H Is for Homicide

into a walking cast that looked like a ski boot. He noticed my glance and smiled apologetically, though he offered no explanation. I pictured a sports-related mishap, which might have been his hope. He probably tripped on a sprinkler head while he was pinching suckers off his roses. "Can I help you folks?"
    Raymond said, "I'm here about Bibianna Diaz. Are you the doctor?"
    "Absolutely. Nice to meet you, Mr. Tate. I'm Dr. Cherbak." He reached out to Raymond and the two of them shook hands. "Nurse said you were here. Sorry it took me so long…"
    Raymond's smile slipped a notch. "The name is Raymond Maldonado. What's Tate got to do with it?"
    Dr. Cherbak blinked with uncertainty and then checked Bibianna's chart. "Sorry. She asked to have her husband notified, and naturally, I thought…"
    From where I stood, I could see the big pink notice reading PC, protective custody, affixed to the front. Raymond seemed to spot it about the same time I did.
    "Her husband?" he repeated. He stared at the doctor, who must have realized he'd committed an egregious error.
    I touched Raymond's arm, murmuring, "Raymond, there's been a misunderstanding, that's all. Maybe she has a head injury. Who knows what she might have said? She might be hallucinating – "
    Raymond jerked away from my touch. "Shut up!" he said. And then to the doctor: "She told you that? Jimmy Tate's her husband! That's bullshit. I'll rip your fuckin' face off, you say that."
    The two nurses, in conversation, were suddenly attentive, watching the encounter as if it were a soap opera. I could feel the dread suffuse me like a fever. "Let's come back later…"
    "How's she doing?" Raymond asked. He was being pugnacious, jaw working with tension.
    "I'm not at liberty to – "
    "I asked you how she's doing. You want to answer me, you dick?"
    Dr. Cherbak stiffened. "I can see I've made a mistake," he said. "If you're not related to the patient, I'm limited in the amount of information I can give you…"
    Raymond gave him a push. "Fuckin' A you made a mistake! I'm going to marry this woman, get it? Me. Raymond Maldonado. You got that straight?"
    Dr. Cherbak turned on his heel and moved toward ICU at a brisk clip, pushing through the double doors. I heard him on the other side. "Get Security up here…"
    Raymond banged through the doors after him and grabbed him from behind. "Where's Bibianna?" he screamed. "Where is she?"
    The doctor stumbled off-balance and one of the duty nurses started to run. A second nurse picked up a phone to call Security. Raymond pulled out a gun and pointed it at her, his arm stiff, his intent murderous. She lowered the phone. He swung the gun back and forth as he made his way down the hall. I pulled out the SIG-Sauer, but the doctor was in my way. Hospital staff seemed to be everywhere.
    I screamed, "Tate!" I started running.
    Bibianna was in the second room. Tate was on his feet, his gun out. Raymond fired. I saw Tate go down.
    Raymond doubled back, heading right at me.
    I held the gun with both hands and yelled, "Stop!" but he knew I wouldn't fire under the circumstances. There were too many people in the vicinity to risk shooting. He shouldered me aside and took off at a dead run, his heels clattering as he plowed through the double doors and down the corridor. He still had his gun, but he was moving too fast to take aim or fire with any accuracy. I banged through the doors behind him and pounded down the hallway after him. Heads appeared in doorways, people attracted by all the commotion, disappearing again quickly when they spotted the guns. Raymond reached an Exit sign and grabbed the knob, flung the door open, and headed down the stairs. I caught the door as it swung shut and forced it back with a crash. I could hear Raymond's descent, his footsteps echoing rapidly in a spiral below me. I was jumping down three steps at a time, trying to cut his lead, when I heard him reach the exterior door below. His exit set off an alarm bell mat began to peal shrilly.
    I doubled my pace, hitting the door with one hand, the SIG-Sauer in the other, nearly recoiling at the sudden blast of bright sunlight in my face. I could see Raymond tearing across a stretch of lawn just ahead of me. We'd emerged from one end of the hospital, close to Arizona Avenue in an area of small stucco houses with an occasional three-story medical building. Raymond ran toward the street, feet flying, arms pumping. I was vaguely aware of someone running behind me, but I couldn't