Page 32 of The Perfect Appearance

Then he began marching toward her.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kat made sure not to touch anything if she could help it.

Considering that she was in an establishment where she was about to talk to a doctor, that seemed strange. Of course, she was in a downtown bar at 10:15 a.m., and the doctor she was meeting was lucky to still have his license.

As she and a very reluctant Gila walked to the booth at the poorly lit, far end of Bootie’s Bar, Kat couldn’t stop her eyes from darting around. She knew the chances of Ash Pierce being in her were close to zero, but that didn’t stop her from giving every shadow a second glance.

As they got closer to the booth, she forcibly redirected her attention to the guy sitting there and tried to determine how best to deal with him. Considering that this whole endeavor was a longshot, she decided it was probably best just to be honest with him.

“Jackson Hiller?” she asked when she reached the booth.

The man seated there, one of only three total customers in the whole place, looked up at her. In front of him on the table was both a near-empty mug of beer and a shot of something brown. She already knew from her research that Hiller was forty-two, but he looked almost a decade older.

His prematurely gray hair seemed unusually long and greasy for a physician, but he was really only that in name only. His brown eyes were bloodshot, and he had about three days’ worth of stubble. The man pushed his hair out of his eyes before responding.

“Dr. Hiller,” he said with a bit of undeserved huffiness.

Hiller already had his license suspended twice on suspicion of getting paid to write unneeded prescriptions. He’d been kicked out of his practice after two lawsuits involving dead patients. And he’d lost privileges at multiple hospitals around town. He wasn’t in the best position to demand the use of his title. But Kat needed him, so she accommodated.

“Dr. Hiller,” she said, sliding into the spot opposite him, “my apologies. I’m Kat Gentry. Thanks for meeting with me.”

“I’m only doing it because Hobie vouched for you,” Hiller said. “I’m not normally a fan of talking to law enforcement.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem,” Kat told him, “because I’m a private detective, not a cop. Hobie should have made that clear.”

Hobie was local cab driver that she sometimes used to tail people when she didn’t want to drive her own car. He was plugged into the local underground economy, including doctors who would offer services to folks who didn’t want to go to standard hospitals.

“He did, but I’m still a little wary. What do you want, Ms. Gentry? And why is your friend there standing at your side like she’s your personal bodyguard or something?”

“That’s because she is,” Kat replied. “Don’t worry, she’s not interested in what we’re saying, just that you don’t do something foolish like leap across the table at me.”

She didn’t mention that Gila had vehemently expressed opposition to this meeting multiple times, including once just before they walked in. Each time, Kat had thanked her for her concern and then proceeded doing exactly what she wanted.

“I don’t leap across tables for much of anything these days,” he conceded.

“Then this should go smoothly,” Kat told him. “The reason I’m here is because Hobie informed me that you’re plugged in when it comes to unsanctioned medical procedures, that sort of thing.”

“I may know a person or two,” Hiller said with way more pride than someone should feel about being familiar with that world.

"That's what I'm hoping for—" Kat started to say.

“For the right price.”

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything up front,” Kat said, having expected this tactic. “But I can offer you something else—two things actually. First, the beginning of what could be a fruitful relationship for both of us, one that could lead to regular cash in your pocket down the line.”

“That’s not sounding all that compelling,” Hiller said. “What’s your other offer?”

“More importantly,” Kat told him, “your help could lead to a significant, one-time payday. You see, the information I’m looking for has a large reward attached to it. But it’s not the kind of information you, as a medical professional, can reveal to the authorities without compromising your license or putting yourself in the cross hairs. But if you help me and your help leads to the apprehension of the person I’m after, I’ll happily give you a percentage of the reward.”

“How much?” he demanded.

“Ten percent,” she told him. “Consider it a finder’s fee.”

“Ten percent of what?” he asked.

“$10,000,” she said flatly.

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