Nickel City Crossfire Gary Ross (e book reader pc .txt) 📖

take off. But keep him here till two or so. Then I’ll come back to stay with him till you get him in the evening.”

“Win’ll be safe with us tomorrow night but what about Mona?”

“I’m working on it.” I thought again of Jimmy. His motorized wheelchair offered mobility and a chance to blend into the hospital environment. Peggy Ann was a retired nurse practitioner. Both could help monitor the comings and goings of ICU visitors. Also, I thought of Jen Spina. I had no idea how much juice she had with fellow officers, but maybe she could coax a few to spend a pro bono off-hour or two sitting on the ICU. I would have to trust her judgment when it came to officer selection. Or maybe I should wait on calling Jen till Mona was in a regular room. She would be more vulnerable there than in the ICU.

“Gotta tell Louisa why we’re doing this,” Oscar said after a moment.

“Yeah, she needs to know.”

“Think I will go home tonight. Last thing my bladder needs is caffeine.”

I bought myself a large coffee and Oscar a glazed sour cream donut he said was calling to him. Then I noticed Ayodele Ibazebo seated at a corner table, coffee in hand and reading the same Sunday paper Phoenix and I had finished earlier. Her glasses were low on her nose and her hair, though short, looked mussed. How long had her day been? I told Oscar to start back, that I would catch up with him. As he left, I went over to her table.

She looked up before I reached her and pushed her glasses up.

“Dr. Ibazebo, thanks again for saving my friend’s wife.” I sat across from her without asking. “Her husband was so afraid he would lose her.”

She took a deep breath. “Mr. Rimes, I apologize if I seemed rude earlier.” Her faintly British accent suggested the history of her upbringing and education. “I was just surprised to see you here. I should not have been.” Her eyes moistened, and she wiped them. “Sometimes what I face in this ER is so dispiriting. Not just shooting—often children shooting children—but stabbings and beatings and rapes and husbands hurting wives. It is all part of this country, this culture. I can accept that. But most of the people close to me are so seldom touched by it that it is foreign to my life outside this place. But here you are, three times in two months.” She hesitated and bit her lip. “It follows you, violence does. It is part of what you do and who you are, even though your father, Dr. Chance, is one of the gentlest men I have ever known. It is difficult for me to accept that he raised you. He is such a good man.”

“He is,” I said. “He taught me right from wrong and also taught me to be fearless. The three times you’ve seen me? I was the one beaten and then the one shot. Now an older couple I know are in some trouble.” I shook my head. “My godfather understands that the work I do requires the fearlessness he instilled in me.” For a long beat, I looked straight into her amber eyes. “I’m not afraid to do what must be done.”

She broke eye contact and glanced down at the newspaper. “I usually get to the news late. After your surgery, I read an article from the day before. It said you caught a murderer.” She smiled, sadly. “I know you are some kind of cop, a private cop who tries to help people.”

“Yes. Right now I’m trying to help the couple up in the ICU.”

“Was that woman shot because of you?”

I drew in a breath to answer but let it out before I spoke. “I don’t know.”

“Someone must do these things, I know, act as a wall between violence and the rest of us. But the smell of it sticks to you in a way it does not stick to me. When you carry that stink everywhere, you can’t help but transfer it to others.” She downed the last of her coffee.

“I know you’re worried about Dr. Chance, about what will happen because of me.”

She turned the now empty cup in her hands and rolled up the rim to see if she had won one of the prizes offered in the current promotional cycle. Her sigh told me the printing on the lip of the cup said PLEASE TRY AGAIN. “I worry about you,” she said finally. “You are a good man too. I don’t wish to be the one to tell your father you died on the table.”

When I got back upstairs, Winslow was already asleep in the recliner, covered by a light blanket and softly snoring. Oscar stood beside the chair, holding his wife’s coat for her.

Louisa slipped her arms into the sleeves. “Win needs to be right here, right now, till Mona’s out of the woods.” Then she yawned. “Oscar will be back in the morning.” She looked at her husband, who nodded and gestured toward the door. “Good to see you again, Mr. Rimes.”

When Oscar and Louisa were gone, I took a seat opposite Winslow, near the door-less entryway, positioning myself so I could keep an eye on the corridor that led to the high-tech nursing pod. Luckily, Mona’s room also was visible from where I sat. If some man came up claiming he just got word of his mother’s condition and wanted to see her for only a moment, I would have plenty of time to reach him before an unsuspecting staffer led him to her room.

Someone had turned on the TV captions, probably at the request of either Louisa or one of the sons of the man in the other recliner. I quickly fell into a routine of watching the pod and corridor, sipping coffee, and catching snatches of the current mess in Washington. After fifteen or twenty minutes, my phone buzzed in my