Dr. Harris hadn’t heard about the accident but offered his wishes for a speedy recovery. Then he wanted to know what he could do for Jack.

“First off I’d like to know if my father had a physical here recently.”

Dr. Harris nodded. “Yes, just a couple of months ago.”

“Great. Dr. Huerta is his neurologist at the hospital—”

“I know Inez. Your father’s in good hands.”

“That’s comforting. But I’m wondering about his medical condition before the accident.”

Jack thought he sensed Dr. Harris recede about half a dozen feet. “Such as?”

“Well, anything that might have contributed to the accident, or might explain what he was doing driving around at that hour.”

Dr. Harris leaned forward and thrust his hand across the desk, palm up.

“Could I see some ID?”

“What?” Jack hadn’t seen this coming. “What for?”

“To prove you’re who you say you are.”

Jack knew he couldn’t. All his ID was in the name of John Tyleski. He owned nothing with his own surname.

“I’ve got to prove I’m my father’s son? Why on earth—?”

“Patient privilege. Normally I wouldn’t under any circumstances discuss a medical file without the patient’s permission, even with a spouse. But since this particular patient is incapable of giving permission, I’m willing to make an exception for a close relative—if that’s what you are.”

Since Jack couldn’t show ID, maybe he could talk his way around this.

“If I wasn’t his son, why would I care?”

“You could be a lawyer or someone hired by a lawyer looking for an angle to sue.”

“Sue? What the hell for?”

“On behalf of someone injured in the accident.”

“But my father was the only one injured.”

Dr. Harris shrugged. “I don’t know that. I know nothing about the accident. I do know that people in these parts sue at the drop of a hat. They’re caught up in some sort of lottery mentality. Malpractice insurance is through the roof. People may not be able to figure out a presidential ballot but they damn sure know what lawyer to call if they stub a toe.”

He could see Dr. Harris was getting steamed just talking about it.

“Look, I assure you I’m not a lawyer. I can’t even remember the last time I spoke to one—that is, if you don’t count my brother who’s a judge in Philadelphia.”

Maybe that’ll mollify him, Jack thought.

It didn’t.

“On the other hand,” Dr. Harris said, “you could be a con man looking to pull some kind of slimy scam.”

“Like what?” Jack was interested in hearing this.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but Florida’s got more con men per square mile than any other state in the union.”