Free Bad Medicine by Eileen Dreyer Page B

putting a wrinkle in the world of Marsdale, Beacon, Fletcher, and Richards.
    She was almost wondering if the news she brought them would, in fact, wrinkle anything.
    "Can I help you?" the receptionist asked from behind her black Lucite desk. She was blonder, bustier, and better groomed than Molly. She also had teeth like a Derby contender.
    "Yes," Molly answered in her most professional tone, feeling like the carpet cleaner in her slacks and jacket when surrounded by the kind of decor that comfortably cushioned big retainers. "I understand Mary Margaret Ryan is employed here?"
    "Ms. Ryan is not in today," the blond answered, still completely neutral. "Could someone else help you?"
    "One of the partners, please. It's about Ms. Ryan."
    A frown, a gathering of poise, as if distancing herself. "Could I ask in what regard?"
    Molly hated flashing her identification until she needed to. If a cop flashed a badge, it could be about anything. Death investigators only had one thing on their minds.
    "Does she work with any one particular partner?" Molly asked. "I only need a few minutes."
    The blond studied her as if trying to guess her genus. Molly sighed and reached into her purse. Five minutes later, a truly shaken receptionist was ushering Molly back along a hallway decorated in hunting prints and Brooks Brothers suits to a corner office that overlooked the river. She wasn't nearly as shaken as Molly when the occupant of that office looked up from the phone to see who was there.
    "Oh, shit," Molly muttered.
    His smile was a real two-hundred-watter. He flashed it on Molly like the searchlight from the police copter. "Well, well, well," he greeted her, pushing himself up from his gleaming oak desk. "If it isn't Saint Molly of the Battlefield."
    Six feet two inches of black Irish good looks and the sartorial taste that comes with a big, big paycheck. Barracuda hungry and ethically challenged. The man Molly would have paid to have found in that motel room instead of Mary Margaret Ryan. The man she'd still pay to see dead in the worst possible way she could think of–and she'd thought of them all.
    The man who had spent two weeks smiting just like that across a witness box from her, thirteen months, two weeks, and five days ago. The man who had taken the last of her idealism and sold it on the open market.
    "Frank Patterson," Molly said, ignoring the smile, the outstretched hand, and the snakeskin charm. "Who'd you have to kill and eat to get here?"

 
     
     
    Chapter 5

     
    He laughed. Molly wasn't in the least surprised. One thing she had to say about Frank Patterson, he had never apologized. Not for tracking down the family of Mrs. Wiedeman, not for filing a lawsuit that included Molly for something she didn't do, not for making sure that Molly paid more than her fair share along with everybody else.
    Which just went to show you that the jokes were right. Metro Health Center, suddenly uncomfortable having a liability on its staff who had openly testified against the hospital in court, had methodically worked its bureaucratic magic until Molly had been forced off the payroll, ending her first real chance at tenure and security. Patterson, on the other hand, seemed to have leapt up the food chain like a salmon in spawning season. Frank's last address had been in a crackerbox place out in Ferguson sandwiched between a Chinese take-out and a video store .
    "Have a seat, have a seat," he offered, that smile even brighter at her discomfort. "I bought them with money from Metro, you know."
    "Thanks, no," she said. "They'd probably collapse."
    "And risk a lawsuit?" he demanded, wide-eyed. "Don't be silly."
    "Mr. Patterson," the receptionist ventured in a breathy whisper.
    "Oh, Ms. Burke and I know each other from way back, don't we, Molly?"
    "We do, Frank," Molly retorted, her attempts at professionalism evaporating. Damn it, he smelled so good. He always had, just a whiff of Lagerfeld to affect the witness's concentration. "I have a