H Is for Homicide

Teresa, Raymond would have known her whereabouts. A sudden thought occurred to me. "Lieutenant, do you know anything about the gun Parnell was murdered with? Raymond's got a thirty-caliber broomhandle Mauser. I saw it in his dresser drawer."
    Dolan cut in. "Forget Parnell for now and do me a favor. I want you to hang up and get the hell out of there."
    "Why, what's happening?"
    "Tate's probably already on the premises. Hospital notified him late last night and he took off, heading south. If Raymond finds out he's there, they'll have a showdown for sure."
    "Oh, shit."
    Behind me, a woman doctor came into the nurses' station, wearing surgical greens. She pulled off her cap and shook her hair out wearily. She paused to study me, hair rumpled, lines of exhaustion weighting down her face. I couldn't tell if she wanted the telephone or the chair.
    Dolan was saying, "I got somebody down there who can help you out. Hold on. I got a call coming in…"
    I saw Raymond pass the desk, heading toward the elevators, probably in search of me. I couldn't wait for Dolan. "I gotta go," I said into dead air, and hung up. Every brain cell in my head was screaming at me to get out, but I couldn't leave Jimmy Tate here without backup. I left the nurses' station and trotted down the hall behind Raymond, finally catching up with him.
    I tapped him on the shoulder. "Hi, where did you go?"
    He turned and looked at me irritably. "Where the hell have you been? I'm off lookin' for you."
    "I went over to the nursery to see the newborns," I said.
    "What for?"
    "I like babies. I might want to have one of my own someday, you know? They're really cute, all tiny and puckery. They look like Cornish game hens -"
    "We ain't here for that," he said gruffly, though he seemed mollified by my explanation. He grabbed my arm and turned me, walking us back down the corridor toward ICU.
    "Why don't we take a break and get some coffee," I said.
    "Forget that. I'm jumpy enough as it is." We reached the ICU waiting room and Raymond sat down again. He took a magazine from a nearby stack and flipped through it with an air of distraction. The pages made little snapping sounds in the quiet of the room. Two women seated at the other end of the room stared at him, frankly curious about his tics.
    Raymond glanced up, catching them in the act, and stared back at them until they broke off eye contact. "Jesus, I hate it when people stare at me. They think I like doing this?" He gave me an exaggerated jerk, glaring darkly at the two women, who were stirring with self-consciousness.
    I said, "How's Bibianna doing? Has anybody said?"
    He shifted restlessly. "Doctor's supposed to show up any minute and talk to us."
    I had to get him out of there. A color television in the corner, sound off, was tuned to one of those nature films where they show half of one species being eaten by another.
    Raymond leaned forward. "Jeez, what's taking them so long?"
    "You want some lunch? Why don't we go down to the coffee shop and find Luis. I'm starving."
    He hung his head, shaking it, and then looked over at me, his expression bleak. "What if she doesn't make it?"
    I bit back a retort. I couldn't think of an answer that didn't seem quarrelsome. I revised my reaction. On reflection, it seemed perfectly in keeping with the depth of his denial that he'd now be worried sick about a woman he'd tried to have assassinated less than twenty-four hours before. If Raymond found out Jimmy Tate was here, he'd bring the whole place down.
    I said, "We're both going to go crazy if we hang around here. It won't take long. We can grab a quick lunch and come right back up. The doctor might not be back on the ward for an hour."
    "You think?"
    "Come on. Get a cup of coffee, at least."
    Raymond tossed the magazine aside and got up. We moved into the corridor and he slowed his step. "Maybe I should tell the nurse where we are in case he shows."
    "Or I can do that if you like. Why don't you go ahead and buzz the elevator for us?"
    Two Hispanic nurses approached from down the corridor.
    There was some activity in the hallway and both of us looked over. A doctor appeared from the Rehab wing, heading for ICU. He was wearing a calf-length white duster over a gray suit. He had his full name stitched above his pocket in blue script. A stethoscope coiled up out of his pocket like a length of narrow-gauge garden hose. He was in his fifties with closely clipped gray hair, rimless glasses, and a limp. His right foot was strapped