E is for Evidence (17 page)

The next time I woke, the IV had been removed and the doctor had been replaced by a nurse's aide who helped me onto the bedpan, cleaned me up again, changed my gown, and put fresh sheets on the bed, cranking me into a sitting position so I could see the world. It was nearly noon. I was famished by then and wolfed down a dish of cherry Jell-O the aide rustled up from somewhere. That held me until the meal carts arrived on the floor. Daniel had gone down to the hospital cafeteria for lunch, and by the time he got back, I'd requested a “No Visitors” sign hung on the door.

The restrictions must not have applied to Lieutenant Dolan, however, because the next thing I knew, he was sitting in the chair, leafing through a magazine. He's in his fifties, a big, shambling man, with scuffed shoes and a light-weight beige suit. He looked exhausted from the horizontal lines across his forehead to his sagging jawline, which was ill-shaved. His thinning hair was rumpled. He had bags under his eyes and his color was bad. I had to guess that he'd been out late the night before, maybe looking forward to a day of football games on TV instead of interviewing me.

He looked up from his magazine and saw that I was
awake. I've known Dolan for maybe five years, and while we respect each other, we're never at ease. He's in charge of the homicide detail of the Santa Teresa Police Department, and we sometimes cross swords. He's not fond of private investigators and I'm not fond of having to defend my occupational status. If I could find a way to avoid homicide cases, believe me, I would.

“You awake?” he said.

“More or less.”

He set the magazine aside and got up, shoving his hands in his coat pockets while he stood by my bed. All my usual sassiness had been, quite literally, blown away. Lieutenant Dolan didn't seem to know how to handle me in my subdued state. “You feel well enough to talk about last night?”

“I think so.”

“You remember what happened?”

“Some. There was an explosion and Olive was killed.”

Dolan's mouth pulled down. “Died instantly. Her husband survived, but he's blanking on things. Doctor says it'll come back to him in a day or two. You got off light for someone standing right in the path.”

“Bomb?”

“Package bomb. Black powder, we think. I have the bomb techs on it now, cataloguing evidence. What about the parcel? You see anything?”

“There was a package on the doorstep when I got there.”

“What time was that?”

“Four-thirty. Little bit before. The Kohlers were having a New Year's Eve party and she asked me to help.” I filled him in briefly on the circumstances of the party. I could feel myself reviving, my thoughts gradually becoming more coherent.

“Tell me what you remember about the parcel.”

“There isn't much. I only glanced at it once. Brown paper. No string. Block lettering, done with a Magic Marker from the look of it. I saw it upside down.”

“The address facing the door,” he said. He took out a little spiral-bound notebook and a pen.

“Right.”

“Who's it sent to?”

“Terry, I think. Not ‘Mr. and Mrs.' because the line of print wasn't that long. Even upside down, I'd have noticed the ‘O' in Olive's name.”

He was jotting notes. “Return address?”

“Uhn-un. I don't remember any postmark either. There might have been a UPS number, but I didn't see one.”

“You're doing pretty good,” he said. “The regular mailman says he only delivered hand mail yesterday, no packages at all. UPS had no record of a delivery to that address. They didn't even have a truck in the area. You didn't see anyone leave the premises?”

I tried to think back, but I was drawing a blank. “Can't help you there. I don't remember anyone on foot. A car might have passed, but I can't picture it.”

I closed my eyes, visualizing the porch. There were salmon begonias in big tubs along the front. “Oh, yeah. The newspaper was on the doormat. I don't know how far up the walk the paperboy comes, but he might have seen the parcel when he was doing his route.”

He made another note. “We'll try that. What about dimensions?”

I could feel myself shrug. “Size of a shirt box. Bigger than a book. Nine by twelve inches by three. Was there anything left of it?”

“More than you'd think. We believe there was gift wrap under the brown mailing paper. Blue.”

“Oh sure,” I said, startled. “I remember seeing flakes of brown and blue. I thought it was snow, but it must have been paper particles.” I remembered what Terry had said to me. “Something else,” I said. “Terry was threatened. He talked about it when I was there the night before. He had a phone call at the plant from a woman named Lyda Case. She asked him when his birthday was and when he told her, she said he shouldn't count on it.”

I filled him in on the rest, unburdening the sequence of events from the first. For once, I loved offloading the information on him. This was big
time . . . the heavy hitters . . . more than I could deal with by myself. When it came down to bombs, I was out of my league. Lieutenant Dolan was scratching notes at a quick clip, his expression that mask of studied neutrality all cops tend to wear—taking in everything, giving nothing back. He talked as if he was already on the witness stand. “So there's a chance she's in Santa Teresa. Is that what you're saying?”

“I don't know. He seemed to think she was coming out, but he was pretty vague on that point. He's here, too?” I asked.

“This floor. Other end of the hall.”

“You care if I talk to him?”

“No, not a bit. Might help jog his memory.”

After Lieutenant Dolan left, I eased into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, feet dangling over the side. My head was pounding at the sudden exertion. I sat and waited for the light show inside my head to fade. I studied as much of my body as I could see.

My legs looked frail under the lightweight cotton of the hospital gown, which tied at the back and let in lots of air. The pattern of bruises across my front looked like someone had taken a powder puff and dusted me with purple talc. My hands were bandaged and I could see an aura of angry red flesh along my inner arms where the burns tapered off. I held onto the handrail and slid off the bed, supporting myself on the bed table. My legs were trembling. I could almost
bet they didn't want me getting up this way. I didn't think it was such a hot idea myself, the more I thought of it. Nausea and clamminess were chiming in with the pounding in my head and a fuzzy darkness was gathering along the periphery of my vision. I wasn't going to win an award for this so I sat back down.

There was a tap at the door and the nurse came in. “Your husband's out here. He says he has to leave and he'd like to see you before he goes.”

“He's not my husband,” I said automatically.

She put her hands in the pockets of her uniform—a tunic over white pants, no cap. I only knew she was a nurse because her plastic name tag had an R.N. after her name, which was Sharie Wright. I studied her covertly, knowing how much Daniel liked women with names like that. Debbie and Tammie and Cindie. Candie loomed large in there, too. I guess Kinsey qualified, now that I thought of it. Kinsie. Infidelity reduces and diminishes, leaving nothing where you once had a sense of self-worth.

“He's been worried sick,” she said. “I know it's none of my business, but he was here all night. I thought you should be aware.” She saw that I was struggling to get settled in the bed and she gave me a hand. I guessed that she was twenty-six. I was twenty-three when I married him, twenty-four when he left.
No explanation, no discussion. The divorce was no-fault, served up in record time.

“Is there a way I can get a wheelchair? There's someone down the hall I'd like to see. The man who was admitted at the same time I was.”

“Mr. Kohler. He's in three-oh-six at the end of the hall.”

“How's he doing?”

“Fine. He's going home this afternoon.”

“The policeman who was here a little while ago wants me to talk to him.”

“What about your husband? He said it would only take two minutes.”

“He's not my husband,” I said, parrotlike, “but sure. Send him in. After he goes, could you find me a wheelchair? If I try to walk, I'll fall on my puss and have to sue this outfit.”

She didn't think I was amusing and she didn't like the reference to lawsuits. She went out without a word. My husband, I thought. I should live so long.

 

 

 

 

 

He looked tired—an improvement, I thought. Daniel stood by my hospital bed, showing every minute of his forty-two years. “I know this won't sit well with you,” he said, “but the doctor says she won't let you go home unless you have someone to look after you.”

A feeling very like panic crept up in my chest. “I'll be fine in a day. I don't need anyone looking after me. I hate that idea.”

“Well, I knew you would. I'm telling you what she said.”

“She didn't mention it to me.”

“She never had a chance. You were half zonked. She said she'd talk to you about it next time she made her rounds.”

“They can't keep me here. That's disgusting. I'll go nuts.”

“I already told her that. I just wanted you to know I'd be willing to help. I could get you signed out of here and settled at home. I wouldn't actually have to stay on the premises. That place of yours looks too small for more than one person anyway. But I could at least check on you twice a day, make sure you have everything you need.”

“Let me think about it,” I said grudgingly. But I could already see the bind I was in. With Henry gone, Rosie on vacation, and Jonah out of town, I'd be on my own. Truly, I wasn't feeling that good. I just couldn't make my body do what I wanted it to. The elderly, the feeble, and the infirm must experience the same exasperation and bewilderment. For once, my determination had nothing whatever to do with my proficiency. It was exhausting to sit up, and I knew perfectly well I couldn't manage much at home. Staying here was out of the question. Hospitals are dangerous. People make mistakes. Wrong blood, wrong medication, wrong surgeries, wrong tests. I was checking out of this place “toot sweet.”

Daniel ran his hand across the top of my head. “Do what you want. I'll be back later.”

He was gone again before I could protest.

I buzzed the nurses' station on the intercom.

A hollow voice came on. “Yes?”

“Can Mr. Kohler in three-oh-six have visitors?”

“As far as I know he can.” The nurse sounded like she was talking into an old tin can, coughs and rustling in the background.

“Can I get a wheelchair? I'd like to go down and see him.”

It was twenty minutes before anybody managed to find me one. In the meantime, I became aware that I was struggling with a depression generated by Olive's death. It wasn't as if we had had a relationship, but she'd been around on the borders of my life for years. I'd first seen her in high school when I met Ashley, but she'd left just before our junior year began. After that she was more rumor than fact . . . the sister who was always off somewhere else: boarding school, Switzerland, skiing in Utah with friends. I don't think we'd exchanged more than superficial chat until two days before, and then I'd found my opinion of her undergoing a shift. Now, death had smashed her like a bug, the blow as abrupt as a fly being swatted on a windowsill. The effect was jarring and the emotional impact hadn't worn off. I found myself turning images in my mind, trying to absorb the finality. I hadn't been consulted in the matter and I hadn't agreed. Death is insulting, and I resented its sudden appearance, like an unannounced visit from a boorish relative. I suspected the knot in my chest would be there for a long time; not grief per se, but a hard fist of regret.

I wheeled myself down the corridor to room 306. The door was closed and Bass was standing in the hall. He turned his head idly as I approached. Bass had the smooth good looks of someone in an eighteenth-century oil painting. His face was oval, boyish, his brow unlined, his eyes a barren brown. His mouth was sensual, his manner superior. Put him in a satin vest, a waistcoat, breeches, and leggings, and he might have been Blue Boy, grown slightly decadent. His hair was fine and dark, receding at the temples, worn slightly long and rather wispy where it gathered in a point on his forehead. He should have had an Afghan at his side, some creature with silky ears and a long, aristocratic snout.

“Hello, Bass. I'm Kinsey Millhone. Do you remember me?”

“Of course,” he said. He bent down then and gave my cheek a social buss, more noise than contact. His expression was bleak. There was a dead time in the air, one of those uncomfortable stretched moments when you struggle to find something to say. His sister was dead. This was hardly the time for effusiveness, but I was puzzled by the awkwardness of our encounter.

“Where's Terry?”

He glanced at the door. “He's having his dressing changed. They should be done shortly. He's going home as soon as the doctor signs the release. How are you? We heard you were down the hall.”

“I'm all right. I'm sorry about Olive,” I said, and I truly was.

“God, this is all so screwed up. I don't know what's going on.”

“How's your mother doing? Is she holding up all right?”

“She'll be okay. She's a tough old bird. She's taking it pretty hard, but she's got a spine of steel. Ash is destroyed. She's been leveled. She and Olive were always just like this,” he said, holding up crossed fingers. “What about you? You look like you took a beating.”

“I'm all right. This is the first time I've been out of bed and I feel like shit.”

“You're lucky to be alive from what I hear.”