Notorious Nineteen

They’re all open cases, right?”
    “Right.”
    “And no one ever figured out how the patients left the hospital?”
    “No. I don’t think anyone cares a lot. They’re gone. End of story.”
    “It’s weird.”
    “It could be ingenious. Someone’s in the hospital, and he’s in trouble. He wants to disappear. And some sympathetic nurse or orderly is happy to make it happen for a price.”
    “What about the homeless guy?”
    “I don’t know about the homeless guy. He doesn’t fit my profile.”
    “So we might have a theory on how three out of the four got help disappearing, but that doesn’t explain why none of these people got caught on a security camera when they left.”
    “I looked at the tapes. I even looked to see if Cubbin could have been disguised as a nurse, but I didn’t see anything.”
    “Did you look at any of the other tapes?”
    “They aren’t available. The hospital only keeps the tapes for six months.”
    I stood and turned to go. “Thanks again.”
    “Don’t mention it. And I mean don’t mention it . I’ll swear on a Bible I never showed you the files. In fact, I never even talked to you. You weren’t here.”
    “Understood.”
    I left Briggs and took the elevator to the fourth floor. I walked past the nurses’ station and slowly made my way down the hall, glancing into the rooms. They were standard semi-private hospital rooms. Privacy curtains, a chair for each bed, hospital tray tables. Painted a bilious green and tan. Many of the rooms had only one patient.
    “This must be a slow time of the year for you,” I said to an aide. “A lot of the rooms are only half full.”
    “This is the surgery floor, and most people get sent home same day or next day. It’s too expensive to stay longer. Years ago when the hospital was built people stayed a week or two after surgery.”
    “Were you here when Geoffrey Cubbin disappeared? I read about it in the paper. I guess he decided to leave early.”
    “He was gone when I came in that morning. Everyone was scratching their head wondering where he could be. No one saw him leave. I guess he didn’t want to stand trial.”
    “Did he have a roomie when he was here?”
    She thought for a moment. “No.”
    I traveled the length of the hall, retraced my steps, and went back to the nurses’ station. “Is this the only elevator?” I asked the aide.
    “There’s a service elevator, but it’s not available to visitors,” she said.
    I went back to Randy Briggs.
    “Jeez,” he said. “I thought you left.”
    “I have another question. Is it possible Cubbin left via the service elevator?”
    “No. I would have seen him from the hall video. It has a clear shot of the service elevator.”
    “Damn.”
    “Tell me about it. I’m on the job for two months and some idiot disappears. Lucky for me no one seems to care. Except for you. You’re a real pain in the ass.”
    I gave him the finger.
    “Nice,” he said. “Very classy.”
    I left the hospital and drove back to the office.
    “I want to talk to Cubbin’s night nurse,” I told Connie. “Her name is Norma Kruger. Can you get me some information on her?”
    Connie typed the name into one of her search programs and the information started to pour in. She hit PRINT and in thirty seconds I had a two-page bio.
    “Divorced, no children, thirty-four years old, owns a condo in a building not far from the hospital. Everything else is blah, blah, blah. No litigation or derogatory comments. I don’t see a mortgage or car loan.”
    “Looks like she pays cash,” Connie said.
    “How does she do that on a nurse’s salary?”
    Connie shrugged. “Good divorce settlement?”
    “And there’s talk she does some recreational substance abuse.”
    “She might have something going on the side,” Connie said. “Maybe she gives a really good sponge bath, and she gets tips.”
    “Maybe the sponge baths are so good Cubbin followed her home and never left.”
    “That would be convenient.” Connie squinted in the direction of the large plate glass window at the front of the office. “I think someone’s trying to break into your car.”
    I swiveled my head and followed Connie’s line of vision. Sure enough, Brody Logan was at work with a crowbar.
    “It’s Logan,” I said, on the move. “He wants Tiki.”
    I burst out the door, swung my messenger bag, and caught Logan on the side of the head. The crowbar flew out of his hand, and he staggered sideways. I lunged for him, but he jumped