Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction, written and meant to be read
strictly for enjoyment. The main characters of Mark, Steve, Amanda, and
Jesse, as well as others from the series Diagnosis Murder, are property of
CBS/Viacom. Other disclaimers will appear in this space in the chapters
where they apply.
(Chapter 1. August 14. Malibu. Early morning.)
Steve Sloan sighed contentedly in his sleep. He was having one of those near-waking dreams, the kind where he was aware that he was dreaming and could control what happened. He was at the cabin where he and his dad sometimes went fishing, only this time he wasn't with his dad. He was with the delightful young woman he had met last night.
They were walking through the clearing between the lake and the cabin. The scent of wildflowers hung heavy in the air, and her laughter bubbled like the dozens of small streams that fed the lake. The sun on her curly red hair gave her a fiery halo, and freckles dappled her cheeks and nose like shadows through the trees.
Now they were inside the cabin, in bed. It didn't matter how they got there, Steve liked the direction this dream was heading. They were wrestling, and Steve was letting her win. He didn't mind a bit; he was having fun. Her delicate frame was surprisingly strong. She'd rolled him over onto his belly and pinned his right arm beneath him. Then she climbed onto his back, pressed a knee into the base of his spine, wrapped her left arm under and around his, forced his face into the pillow and...
...the hard coldness of a gun barrel pressing against the bone behind his right ear brought him suddenly, sickeningly awake. The quiet click of a safety being released tied his guts in knots. His face was buried in the pillow, and he was sure if he wasn't shot or released soon he would suffocate. This was no dream.
A dry voice rasped in his ear, "I'm going to let you up enough to breathe. Struggle for even a second or make a sound and I promise I will redecorate this room with gray matter. Got it?"
He nodded as best he could and felt the pulling of fingers coiled tightly in his hair. The pressure on his head and neck eased slightly. He could just glimpse the nightstand where he put his gun when he went to bed. The holster was empty. Aw, hell.
The voice again: "Where are we?"
"My bedroom."
The barrel of the gun rapped him sharply behind the ear. "Duh. You have two seconds to give me more information."
"My dad's beach house in Malibu. I live in the downstairs apartment. We're right between the Pacific Ocean and the Pacific Coast Highway."
"How did we get here?"
He craned his neck to see who "we" were. A few locks of copper-colored hair and a creamy white shoulder scattered with cinnamon freckles left him dumb. The girl of his dreams was real and holding him at gunpoint with his own weapon.
The gun barrel dug deep into his skull and ... Olivia? Yes, that was her name. Olivia said, "You won't live long enough to hear me ask a question twice."
"It's kind of a long story."
"Then give me the comic book version."
"My dad introduced us at the hospital charity banquet last night. You were taking pain medication for a sprained ankle. The waiter messed up your drink order and brought you a real margarita instead of the non-alcoholic version you asked for. You didn't taste the liquor until you'd already had enough to make you sick. I gave you a ride home."
There was what seemed to be a thoughtful pause. Steve's arms were going numb, and he tried to shift to make himself more comfortable. The gun whacked him behind the ear again.
"Move again if you want to die."
Steve laid there, heart thudding in his chest wondering what would come next. Maybe Jesse was right about his knack for picking up psycho-babes, but then again, his dad had introduced him to Olivia. Hell, his dad had *hired* Olivia. She was supposed to be the best orthopedic surgeon in the country, and his dad had been astounded that she had chosen to work at Community General instead of Cedars Sinai or one of the other high-profile hospitals in the state.
"Why your home?"
"I'm sorry?" Now Steve was confused. "I don't understand the question."
"You said you gave me a ride home."
"Oh. You've only been in town two days, three, now, and between the medication and the alcohol, you couldn't remember how to get home. You couldn't remember your address and had nothing with you to tell where you lived, just the key to your front door. I guess you like to travel light. You were too sick for me to leave you at a hotel, so I figured I'd bring you here where I could make you more comfortable."
"How very chivalrous."
"Steve, you up yet?"
Olivia shoved his face into the pillows and whispered, "Who's that?"
"My dad."
"Steve?"
"Answer him!" She eased up just enough to free his nose and mouth.
"Yeah, Dad, I'm up."
"Whaddya want for breakfast?"
His face was shoved into the pillow again before he could answer, and Olivia hissed in his ear, "Tell him to surprise you. If he makes a suggestion, say 'whatever.' If you let him come in here, you're both dead."
The pressure on his neck and head eased again and he called out, as casually as he could, "Oh, I don't know, Dad. Why don't you surprise me?"
"How 'bout an omelet?"
"Whatever, Dad."
"Ok. I'll call you when it's ready."
"Thank him," she ordered.
"Thanks, Dad." She shoved his face into the pillow again. He had to hand it to Olivia; she certainly was in control of the situation. She was scripting his responses so he couldn't say or omit anything that might make his dad suspicious. If he had ordered oatmeal, the situation would be very different. His dad would know something weird was going on. Steve had never been able to choke down the gooey stuff. His dad would have come downstairs asking a million questions from what was the joke to when did he suddenly begin liking oatmeal.
"Who's your dad?"
"Dr. Mark Sloan."
The gun pressed harder again. "More information. What should that name mean to me?"
"He's your boss. He introduced us last night. When you got sick, he asked me to look after you." Things changed subtly then. Olivia somehow became more menacing. The silence now was angry, not thoughtful.
When she broke the silence, it was with a voice oozing sarcasm, "Nice try, handsome. You almost had me. I've tried a lot of crazy things, but even I wouldn't be stupid enough to do my boss's son right under his nose. You can only lie to me for so long, handsome, and you just got busted. You are the weakest link. Goodbye."
"Oh, God! No! Please!" The words came out in whispered shouts. Steve tried to fight, but his left arm was numb from being twisted above and behind his head. His right arm was pinned, and his legs were numb from the knee in his back.
"We didn't have sex. We just slept in the same bed. You're wearing my pajamas because you didn't want to ruin your dress and I slept in here with you because you didn't want to put me out of my own bed and you were afraid to sleep on the couch because you sleepwalk and didn't want to wander off in a strange place or into the ocean or worse." Steve figured as long as he was talking he was alive.
"Shut up!"
"I was protecting you."
"Steve, we're out of orange juice. Want apple juice instead?"
"Say yes."
"Yeah, Dad, that sounds good." Then he whispered, "Please don't shoot me." He was frightened for his dad as well as himself, and he wasn't above begging for his life. He didn't want to die like this, for nothing, because of a stupid misunderstanding. He couldn't tell now whether the silence was thoughtful or deadly. He decided to fill it.
"Please don't shoot me," he whispered again. "Ask me some more questions. I promise it will all make sense to you soon. Please."
He heard a sigh and felt the tension ease. "Where are my clothes?"
"Your dress is hanging in the closet and your other things are on the chair under the desk."
He felt her weight shift off his back, his left arm was free, and he could turn his head. He considered making a grab for the gun, but suddenly felt the wind rush out of him as Olivia kicked him hard in the ribs and sent him to the floor with a thump.
He was up on all fours in less than a heartbeat, but the barrel of the gun was pointed directly between his eyes. The strange thing was, Steve couldn't tell if the lizards crawling in his stomach were the result of death waiting just inches from his face or from the sight of his many-sizes- too-big pajama top sliding off her thin shoulders.
"Steve, you ok down there? What was that noise?"
"You're ok. You tripped."
"I'm ok, Dad. Just stumbled over some dirty laundry."
"You wouldn't have that problem if you'd put it in the hamper when you take it off."
"Yeah, I know, Dad."
The gun rapped him in the forehead. "The next time you ad lib, I shoot. Got it?"
"Yeah."
"Show me."
"What?"
"My dress, my clothes."
Steve opened the closet door beside him and pulled out a shimmering, silvery-green silk dress. It still smelled sweetly of lavender, and in his mind's eye, he could still see her curves filling it out. "It matches your eyes."
"Where's the rest?"
He couldn't figure Olivia's fascination with her own clothes, but he was willing to comply. "I'll have to walk around the bed to get to them."
"Do it slowly. Hands on your head, facing the wall."
He did as he was told, always aware of his own gun at his back. When he got to the desk, he pulled out the chair and turned it around to show a neatly folded pile of underclothes. The black silky panties and lacey black bra made something happen inside his chest and some other parts of him. He could almost imagine that body in those clothes. The hose were folded neatly together and placed on top of the rest. He heard another sigh.
"Well, it certainly appears that I took them off willingly enough," she said in a thoughtful tone.
So, she was looking for signs of a struggle. "You were so sick last night, Olivia," Steve said sympathetically. When she didn't order him to shut up, he continued. "I told you to just leave your things, but you insisted that you should pick up after yourself, and you said you paid too much for that dress to leave it in a heap."
She laughed. "That's for sure. It sounds like something I'd say. Come back to the foot of the bed, turn around, and face me."
Again, he complied.
"Why do you have a nine-millimeter on your nightstand?"
"I'm a cop, a homicide detective. I can show you my badge and ID if you'll let me get them out of my pants." He could see her spine stiffen when he said he was a cop. Great, she didn't like cops.
"Save it," she said coldly. "A badge doesn't make a good cop or a good man, and you wouldn't be the first monster I've met hiding behind a shiny gold shield."
"Steve! Breakfast!"
"You'll be right there."
"I'll be right there, Dad!"
"You say your dad's a doctor."
"Yes."
"A medical doctor?"
"That's right."
"And he's my new boss?"
"Uh-huh."
"Get him down here, and tell him to bring his bag."
"No." Steve nodded toward the gun. "Not while you're holding that."
Olivia pursed her lips in thought. "You've got some nerve, arguing with a frightened, drugged up woman with a gun, but you're protecting your dad. I respect that."
Then she put the safety back on, took out the clip, cleared the chamber, and tossed the clip and the loose bullet to Steve. Holding up the gun, she said, "I keep this, you keep those. Neither one of us can shoot the other. I know what my new boss looks like, and you seem to favor him. If the man I'm looking for comes through that door, I give you the gun. If not, you're in for the fight of your life. I know how to defend myself and I will fight dirty. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Get him."
Steve crossed the room, opened the door, and shouted up the stairs, "Dad! I need your help! It's urgent! Bring your bag!"
(Chapter 1. August 14. Malibu. Early morning.)
Steve Sloan sighed contentedly in his sleep. He was having one of those near-waking dreams, the kind where he was aware that he was dreaming and could control what happened. He was at the cabin where he and his dad sometimes went fishing, only this time he wasn't with his dad. He was with the delightful young woman he had met last night.
They were walking through the clearing between the lake and the cabin. The scent of wildflowers hung heavy in the air, and her laughter bubbled like the dozens of small streams that fed the lake. The sun on her curly red hair gave her a fiery halo, and freckles dappled her cheeks and nose like shadows through the trees.
Now they were inside the cabin, in bed. It didn't matter how they got there, Steve liked the direction this dream was heading. They were wrestling, and Steve was letting her win. He didn't mind a bit; he was having fun. Her delicate frame was surprisingly strong. She'd rolled him over onto his belly and pinned his right arm beneath him. Then she climbed onto his back, pressed a knee into the base of his spine, wrapped her left arm under and around his, forced his face into the pillow and...
...the hard coldness of a gun barrel pressing against the bone behind his right ear brought him suddenly, sickeningly awake. The quiet click of a safety being released tied his guts in knots. His face was buried in the pillow, and he was sure if he wasn't shot or released soon he would suffocate. This was no dream.
A dry voice rasped in his ear, "I'm going to let you up enough to breathe. Struggle for even a second or make a sound and I promise I will redecorate this room with gray matter. Got it?"
He nodded as best he could and felt the pulling of fingers coiled tightly in his hair. The pressure on his head and neck eased slightly. He could just glimpse the nightstand where he put his gun when he went to bed. The holster was empty. Aw, hell.
The voice again: "Where are we?"
"My bedroom."
The barrel of the gun rapped him sharply behind the ear. "Duh. You have two seconds to give me more information."
"My dad's beach house in Malibu. I live in the downstairs apartment. We're right between the Pacific Ocean and the Pacific Coast Highway."
"How did we get here?"
He craned his neck to see who "we" were. A few locks of copper-colored hair and a creamy white shoulder scattered with cinnamon freckles left him dumb. The girl of his dreams was real and holding him at gunpoint with his own weapon.
The gun barrel dug deep into his skull and ... Olivia? Yes, that was her name. Olivia said, "You won't live long enough to hear me ask a question twice."
"It's kind of a long story."
"Then give me the comic book version."
"My dad introduced us at the hospital charity banquet last night. You were taking pain medication for a sprained ankle. The waiter messed up your drink order and brought you a real margarita instead of the non-alcoholic version you asked for. You didn't taste the liquor until you'd already had enough to make you sick. I gave you a ride home."
There was what seemed to be a thoughtful pause. Steve's arms were going numb, and he tried to shift to make himself more comfortable. The gun whacked him behind the ear again.
"Move again if you want to die."
Steve laid there, heart thudding in his chest wondering what would come next. Maybe Jesse was right about his knack for picking up psycho-babes, but then again, his dad had introduced him to Olivia. Hell, his dad had *hired* Olivia. She was supposed to be the best orthopedic surgeon in the country, and his dad had been astounded that she had chosen to work at Community General instead of Cedars Sinai or one of the other high-profile hospitals in the state.
"Why your home?"
"I'm sorry?" Now Steve was confused. "I don't understand the question."
"You said you gave me a ride home."
"Oh. You've only been in town two days, three, now, and between the medication and the alcohol, you couldn't remember how to get home. You couldn't remember your address and had nothing with you to tell where you lived, just the key to your front door. I guess you like to travel light. You were too sick for me to leave you at a hotel, so I figured I'd bring you here where I could make you more comfortable."
"How very chivalrous."
"Steve, you up yet?"
Olivia shoved his face into the pillows and whispered, "Who's that?"
"My dad."
"Steve?"
"Answer him!" She eased up just enough to free his nose and mouth.
"Yeah, Dad, I'm up."
"Whaddya want for breakfast?"
His face was shoved into the pillow again before he could answer, and Olivia hissed in his ear, "Tell him to surprise you. If he makes a suggestion, say 'whatever.' If you let him come in here, you're both dead."
The pressure on his neck and head eased again and he called out, as casually as he could, "Oh, I don't know, Dad. Why don't you surprise me?"
"How 'bout an omelet?"
"Whatever, Dad."
"Ok. I'll call you when it's ready."
"Thank him," she ordered.
"Thanks, Dad." She shoved his face into the pillow again. He had to hand it to Olivia; she certainly was in control of the situation. She was scripting his responses so he couldn't say or omit anything that might make his dad suspicious. If he had ordered oatmeal, the situation would be very different. His dad would know something weird was going on. Steve had never been able to choke down the gooey stuff. His dad would have come downstairs asking a million questions from what was the joke to when did he suddenly begin liking oatmeal.
"Who's your dad?"
"Dr. Mark Sloan."
The gun pressed harder again. "More information. What should that name mean to me?"
"He's your boss. He introduced us last night. When you got sick, he asked me to look after you." Things changed subtly then. Olivia somehow became more menacing. The silence now was angry, not thoughtful.
When she broke the silence, it was with a voice oozing sarcasm, "Nice try, handsome. You almost had me. I've tried a lot of crazy things, but even I wouldn't be stupid enough to do my boss's son right under his nose. You can only lie to me for so long, handsome, and you just got busted. You are the weakest link. Goodbye."
"Oh, God! No! Please!" The words came out in whispered shouts. Steve tried to fight, but his left arm was numb from being twisted above and behind his head. His right arm was pinned, and his legs were numb from the knee in his back.
"We didn't have sex. We just slept in the same bed. You're wearing my pajamas because you didn't want to ruin your dress and I slept in here with you because you didn't want to put me out of my own bed and you were afraid to sleep on the couch because you sleepwalk and didn't want to wander off in a strange place or into the ocean or worse." Steve figured as long as he was talking he was alive.
"Shut up!"
"I was protecting you."
"Steve, we're out of orange juice. Want apple juice instead?"
"Say yes."
"Yeah, Dad, that sounds good." Then he whispered, "Please don't shoot me." He was frightened for his dad as well as himself, and he wasn't above begging for his life. He didn't want to die like this, for nothing, because of a stupid misunderstanding. He couldn't tell now whether the silence was thoughtful or deadly. He decided to fill it.
"Please don't shoot me," he whispered again. "Ask me some more questions. I promise it will all make sense to you soon. Please."
He heard a sigh and felt the tension ease. "Where are my clothes?"
"Your dress is hanging in the closet and your other things are on the chair under the desk."
He felt her weight shift off his back, his left arm was free, and he could turn his head. He considered making a grab for the gun, but suddenly felt the wind rush out of him as Olivia kicked him hard in the ribs and sent him to the floor with a thump.
He was up on all fours in less than a heartbeat, but the barrel of the gun was pointed directly between his eyes. The strange thing was, Steve couldn't tell if the lizards crawling in his stomach were the result of death waiting just inches from his face or from the sight of his many-sizes- too-big pajama top sliding off her thin shoulders.
"Steve, you ok down there? What was that noise?"
"You're ok. You tripped."
"I'm ok, Dad. Just stumbled over some dirty laundry."
"You wouldn't have that problem if you'd put it in the hamper when you take it off."
"Yeah, I know, Dad."
The gun rapped him in the forehead. "The next time you ad lib, I shoot. Got it?"
"Yeah."
"Show me."
"What?"
"My dress, my clothes."
Steve opened the closet door beside him and pulled out a shimmering, silvery-green silk dress. It still smelled sweetly of lavender, and in his mind's eye, he could still see her curves filling it out. "It matches your eyes."
"Where's the rest?"
He couldn't figure Olivia's fascination with her own clothes, but he was willing to comply. "I'll have to walk around the bed to get to them."
"Do it slowly. Hands on your head, facing the wall."
He did as he was told, always aware of his own gun at his back. When he got to the desk, he pulled out the chair and turned it around to show a neatly folded pile of underclothes. The black silky panties and lacey black bra made something happen inside his chest and some other parts of him. He could almost imagine that body in those clothes. The hose were folded neatly together and placed on top of the rest. He heard another sigh.
"Well, it certainly appears that I took them off willingly enough," she said in a thoughtful tone.
So, she was looking for signs of a struggle. "You were so sick last night, Olivia," Steve said sympathetically. When she didn't order him to shut up, he continued. "I told you to just leave your things, but you insisted that you should pick up after yourself, and you said you paid too much for that dress to leave it in a heap."
She laughed. "That's for sure. It sounds like something I'd say. Come back to the foot of the bed, turn around, and face me."
Again, he complied.
"Why do you have a nine-millimeter on your nightstand?"
"I'm a cop, a homicide detective. I can show you my badge and ID if you'll let me get them out of my pants." He could see her spine stiffen when he said he was a cop. Great, she didn't like cops.
"Save it," she said coldly. "A badge doesn't make a good cop or a good man, and you wouldn't be the first monster I've met hiding behind a shiny gold shield."
"Steve! Breakfast!"
"You'll be right there."
"I'll be right there, Dad!"
"You say your dad's a doctor."
"Yes."
"A medical doctor?"
"That's right."
"And he's my new boss?"
"Uh-huh."
"Get him down here, and tell him to bring his bag."
"No." Steve nodded toward the gun. "Not while you're holding that."
Olivia pursed her lips in thought. "You've got some nerve, arguing with a frightened, drugged up woman with a gun, but you're protecting your dad. I respect that."
Then she put the safety back on, took out the clip, cleared the chamber, and tossed the clip and the loose bullet to Steve. Holding up the gun, she said, "I keep this, you keep those. Neither one of us can shoot the other. I know what my new boss looks like, and you seem to favor him. If the man I'm looking for comes through that door, I give you the gun. If not, you're in for the fight of your life. I know how to defend myself and I will fight dirty. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"Get him."
Steve crossed the room, opened the door, and shouted up the stairs, "Dad! I need your help! It's urgent! Bring your bag!"