Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
She scrolled through each hit, but nothing jumped out at her about the staff at any of them. There was a large free clinic on Golden Gate Avenue that offered both medical and mental health services under one roof. But again, nothing about the staff caught her attention. With a frustrated sigh, she went back to Google and did a broader search of doctors in the city of San Francisco. When twenty pages of listings came up, she modified her search to psychiatrists. She’d try psychologists and therapists, too, but as she was likely dealing with someone who could prescribe medication, a psychiatrist seemed like a reasonable place to start. She began to scroll, yawning halfway through, feeling a sense of hopelessness about this line of research.
Her eyes caught on a name, and she blinked, then clicked on Dr. Alexander Sweeton. Sweeton. Candyman. Just a nickname, based on his real one. People in the TL seemed to like those. But was that a stretch? Maybe. And what made it even more of a long shot that Dr. Alexander Sweeton was this Candyman was the fact that he did business from an entire floor of a skyscraper in Union Square, just steps from the Financial District and Nob Hill.
Lennon perused the photos of the building itself, her gaze stopping on the jaw-dropping art deco lobby. Wow. She couldn’t even begin to guess what price an office space in a building like that might start at, much less an entire floor. She didn’t need to attempt to look it up, however, to know that treating drug-addicted prostitutes who lived and worked in the Tenderloin wouldn’t help pay it.
Lennon clicked from one link to another, trying to find a picture of Dr. Sweeton, even though she’d basically dismissed him. He was a sixty-eight-year-old board-certified physician who had earned his doctorate in psychiatry from the University of California, San Francisco. And from what it looked like, he serviced the Bay Area elite, who apparently, despite their lofty financial status, had enough issues to keep a practicing psychiatrist in a high-priced luxury office in the heart of the city. Stop being judgmental, Lennon. Problems are problems. Pain is pain. Yes, and she had to keep reminding herself that just because you weren’t a homeless sex worker didn’t mean your mental and emotional struggles weren’t valid. In fact, if watching the stories on The Fringe had been anything, it’d been a reminder that humans were humans, no matter the vast differences in circumstances.
She found information about an upcoming gala, benefiting a private hospital, that he was going to speak at. The event was two months away. And at five thousand dollars a plate, she couldn’t have afforded it even if she’d wanted to.
She found a photo of the doctor from a previous event and stopped to study it. His thinning hair was completely white and combed away from his face, his smile slight. And beside him, arm linked, was a glamorous, statuesque brunette who appeared to be half his age and was identified in the tagline below as the doctor’s wife, Brittany Sweeton.
Lennon kept scrolling. She paused as something caught her eye, and she clicked on it. It was a journal article published by Dr. Alexander Sweeton titled “The Neurobiology of Trauma.”
Trauma. She attempted to read it, but she’d have had to sign up for a subscription to the journal. Instead of taking the time to do that, she picked up her phone and dialed his office number. The pleasant voice of an older woman answered the line.
“Yes, hello. My name is Inspector Lennon Gray with the San Francisco Police Department, and I’d like to speak with Dr. Sweeton, if he’s in?”
“Oh. Inspector. Um, no, I’m sorry. The doctor isn’t in today.”
“Can you tell me when he’ll be back? This is quite urgent. It’s involving . . . a patient.”
“I see. Well, I can ring his cell phone and leave a message, but I’m not sure when he’ll return my call. He’s giving a presentation to the UC medical school students this afternoon, and it’s supposed to begin in about half an hour.”
Half an hour.
“If you give me your number, I can have him call you later tonight or tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. I’ll try back. Can you tell me . . . Does the doctor provide psychiatric services anywhere else, by chance?”
“No, not really. He volunteers at a free clinic on Thursday afternoons, specifically helping veterans who live on the street. But that’s charitable work.”
“Veterans?”
“Mm-hmm. That’s why he first went into practice, to help those with PTSD. His practice has grown beyond that, but he still finds satisfaction in giving back to those suffering the most. He’s such a good man.”
He sounded like a good man, and Lennon almost felt bad for even considering looking into him. But her job was not to feel bad. Her job was to investigate every possible lead. “The free clinic you’re talking about—is it the one on Golden Gate?”