K Is for Killer

friend?
    Cheney said, "What."
    "I'm wondering if this is related to my investigation."
    "Could be, I guess. We'll never know unless we catch him."
    He began to gather crumpled napkins and empty Pepsi cans, piling empty plastic packets on the tray. Distracted, I pitched in, cleaning off the tabletop.
    When we got back to the emergency room, Serena called the OR and had a chat with one of the surgical nurses. Even eavesdropping, I couldn't pick up any information. "You might as well go on home," she said. "Danielle's still in surgery, and once she comes out, she'll be in the recovery room for another hour. After that, they'll take her to intensive care."
    "Will they let me see her?" I asked.
    "They may, but I doubt it. You're not a relative."
    "How bad is she?"
    "Apparently she's stable, but they're not going to know much until the surgeon gets finished. He's the one to give you details, but it's going to be a while yet."
    Cheney was watching me. "I can run you home, if you like."
    "I'd rather stick around here than go home," I said. "I'll be fine if you want to go. Honest. You don't have to baby-sit."
    "I don't mind. I got nothing better at this hour anyway. Maybe we can find a couch somewhere and let you grab a nap."
    Serena suggested the little waiting room off ICU, which was where we ended up. Cheney sat and read a magazine while I curled up on sofa slightly shorter than I was. There was something soothing about the snap of paper as he turned the pages, the occasional clearing of his throat. Sleep came down like a weight pressing me to the couch. When I woke, the room was empty, but Cheney'd draped his sport coat across my upper body, so I didn't think he'd gone far. I could feel the silky lining on his jacket, which smelled of expensive after-shave. I checked the clock on the wall: it was 3:35. I lay there for a moment, wondering if there was some way to stay where I was, feeling warm and safe. I could learn to live on a waiting room couch, have meals brought in, tend to personal hygiene in the ladies' room down the hall. It'd be cheaper than paying rent, and if something happened to me, I'd be within range of medical assistance.
    From the corridor I heard footsteps and the murmur of male voices. Cheney appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Ah. You're back. You want to see Danielle?"
    I sat up. "Is she awake?"
    "Not really. They just brought her down from surgery. She's still groggy, but she's been admitted to ICU. I told the charge nurse you're a vice detective and need to identify a witness."
    I pressed my fingers against my eyes and rubbed my face. I ran my hands through my hair, realizing that for once – because of Danielle's cutting skills – every strand wasn't standing straight up on end. I gathered my resources and let out a big breath, willing myself back to wakefulness. I pushed myself to my feet and brushed some of the wrinkles out of my turtleneck. One thing about casual dressing, you always look about the same. Even sleeping in a pair of blue jeans doesn't have much effect. From the corridor, we used the house phone to call into the ICU nurses' station. Cheney handled the formalities and got us both buzzed in.
    "Am I supposed to have a badge?" I murmured to him as we moved down the corridor.
    "Don't worry about it. I told 'em you're working undercover as a bag lady."
    I gave him a little push.
    We waited outside Danielle's room, watching through the glass window while a nurse checked her blood pressure and adjusted the drip on her IV. Like the layout in the cardiac care unit, these rooms formed a U shape around the nurses' station, patients clearly visible for constant monitoring. Cheney had chatted with the doctor, and he conveyed the gist of her current situation. "He took her spleen out. Orthopedic surgeon did most of the work, as it turns out. Set her jaw, set her collarbone, taped her ribs. She had two broken fingers, a lot of bruising. She should be all right, but it's going to take a while. The cut on her scalp turned out to be the least of it. Mild concussion, lots of blood. I've done that myself. Bang your head on the medicine cabinet, it looks like you're bleeding to death."
    The nurse straightened Danielle's covers and came out of the room. "Two minutes," she said, lifted fingers forming a V.
    We stood side by side, in silence, looking down at her like parents taking in the sight of a newborn baby. Hard to believe she belonged to us. She was nearly unrecognizable: her eyes