Free Blood Test by Jonathan Kellerman

about.
    “Fine. There’s no shortage of things for me to do
anyway. Go yourself.”
    “I want Beverly along. Of anyone she’s got the best
feel for the family.”
    “Fine, fine. Take Beverly. Take whomever you want.”
    He straightened his tie and smoothed nonexistent
wrinkles in the long white coat.
    “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my friend,” he said,
straining to be cordial, “I’ll be off to the lab.”
    The Sea Breeze Motel was on west Pico, set amid cheap
apartments, dusty storefronts, and auto garages on a dingy slice of the
boulevard just before L.A. surrenders to Santa Monica. The place was two stories
of pitted chartreuse stucco and drooping pink wrought-iron railing. Thirty or
so units looked down upon an asphalt motor court and a swimming pool
half-filled with algae-clogged water. The only breeze evident was the steaming
layer of exhaust fumes that rose from the oily pavement as we pulled in beside
a camper with Utah plates.
    “Not exactly five star,” I said, getting out of the
Seville. “And far from the hospital.”
    Beverly frowned.
    “I tried to tell them that when I saw the address but
there was no convincing the father. Said he wanted to be near the beach where
the air was good. Even launched into a speech about how the whole hospital
should move to the beach, how the smog was harmful to patients. I told you, the
man is weird.”
    The front office was a glass booth on the other side
of a warped plywood door. A thin, bespectacled Iranian with the numb demeanor
of a habitual opium smoker sat behind a chipped, hinged plastic counter poring
over the Motor Vehicle Code. A revolving rack of combs and cheap sunglasses
took up one corner, a low table covered with ancient copies of throwaway travel
magazines squatted in the other.
    The Iranian pretended not to notice us. I cleared my
throat with tubercular fervor and he looked up slowly.
    “Yes?”
    “What room is the Swope family in?”
    He looked us over, decided we were safe, said, “Fifteen,”
and returned to the wondrous world of road signs.
    There was a dusty brown Chevy station wagon parked in
front of Room 15. Except for a sweater on the front seat and an empty cardboard
box in the rear deck, the car was empty.
    “That’s theirs,” said Beverly. “They used to leave it
parked illegally by the front entrance. One time when the security guard put a
warning sticker on the windshield, Emma ran out crying about her sick child and
he tore it up.”
    I knocked on the door. No answer. Knocked again
harder. Still no response. The room had a single grimy window, but the view
within was blocked by oilcloth curtains. I knocked one more time, and when the
silence was unbroken, we returned to the office.
    “Excuse me,” I said, “do you know if the Swopes are in
their room?”
    A lethargic shake of the head.
    “Do you have a switchboard?” Beverly asked him.
    The Iranian raised his eyes from his reading and
blinked.
    “Who are you? What do you want?” His English was
heavily accented, his manner surly.
    “We’re from Western Pediatric Hospital. The Swopes’
child is being treated there. It’s important that we speak to them.”
    “I don’t know anything.” He shifted his glance back to
the vehicle code.
    “Do you have a switchboard?” she repeated.
    A barely visible nod.
    “Then please ring the room.”
    With a theatrical sigh, he dragged himself up and
walked through a door at the rear. A minute later he reappeared.
    “Nobody there.”
    “But their car’s there.”
    “Listen, lady, I don’t know cars. You want a room,
okay. Otherwise, leave alone.”
    “Call the police, Bev,” I said.
    Somehow he must have sneaked in a hit of amphetamine
because his face came alive suddenly and he spoke and gesticulated with renewed
vigor.
    “What for police? What for you cause trouble?”
    “No trouble,” I said. “We just need to talk to the
Swopes.”
    He threw up his hands.
    “They take walk—I see them. Walking that way.” He
pointed