Baker walked past her to a reporter seated at a desk. “Did you get the interview, Sam?”
“No luck. I went to the Georgetown Medical Center, and they said there’s nobody registered by that name. Tripp Taylor’s wife isn’t a patient there.”
Matt Baker said, “I know damn well she is. They’re covering something up, dammit. I want to know why she’s in the hospital.”
“If she is in there, there’s no way to get to her, Matt.”
“Did you try the flower delivery routine?”
“Sure. It didn’t work.”
Dana stood there watching Matt Baker and the reporter walk away. What kind of reporter is it, Dana wondered, who doesn’t know how to get an interview?
Thirty minutes later, Dana was entering the Georgetown Medical Center. She went into the flower shop.
“May I help you?” a clerk asked.
“Yes. I’d like—” She hesitated a moment. “—fifty dollars’ worth of flowers.” She almost choked on the word “fifty.”
When the clerk handed her the flowers, Dana said, “Is there a shop in the hospital that might have a little cap of some kind?”
“There’s a gift shop around the corner.”
“Thank you.”
The gift shop was a cornucopia of junk, with a wide array of greeting cards, cheaply made toys, balloons and banners, junk-food racks, and gaudy items of clothing. On a shelf were some souvenir caps. Dana bought one that resembled a chauffeur’s cap and put it on. She purchased a get-well card and scribbled something on the inside.
Her next stop was at the information desk in the hospital lobby. “I have flowers here for Mrs. Tripp Taylor.”
The receptionist shook her head. “There’s no Mrs. Tripp Taylor registered here.”
Dana sighed. “Really? That’s too bad. These are from the Vice President of the United States.” She opened the card and showed it to the receptionist. The inscription read, “Get well quickly.” It was signed, “Arthur Cannon.”
Dana said, “Guess I’ll have to take these back.” She turned to leave.
The receptionist looked after her uncertainly. “Just a moment!”
Dana stopped. “Yes?”
“I can have those flowers delivered to her.”
“Sorry,” Dana said. “Vice President Cannon asked that they be delivered personally.” She looked at the receptionist. “Could I have your name, please? They’ll want to tell Mr. Cannon why I couldn’t deliver the flowers.”
Panic. “Oh, well. All right. I don’t want to cause any problems. Take them to Room 615. But as soon as you deliver them, you’ll have to leave.”
“Right,” Dana said.
Five minutes later, she was talking to the wife of the famous rock star Tripp Taylor.
Stacy Taylor was in her middle twenties. It was difficult to tell whether she was attractive or not, because at the moment, her face was badly battered and swollen. She was trying to reach for a glass of water on a table near the bed when Dana walked in.
“Flowers for—” Dana stopped in shock as she saw the woman’s face.
“Who are they from?” The words were a mumble.
Dana had removed the card. “From—from an admirer.”
The woman was staring at Dana suspiciously. “Can you reach that water for me?”
“Of course.” Dana put the flowers down and handed the glass of water to the woman in bed. “Can I do anything else for you?” Dana asked.
“Sure,” she said through swollen lips. “You can get me out of this stinking place. My husband won’t let me have visitors. I’m sick of seeing all these doctors and nurses.”
Dana sat down on a chair next to the bed. “What happened to you?”
The woman snorted. “Don’t you know? I was in an auto accident.”
“You were?”
“Yes.”
“That’s awful,” Dana said skeptically. She was filled with a deep anger, for it was obvious that this woman had been beaten.
Forty-five minutes later, Dana emerged with the true story.
When Dana returned to the lobby of the Washington Tribune, a different guard was there. “Can I help—?”
“It’s not my fault,” Dana said breathlessly. “Believe me, it’s the darned traffic. Tell Mr. Baker I’m on my way up. He’s going to be furious with me for being late.” She hurried toward the elevator and pressed the button. The guard looked after her uncertainly, then began dialing. “Hello. Tell Mr. Baker there’s a young woman who—”