Rothman was a big man, flabby and ungainly. He looked nothing like the man who’d served his internship and residency at Johns Hopkins before moving into private practice in downtown Miami. But his looks suited him now that he’d relocated to this dingy apartment on the fringe of South Beach. His face was florid, with broken veins across his bulbous nose, testament to his secret drinking problem. With his gray watery eyes and thin lips, he did not look like someone you’d trust to guide a scalpel. He waved the notes toward Rickard, who was sitting on the gurney checking out the dressings on his wounded ribs. “As ever, you are not buying my expertise, you are buying my silence.”

Rickard looked up at Rothman, the contact lenses removed so he caught the man under a baleful, icy stare. “Silence works both ways, Doctor.”

Rothman smiled. “That it does.”

He stuffed the two grand in the pocket of his white overcoat. Then he reached into a cardboard box and pulled out a couple of packets. He tossed them on the gurney beside Rickard. “Take those three times a day; they’ll keep any infection at bay. Take the NSAIDs as and when required.”

Rickard studied the packets. The first contained brand-name antibiotics, but the second were in an anonymous white box. “NSAIDs?”

“Nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs. They’ll keep the fever down without impairing consciousness. You want to remain alert, don’t you?”

“For two thousand dollars I get cheap drugs you’ve purchased off the Internet?”

Rothman flicked him a smile. “If you’re not up to paying my going rate I have to make a profit elsewhere. Anyway, what are you complaining about? I’ve thrown the bandages in for free.”

“You’re all heart, Doc.”

“Yeah, right.” Rothman bustled over to a trash can overflowing with blood-speckled tissue and used syringes. He peeled off his latex gloves and dropped them in the can. He pointed a skinny digit at Rickard. “The bullet barely grazed your ribs, Luke. It’s your shoulder wound you’ll have to be most careful of. Luckily the wound was a through and through, superficial, but there is the threat of infection if you don’t keep it clean.”

Rickard touched the wad of dressing on his left trapezius muscle, just below his collar-line. “Feels okay to me.”

“It’ll stay that way if you dress it regularly. Here.” He passed over a tube of antiseptic cream. “No charge.”

“Thanks,” Rickard said with no real enthusiasm.

“The sutures will dissolve themselves, no need to come back to have them removed.”

“You don’t want to see me again?”

Rothman pulled a hurt face that was as much a sham as Rickard’s pout. “Luke, I’m quite willing to take your money anytime you please. Just more of it next time, eh?”