by Sue Grafton
I went through the hospital operator, placing a person-to-person call to Dolan at the number he'd given me. While I waited for the call to be patched through, I read the bulletin board, which seemed devoted in equal parts to medical cartoons, notices of classes coming up, and menus for neighborhood fast-food restaurants offering free delivery. I was starving to death.
When I heard Dolan's voice, I closed my eyes and put a hand on my chest, patting myself with relief. "Lieutenant Dolan, this is Kinsey Millhone. I'm calling from St. John's Hospital and I don't have long."
"What's up?"
I started talking, my mind racing ahead, trying to organize the information as I spoke. "First of all, Bibianna Diaz is in ICU down here. She was run off the road last night –"
"I heard," Dolan interjected.
"You know about that?"
"One of Santos's men called me the minute the report came through. Hospital has orders to be polite to Raymond without letting him get anywhere near her hospital bed. They know what to do."
"Well, thank God for that." I filled him in quickly on the situation to date, including the file I'd seen at Buddy's Auto Body Shop. "I think I've figured out who the leak is up there." I told him about Dr. Howard, the chiropractor, and the photo of his daughter. I had no idea what her married name was, but I gave him an accurate (though acid) description of her. As a civilian clerk working for the county sheriff's department, she was in a perfect position to funnel information to her father, and through him to Raymond. The minute Bibianna was first arrested in Santa Teresa, Raymond would have known her whereabouts. A sudden thought occurred to me. "Lieutenant, do you know anything about the gun Parnell was murdered with? Raymond's got a thirty-caliber broomhandle Mauser. I saw it in his dresser drawer."
Dolan cut in. "Forget Parnell for now and do me a favor. I want you to hang up and get the hell out of there."
"Why, what's happening?"
"Tate's probably already on the premises. Hospital notified him late last night and he took off, heading south. If Raymond finds out he's there, they'll have a showdown for sure."
"Oh, shit."
Behind me, a woman doctor came into the nurses' station, wearing surgical greens. She pulled off her cap and shook her hair out wearily. She paused to study me, hair rumpled, lines of exhaustion weighting down her face. I couldn't tell if she wanted the telephone or the chair.
Dolan was saying, "I got somebody down there who can help you out. Hold on. I got a call coming in..."
I saw Raymond pass the desk, heading toward the elevators, probably in search of me. I couldn't wait for Dolan. "I gotta go," I said into dead air, and hung up. Every brain cell in my head was screaming at me to get out, but I couldn't leave Jimmy Tate here without backup. I left the nurses' station and trotted down the hall behind Raymond, finally catching up with him.
I tapped him on the shoulder. "Hi, where did you go?"
He turned and looked at me irritably. "Where the hell have you been? I'm off lookin' for you."
"I went over to the nursery to see the newborns," I said.
"What for?"
"I like babies. I might want to have one of my own someday, you know? They're really cute, all tiny and puckery. They look like Cornish game hens."
"We ain't here for that," he said gruffly, though he seemed mollified by my explanation. He grabbed my arm and turned me, walking us back down the corridor toward ICU.
"Why don't we take a break and get some coffee," I said.
"Forget that. I'm jumpy enough as it is." We reached the ICU waiting room and Raymond sat down again. He took a magazine from a nearby stack and flipped through it with an air of distraction. The pages made little snapping sounds in the quiet of the room. Two women seated at the other end of the room stared at him, frankly curious about his tics.
Raymond glanced up, catching them in the act, and stared back at them until they broke off eye contact. "Jesus, I hate it when people stare at me. They think I like doing this?" He gave me an exaggerated jerk, glaring darkly at the two women, who were stirring with self-consciousness.
I said, "How's Bibianna doing? Has anybody said?"
He shifted restlessly. "Doctor's supposed to show up any minute and talk to us."
I had to get him out of there. A color television in the corner, sound off, was tuned to one of those nature films where they show half of one species being eaten by another.
Raymond leaned forward. "Jeez, what's taking them so long?"
"You want some lunch? Why don't we go down to the coffee shop and find Luis. I'm starving."
He hung his head, shaking it, and then looked over at me, his expression bleak. "What if she doesn't make it?"
I bit back a retort. I couldn't think of an answer that didn't seem quarrelsome. I revised my reaction. On reflection, it seemed perfectly in keeping with the depth of his denial that he'd now be worried sick about a woman he'd tried to have assassinated less than twenty-four hours before. If Raymond found out Jimmy Tate was here, he'd bring the whole place down.
I said, "We're both going to go crazy if we hang around here. It won't take long. We can grab a quick lunch and come right back up. The doctor might not be back on the ward for an hour."
"You think?"
"Come on. Get a cup of coffee, at least."
Raymond tossed the magazine aside and got up. We moved into the corridor and he slowed his step. "Maybe I should tell the nurse where we are in case he shows."
"Or I can do that if you like. Why don't you go ahead and buzz the elevator for us?"
Two Hispanic nurses approached from down the corridor.
There was some activity in the hallway and both of us looked over. A doctor appeared from the Rehab wing, heading for ICU. He was wearing a calf-length white duster over a gray suit. He had his full name stitched above his pocket in blue script. A stethoscope coiled up out of his pocket like a length of narrow-gauge garden hose. He was in his fifties with closely clipped gray hair, rimless glasses, and a limp. His right foot was strapped into a walking cast that looked like a ski boot. He noticed my glance and smiled apologetically, though he offered no explanation. I pictured a sports-related mishap, which might have been his hope. He probably tripped on a sprinkler head while he was pinching suckers off his roses. "Can I help you folks?"
Raymond said, "I'm here about Bibianna Diaz. Are you the doctor?"
"Absolutely. Nice to meet you, Mr. Tate. I'm Dr. Cherbak." He reached out to Raymond and the two of them shook hands. "Nurse said you were here. Sorry it took me so long..."
Raymond's smile slipped a notch. "The name is Raymond Maldonado. What's Tate got to do with it?"
Dr. Cherbak blinked with uncertainty and then checked Bibianna's chart. "Sorry. She asked to have her husband notified, and naturally, I thought..."
From where I stood, I could see the big pink notice reading PC, protective custody, affixed to the front. Raymond seemed to spot it about the same time I did.
"Her husband?" he repeated. He stared at the doctor, who must have realized he'd committed an egregious error.
I touched Raymond's arm, murmuring, "Raymond, there's been a misunderstanding, that's all. Maybe she has a head injury. Who knows what she might have said? She might be hallucinating –"
Raymond jerked away from my touch. "Shut up!" he said. And then to the doctor: "She told you that? Jimmy Tate's her husband! That's bullshit. I'll rip your fuckin' face off, you say that."
The two nurses, in conversation, were suddenly attentive, watching the encounter as if it were a soap opera. I could feel the dread suffuse me like a fever. "Let's come back later..."
"How's she doing?" Raymond asked. He was being pugnacious, jaw working with tension.
"I'm not at liberty to –"
"I asked you how she's doing. You want to answer me, you dick?"
Dr. Cherbak stiffened. "I can see I've made a mistake," he said. "If you're not related to the patient, I'm limited in the amount of information I can give you..."
Raymond g
ave him a push. "Fuckin' A you made a mistake! I'm going to marry this woman, get it? Me. Raymond Maldonado. You got that straight?"
Dr. Cherbak turned on his heel and moved toward ICU at a brisk clip, pushing through the double doors. I heard him on the other side. "Get Security up here..."
Raymond banged through the doors after him and grabbed him from behind. "Where's Bibianna?" he screamed. "Where is she?"
The doctor stumbled off-balance and one of the duty nurses started to run. A second nurse picked up a phone to call Security. Raymond pulled out a gun and pointed it at her, his arm stiff, his intent murderous. She lowered the phone. He swung the gun back and forth as he made his way down the hall. I pulled out the SIG-Sauer, but the doctor was in my way. Hospital staff seemed to be everywhere.
I screamed, "Tate!" I started running.
Bibianna was in the second room. Tate was on his feet, his gun out. Raymond fired. I saw Tate go down.
Raymond doubled back, heading right at me.
I held the gun with both hands and yelled, "Stop!" but he knew I wouldn't fire under the circumstances. There were too many people in the vicinity to risk shooting. He shouldered me aside and took off at a dead run, his heels clattering as he plowed through the double doors and down the corridor. He still had his gun, but he was moving too fast to take aim or fire with any accuracy. I banged through the doors behind him and pounded down the hallway after him. Heads appeared in doorways, people attracted by all the commotion, disappearing again quickly when they spotted the guns. Raymond reached an Exit sign and grabbed the knob, flung the door open, and headed down the stairs. I caught the door as it swung shut and forced it back with a crash. I could hear Raymond's descent, his footsteps echoing rapidly in a spiral below me. I was jumping down three steps at a time, trying to cut his lead, when I heard him reach the exterior door below. His exit set off an alarm bell mat began to peal shrilly.
I doubled my pace, hitting the door with one hand, the SIG-Sauer in the other, nearly recoiling at the sudden blast of bright sunlight in my face. I could see Raymond tearing across a stretch of lawn just ahead of me. We'd emerged from one end of the hospital, close to Arizona Avenue in an area of small stucco houses with an occasional three-story medical building. Raymond ran toward the street, feet flying, arms pumping. I was vaguely aware of someone running behind me, but I couldn't afford to look. I was narrowing the gap, calling on the last of my physical reserves. I had to be in better shape than Raymond, but I could feel myself wheezing, lungs on fire. Six days without exercise had taken the edge off, but I still had some juice.
Raymond took a quick look behind him, gauging the distance between us. He got off a shot that smacked into a palm tree to my left. He tried to goose up his pace, but he really didn't have it in him. I was close enough now that the sound of his heavy breathing seemed in concert with mine and the heels of his shoes nearly touched my pumping knees. I had a tight grip on the gun. I reached out and pushed him hard in the back. He stumbled, arms flailing as he tried to regain his balance. He went down in a sprawl and I landed, knees first, in the middle of his back. His breath left him in a whoosh and the gun flew out of his hand. I was up and on my feet, panting heavily. He turned over as I raised the barrel of the gun and placed it between his eyes. Raymond had his hands up, inching away from me. For ten cents I would have blown that motherfucker away. My rage was white hot and I was out of control, screaming "I'll kill your ass! I'll kill your ass, you son of a bitch!!"
Behind me, I heard, "Freeze!"
I whipped around.
It was Luis.
The gun in his right hand was pointed directly at Raymond. In his left hand was a badge. He was LAPD.
Epilogue
* * *
By the time I got back upstairs, the emergency room crew was already working on Jimmy Tate, who was whisked into surgery within the hour. The bullet had caught him in the abdomen and he'd apparently suffered a ruptured spleen. Bibianna wasn't in much better shape, but both survived. Whether they lived happily ever after or not, I really couldn't say, as all this happened just three weeks ago. I made it back to Santa Teresa in time for Vera's wedding on Monday night, which was Halloween. Naturally, as I hadn't had time to shop, I was forced to wear my faithful all-purpose dress, which in my opinion suited the occasion to a T. Vera was urging me to bring a date, so I took Luis with me, Donald and Daffy Duck arms and all.
Raymond Maldonado has hired himself a top-notch attorney. At this point the charges against him range from murder one, in the case of Parnell Perkins, to grand theft, insurance fraud, mail fraud, all the way down to petty larceny. I gather that certain cases involving individuals with Tourette's syndrome present a serious challenge to the criminal justice system. My guess is he'll work out a deal, naming some of the other key figures in the fraud ring including three attorneys from the law firm of Gotlieb, Naples, Hurley, and Flushing.
The cops never did come up with my black leather jacket. Somebody in the restaurant probably lifted it the minute my back was turned. I'm tellin' you, people are crooks! And it's not just the ordinary man in the street. I haven't been paid for all the work I did. I billed the Santa Teresa Police Department for services rendered. Dolan tells me he forwarded the invoice to the LAPD, who'll probably turn around and try to lay it off on the Department of Insurance. I'll give those turkeys ninety days to "process" my money and then I'm calling my attorney.
The only other matter that needs clearing up has to do with Gordon Titus and that's simple enough. The sucker fired me.