Free Terminal (A Lomax & Biggs Mystery Book 5) by Marshall Karp Page B

half a dozen tells that they were either dancing around the truth or flat-out lying.
    “Do you have any idea why he’d shoot Dr. Kraus?” I asked.
    “The man had a brain tumor,” Claire said, grabbing the question as her husband fumbled for an answer.
    “Good point, good point,” Bruce said. “I’m not a doctor, but I would guess that could screw up somebody’s thinking and make him do crazy things.”
    I nodded like they’d made perfect sense. “Thank you both for your help. We’re sorry for your troubles and wish you both the best.”
    Claire escorted us to the front step. “That was very taxing for my husband,” she said. “I hope you won’t be needing him anymore.”
    “No, ma’am,” I said. “We’ve got everything we need for our report.”
    “So, Detective Biggs,” I said as soon as we were on the road, “Cal Bernstein is terminal and kills Dr. Kraus. Now it turns out that the man who accidentally mowed down Wade Yancy also has one foot in the grave. I don’t believe in coincidence, and I know a dozen judges who don’t believe in it either. What’s your take?”
    Terry ran an imaginary zipper across his lips and made the turn from Homedale to Thurston.
    “All right, I get it,” I said. “You behaved very well. You can talk now.”
    He turned to me, lolled out his tongue, puffed up his cheeks, crossed his eyes, and mimed a perfect, signature Harpo Marx Gookie face.
    “You fucking clown,” I said, laughing. “Just for that, I’m going to the Living With Dying meeting tonight without you.”
    He took both hands off the wheel, folded them in front of his chest, and begged mock forgiveness.
    “Fine,” I said. “I have a five o’clock doctor’s appointment. Pick me up at my house about a quarter to eight.”
    He pumped his fist, grinned like an idiot, and honked the horn incessantly as we drove up Sunset.
    Terry Biggs cracks me up. Even when he doesn’t say a word.

CHAPTER 20
    “DROP ME OFF right here,” I said as Terry pulled into the Hollywood station parking lot. “I’m not going into the office. I have just enough time to make it to this doctor’s appointment.”
    “You want me to go with you?” he asked as we got out of his car.
    “No.”
    “Are you sure? It’ll be a lot more laughs if you take me with you.”
    “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, getting into my car. “I’ll see you later.”
    “Good luck,” he said as I pulled out of the lot and onto Wilcox.
    I turned on the CD player, but I was no longer in the mood to be transported to a happier place by filling the car with music from a happier time. I killed the sound so I could make my way into the most dangerous neighborhood I know. Inside my head.
    My thoughts immediately turned to mortality. Mine, Joanie’s, Bruce Bower’s, and of course, Cal Bernstein’s. Cal had lived, laughed, loved, worked, played, and made his mark on this planet for fifty-four years. And I had been completely unaware of him until the last few seconds of his existence.
    But his death hit me hard.
    And now it was gnawing its way into my consciousness, reminding me of the words of wisdom I’d heard last night froman eight-year-old.
We all die, Mike. The best thing to do is have as much fun with your life while you can
.
    Maybe Sophie was right. Maybe knowing that death is in the wings drives most of us to make the most out of the time we have on stage.
    But still
, I thought
. Dying sucks, and I’m not ready
.
    An hour later, I was in yet another exam room, wearing yet another totally useless hospital gown, with my ass the target of yet another doctor.
    This time there was no gunfire to interrupt the procedure, and Dr. Abordo jammed an industrial-sized needle into my hip bone. Despite the fact that he’d given me a local anesthetic, it hurt like hell.
    “Sorry,” he said. “Take some Tylenol if you’re in pain when the anesthetic wears off.”
    “I can live with the pain. What I can’t live with is the suspense.”
    “The