One tech climbed into the van with Dolan. The rear doors were slammed shut. The hospital was seven blocks away. I got directions from the second tech before he got in the cab of the van on the passenger side. The woman took the wheel again. She backed out and made a beeline for the street, sirens warbling, bar light flashing. I made sure Dolan’s motel room door was locked and followed in his car.
When I arrived, the ambulance had already pulled into the emergency entrance. I parked in the main lot and by the time I entered the waiting room, he’d been rolled into the rear. I spoke to the desk clerk, telling her who I was. She asked me a few questions about Dolan, making me aware how little I really knew about him. I told her he had insurance coverage through the STPD and she said she’d pick up the remaining data from him. She got up and left her desk, clipboard in hand, indicating that the ER doctor would be out as soon as she was finished with him.
I took a seat in the waiting room, which was spare and reasonably pleasant: pale green carpet, fake plants, and piles of tattered magazines. An assortment of children’s toys was scattered on the floor. Lines of interlocking chairs had been arranged, cotillion-fashion, around the edges of the room. In the corner, the face of a television set was blank. Someone had brought in Easter decorations; a basket filled with plastic eggs nestled in impossibly green paper grass. I wasn’t even sure when Easter fell this year, but it was doubtless coming up soon, unless these were left from last year. Two patients came in while I was waiting: a man with superficial contusions and abrasions from a bike accident (judging from his shaved legs and his bun-hugging Spandex shorts), and a woman with her right ankle sandwiched between ice packs. Both were taken into examining rooms in the rear, but probably placed on hold while the doctors dealt with Dolan.
Outside, the sun was shining and the town of Quorum was going about its business as though nothing unusual had occurred. It was odd having a medical emergency in the middle of the day. Somehow, in my life, crises of this sort always seem to happen in the dead of night. I couldn’t tally the number of times I’d been sitting in waiting rooms like this one while outside, city streets were deserted and shrouded in darkness.
Restless, I left my seat and wandered into the hall, where I asked a passing nurse for the nearest pay phone. I was directed to the hospital lobby, two long corridors away. I dialed Stacey’s home number, charging the call to my credit card. Two rings later, he was on the line and I was filling him in.
“How’s he doing?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t talked to the doctor yet. I wish I’d busted into his room when I first got there. I’m telling you, Stacey, his face was gray. He should have dialed 911 himself, but I think he was in denial. You know him.”
“This is ridiculous. You can’t do this alone. I’m coming down.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re not well yourself. Just stay where you are. I’ve got enough on my hands.”
“I’m fine. Didn’t Dolan tell you? The docs showed my X-rays to some big muckety-muck and she says the shadow’s insignificant. I forget now what they call it, but it’s bullshit. Biopsy came back negative too so I got a clean bill of health.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. Why would I lie about a thing like that? I’m in remission. At least for now.”
“Lucky you didn’t blow your brains out last week. Wouldn’t you be pissed?”
“I just wish I hadn’t gotten rid of my all personal possessions.”
“I could have told you as much.”
“Speaking of which, I’d like to have my family photos back.”
“Forget it. Find another bunch. Those are mine.”
“Come on now, Kinsey. I’ll get duplicates made.”
“Quit wheedling. I don’t want duplicates. I want those. Anyway, you shredded Cousin Mortimer and he was my favorite.”
“You never even met him.”
“I know, but he had a good face.”
“You’re tough.”
“A deal’s a deal.”
“How about joint custody. Shared visitation. One week on, one week off.”
“Maybe,” I said. “You shouldn’t have been in such a hurry.”
“At least I had the good sense not to shred my tax returns. I could be in jail for life, however much of it I got left.”
“What about your clothes?”
“Those went last week. I’ll have to scour the Goodwill thrift store and buy ’em back.”
“Oh ye of little faith. Dolan swore you’d be fine. You should have listened to him.”
“What does he know? The man’s a mess. Didn’t I tell you he was heading for another heart attack? Talk about a time bomb.”
“I know. I told him the same thing, but there was no stopping him. What about you, are you really feeling okay?”
“Terrific. Full of beans. I’m determined to come down. Don’t know how I’ll get there, but I’ll find a way.”
“The doctor’s letting you drive?”
“Of course. It’s no business of hers. Problem is, I sold my car and let my license lapse.”
“Oh, no.”
“Well, I didn’t want to take the test again. I was sure I’d be dead.”
“What about the lease on your house?”
“Shit, I’d forgotten about that. Healthy, but homeless. What a turn of events. By the way, did Dolan tell you what happened here?”
“We never had a chance to talk.”
“Triple homicide this morning—woman, her boyfriend, and her kid shot to death. The ex-husband’s fled into the back-country, where he’s hiding out. All the SO guys have been pulled into the search. This guy’s a wilderness expert, a paramilitary type. No telling how long it’s going to take to flush him out. Forensics is still at the crime scene, which means they won’t get to us again until they wrap that up. Could be days.”
“So why hang around down here? Once Dolan’s out, I can drive us home in his car and that’ll save you the trip.”
“No way. I’m bored to tears up here. I got cabin fever so bad, I’m about to go insane. Besides, if you two come home, we’ll just have to turn around and go back again.”
“Assuming there’s a link between the Mustang and Jane Doe,” I said.
“Trust me, it’s there and Dolan thinks so, too. You been in business as long as we have, you develop a feel for these things. We’re getting close.”
“Actually, I’d agree. I talked to a dentist this morning who remembered her—someone like her, at any rate. He thinks she was one of the last patients he treated before he had to retire. The guy’s ninety-three now and couldn’t give me the name, but everything else he says seems to fit. I checked with the principal at Quorum High and he referred me to the alternative high school for problem kids. I haven’t had a chance to deal with that—I’d just stopped by the motel to give Dolan the news when I found him in the throes of this heart attack.”
“You hang on ’til I get there. Then we’ll put our heads together and decide what’s next. How will I find you?”
“I’ll be around somewhere. If I’m not at the motel, you can try me here. You know Dolan’s car. Just keep an eye out for that. This town’s so small you can hardly miss.”
“Let me get a pencil and paper and you can give me that address. As soon as I find wheels, I’ll be on my way.”
I gave him the name and address of the motel.
He said, “Do me a favor and reserve a room in my name.”
“Why not take Dolan’s? He’s already forked out the bucks for it.”
“Good plan. Let’s do that.”
“While we’re at it, I need you to do me a favor. Could you stop by my apartment and pick up my leather jacket before you hit the road? It’s hanging in my downstairs closet. I’ll tell Henry to let you in and he can show you where it is.”
“It’s that cold?”
“To me it is. You better be prepared.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman in scrubs come out of the treatment area with a ma
nila folder in hand. “I think the doc just showed. I’ll call you back if there’s anything to report.”
Dr. Flannery, the ER physician, was in her late forties, small, with short, pale brown hair, a broad forehead, thin lips, and deep lines in her face. Her nose was a raw pink, as though she’d blown it a few times since she’d applied her makeup. She had a tissue in her pocket and she dabbed at it before she held her hand out. “Sorry. Allergies. I’m Dr. Flannery. Are you Mr. Dolan’s friend?”
We shook hands. “Kinsey Millhone. It’s actually Lieutenant Dolan.”
She checked his chart. “So it is.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s been stabilized, but he has a serious left coronary arterial blockage. We’ll be admitting him as soon as his paperwork’s done. I’ve spoken to his cardiologist in Santa Teresa and he’s suggested a cardiac surgeon he knows in Palm Springs. Dr. Bechler’s on his way now. As soon as he’s seen the patient and reviewed the EKG, the two of them will talk. I’m guessing they’ll insert a stent. The choice is Lieutenant Dolan’s, but that’s what I’d do if I were in his shoes.”
I made a face. “They’ll open his chest?”
The doctor shook her head. “They’ll run a catheter through a small incision in his left inguinal area and go up through the vein.”
“How long will he be in?”
“That depends on his progress. Not as long as you’d think. Two days.”
“Can I see him?”
“Of course. I’ve plugged him full of morphine so he’s feeling no pain. The effect is about the same as a four-martini lunch.”
“Not unusual for him.”
“So I gathered. We had a little chat about that. I told him the smoking and heavy drinking would have to stop. He has to clean up his act around food as well. If you eat like he does, you should do the same yourself. QP’s with cheese?”
“He ratted me out?”
She smiled. “Make sure we know how to reach you. He’s listed you as next of kin, which means you’re cleared for visits if you keep it brief. You want to follow me?”
I tagged after her as she pushed through the door and padded down the highly polished corridor. When we reached Dolan’s cubical, she pulled aside the curtain on its overhead track. “I have a visitor for you.”
Dolan mumbled a reply. Dr. Flannery held up five fingers, signaling a five-minute visit. I indicated I understood and she withdrew. I looked down at Dolan. “How’re you feeling?”
His eyes were closed and he had a goofy smile on his face. His color had improved. He was stretched out on the table, his upper body draped with a cotton coverlet. His shoes were off and the toe of one sock was pulled up to form a little cap, which made him look like a kid. He was still on oxygen; attached to a bank of machines that monitored his vital signs. He had an IV line in each arm. A bag of clear liquid had been hung on one pole and I counted fifteen drips. He began to snore.
I took his hand, wagging it. “How’re you doing?”
He opened his eyes. “I’m good.”
“You were in big trouble, you dork. You should have called for help.”
“Heard you knock. Couldn’t move. Glad you got in.” He spoke carefully, as though his lips had been injected with novocaine.
“Me and my little key picks. Don’t tell.”
His eyes closed again and he put a finger to his lips.
I said, “I put a call in to Stacey and told him where you were. He says his X-rays are clear and he’s coming down.”
“Said the same to me. No point arguing.”
“Tell me about it. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. I figured as long as you’re stuck in here, he might as well pitch in. We can’t do much for now, but maybe we can stir things up. I’m hoping Forensics will come up with something good. I think we’ll put him in your room if I can have the key.”
“Hang on.” Dolan revived himself long enough to fumble in his pants pocket and extract his key. I tucked it in my shoulder bag, thinking I’d stop by and pick up my typewriter before Stacey arrived.
The desk clerk appeared at the curtain with a plastic hospital bracelet and a sheaf of documents affixed to a clipboard. “I have your jewelry, Lieutenant Dolan. I just need your signature and you’ll be on your way.”
He roused himself, lazily gestured her in. “Sign away my life.” He turned to me. “You okay on your own?”
“Don’t worry about me. You take care of yourself and get some rest. I’ll stop by this evening. You behave.”
“Good deal.”
Before I left Quorum General, I put a call through to Henry. He was out. I left a message on his machine, telling him about Dolan’s heart attack. I also mentioned that Stacey’d be stopping by. I told him where my jacket was and said I’d call later when there was more to report. It was 1:35 when I emerged from the hospital and returned to the parking lot. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until I’d unlocked the car door and slipped behind the wheel. I took a good deep breath and did a neck roll. Anxiety was roiling through my body now that I was on my own. I hadn’t realized how dependent I’d become on Dolan. It was nice to compare notes, nice to share meals, even fun to knock heads. My attachment didn’t contain a shred of romance, but it did trigger a longing to be connected to someone. I’d trained with two old guys, who’d taught me the business many years before. Maybe it was them I missed.
I flipped through my note cards. The next obvious move was to chat with the principal at the alternative high school. I wished Dolan were on hand so he could handle it. Though I hated to admit it, he’d be subjected to a lot less guff. Mano a mano. Once he flashed that badge of his, people tended to respond. I picked up my minimap and located the Kennedy Pike, then fired up the Chevy and pulled out of the lot. On the way down Main Street, I detoured into a filling station and pumped gas into the tank. I stood there clutching the pump, watching the gallons go in while the total sales price went up.
The process took so long I thought the tank must have sprung a leak. I’m accustomed to my VW with its gas tank the size of a bucket of paint. $29.46 later, I nosed out of the station and turned right.
Once I reached Kennedy Pike, I drove west, scanning for sight of the cemetery and the white frame structure across the street from it. This section of Quorum was made up of endless flat, empty fields stitched together with lines of trees that served as windbreaks. When I finally spotted the cemetery, it looked as flat as the fields around it. There was only a smattering of visible headstones. Most were laid flat in the ground. I could see a few concrete benches and a sparse assortment of plastic bouquets that had been left near graves. The surrounding fence was iron and without ornament. Square brick support posts appeared at fifteen-foot intervals. There were seven full-sized trees of an indeterminate type, but the branches hadn’t leafed out yet and the limbs looked frail against the April sky.
Just beyond the cemetery entrance and across the street, I saw the Lockaby Alternative High School. I wondered if the students made the same melancholy association: from Youth to Death with only a stone’s throw between. When you’re of high school age, the days go on forever and death’s little more than a rumor at the end of the road. Dolan and I knew death was just a heartbeat away.
I parked in the lot and followed the walkway to the front porch, up a flight of wide wooden steps. This must have been a farmhouse once upon a time. It still carried an air of small rooms and cramped hopes. I let myself into the foyer, where eight kids were sprawled on the floor with sketchbooks, doing pencil drawings of the staircase. The teacher glanced up at me and then continued moving from student to student, making brief suggestions about perspective. From upstairs, I could hear another class in progress. Laughter trickled down the treads like leaking water. I don’t remember anything funny from my high school days.
To my right, the former parlor served as the main office, complete with the original fireplace. The hearth and surround were dark redbrick and the whole of it was topped with a d
ark mahogany mantelpiece. There was no counter separating the reception area from the office secretary, whose desk had been arranged facing the wide bay window. She interrupted her typing to turn and look at me. She seemed pleasant; dark-haired, plump, probably in her forties, though it was hard to tell. When she said, “Yes, ma’am?” several dimples appeared in her cheeks. She pulled out a chair and patted the seat.
I crossed the room and sat down, introducing myself. “I’m looking for Mrs. Bishop.”
“She’s in district meetings all day, but maybe I can help. I’m Mrs. Marcum. What can I do for you?”
“Here’s the problem,” I said, and launched into the tale. I’d told it so often that I had it down pat; the search for Jane Doe’s identity in fifty words or less. For the umpteenth time, I described Jane Doe and the series of interviews that had led me to Lockaby. “Do you remember anyone like that?”
“Not me, but I’ve only been here ten years. I’ll ask some of the teachers. Mrs. Puckett, who teaches typing, doubles as the guidance counselor. She’d be the one who’d recognize the girl if anyone did. Unfortunately, she’s out today—we all get a mental-health day every couple of months. She’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning if you want to come back.”
“If she does recognize the girl, would you have her records somewhere?”
“Not going back that far. We had a fire here eight years ago. Between the smoke and water damage, we lost the majority of our files. It’s a wonder the whole place didn’t go up in flames. The fire department saved us. They were here in seven minutes and knocked it down in thirty before it had a chance to spread.”
“How’d it happen?”
“Fire chief said electrical. We had wiring that dated from the original construction—1945. He said it was a wonder it hadn’t happened before. Now we have smoke detectors, heat detectors, and a sprinkling system—the works. We’re lucky we weren’t wiped out. Happily for us, there weren’t any injuries or loss of life. Paperwork, who cares? It accumulates faster than I can file it.”