intends a slight.
The three of us walk down a corridor to his private office.
“What’s so interesting, Dr. Laramer?”
“Call me Pete, please. Let’s talk in my office.”
His confines celebrate his success.
Framed on his wall are numerous credentials, including his Neurology Board certificate denoting his specialty in memory and recall disorders, and a letter from the United States Patent and Trademark Office. The last time we’d visited, he’d told me he’d received a patent for developing techniques for using real-time imaging technology to explore the brain’s memory centers. He’s like an old-time cartographer, but instead of hiking into the interior of a continent, he’s mapping the subterranean layers of the brain to follow the flow of neurochemicals.
Adjectives that describe Dr. Pete Laramer: smart and ambitious. Not neat. Haphazard papers and files sully his desk. I’m that messy. I could be a fancy doctor.
Facing out from the desk stands a framed photograph of Kristina and three daughters who appear poised to share her beauty.
He’s my height but paunchier, a late-thirties white guy with gray-speckled temples. His eyes are bloodshot; between them and the scrubs, I infer he’s been on night call at the hospital. He looks otherwise devoid of any medical condition, which I find slightly disappointing.
“What strikes you about Lane?” I ask.
“She seems fit. Tracking. It’s good.”
“Really? It seems to me like she’s slipped off a cliff.”
Fewer than six months ago she’d have been, if not in her prime, sufficiently lucid. Brains don’t fail this precipitously.
I situate Grandma on a chocolate-leather couch. As I do so, I explain she is agitated and acting frightened. Grandma interjects. “You’re the doctor who studies my head.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it.” He glances at me as if to say: See, she’s on the ball.
He asks me to elaborate on what she’s been saying. “Has it been nonsensical rambling or is she repeating herself and focusing on a particular idea?”
I explain that Grandma talked about a man