St. Clare’s Hospital was the city’s newest facility and covered half a block on Colorado Boulevard between Sixth and Seventh Streets. I’d never been there, but a recent article in the Los Angeles Chronicle had listed its emergency room as one of the best in the state.
It was nearly two in the morning and there were plenty of parking spaces available in the hospital’s visitor lot. I picked a spot beneath the nearest security light. Before I got out, I stuck to my woman-alone nighttime habit of scanning my surroundings for potential danger. Seeing none, I climbed down to the pavement, and looked around again. Still nothing to cause my mental alarm to go off. I locked the Jeep and hurried toward the entrance to the emergency room.
In contrast to other emergency room reception areas I’d been in, these walls were painted a cheerful yellow, the lighting was bright but not harsh, and there was only the faintest trace of disinfectant in the air. Half a dozen people occupied chairs around the room. Some sat in tense postures, others seemed sunk in weary resignation.
One man was at the reception counter, bent across the expanse of Formica, speaking quietly to a young woman wearing a floral print medical smock. Even though his back was to me, there was something familiar about his stocky frame, the short, curly hair, and the tweed jacket.
Approaching the reception counter on his right side, I saw the young woman smile at him. He scribbled something on a slip of paper, handed it to her, and she took it. It struck me that this exchange was more social than medical.
“Excuse me.”
She looked up at the sound of my voice, and the man turned toward me. Now I saw why he’d seemed familiar: This was the man who’d appeared at the entrance to the ballroom Wednesday night, asking to speak to Roland.
“You’re Will Parker,” I said.
“And you are Della Carmichael, the cooking lady.” He pronounced “lady” as “lie-dee.” In contrast to Roland Gray’s upper-class British accent, Parker’s was pure Cockney.
“Mr. Parker, do you know how Roland is? Have you seen him?”
“Just left ’im. They’re going to move ’im up to the second floor for more tests. An’ call me Will. Mr. Parker’s me dad.”
Eager to get the informalities over, I said quickly, “Yes, all right. I’m Della.” I turned to the woman behind the desk. She was typing something into her computer. “I’d like to see Roland Gray.”
She paused, one hand poised over her keyboard, and eyed me skeptically. “Are you a relative?”
“No, a friend. I was with him tonight-”
“Sorry. Family only.” She went back to whatever she was typing.
Will Parker cupped my arm under the elbow, steered me away from the desk, and lowered his voice. “They let me in ’cause I told the medical blokes I’m ’is brother.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
Parker lifted his shoulders an inch. “Dunno yet. A bullet grazed ’is fore’ead. Wot the bloody ’ell ’appened?”
Briefly, I told him the little I knew. Then a question occurred to me. “How did you know he was here?”
“There’s a card in ’is wallet says I’m who to call in case of emergency.”
The receptionist held up a form and waved it at Parker.
“More bloody paperwork,” he said. “Be back in a jif.”
Parker returned to the reception desk and I thought about the card in Roland’s wallet. I didn’t have any such instruction in mine, and resolved to take care of that oversight. But with Mack gone, whom should I name? My mother and sisters live in San Francisco, too far away in an emergency. Nicholas D’Martino and I were having a relationship, but there was no commitment-except that we see only each other for as long as we’re together. Maybe the right person was my best friend, Liddy Marshall. I decided to talk to her about it tomorrow.
Parker wrote something on the form and handed it back across the counter. Returning to me, he asked, “Did the cops catch the bloody sodden bugger who shot ’im?”
“No. Do you have any idea who might want to hurt Roland?”
Parker bit his lower lip and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. “The women ’e stops seeing tend to cry, not pick up weapons. No jealous husbands ’cause ’e doesn’t trifle with the marrieds.” Parker shrugged. “Look, miss, there’s no point our waiting around tonight. ’Ow about letting me buy you a brandy?”
“I appreciate the invitation, but if I can’t see Roland I’ll go home and get some sleep.”
“Need a lift?”
“My car is in the lot. Oh, but Roland’s car is in front of the coffeehouse where we were. Caffeine an’ Stuff, on Montana Avenue and Twelfth Street.”
“Good to know. I’ll go over there, leave me own wheels, an’ drive the Duchess.”
“The Duchess?”
“That’s wot we call the ol’ girl.” Will Parker cupped my elbow again. “I’ll take you to your car and follow you to be sure you get ’ome safe.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Me mum would be ashamed of me if I didn’t at least escort you to your vehicle.” He guided me toward the exit, but before we took more than two steps, the outside door opened and in strode Detectives Hatch and Weaver.
The two investigators saw me and headed for my spot on the waiting room’s industrial carpet. Neither one of them looked happy, but next to Hatch’s angry glare, Weaver’s frown seemed almost cordial.
“If you talked to Gray before I questioned him, you’re looking at an obstruction charge,” Hatch snapped.
“I haven’t even seen him. I told you that I only wanted to find out his condition.”
With a grunt, Hatch stalked off toward the woman at the reception desk.
“Who are you?” Weaver demanded, looking at Will.
“Will Parker. I work for Mr. Gray.”
“Yeah? Wha’daya do?”
“General factotum.”
Weaver squinted at Parker. “What’s that?”
“Whatever me boss needs done.” Parker inclined his head closer to Weaver and lowered his voice. “I told the girl at the desk I was ’is brother so I got a quick look at ’im, but ’e wasn’t conscious.”
I was getting impatient. “I didn’t see Roland. I’ve told you and Detective Hatch everything I know about what happened tonight. I’m exhausted and I’d like to go home.”
“Stay here, Parker,” Weaver said. “I have some questions for you about your employer.” He nodded to me. “I’ll walk you out to your car, Della.”
“Wait.” Parker took a small white card from his pocket, scribbled something, and handed it to me. “Me numbers. Call if there’s anything I can do for you.”
I thanked him and we said good night.
Outside in the cold night air, I shivered. To my amazement, the ordinarily chivalry-challenged Hugh Weaver offered to give me his jacket.
“No, thanks. My car is right over there.”
As I unlocked the Jeep, Weaver said, “Keep this to yourself, but I figure you deserve to know what we learned so far. One of the SID guys is ex-Special Forces. Even before Ballistics gets a look, he says he’s sure the sniper’s bullet came from a Walther WA 2000. If the shooter had that kind of weapon, it’s unlikely he could have missed if he really was shooting at you, so Hatch dropped that theory. Good news for you-you don’t have to look behind you on every corner-but it puts John back as Hatch’s number one suspect. The other thing we know is that the shot came from the roof of that two-story building directly across the street from the coffeehouse. SID measured the angle the slug hit the window at and traced the trajectory backward.”
“Did they find a shell casing?”
Weaver shook his head. “The shooter policed his brass.”
I knew what that meant: Whoever fired the weapon was smart enough not to leave a shell casing behind for evidence.
“I’m guessin’ we’re not dealing with some ‘disadvantaged youth’ out to pop one off at the folks drinking designer coffee,” Weaver said.
“If the shot wasn’t random, then Roland Gray really was the target.”
“That’s how I see it.” Weaver glanced back toward the hospital. “But Hatch still has a hard-on for John. Tomorrow he’s going to start looking for a connection between John and the writer.”
“There isn’t one, Hugh.” I wanted to scream in frustration, but I forced myself to stay calm. “You’ve got to make Hatch look at the facts. Keith Ingram was murdered on Wednesday night. Less than twenty-four hours later, someone tried to kill Roland Gray. I know that John lost his temper and slugged Ingram in front of a room full of witnesses, but he had no argument with Gray. He never even met the man until earlier tonight, after my TV show. Whoever killed Ingram had a reason to try to kill Gray. John did not.”
“I hope you’re right about that, but you can bet that if John ever so much as gave Gray the finger, Hatch is going to find out about it.”