a second shot at studliness if they don’t let themselves go completely
to seed. The ones like you, who were adorable to begin with, can
really clean up.”
I started panting.
“I’m serious, Alex. You’ll probably get all craggy and wiselook like
you really understand the mysteries of life.”
“Talk about false advertising.”
She inspected each of my temples, turning my head gently with strong
fingers and burrowing through the hair.
“This is the ideal place to start silvering,” she said in a teacher’s
voice. “Maximum class-and-wisdom quotient. Hmm, nope, I don’t see
anything yet, just this one little guy, down here.” Touching a nail to
the chest hair, she brushed my nipple again. “Too bad you’re still a
callow youth.”
“Hey, babe, let’s party.”
She put her head back down and reached lower, under the blanket.
“Well,” she said, “there’s something to be said for callow too.”
We moved to the living room and listened to some tapes she’d brought.
The new Warren Zevon casting cold light upon the dark side of life a
novel in miniature. A Texas genius named Eric Johnson who produced
musical textures from the guitar that made me want to burn my
instruments. A young woman named Lucinda Williams with a beautiful,
bruised voice and lyrics straight from the heart.
Robin sat on my lap, curled small, her head on my chest, breathing
shallowly.
When the music was over she said, “Is everything okay?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You seem a little distracted.”
“Don’t mean to be,” I said, wondering how she could tell.
She sat up and undid her braid. Her curls had matted and she began
separating the strands. When she’d fluffed them and restored the
natural perm, she said, Anything you want to talk about?”
“It really isn’t anything,” I said. “Just work-a tough case. I’m
probably letting it get to me too much.”
I expected her to let that go, but she said, “Confidential, right?”
with just a trace of regret.
“Limited confidentiality,” I said. “I’m a consultant and this one may
spill over into the criminal justice system.”
“Oh. That kind of case.”
She touched my face. Waited.
I told her the story of Cassie Jones, leaving out names and identifying
marks.
When I finished, she said, “Isn’t there anything that can be done?”
“I’m open to suggestions,” I said. “I’ve got Milo running background
checks on the parents and the nurse, and I’m doing my best to get a
feel for all of them. Problem is, there isn’t a shred of real
evidence, just logic, and logic isn’t worth much, legally. The only
fishy thing so far is the mother lying to me about being the victim of
an influenza epidemic when she was in the army. I called the base and
managed to find out there’d been no epidemic.”
“Why would she lie about something like that?”
“The real reason she was discharged could be something she wants to
hide. Or, if she’s a Munchausen personality, she just likes lying.”
“Disgusting,” she said. A person doing that to their own flesh and
blood. To any kid. . . How does it feel to be back at the
hospital?”
“Kind of depressing, actually. Like meeting an old friend who’s gone
downhill. The place seems gloomy, Rob. Morale’s low, cash flow’s
worse than ever, lots of staff have left-remember Raoul
Melendez-Lynch?”
“The cancer specialist?”
“Uh-huh. He was married to the hospital. I watched him weather crisis
after crisis and keep on ticking. Even he’s gone-took a job in
Florida. All the senior physicians seem to be gone. The faces I pass
in the halls are new. And young. Or maybe I’m just getting old.”
“Mature,” she said. “Repeat after me: ma-ture.”
“I thought I was callow.”
“Mature and callow. Secret of your charm.”
“Top of all that, the crime problems out on the street are leaking in
more and more. Nurses beaten and robbed. . . A couple of nights ago
there was a murder in one of the parking lots. A doctor.”
“I know. I heard it on the radio. Didn’t know you were back working
there or I would have freaked.”
“I was there the night it happened.”
Her fingers dug into my hand, then loosened. “Well, that’s
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