The Death of Lorenzo Jones by Brad Latham Page B

the rush hour. He parked on Constitution near the Liberty Bell Monument and walked to 190 Dean Avenue,
     the address of Dr. Dallas, a three-story colonial style professional building. There was a three-foot-high cast-iron jockey
     statue next to the flagstone walk. Lockwood rubbed its head as he passed it. He could use some good luck on this case. The
     head was well worn. The black-faced jockey had probably been rubbed a few thousand times by anxious patients.
    There was a set of six bronze plates on the entrance door, Dr. Dallas the sixth. “Third floor,” a walk-up. If someone can
     walk those flights, they don’t need a doctor, Hook thought.
    S PECIALIST , it said on the heavily varnished door. The bell went ding-dong, and a pleasantly built, middle-aged blond nurse opened the
     door.
    Lockwood flashed his badge. “Investigator Lockwood of New York City.” That was the truth, wasn’t it, insurance investigator?
    The nurse showed him into an impressive, well-lit, oak-paneled office where a man in a white coat sat. He had gray temples
     and a distinguished nose. Lockwood felt he was about to be examined for the size of his wallet. So it was with these fancy
     specialists; doctors and lawyers were miles above safecrackers when it came to inspired larceny.
    Lockwood waved his badge again as the nurse announced, “Detective Lockwood from the New York City Police.”
    “Sit down, please,” gestured the doctor, pointing at a dark green leather chair. “I know I must open my files to the police.
     So I already have the file out on Lorenzo Jones.”
    He picked up a manila envelope and handed it to Lockwood. The investigator pulled out a Camel, and the nurse lit it. She probably
     lights spuds for this rich doctor all the time, he thought. Nice.
    The doctor smoked Chesterfields. “Better for the lungs,” he said, “as the advertisements say.” He inhaled deeply, the smoke
     swirled out, and he looked Lockwood over.
    “I can translate anything you might have trouble reading there.”
    So I look like an idiot, Lockwood thought. He opened the envelope and flipped the pages of graphs and charts. Well, the medical
     jargon
was
a bit deep.
    “Okay, doctor. Succinctly, what was the matter with Jones?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Nothing?”
    “Oh, a moderate strain. I gave him some liniment. Nothing serious. Still, he was concerned. He was a baseball pitcher. I gave
     his arm a few heat treatments.”
    “Could he still pitch?”
    “As well as ever—after a month or so without strain on that arm. My diagnosis was just ‘muscle strain.’ ”
    Lockwood’s head swam as if he had been knocked with a sock full of nickels. Nothing wrong with Lorenzo’s arm! Gray wouldn’t
     like this at all. For days, he’d been following a false lead. All his thinking had centered around a damaged throwing arm.
    He didn’t show his chagrin. He took a slow draw on the Camel while pretending to read the rest of the doctor’s notes. His
     eyebrows went up when he found out what the doctor charged for a visit. There ought to be a law.
    “Mind if I keep this?” Lockwood asked.
    “Oh, definitely not, Detective Lockwood. But there’s a photostat service up the street. They can make a copy for you. While
     it dries you’re welcome to wait in my outer office. Miss Eastland will go make the copies for you.”
    Lockwood waited in the comfortable reception room for about twenty minutes while the nurse wiggled out to make the copies.
     He looked through a stack of
Life
magazines.
    The waiting room, empty when Lockwood entered, was filling with women in feather hats rattling their jewelry. Miss Eastland
     returned and handed him his copies. She gave him a big smile. If there was only more time in this life, Lockwood thought.
     He thanked her and left.
    It was chilly outside and Lockwood had left his scarf at home. The trip back would be cold. He walked over to a department
     store—Fowlers, a classy place, and bought a Merino brown wool scarf. As