Eyes closed. Still as a mummy. No respiration Stahl could make out, but the monitors said otherwise.
He said, “Mr. Murphy?”
No reaction from the body on the bed or the equipment.
All the effort for nothing. He stood there, wondering who to talk to when another wave of vertigo hit him and a full-body sweat washed over him like hard surf—too strong to control, shit, this one was going to get him.
He spotted a chair. Made it over just in time. Closed his eyes . . .
A foghorn brought him out of it.
“Who are you and what do you think you’re doing here?”
Stahl’s eyes opened, traveled to the clock above the medical monitors. He’d been out for just a few minutes.
“Answer me,” demanded the same voice. Brassy, female—a blaring tuba of a voice.
He turned, faced the source.
Older woman—mid to late sixties. Big, broad-shouldered, heavyset.
Her face was a near-perfect sphere, topped by a puffy, sprayed bulb of champagne-colored waves. Made up heavily, way too much rouge and eye shadow. Burgundy lipstick did little to enhance her rubbery lips. She wore a grass green knit suit that had to be expensive, with big crystal buttons and white piping on the lapels. Too tight for her linebacker’s frame, she seemed to be bursting out of it. Matching shoes and purse. Crocodile purse with massive rhinestone clasp. The rock on her sausagelike ring finger was no rhinestone. Blinding white, humongous. Diamond earrings, a pair of stones in each. A string of huge black pearls encircled a turkey-ringed neck.
“Well?” she blared. Glaring down at him as she planted both hands on barn-wide hips. Another massive ring sparkled from her right hand. Emerald solitaire even bigger than the diamond. Enough jewelry on her to finance Stahl’s retirement several times over.
“I’m going to call Security, right now.” Her jowls shook, and her bosoms expressed sympathy.
Stahl’s head hurt; the sound of that merciless voice was ground glass in an open sore. He fumbled in his pocket, flashed the badge.
“You’re the police?” she said. “Then what in blazes were you doing sleeping in Donald’s room?”
“Sorry, ma’am. Not feeling well. I sat down to catch my breath, must’ve passed out for a second—”
“If you’re sick, then you certainly shouldn’t be here. Donald’s very ill. You’d better not have given him anything. This is outrageous!”
Stahl got to his feet. No more vertigo. Annoyance at having to deal with this battle-ax had vanquished his anxiety.
Interesting . . .
He said, “What relationship do you and Mr. Murphy have?”
“No, no, no.” A finger wagged. Diamonds glinted. “You tell me why you’re here.”
“Mr. Murphy’s daughter was murdered,” said Stahl.
“Erna?”
“You knew her?”
“Knew her? I’m her aunt. Donald’s baby sister. What happened to her?” Irritated, demanding, not a trace of sympathy. Or shock.
“You’re not surprised?” said Stahl.
“Young man, Ernadine was psychiatrically disturbed, had been for years. Donald had no contact with her, nor had I. No one in the family had.” She regarded the man on the bed. “As you can see, there’s no point in bothering Donald.”
“How long has he been this way?”
Her expression said, What’s it to you? “Months, young man, months.”
“Coma?”
The woman laughed. “You must be a detective.”
“What’s wrong with him, Ms. . . .”
“Mrs. Trueblood. Alma F. Trueblood.”
Murphy’s baby sister. Stahl couldn’t imagine this one ever being small.
He said, “Ma’am, is there anything you can tell me about—”
“No,” snapped Alma Trueblood.
“Ma’am, you didn’t hear the question.”
“Don’t need to. There’s nothing I can tell you about Ernadine. As I just said, she’s been disturbed for years. Her death was a long time coming, if you ask me. Living on the street, like that. Donald hadn’t seen her in years. You’ll just have to take my word on that.”
“How many years?”
“Many. They lost contact.”
“You say her death was a long time coming?”
“I certainly do. Ernadine refused help, went her own way. Lived on the streets. She was always a strange little girl. Wild, sullen, odd habits—strange eating habits—chalk, dirt, spoiled food. She picked at her hair, walked around in circles talking to herself. Drew pictures all day but had not a whit of talent.”