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I closed my eyes and tried to remember. It had been dark. The gun had held most of my attention.
?
?Webbed,” I said finally. “She wore a webbed equipment belt.”
“Then she was fake,” Vare said. “DPS wears plain Safariland leather.”
Five minutes later, Melton appeared at the doorway. Four gold stars gleamed from the collars of his crisp black uniform. I was up and headed toward him. He must have seen the blood in my eyes so he stepped forward and hugged me.
The son of a bitch hugged me.
I didn’t hug back.
“We’re going to get this shooter, David. Don’t you worry about that.”
He studied me. “You’re covered with blood. Can I have someone bring you a change of clothes?”
I stepped back, wishing the blood hadn’t dried, wishing it could have stained his immaculate uniform. I thought of Jackie Kennedy after the assassination, when she had worn that bloodstained suit all the way from Dallas to Washington. “Let them see what they’ve done,” she said.
I said, “Why do you care about a woman you called a traitor?”
“David, you’re overwrought. Do you have kids?”
“We don’t have children.”
He looked at me like an alien being, then tried to smile sympathetically.
“Take a few days. Then look into the case. You’re going to need the distraction.”
My hand made a fist and I forced myself to relax, open up each finger.
“She’s in good hands.” He clapped me on the shoulders. His eyes swept the room and settled on the Hispanic family at the other end.
“My God, they cost so much. Our health care, our schools. I bet they’re illegals and we could arrest them right now.”
Yes, and some resort would lose its housekeeper who worked a second job as a fry cook at another business. I kept my response simple. “Leave them alone.” And almost gagging, I added, “Sheriff.”
He smiled. “Call me Chris.”
Halfway out the door, he added, “And call me by Tuesday. Let’s talk about this case.”
Chapter Fourteen
The next day didn’t pass in a blur. It went by in agonizing minutes, every sixty seconds scalding me. My body felt as if every nerve was jangling on the surface of my skin.
The Saturday night mayhem began to fill up the waiting room after eleven. Finally, a doctor came for me, took me into the fluorescent-lit hallway, and told me the only thing that really stuck. Lindsey was alive.
The rest I remembered in pieces. I should have been taking notes.
She had suffered massive blood loss and they had put her into an induced coma to protect her brain. I remembered the words “hypothermic treatment.”
How long would she be this way? As much as two weeks.
She had been lucky, the bullet passing through her without fragmenting, missing her aorta by half an inch. She was also a healthy woman, which would help. But it was too soon to know about “impairment” of her brain and heart. The next twenty-four hours would tell us much.
At four a.m., I was allowed into the ICU to see Lindsey. A pair of uniformed Phoenix Police officers stood outside and one checked my identification. Then I was led into a nursing station that was the center of activity with desks and monitors. All visitors had to pass through this area. That was good.
From there, it took a keypad code to enter Lindsey’s room, one of several pods separated by large windows from the nursing station. The unit was also monitored by video cameras. The setup looked between a cross of a spaceship and a high-end prison.
