“Your instincts are good. If you think she’s in serious danger, warn her.”
“Basically, I did . . . okay, I’m gonna check in with Petra, then see how the motor lab’s doing on Kevin Drummond’s Honda. Thanks for listening.”
“My pleasure.”
“Robin still in San Francisco?”
“Last I heard,” said Alex.
Keeping his voice even, but Milo knew the question had been out of line. No time to get distracted. Stay on course.
If only he could decide what “on course” meant.
He didn’t apologize, no sense apologizing. Instead he said, “Anything turns up, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate that,” said Alex, back to his friendly voice. “This one’s a twister, isn’t it?”
Always, the therapist.
36
Eric Stahl snapped off fifty one-handed pushups, followed by another four hundred conventionals. That level of exertion seldom made him sweat, but this time, he was soaked—anticipation of the visit to Donald Murphy?
Stupid, he should be able to control it. But the body didn’t lie.
He showered, dressed in one of his four black suit–white shirt–gray tie combos and drove to Sun Garden Convalescent Home in Mar Vista.
The place was a coffee-colored two-story building with dark brown trim. Inside was a lobby covered in flocked green paper. Ancient people lolled in wheelchairs.
Then: the hospital smell.
Vertigo stabbed Stahl. He fought the urge to bolt, kept his posture boot-camp rigid, yanked his lapels in place, and walked to the front desk.
The woman in charge was a middle-aged Filipina who wore a white coat over her floral dress. In Saudi Arabia, a lot of the servants had been Filipinas—little more than slaves, really. People in a worse situation than him.
This one’s badge said she was CORAZON DIAZ, UNIT ASSISTANT.
Hospital lingo for clerk.
Stahl smiled at her, worked hard at being a regular guy, told her what he was after.
“Police?” she said.
“Nothing serious, ma’am. I just need to speak with one of your patients.”
“We call them guests.”
“The guest I’m looking for is Donald A. Murphy.”
“Let me check.” Computer clicks. “Floor two.”
He rode a very slow elevator up to the second floor. More flocked walls but no mistaking this for anything but what it was: a ward. A nursing station was positioned at the center, and a couple of women in red uniforms stood around chatting. Then one long corridor lined by rooms. Two gurneys in the hall. Rumpled bedding on one.
Stahl struggled to maintain.
Even as he approached the nurses, they didn’t stop talking. He was about to ask them for Donald Murphy’s room number when he noticed a whiteboard above the station. Names inked in with blue marker, not unlike the case list at the station.
Two-fourteen.
He made his way up the hall, passing rooms occupied by very old people, some in wheelchairs, others bedridden. Waves of television noise hit him. The click-click of medical apparatus.
The smell, even stronger up here. The generic chemical reek, mixed with vomitus, fecal stench, sick sweat, and a host of odors he couldn’t identify.
His skin had turned clammy, and another attack of imbalance nearly doubled him over. He stopped midway up the corridor, pressed a palm against the fuzzy wallpaper, breathed in, out, in, out. Felt light-headed but a little better, and kept going to 214.
Open door. He went in and closed it behind him. The man on the bed had tubes running in and out of his nose and arms. A bank of monitors above his pillow proved he was alive. Catheter hosing trailed from under the sheets to a bottle on the floor filled with amber fluid.
The Navy said CPO Donald Arthur Murphy (ret.) was sixty-nine years old but this guy looked a hundred.
Stahl checked the patient’s wrist bracelet. D.A. MURPHY, the correct birth date.
His own heart pounding, he forced his way past the anxiety and studied the man on the bed. Erna’s father had a withered, triangular face topped by dry, wild white hair. A few of the hairs bore the remnants of their original color: a faint ginger at the roots. Murphy’s hands were large and thick and liver-spotted. His nose was a mass of gin blossoms. His toothless mouth had collapsed.