Little chrome friend in her hand. Cool, unwavering appraisal in her blue eyes.
Not afraid. Annoyed.
Shull groaned and flexed his right hand. His eyes opened. Allison was at his side in a flash.
Shull tried to punch her but his fingers refused to clench. Hers didn’t. She hit his arm hard, pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple.
“You need to be quiet or I’ll shoot you,” she said, in the calm voice of a therapist.
51
Petra hung out in the ICU observation area, doing nothing. The closest she’d gotten to Eric was looking at him through the glass wall.
No new information since an hour ago when the trauma surgeon, a good-looking guy named LaVigne who looked like a TV doctor, had told her, “He’ll probably make it.”
“Probably?”
“He’s not in imminent danger right now, but with abdominal wounds, you never know. The key is preventing infection. There’s also the blood loss. He’s almost been totally replaced. He was in shock, out, could go in again.”
“Thanks,” she said.
Something in her tone made LaVigne frown. “I’m being honest.”
“Only way to be.” She turned her back on him.
Shortly after that, Milo came by with Rick, and he used his MD credentials to read the chart, confer with the staff behind closed doors.
He came out, looking doctorly, and said, “No promises, but my instinct is he’ll pull through.”
“Great,” said Petra, drained, weak, useless, guilty. Thinking: Hope your instincts are worth a damn.
When she stepped out into the waiting room, the only other person there was a blond woman in her midthirties, sitting in a corner with a copy of Elle, wearing a tight, black, ribbed turtleneck, equally snug white jeans, high-heeled sandals, pink toenails. This one had it all: the hair, the chest, a once-flawless face now only terrific.
Dress for distress.
She and Petra exchanged glances then Petra sat down and the woman said, “Excuse me are you a . . . police person?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman stood and walked over. Petra recognized her fragrance. Bal a Versailles. Lots of it. Pink nails, too. A lighter pearlescent shade. She wrung her hands nonstop.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m a . . . I know Eri—Detective Stahl. The hospital called me because he had my number on a piece of paper in his pocket, and they . . .”
The woman trailed off.
Petra stood and extended her hand. “Petra Connor.”
“Kathy Magary. Is he all right?”
“He’s doing better, Kathy.”
Magary let out a long whiff of spearmint breath. “Thank goodness.”
“You and Eric are friends?”
“More like acquaintances.” Magary was blushing. “I mean we just met. That’s why he had my number. You know.”
Stahl, you Don Juan. May you live long enough to keep surprising me.
Petra said, “Sure.”
Magary said, “I mean I didn’t know if I should come over. But they called me. I felt kind of . . . an obligation?”
“Eric needs friends,” said Petra.
The woman seemed confused. Given the circumstances, that seemed the appropriate state of mind.
“I do hope he gets okay. He’s a nice guy.”
“He is.”
“What . . . exactly happened?”
“Eric was involved in a police incident,” said Petra. “Apprehending a suspect. He got stabbed in the abdomen.”
Magary’s hand flew to her perfect mouth. “Omigod! All they told me is he was hurt. And then, when I got here, they said I couldn’t go inside.” Pointing to the ICU door. “I guess you got in because you’re a police person.”
“I’m his partner,” said Petra.
“Oh.” Magary’s eyes got wet. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“He’s going to be all right,” said Petra with phony confidence. Magary relaxed and smiled.
“That’s great!”
Maybe, thought Petra, I picked the wrong career. There’s always telemarketing.
Magary said, “I guess I’ll go now. Think it’s okay if I come back tomorrow? Maybe he’ll be better, and I can go in there?”
“It’s more than okay, Kathy. Like I said, he needs all the support he can get.”
Something about that knocked Magary down a notch. “It’s still real bad, isn’t it? Even though he’s going to make it.”
“He incurred a serious injury. He’s getting really good care.”