JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THE CLINIC

“Mike Cruvic.” Nodding, as if we’d just come to a consensus. Even when he stood still he seemed to bounce.

“Doctor,” said Milo. They shook, then I got Cruvic’s hand. Muscular grip but soft palm. Buffed nails.

“Thanks for taking the time, sir.”

“Happy to, though I really don’t know how I can help you find Hope’s killer.” He shook his head. “Let’s sit, okay? Got myself a heel spur from running in old shoes. You’d think I’d know better.” He knuckled his forehead three times and sank into the love seat.

“You know what they say,” said Milo. “The doctor’s kids go barefoot.”

Cruvic smiled and stretched his arms. “In this case the doctor gets sore feet. I never thought I’d be talking to the police about murder, let alone Hope’s.”

Tucking his finger into a wing tip, he rubbed the side of his foot and winced.

“Creak, creak,” he said, rolling his shoulders. Their bulk wasn’t due to padding. His posture was perfect, his belly board-flat. I pictured him in his home gym at daybreak, bouncing and pedaling and pumping. One of those early risers just waiting to take on the day and knock it out in two rounds.

“So,” he said, finally sitting still. “What would you like to know?”

“We have on record that you paid Dr. Devane thirty-six thousand dollars last year,” said Milo. “Did she work for you?”

Cruvic floated a palm over the spikes of his crew cut. “I never tallied it up but that sounds right. She consulted to the practice.”

“In what capacity, Doctor?”

Cruvic touched a finger to a broad, pale lip. “Let’s see, how can I be forthcoming without compromising my patients . . . are you aware of what we do here?”

“Obstetrics-gynecology and fertility.”

Cruvic produced a business card from an inner pocket of the white jacket. Milo read it, then handed it to me.

MILAN A. CRUVIC, M.D., FACOG

PRACTICE LIMITED TO PROBLEMS OF FERTILITY

“I used to do OB-GYN but for the last few years I’ve been doing just fertility.”

“The hours?” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“Delivering babies. The hours can be rough.”

Cruvic laughed. “No, that never bothered me, I don’t need much sleep. I just like doing fertility. People come in, sometimes there’s absolutely no medical reason they can’t conceive. It tears them apart. You analyze it, come up with a solution.” He grinned. “I guess I fancy myself a detective of sorts.” He looked at his watch.

“What was Professor Devane’s role in all of that, sir?”

“I called Hope in when I had doubts.”

“About what?”

“Patients’ psychological preparedness.” Cruvic’s brow creased and the gray spikes tilted down. “Fertility enhancement’s an exhausting process. Physically and psychologically. And sometimes nothing we do works. I warn patients beforehand but not everyone can handle it. When they can’t, it’s best not to start. Sometimes I can judge who’s likely to have problems. If I can’t, I call in experts.”

“Do you use other psychologists besides Professor Devane?”

“I have in the past. And some patients have their own therapists. But after I met Hope she became my preferred choice.”

He put both hands on his knees. “She was terrific. Very insightful. A great judge of people. And excellent with the patients. Because unlike other psychologists and psychiatrists she had no stake in sucking people into long-term treatment.”

“Why’s that?”

“She was busy enough.”

“With her book?”

“Her book, teaching.” He clapped his hands. “Quick, to the point, the least amount of treatment necessary. I guess that appealed to the surgeon in me.”

His ruddy cheeks were almost scarlet and his eyes had turned distant. Rubbing his foot some more, he leaned forward. “I—the practice misses her. Some of these shrinks are weirder than the patients. Hope talked plain English. She was fantastic.”

“How many cases did you refer to her?”

“I never counted.”

“Were there any patients who weren’t happy with her?”

“Not a one—oh, come on, you can’t be serious. No, no, Detective, not a chance. I deal with civilized people, not nutcases.”

Milo shrugged and smiled. “Gotta ask. . . . Is it my imagination, Doctor, or is there more infertility, nowadays?”

“It’s not your imagination at all. Some of it’s probably due to people waiting longer to start. The ideal conception age for a woman is early to mid-twenties. Tack on ten, fifteen years and you’ve got an aging uterus and diminished probability.”

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