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Unformatted text preview: ice about this. I will call." "You're wasting your time, Doctor. If there's been a misunder- standing, there was no way we could know that this man was not who he said he was. Just forget about the police because you know as well as I do . . ." "Better find those records, Doctor. There have to be copies!" He hung up before the young jerk could answer. He was steaming. But he was also stunned. Flanagan was dead. Flanagan struck by a car crossing California Street. He couldn't re- member if he'd ever heard of anybody being killed downtown on that corner, unless it was an out-of-state driver on a rainy day who tried to race a cable car. He looked at Ryan, but he volunteered nothing for the moment. Then he punched in the 415 area code again. And a number he knew by heart. "Darlene," he said, "this is Samuel Larkin. I need you to send flowers to Martha Flanagan. Right. Right. Nearly instantaneous. Not quite. That would be fine. Just sign it 'Lark.' Thank you." Ryan moved out of the sh...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10