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“Does Kinsey have high blood pressure?” I asked. “He’s sweating, and his face is the color of the pinot noir.”
“Stay here,” Ranger said, scraping his chair back. “Keep your eye on the room.”
By the time Ranger reached him, Kinsey had slumped in his chair and his face was deathly white. Ranger got him to his feet and moved him through a side door and out of the room. No one paid attention. People were eating and talking. Amanda followed Ranger.
I kept watch for five minutes, and when Ranger didn’t return I went to the side door. Kinsey was on the floor in the hall, doubled over in a fetal position. Amanda was on her knees beside him. A man in a suit was also on his knees beside Kinsey.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Ranger.
“Stomach cramps and nausea.”
I didn’t feel all that great either, but I wasn’t sick enough to curl up on the floor. I walked a short distance and found a chair. I was light-headed and sweating, and I was working hard at convincing myself I wasn’t going to throw up. I realized I was losing the no throwing up argument, managed to find the ladies’ room in time, and sent a bunch of Swedish meatballs and cocktail wieners into the casino sewage system. Ten minutes later I was back in the hall, and paramedics were strapping Kinsey onto a gurney.
“How’s he doing?” I asked Ranger.
“They’re taking him to the hospital to run some tests. The house doctor thinks it might be appendicitis.” He slid an arm around me. “You’re almost as white as Kinsey.”
“I need air. I took one look at Kinsey on the carpet and got sick.”
Ranger got me as far as the parking garage, and I threw up again.
“Jeez,” I said. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Let’s get you into the car, and we’ll follow Kinsey to the hospital and get you checked out.”
“I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
“Babe, you’re green.”
“Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have eaten all those cocktail wieners.”
Ranger stopped and stood hands on hips when he got to the Porsche. A circle with what looked like a double cross sliced by a line had been spray-painted onto the driver’s side door. Just below it was a skull and crossbones.
“What is that?” I asked.
“It’s the insignia from my unit. And it’s the sign for poison. It’s a message.”
I had my arms wrapped across my stomach and I was doubled over. “Oh boy,” I said. “This isn’t good.”
Ranger coaxed me into the car. “Stomach pains?”
“Yeah. Is appendicitis catching?”
“No. You haven’t got appendicitis. We changed seats, and you got the plate that was intended for me. If I’m reading the message correctly, you and Kinsey were poisoned.”
Something halfway between a sob and a groan escaped from my mouth. “I don’t want to be poisoned. Am I going to die?”
“Not on my watch,” Ranger said. “Hang on. I’m taking you to the medical center.”
He chirped his tires and flew out of the garage and onto the street. He drove two blocks, and I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Pull over! I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick!”
“You’re going to have to be sick in the car. I’m not stopping.”
I had lots of junk in my car. Fast food bags and cookie boxes. Ranger had nothing. Ranger’s car was pristine. Ranger had nothing to contain the last remnants of meatball that were about to leave my stomach. So I did what any woman would do in an emergency. I threw up in my evening purse, all over Ranger’s gun.
“Good catch,” Ranger said. And he put his foot to the floor.
They were off-loading Kinsey when Ranger pulled into the ER drive-through. Amanda and her father were standing to the side. Ranger helped me out of the car, I put my hand on the rear quarter panel to steady myself and retched. Nothing left in my stomach to come up.
