High Noon

think it was. I reported an incident on Saturday morning.”
    “What incident?”
    She told Liz about the doll.
    “I’ll touch base with Detective Sykes on that. And I’ll make some discreet inquiries as to Meeks’s whereabouts this morning.”
    “I appreciate it.”
    “You weren’t raped, Lieutenant, but you were violated sexually. If you want to talk to a rape counselor, I know a good one.”
    “No, but thanks. You’re good at what you do, Detective. I appreciate you being the one to take my statement, to be here.”
    “I’ll be following up. I promise you.”
    “For now, can you steal me some scrubs so I can get out of here?”
    “Why don’t I call someone for you. If you don’t want the captain, someone else. Have them bring you some clothes, take you home?”
    Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t want to go home until after I’ve had my breakdown, which is going to come along pretty soon now.”
    “Anyone else I can call for you?”
    “Actually…” Phoebe touched her fingertips to the trio of butterfly bandages that closed the wound on her forehead. “There’s a friend, if he’s around.”
     
    The old building had potential. Of course its current owner was giving the deal what Duncan thought of as the pitch-and-wish. He let that play in one side of his brain while the other side played with the possibilities.
    The warehouse was currently a dump, and no question about it. But it could be transformed into very decent apartments—close enough to the plants and the docks to fill up with blue-collar families. Reasonable space for a reasonable rent. Well off the tourist track, of course, well apart from the green elegance of the historic district. But toss maybe a bakery or a coffee shop on the first floor, a deli or a small family restaurant, and you’d get a return on your investment. Eventually.
    Good thing he wasn’t in a hurry for it.
    The rank and file of the city needed good, safe housing as well as the rest. He should know. He’d been one of them most of his life.
    Phin stood with the owner, shaking his head as Duncan wandered. That was Phin’s fine skill, in Duncan’s opinion. Just putting on that dour, disapproving look could lasso the pitch-and-wish and yank it back toward reality.
    The guy wanted the moon for the dilapidation, figuring he had a bright gold fish on the line. Duncan didn’t mind being thought of as a fish, especially since he’d already set his maximum offer at a couple of asteroids.
    When his cell phone rang, he was studying a trio of broken windows. He kept studying them while he pulled it out. “Yeah, this is Duncan. What? When? How?”
    He turned when Phin, obviously hearing the alarm in his tone, crossed the pocked concrete floor to him. “Where? Okay, all right,” he said a moment later. “I’m on my way. I have to go.” Already heading for the doors, Duncan shoved the phone into his pocket.
    “Mr. Swift,” the owner began.
    “Personal emergency. Do what you do,” he said to Phin and rushed outside to his car.
    A dozen horrific images flashed and burned into his mind as he set the car racing toward the hospital. The woman who’d identified herself as Detective Alberta said Phoebe was being released, he reminded himself. She couldn’t be that badly hurt if they were releasing her from the hospital.
    Then again, the detective had been very brief. Coplike, Duncan thought in annoyance as he was forced to brake for a red light.
    She hadn’t said how; she hadn’t said how bad. And when was this fucking light going to turn green?
    Maybe she’d been shot. Jesus, Jesus.
    He peeled out when the light changed. He threaded his way through traffic, then chewed his way through more. Years of hacking had taught him how to get from point to point fast—or how to get there round about and pad the fare.
    He swung into the parking lot, cursing bitterly as he searched for a space. By the time he found one and was running for the ER doors, he’d worked himself up into a frantic mix of nerves and temper.
    He’d have run right by her if not for the hair. The beacon of red caught his eye, had him stopping, spinning back around.
    She sat with the other wounded and the sick in the waiting area. She wore pale blue scrubs. Her arm was in a sling, and her face—her fascinating face—was bruised and battered.
    “Oh, Jesus, Phoebe.” He crouched down in front of her, took her hand in both of his. “How bad are you hurt?”
    “Ambulatory.” She nearly managed