A Study in Scarlet

The memoirs of James Wilson, MD.

I hadn't seen Stamford in years. I might not have another chance. I swung the car to the right and skidded onto the gravel of the off-ramp from the I-95. Who knows when I'd be back this way again.

The town was as boring as I'd remembered. I suppose I could've taken the offer...but I owed something to Boston. And it wasn't settling for tree-lined streets and gray flannel houses. Nope, the Big Apple beckoned, with its serpentine avenues and concrete phalluses. It didn't take me long to get back on the turnpike. Good-bye, Stamford, good-bye, Connecticut. This boy's goin' to New Yawk.

Finding an apartment wasn't going to be easy. I'd been scouring the Times for weeks, but everything affordable was rented long before the ads came out in the paper. The scrap with my aunt's phone number was still crumpled in my pocket. But, I was now a free man—and I wasn't going to find the action I was looking for in Brooklyn.

NYU's housing office gave me a several generations' Xeroxed list of potential sites. I could probably mooch a couple of nights in one of the call rooms until I checked them out. The young man who'd given me the addresses had a word of advice, "Call before you go. They're probably all rented already."

I nodded as I looked at his nametag. "Thanks, uh, Bart."

As I turned away, Bart shot up from his chair. "Hey. I got an idea."

I waited.

"I know this guy…"

This wasn't starting out well…

"No, really. He's a little weird, but…"

Score for me. I still waited.

"He's a doctor, too. Maybe you could hang with him." Bart handed me an address he'd scribbled on a post-it.

"Sure. Thanks." I stuffed the note into my pocket with Aunt Brenda's. I was going to be spending a lot of time in the call rooms, and not just for my heme-onc fellowship.

I got busted in two days. Apparently I wasn't the first house officer to use the hospital as my house. I was given an ultimatum to find a place to live before my next shift.

I was looking for quarters in my pockets for the laundry when I stumbled across the crumpled notes. I tossed Aunt Brenda into the trash with a perfect rim shot, and was aiming the post-it when the doctor's name caught my eye. "House". Now that's funny. "Is there a House in the House?" No wonder the guy is weird.

What the hell… As Thoreau once said, 'What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.' I put the quarters in the pay phone instead.

In less than an hour, I was standing outside Montague's Bar and Grill on 3rd. I searched for the side door and finally found it halfway down a dark alley that stank of roses and carnations. How much of our tax money was Giuliani spending on these beautification efforts anyway?

I rang the doorbell several times before I was buzzed in. I was panting well before I reached the 6th floor. The door was at the end of the hall. I waited a few minutes to catch my breath before knocking.

Expecting to hear the symphony of clicks that identify the column of bolt locks on New York doors, I was surprised to simply hear a gravelly voice shout, "Come in, it's open."

I gingerly inched the door and peeked inside.

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A skirt. A black skirt, covering a firm, rounded-- "You Wilson?" The gray haired woman asked in a deep voice as she stood back up and faced me, her broom poised to attack.

I hesitated. "Yeah…" A housekeeper's outfit…

She picked up her dustpan and nodded as she looked me up and down. "All right." Pointing to a recliner on one side of the room, she added. "Sit."

I sat.

"He'll be out in a minute. I got work to do," she said as she turned and walked out of the room without waiting for my response.

I quickly gave up on the polite smile and settled back in the lounger to wait. The living room was large and completely dominated by an enormous grand piano in its center. To one side lay an acoustic guitar surrounded by confetti of picks. Over the fireplace hung a colorful display of assorted motorcycle helmets and a banner with the cryptic letters CUBC and the number '80'. The color TV to my right was muted on ESPN. Not being a fan of monster trucks, I got up and tried to change the channel, but could neither spy a remote, nor locate the missing channel buttons that seemed to have been pried off of the set.

I wandered over to the obligatory bookcase that took up one wall. Yes, there were the obligatory Harrison's Textbook of Medicine, Nelson's Textbook of Pediatrics, a book of collected Frank Netter illustrations, and, of course, Gray's Anatomy. What a great title for a medical TV show, I mused for a moment…"Netter's Models", that's the ticket.

"It'll probably be canceled in 13 weeks." The growl came from behind me.

I spun around, my mandible abducted. "H-how…?" I asked the tall, lanky man who now faced me.

He leaned against the wall and chuckled. He had a few inches on me at least, if not a few years. A full head of dark brown wavy hair, piercing blue eyes, and—well, maybe it was the jeans. I guess I could just describe him as lugubriously sexy, like a well-hung eel, but then you'd think I was gay.

"A magician never gives away his tricks, Wilson," the eel finally returned. He waved me towards a rickety stool as he slithered gracefully onto the recliner.

"Who's Wilson?" I asked innocently.

The eel sat up, seemingly startled for a moment. I couldn't keep a straight face. "Gotcha."

How the stool broke at that moment I'll never know. I guess I must've put on a little weight. I got up with as much dignity as I could muster and extended my hand. "House?"

The eel shook it firmly, and directed me to a more solid-looking folding chair next to the lounger. He grabbed a yellow tennis ball from the side table and started throwing it in the air and catching it with a syncopated rhythm. "You'll lose the baby fat after a few weeks going up and down those stairs."

I sat down more carefully this time, as he continued. "I'll have Ms. Hudson put you on the Zone."

"Your housekeeper?" I pointed towards the hallway.

"The Head Nutritionist." House shook his head. "Come on, you're a fellow—you actually think you'll have time to eat any meals here?"

Score for him. I shrugged, "Just looking for a place to rest my head."

House studied me for a moment, then smoothly tossed the ball into a helmet lying upside down under the piano. "Okay, Wilson, you're in."

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I got the nickname "Black Cloud" after only two weeks on the service. It had nothing to do with my heritage--1/8th Cherokee--but with my demonstrated talent in attracting torrents of patients on my ward every night I was on duty. I managed to wend my way home after midnight--on the days I wasn't on call. I wasn't doing much head-resting in House's house--or anyone else's, for that matter--my expectations for an active social life having been dashed as I dashed from patient to patient trying to stay afloat.

I found myself longing for the relative sanity of my workload as Chief Resident in Medicine at Mass General. 110-hour weeks were looking mighty good. The one occasion Beth and I had time to ourselves in the call room, Harrison crumped and we spent the rest of our shifts thumping his chest. No score for me...

I woke up Monday morning with a headache. And a fever. That hasn't stopped me from going to work in the past--but the terrible vertigo was a deal-breaker. I lay back down in my bed and waited for the ochre walls of my bedroom to stop spinning.

I quickly ascertained that I'd be spending at least the next few hours in bed. Alone. I reached for a journal, but found that my burning eyes turned the words into gibberish. So much for reading... I've got to get a TV... One that gets channels beyond ESPN… House's tastes in shows were certainly…eclectic, that's for sure. I'd perused the videotapes on his bookshelf in a moment of insomnia earlier this week, and seen not only archives of monster truck meets, baseball games, and motorcycle races, but Jerry Springer shows, Steve McQueen movies, and something called Blackadder which must've been one of those hideously dull nature programs they always run on the Discovery Channel.

I snorted. Over a week rooming with the guy and I didn't even know his specialty. I shook my head---and instantly regretted the action. My eyes focused on the dingy ceiling light until the nausea faded. Maybe he's a gastroenterologist—-that would certainly help now. Or a neurologist. . .who'll cure my headache. . .if it's not a brain tumor. . .with mets. . .like Harrison. . . Stop it, I scolded myself, reminding myself of the old med school adage, "if you've read about it this week, you don't have it." It's just a virus. And you're getting delirious. Enough.

Fuck! House is probably a psychiatrist. Great. I wonder how long it'll take him to figure out my—

The phone on the night table jangled loudly.

I groaned and reached for the receiver. "Yeah."

"House?" said a raspy voice on the line.

"Not home," I answered, not particularly brightly. "You can page him at the hospital."

"I don't have an hour," the voice continued, "just tell him I want to consult him on a case."

"And you are?"

"Less. With one 's'." The man hung up before I could ask for his number.

I was truly stunned. It was unheard of—-doctors usually guarded their home phone numbers with their life. To give a patient those precious digits. . . I had to find out what House's game was—and quickly. Mustering all my strength, I endeavored to sit up in bed. Nope, bad idea. Better idea…I pulled over the phone and dialed.

"You've reached New York University Hospital. If you have a true emergency, please hang up and call 9-1—" I hit 'O'.

"You can't bypass the voicemail, smart-ass, so if you want the Operator, press the 'star' button and wait for the menu to finish," was the response.

Five minutes later, I pressed 7 and asked for the Hospital Directory, Dr. Gregory House. I could hear a keyboard clacking on the other end of the line before the Operator gave me the extension.

"And his department?"

More clacking. "Infectious Disease."

I lay back in bed with a broad smile. Ah, the benefits of modern technology. At the task of psyching out my roommate, I'd beaten Watson by at least a week.

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I must've slept for hours—it was dark when I finally realized I was awake. My head was still throbbing, but, I was happy to note when I gingerly sat up, I was no longer dizzy. I stood slowly, and, wearing only my tattered Brown T-shirt and Pikachu boxers, shuffled out of my bedroom in search of a glass of water.

"I commend your fashion sense, Wilson. Your dance card should fill up quickly. "

I winced, but kept aiming towards the kitchen. "I'm sick, you know."

"Not for me to judge." House cleared his throat, and added. "You may want to say hello to our guest."

Damn. I instinctively ran a hand through my hair and turned slowly, my face flushed.

Sitting across from House was a small, ferret-faced man wearing a herringbone tweed suit. House turned to his visitor with an apologetic shrug. "You'll have to excuse Wilson, Inspector. He's usually the epitome of couth."

I favored House with a withering gaze, then extended my hand. "James Wilson. You're a c—policeman?"

The visitor didn't seem eager to shake—instead, he reached into one of his pockets and, making sure to avoid any skin-to-skin contact, handed me his card.

It read: New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene, Inspector Les Trade, Food Service and Restaurant Sanitarian.

Les—with one 's'! "You're the one who called—nice to meet you, Mr. uh, is it 'trayde' or 'trahd'?"

"I've heard both," he didn't answer. "But most people pronounce it 'trah-day', like the Marquis de Shaday."

I nodded politely and decided to be more direct. "What do you prefer to be called?"

"Inspector." With a curt nod, he turned back to House. "The concierge found the body at 10 am. The ME puts the time of death at between midnight and 3 am. Sir Geoffrey insists that she was feeling well when she went to bed around eleven."

House frowned, "And you're certain the stomach contents were—"

"Body? What body?" I interrupted.

"Much of the salmon hadn't been digested. It seems open and shut." Les Trade insisted.

"Uh, excuse me?" I tried again. "Body? Dead? Hello?"

House looked at Trade and sighed. "86 year old female, found dead this morning at the Plaza, several hours after eating at the Lauriston Garden at the Park. The Inspector suspects the cause of death was," House coughed, "salmonella in the salmon."

"You obviously don't agree," I deduced without difficulty.

"It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the test results, Wilson." Referring to the old diagnostic saying about hoofbeats and horses, he added, "Think of all the zebras you'd miss."

"Then what do you suggest, Dr. House?" The Inspector's frustration was visibly growing.

"That Wilson put on some clothes." House stood up, signaling an end to the consultation, and directed Les Trade toward the door. "We'll meet you at the Plaza in half an hour, Les. I'll need to learn a lot more about Dame Jean."

I waited til the door had closed behind the Inspector. "That's the victim's name?"

House clapped me on the shoulders. "Wilson, your astuteness never ceases to amaze me."

He then slid onto the piano bench and began a syncopated riff, to which he soon added the somewhat off-key and very astonishing lyrics: "She shuffled off this mortal coil, the victim Dame Jean Conan Doyle."

I made a beeline for the bathroom. I wasn't going to let House know that my nausea had returned in full force.

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House parked his bike in the hotel loading zone, and, keys in hand, flew past the valet who futilely began haranguing me about calling a tow truck.

"No hablo Ingles." I shrugged, pulled down my visor, and, gathering my jacket around my hunched shoulders, followed my roommate up the steps into the hotel.

The lobby of the Plaza was strangely quiet, save for the sporadic yapping of an occasional overfed Shi Tzu. The few self-absorbed Peers who wandered about the marble stoa seemed oblivious to the fact that one of their peers had met her maker within these very expensive walls.

House had already found the concierge desk, and seemed to be getting directions to the victim's room. He waved me to the elevators, and we boarded for the 7th floor. The doors opened to reveal a cacophony of chaos. Yellow police tape lined much of the hallway, through which a horde of blue-uniformed investigators paraded back and forth carrying what looked like portable toolboxes.

I snorted. "We'll never learn anything here. If a herd of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess."

My words floated unheard into the humidity. House had already sped down the hall towards a tall, bearded man sporting a Hasselbad. "Grissom!"

"House!" The man turned and greeted him warmly. "You were right on the money. We just ID'd the strain as Salmonella schwarzengrund–-non-pathogenic."

House did not look surprised. "So the cause of death…?"

"Gel permeation chromatography of her stomach contents identified an L-isomer protein isolated from the stems of the Lavandula agustifolia."

House nodded. "English lavender…"

"And we got a couple of microns of carbon polymer on flash."

"Poisoned." House shook his head, muttering. "20,000 allopathic physicians in this town, and people still take homeopathic medicines."

A grave-looking middle-aged man with a receding hairline walked past and interjected solemnly, "Hilda Doolittle once said, 'The elixir of life, the philosopher's stone, is yours if you surrender sterile logic, trivial reason'."

"Gideon is always such a ray of sunshine," Grissom chuckled. To House: "You'll want to check out our books?"

House shook his head. "No. I want to see hers. Come, Wilson."

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To my amazement, House seemed to show no interest in the area where the victim's husband had discovered her body. Instead, he dragged me from room to room throughout the suite and had me note the contents of every drawer, medicine cabinet, suitcase, bookshelf, and desk.

I had diligently documented four paper clips, a pair of tweezers, three empty bottles of herbal medicines, a Soft and Dri deodorant stick, five letters from solicitors, a letter from her lawyer—-six letters from "solicitors", House joked—-a tube of Ben Gay, a roll of Tums, and two unopened packages of cinnamon-flavored Trident sugarless gum. I could detect no possible value to the items on my list, though I was tempted to pop a Tums to settle my still-churning stomach.

The small bookcase held an unusual collection of texts, however. Among them were August Derleth's "The Adventures of Solar Pons", Maurice LeBlanc's "Arsene Lupin vs. Herlock Sholmes", and "The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" by Adrian Conan Doyle. "That's odd," I opined. "Every one of these books is kind of a Sherlock Holmes pastiche."

"Write that down, Wilson," House ordered. "Even the smallest item may end up being of profound significance."

I opened one of the books and leafed through it quickly. Then another, and another. "That's peculiar."

"Put it on the list."

"No, I mean, each of the books has a gold nameplate on the inside of the front cover. These books all belong to a Mister Thaddeus Wilde…"

House froze for a moment, then with forced casualness added. "Thanks, Wilson. You have effectively proven my point."

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It took us about 20 minutes to get to the Village. House found a space to squeeze in his bike just north of Pieces on Christopher Street, and we set off on foot to find Wilde.

"We really should hold hands here, Wilson," House teased, after we'd passed more than a few affectionate same-sex couples along the sidewalk.

I glowered at him, and stuck my freezing fingers deeper into my jacket pockets. "How much farther is it?"

"Ah, Wilson, think how many slash writers you've disappointed…" House finally stopped outside a renovated brick building with a large red door. "Here we are."

Our bell was opened by a tall, gangly, goggle-eyed butler, who, in a musical high-pitched English accent, advised us to call him "Wooster". I found it difficult to conceive of any situation in which I would call him at all. Wooster led us up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor, which for some unknown reason he called the first floor. "Mr. Wilde is in the study," he finally squeaked, and pointed us in the direction of another red door.

Yes, you can guess where this is going. (If you can't, please read the title of this essay again.) Our knock was answered with a twittering "Enter, gentlemen", and we walked into a room that was enveloped in every shade of red known to man—or woman, since I, as a man, refuse to learn anything more than the names of the primary colors.

In the center of the room, sitting on a settee—Gosh, I like the way that sounds—was a large man. A very large man. His hair was brown and lay gently on his shoulders in soft curls. He was dressed in, well, a long silk dressing gown, whose hem tickled his hairless ankles. From his accent, or was it the scent of his soap, I determined that he was probably Irish.

"Welcome to my humble abode, House," Wilde favored me with a warm smile, "and thank you for bringing me your adorable little friend. What's your name, son?"

"This is my r-colleague, James Wilson," House responded politely.

The man nodded and gushed, "Thaddeus Wilde, at your service."

I chose to ignore the invitation. "What kind of a name is Thaddeus, anyway?" I muttered, not sotto voce enough.

"It's Austrian for Sebastian," Wilde replied, then waved his arm to one side to indicate that we should take our seats on a nearby fushcia ottoman—I mean, a red ottoman. "Would you like some tea?"

House yawned, "Coffee, no cream, no milk, no sugar." He looked at me.

Not wanting to be impolite, I hesitated. "Coffee would be good, but tea is fine, too."

"Wooster!" Wilde shouted, then wagged a thick finger at House. "You always pick submissive ducklings, ducks, tsk, tsk."

Wooster, leaning precariously like an unstable Gumby, appeared at the door. House eyed him up and down with a look of distaste, and nodded to Wilde, "And the company you keep…?

"Wooster, run down to Pieces, dear, and get Dr. House a cup of American tea." As the wide-eyed butler clambered off, Wilde added, "That's the last we'll see of him tonight."

House's voice hardened, "Okay, Wilde, quit stonewalling. You know why we're here."

Wilde looked intently at House's azure eyes—I mean, blue eyes—before sighing, "Poor dear Dame Jean…"

House picked up several medicine bottles on the settee's end table with a practiced sweep. He read, "Gingko biloba, hoodia, horny goat weed, Tomkat Suri—-sorry, Tongkat Ali—-Tribulus, English lavender, passion flower." He looked up at Wilde with a smirk.

Wilde brushed aside the implication. "My ignition is fine—these just help me recharge the batteries more quickly."

I didn't want to think about either analogy. Fortunately, House continued his offensive press. "She was poisoned."

A single tear rolled down Wilde's puffy cheek.

"When was the last time you saw her, Taddy?"

Wilde's expression was suddenly cold. "1975."

House looked surprised. "And the books?"

Wilde hesitated, before answering softly. "Gifts."

House frowned for a moment, then broke into a chuckle. "Did you give Sir Geoffrey the English Lavender, too?"

Wilde looked insulted. "Certainly not! He gave it to me!"

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I can't say I was too unhappy to be weaving my way through traffic back to mid-town. Even though House's motorcycling skills seemed to have been adopted from Evel Knievel. I just grabbed him around the waist and held on tightly. On second thought—-maybe I should've just taken a cab.

We arrived at our alley near Montague's to find Inspector Les Trade waiting at our door.

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House disappeared into the kitchen while the Inspector and I caught our breaths. He came out after a few minutes carrying a tray of sugared jelly doughnuts and placed them on the table in front of us. I noted a little white powder was still adherent to the stubble on his maxilla above his upper lip, and handed him a napkin, gesturing for him to wipe.

House pointedly said, "Thanks, Wilson, the strawberry jam is especially delicious!" He then turned to Les Trade, and quickly continued, "You talked to Grissom?"

"Yes, but he still insists on moving back to Vegas. Mac, his new deputy, just let us know they identified English lavender in the dishwasher drain at the Lauriston Gardens. Dame Jean had dinner there with Sir Geoffrey and their attorney last night."

"You think she was poisoned at the restaurant, then?" House added, with renewed excitement.

"Well, isn't it obvious?" the Inspector sneered. "We've arrested Sir Geoffrey—and confiscated his bottles of the herb." He folded his hands and gave us a self-satisfied nod.

To his dismay, House burst out laughing. "Really, Les, you have outdone yourself this time. Were there no other patrons at the restaurant?"

The little man looked quite angry. "Well, of course, but none of them had motive or means. Or opportunity."

"And what about the staff?"

"Ditto. We interviewed and searched everyone and everything that evening, from Head Chef Sophie Witherspoon to Manuel, the Waiter. They were very busy--and never alone. And, none of them even knew Dame Jean was there, much less had the poison on hand." He glared at House. "Anyway, why would they want to kill her?"

"Why would Sir Geoffrey? That, my dear Les, is the correct question." Without another word, he ambled over to his piano and began playing a medley of what sounded like Keith Jarrett tunes. We had been dismissed.

I checked my watch--almost one. Time for me to go to back to bed.

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'Black Cloud' was on call the next two nights—I spent most of Tuesday catching up on the wards, and Wednesday at Billingsley's bedside. I took his death harder than most—-he was close to my age, and the islet cell carcinoma had metastasized far too quickly. As the sun came up on Thursday, Beth found me in my call room, staring at the wall, my eyes red.

I covered my face with a pillow. "How's the NICU?" I mumbled through the linens.

"Haven't slept all night," she observed, "And, apparently, neither have you." She pulled the pillow off my face, and gently stroked my hair. "Would you like me to help?" she cooed.

I was a little slow shifting gears, but I soon convinced myself that I could best honor Billingsley's death by celebrating life. I sat up and smiled eagerly. "I'm ready."

"Great." She walked over to her purse on the desk, and opened it. To my dismay, instead of a condom, she pulled out a bottle of pills and poured two into her hand. "Melatonin. They had a special at the health food store. Should I go get you some water?"

I lay back on my bed, put the pillow back over my face, and growled, "No thanks, I'll get to sleep by myself." Literally. No score for me...

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I had to escape. The gas was filling the OR and I only had a few moments left. The smoke detector was beeping louder and louder. My eyes were tearing, and my breaths were coming in shorter and shorter gasps. If I could only make it to the door in time. Drawing on my last reserves of energy, I lunged for the door, landing squarely against it with a grunt of pain. It didn't give. Desperate, I wiped the ashes off the door's window--and froze. Beyond the danger, on the other side, I glimpsed my ex-wife's sneering face. The last sound I heard was my own scream.

I finally identified the beeping as my pager. I lay quietly in my bed for a few minutes, shivering and drenched in sweat, then reluctantly opened my eyes to find my call room bathed in sunshine. Uh-oh. I was supposed to get up at 6 to check in on my patients before morning rounds. What the hell time was it, anyway?

9:30! Great--I was in deep shit with Shore, for sure. Some attendings tolerated the occasional lapse in discipline. Shore, unfortunately, wasn't one of them. I bounced out of bed, and made a quick run to the can and the sink. Shaving would have to wait til my morning break.

Still dressed in yesterday's scrubs, I ran to the ward and slid into Guerboian's room without being spied by the team of fleas gathered at the other end of the hall. If I could look occupied by some aspect of the comatose man's care, I might be able to convince the group that I'd been busy at his side all morning long.

The rounders reached Guerboian's room fairly quickly. Shore was leading the heme-onc team, along with a few stragglers. I recognized Siva from GI, McKesson from Pulmonary, and, for ID--House!

I greeted Shore confidently and took a deep breath, ready to launch into a professional summary of my dedicated morning duties with Mr. G, when House piped up, "Hey, Rip Van Winkle, did you snore through my page?"

I tried not to look at House's smirk--or Shore's frown--as I attempted--not very successfully--to continue my presentation. House later told me I had turned redder than a kid with scarlet fever. After I'd started talking to him again.

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Shore's lecture about the virtues of timeliness and integrity was mercifully brief, albeit public and humiliating. I was beginning to see that House shared a couple of unpleasant traits with my ex-wife, so I wasn't exactly thrilled when he pulled me aside after rounds and insisted I meet him in his office.

House's office was a small room at the end of one of the hospital's yet-to-be-renovated wings. A dirty window filtered in some shards of sunlight to brighten the room's dingy, flaking walls. An unvarnished wooden desk near the far wall was smothered in books, papers, and journals. The center of the room was dominated by a large portable whiteboard whose tray precariously held towers of erasable markers.

I was grateful that House didn't waste time with the niceties. I was still angry at his betrayal and in no mood for anything but business. "So, what do you want?" I said coldly.

"List time." He walked over to the board and picked up a black marker, drawing a line down the center and making two columns: Findings and Suspects.

Dame Jean. Wounded by my patient's death and my professional near-miss, I had totally forgotten the murder. Now where did I put that list...? I found the wrinkled papers among my scrip pads in the pocket of my white coat--in my haste to do House's bidding Monday, I had written my notes on the back of several prescriptions.

House jotted down the items we had identified first, then listed potential suspects. The letter from Dame Jean's attorney basically read "They're willing to settle." and the defendant's name. House wrote Attorney under the Suspect column.

"And the defendant?"

I snorted. "It's paramount."

"Obviously. Well, come on, who'd she sue?"

"Abbott and Costello." I threw up my hands in frustration before trying again. "Paramount Pictures."

House looked surprised. "Really?" He stared off into the corner, his brow creased. "Universal, Granada, MGM..." He shook his head. "Nope, I don't think they did anything with Holmes. A singularity. Okay, next."

English Lavender led to House listing "Attorney, Sir Geoffrey, and Thaddeus Wilde". House promptly drew a line through the latter two names, and asked me for the attorney's name and number. I looked back at my notes and identified the lawyer as Jonathan Binder, of Crane, Poole, and Schmidt's Manhattan office.

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"Mr. Binder will see you now." Aimee's perky voice shook me out of my extended reverie. I gave her my warmest smile as we walked past her desk. Aimee Wilson...

House's olecranon seemed to find its way to my intercostal muscles. I quickly extended a hand to greet the dynamic attorney. Binder motioned for us to sit in two very expensive leather chairs across his very expensive cherry desk. Leaning forward, he folded his very expensive hands and rested them on his very expensive blotter.

"Billable or non-billable?"

I waited for House to answer that one. "We work with Les Trade."

Binder made a face. "Barely billable." He waved his hand around the plush suite. "Not exactly County rates..."

"Dame Jean." House said succinctly.

"I already talked to Grissom and Taylor. We had some matters to discuss, decided to get a bite to eat, chose the Lauriston 'cause it was close, ate, discussed, went home."

"You didn't see Sir Geoffrey...or another diner...?"

Binder shook his head.

"And you?" House kept firing.

"Dame Jean was very...billable. Wouldn't have been me."

"Matters...?" House probed.

"Not anymore, she's dead..." Binder returned. "We were expecting a pretty big settlement from Paramount for using the character Moriarty without her permission on Star Trek Next Gen."

"Which episode was that?" I jumped in impulsively. "Season 3 or Season 4--"

"Wil-son is a Trek-kie," House sung in a hoarse whisper until my elbow found his ribs.

I cleared my throat. "You don't think that Paramount could've..."

"Barry and I are like this," Binder crossed his index and middle finger. "No. Besides, they had plenty of warning after the book thing."

"The book thing...?" I interjected.

Binder turned to his computer and pulled up a series of files. "I think it was '85..." He pulled out a post-it and scribbled a name and address.

House and I looked at the note: John Stern, Editor, Pocket Books, Simon and Schuster.

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I was very surprised to find that there was actually a Star Trek office at Simon and Schuster. And that under their Pocket Books banner, they published over a score of original Star Trek titles every year. These included not only new science-fiction stories, but spacecraft construction plans and dictionaries for Klingon and Vulcan. Apparently, I discovered, there was enough reader interest that most of those volumes became best sellers. I shook my head—it seemed unbelievable that fans of a TV series could be so obsessed.

Editor Stern was due out of his meeting a half hour ago. House yawned, then grabbed my wrist and pulled down my cuff to see my watch. "What does the big hand on the Enterprise logo say?" he grumbled.

Annoyed, I brushed him away. "It's not even 5:30. You know, 'A handful of patience is worth more than a bushel of brains.'"

"Not in my book." House reluctantly picked up a hardback copy of "Spock's Sacrifice" from the end table and started leafing through it with an expression of polite revulsion.

"Five weeks on the New York Times bestseller list," John Stern announced proudly as he walked up to us.

House snapped the book shut and threw it back on the table. "I'm more a Len Deighton kind of chap."

Stern shrugged. "I don't do 'Deep Space Nine'. That's Kevin Palmer's side."

The editor led us into his office. "So what can I do you for, guys?"

"Jonathan Binder suggested we talk to you about 'the book thing'." House explained.

Stern leaned back in his chair, nodding. "Ah. Sad. Very sad."

We waited. Stern finally sat forward and motioned for us to move closer. He whispered, "Damn Jean Conan Doyle."

Okay, I was lost. "What?"

Stern shook his head. "That's what they called her. It was a terrific manuscript, you know."

House's turn. "What?"

Stern sighed. "About ten years ago, one of the literary agents we work with gave us this great manuscript. It was a terrific story—Kirk, Spock, and McCoy meet Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, fan fiction," I nodded.

"No, this was good." Stern continued. "The characters were really on target—no Mary Sue shit—the plot was exciting—Holmes, Spock, and Kirk chase Jack the Ripper in Victorian England. Who was really a Tellarite named Springheeled Jack. A little Kirk action with Irene Adler. Some great humor with McCoy and Watson. And, a terrific twist at the end. A great package. We not only agreed to publish, but thought we'd run a big campaign with Star Trek IV coming out in'86--the same year as the 100th anniversary of the first Holmes story in the Strand. "

"So what happened?"

"Damn Jean. There had been some great Holmes books out those past few years. Nick Meyer's Seven-Percent Solution—Holmes and Freud—Michael Dibdin, Holmes and well, himself, and even Holmes and Fu Manchu. All of a sudden, Her Lordship decides she doesn't want to allow any more pastiches—" Stern tapped the side of his head, "and no amount of begging—or cash—could change her mind. So, we scrapped the book." He threw up his hands.

"The author must have certainly been…disappointed," I suggested.

House looked pensive. "Name, please."

"Hillary Queen."

I was astonished. "I didn't know Ellery Queen was still writing in the eighties! Or were, you know, 'cause there were two--"

Stern held up a hand. "Hillary, not Ellery--"

House interrupted. "Names, please."

Stern checked in his file drawer and pulled out a yellowed paper from which he read: Liz Ambrose and Sofia Withers.

House stood up suddenly, knocking his chair back a few feet, and startling both me and Stern. "Wilson, come on!" House shouted, grabbing my arm. "The game is a foot from the goalposts, and I just caught the ball!"

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Les Trade and Mac Taylor met us at the Park. House had been very tight-lipped about his inspiration--any hopes that he would confide in me had been dashed when he put on his shades and earphones and turned on his Walkman. We'd spent an uncomfortable 30-minute cab ride looking out our respective windows at the abominable city traffic.

The ferret-faced Inspector seemed very annoyed. "I see no reason why you've brought us back here," he complained.

House merely said, "Motive, means, and opportunity."

We walked down the garden path towards the Lauriston's kitchen and entered through a side door used by the staff. The kitchen was bustling with a plethora of preparations for the evening rush—six pots a'steamin', five grills a'cookin', four ovens baking, and a partridge in a pear sauce…you know the words.

Supervising the chaos from the center of the room was the Head Chef, a full-bodied woman who was a bit too zaftig for my taste. No Sophie Wilson…

House headed straight for her, however, and we followed…well, like ducklings. "Excuse me, can we talk to you for a second? Privately?"

She looked around at the pending platters and winced. "Now…?"

House nodded. Shrugging, she led us to a storage pantry behind the main kitchen, and waited for House to begin.

"Hillary Queen?"

She looked surprised for a minute, then burst out laughing. "I haven't been called that in a while. But, yes. Half of her, anyway."

"Author of the manuscript, 'Elementary, My Dear Spock'?"

"Yeah, well, the book was better than the title," she said ruefully.

Taylor favored her with a piercing gaze. "You hated Dame Jean, didn't you?"

She gazed back, then sighed. "Look. Sure. We were pissed. But it's been ten years. I've got a great gig here. I'm not even into Star Trek any more."

Sophie looked directly at each of us, one by one, almost pleading "I did not kill Dame Jean. I didn't even know she was here—"

"I'm starved—what's on for tonight?" came a voice from behind a door that opened to reveal a small bathroom. The occupant was drying her hands on a paper towel, and was visibly startled to look up and see that so many of us were in the room. But not as startled as I was—for right in front of my eyes stood my hospital colleague, Dr. Beth Ambers.

"Beth," I exclaimed. "What…?"

Beth had stepped back several feet upon seeing me and House—her expression a mix of anxiety and fear. Her eyes momentarily darted toward the exit door, by which Mac Taylor was now leaning.

"Liz Ambrose?" House inquired gently.

Beth nodded dully.

Les Trade narrowed his eyes. "You eat here a lot, don't you?"

Sophie jumped in, "We always have leftovers. Residents don't make a lot of money."

House said softly, "It wasn't the money."

Beth's gaze focused on her Nike's. "The road not taken?" House continued.

Beth nodded again, her eyes still downcast.

Les looked at House. "What, her?"

House nodded. "I don't think you planned it. But I think you came in that night, exhausted and famished, and saw Dame Jean. Dining luxuriously at a restaurant you can't even afford. And it all came back…"

Beth turned her back to us and began to cry.

"You must've had the Lavender with you. It would be easy to pour it into Dame Jean's soup. Give her a night of abdominal pain and diarrhea…less than she deserved…"

Beth's sobs grew louder.

"Maybe you didn't think it was going to kill her. Maybe you just wanted yours back…"

Beth spun around, her tear-streaked face now overcome with anger.

"I'll tell you what I wanted back. My book—out on the shelves, on the best-seller list." She laughed hoarsely. "We could've swung that book into a writing deal for the Next Generation. I could be living in LA, with a house like OJ's in Brentwood. My own TV series after Star Trek. Maybe the screenplay for Star Trek V—anything would've been an improvement. Nick Meyer did it after '7 Solution'—and our book was better! I might even have married and divorced Patrick Stewart! Instead, I have this—"

She reached into her purse—Mac eased out his gun—and pulled out a latex rubber glove and held it up wagging in our faces. "Poop, pee, rectal exams, prostate massages, pap smears, phlegm, and vomit!" she shouted. "I could've spent my days and nights in Hollywood—and instead I spend them in shit!"

Mac briskly took the glove out of her hands and pulled her arms back to put on the handcuffs. I stood motionless, frozen, only dimly aware of House's self-satisfied smile and Les Trade's expression of disgust. Damn! Another one like my ex-wife…

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"Because, Wilson, eliminate all other factors and the one which remains must be the truth." House said obscurely as he downed the last drops of his vodka tonic.

I opened a new bottle of Heineken. "But—"

"Tut—the simple truth is that you don't have a type. You fall for every woman you meet that isn't a candidate for a retirement home or a fat farm." House poured some of my beer into his glass. "You just remember the crazy ones."

House took a swig of the beer. "I on the other hand have standards. I won't go out with them unless they're crazy." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I haven't seen you 'living large' lately," I teased, before adding, "Or me…"

"Well, my dear Wilson, we gotta do something about that." House bounced off his chair and picked up a motorcycle helmet from atop the grand piano. "I have a front-row table with my name etched in it at Scores. Have you seen Angelica's show? Meetcha downstairs in 5 minutes, and we can stop at Artie's Deli for a bite on the way…?

Scores, huh? Sounds like a winner. Score for House, and for me.

The End