Free Tainted by Ross Pennie Page B

that fancy store o’ theirs.”
    “You mean . . .” Hamish said.
    “Yeah. He makes them hisself. On the farm. He’s a butcher, eh? We got the farm to ourselves ever since our parents passed away. I do the mink, Morty tends the hogs, and Lanny does the books and his sausages.” He looked at Lanny as if apologizing for saying too much then stuffed his mouth with pizza. A spark of humour flashed in his eyes as he licked tomato sauce from his lips. “Haven’t found no women to take us on.”
    It was awkward accepting gifts from patients, particularly food. You never knew the condition of the kitchen it came from or whether it had been properly stored. But these sausages did look professional, as though they’d come straight from a grocery-store display case. If they stayed wrapped and frozen in the laboratory freezer until he took them home, and if he cooked them thoroughly, Hamish reckoned it might be okay to try them.
    “Gotta ask you, Doc,” Lanny said. “Will Ned be on any pills when he goes home?”
    “I expect so. He may need to take antibiotics for a couple of weeks after he’s discharged, maybe longer.”
    Lanny slid out of his jacket and looked around as if to be certain no one else was listening. “We don’t have a drug plan, eh? Being self-employed and all. So I’m gonna get you to put Andy Krooner’s name on the prescription. He’s our cousin. Works at the Ford plant. Got a great drug plan.”
    Hamish slid his thumb across the slippery packet in his hand. The sausages suddenly felt tainted, no longer a gift but an obligation. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Mr. Krooner. I can’t do that. I’d lose my licence.”
    The defiant glare returned to Lanny’s eyes. Acid burned the back of Hamish’s throat as Lanny studied his face, memorized his features. Lanny turned to the pizza and tightened his fist, the muscles of his back and shoulders rippling beneath his T-shirt.

CHAPTER 8
    “Extraordinary,” said Colleen Wool-ton, private investigator, from behind her desk at two thirty that afternoon.
    Zol had just given her the ten-minute gist of the CJD story.
    “And yes,” she continued, her hazel eyes sparkling, “it would be my pleasure to help you with your investigation.”
    Zol couldn’t quite place her accent. Australia? New Zealand? No, probably South Africa. That would fit with the photo on the wall behind her — a lioness and two cubs in a sundown standoff with a wildebeest and her calf. Her voice was controlled but soothing, just like her face. Freckles sprinkled her nose, and she had a warm smile that seemed to come straight from the heart. Even in her shoes she was only about five feet tall. Her head and body were perfectly proportioned and her demeanour attractively feminine.
    She swept her thick, loosely braided ponytail off her left shoulder. Its strands of copper and gold glinted in the rays streaming from the bank of halogen pot lights in the ceiling. “I must tell you — if we’re going to work together, I need to be kept abreast of all the details of the investigation as they emerge.” She opened her hands and spread her fingers in reassurance. “Only so that I can help you by supplyingthe missing pieces others might have difficulty snagging by, shall we say, more traditional means?”
    Zol rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs, embarrassed at feeling this nervous in the presence of such an attractive woman. “Sure,” he said. “At the health unit, I always insist we work as a team.”
    She pulled a scribbler from a drawer and picked up her pen. “Do you have time to give me the details of what you’ve got so far?”
    He took his notes from his briefcase and proceeded line by line through the three cases. Colleen seemed to follow every word, took detailed notes, and appeared more at home with the medical jargon than he had expected.
    After half an hour, Zol stood, stretched, and removed his blazer. It was sweltering under the pot lights. He felt awkward towering