Sandie?”
No reaction.
She tried again. “Sandie, tell me who tried to kill you. Who shot you, Sandie? Do you know who it was? Talk to me, Sandie. I’m here to help you. The person who—”
She was cut off by the brusque re-entry of Nurse Adams into the cubicle. “I’ve just been told by the duty nurse that you are not authorized to be in here,” she said briskly. “You’ll have to leave, Miss—”
“She spoke,” Maxi said to her. “Sandie said some words.”
Adams jumped to the bedside, crowding Maxi out of the way. Gently, she rubbed both the patient’s wrists as she spoke to her. “Sweetie?” she said softly. “Sandie? Can you talk to me, honey?” She kept it up for several minutes as Maxi silently stood by.
Nothing.
Finally, she ceased trying. Turning, she looked surprised to see Maxi still in the room.
“I was just leaving—” Maxi started.
“What did the patient say?” the nurse asked, all business.
“She said … she said … I’m not sure what she said,” Maxi responded.
22
M onday morning, ten to nine. Maxi waved her ID card in front of the security panel to the right of the Channel Six newsroom door, triggering access. The cavernous work space was chaotic and noisy—business as usual.
“I’ve got news,” she called over to Wendy as she approached her producer’s desk.
“Me too,” Wendy said while batting out a story on her computer. “What’s yours?”
Maxi dropped into a chair next to Wendy’s desk and lowered her voice. “Sandie Schaeffer talked to me.”
“Uhh … in your dreams?”
“No. In the ICU at Cedars. Yesterday.”
“How did you—never mind,” Wendy said, knowing that Maxi had a way of getting in anyplace when she had a mind to. “What did she say?” she asked.
“I think she said, ‘He tried to kill me.’ ”
“Well, we
knew
somebody tried to kill her,” Wendy said.
“Yeah, but we didn’t know it was a
he.
”
“True. Did you call it in to the LAPD?”
“Of course. And I told her doctor. Dr. Wallace Stevens. He said Sandie actually talked a little bit a couple of times, later in the day.”
“A
coherent
little bit?”
“I don’t know. But she sounded semi-coherent to me.”
“Wow. If she can finger the person who attacked her, that could crack the Gillian Rose murder.”
“The police are still not saying Gillian Rose was murdered.”
“Yeah, right. What do
you
think?”
“My uneducated guess? I think she must have been, but it seems the LAPD have no wounds, no weapon, no evidence of foul play, no nothing.”
“What was the cause of death, do we know?”
“Just what the wires reported. Heart failure.”
“Yup, well, that’s what death is. Your heart fails, you’re dead.”
“Can’t argue with that. What’s
your
news?”
“I’ve got myself a literary agent! She loves my book, and she’s already got a marketing plan, she says. Can you believe it?”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Wendy!”
“First, she wants a doctor’s validation, a doctor who’ll collaborate with the nutritional information and put his name on the book. That’ll be easy; we’ve interviewed a zillion nutritionists—I’ve got a file full of them. Then she wants some rewrites, and some adds. More of my quick-fix low-fat, low-carb menus, and two additional chapters: one chapter on famous short women in history, and one on clothes that add the illusion of height. And she wants to include photos along with the diagrams.”
“Oooh, very exciting,” Maxi said. “Time to have a party, don’t you think?”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll bring the wine.”
“No way,” Maxi said. “It’s your party; I’ll get the wine. And some goodies from Bristol Farms. I’ll bring it all in tomorrow morning and we’ll party tomorrow after the Six. I’ll post it on the computer.”
“Okay. And pick up some more plastic wineglasses, will you? We’re almost out.”
“You got it,” Maxi said, and she gave Wendy a hug.
“Hi, Charlie. I need
No reaction.
She tried again. “Sandie, tell me who tried to kill you. Who shot you, Sandie? Do you know who it was? Talk to me, Sandie. I’m here to help you. The person who—”
She was cut off by the brusque re-entry of Nurse Adams into the cubicle. “I’ve just been told by the duty nurse that you are not authorized to be in here,” she said briskly. “You’ll have to leave, Miss—”
“She spoke,” Maxi said to her. “Sandie said some words.”
Adams jumped to the bedside, crowding Maxi out of the way. Gently, she rubbed both the patient’s wrists as she spoke to her. “Sweetie?” she said softly. “Sandie? Can you talk to me, honey?” She kept it up for several minutes as Maxi silently stood by.
Nothing.
Finally, she ceased trying. Turning, she looked surprised to see Maxi still in the room.
“I was just leaving—” Maxi started.
“What did the patient say?” the nurse asked, all business.
“She said … she said … I’m not sure what she said,” Maxi responded.
22
M onday morning, ten to nine. Maxi waved her ID card in front of the security panel to the right of the Channel Six newsroom door, triggering access. The cavernous work space was chaotic and noisy—business as usual.
“I’ve got news,” she called over to Wendy as she approached her producer’s desk.
“Me too,” Wendy said while batting out a story on her computer. “What’s yours?”
Maxi dropped into a chair next to Wendy’s desk and lowered her voice. “Sandie Schaeffer talked to me.”
“Uhh … in your dreams?”
“No. In the ICU at Cedars. Yesterday.”
“How did you—never mind,” Wendy said, knowing that Maxi had a way of getting in anyplace when she had a mind to. “What did she say?” she asked.
“I think she said, ‘He tried to kill me.’ ”
“Well, we
knew
somebody tried to kill her,” Wendy said.
“Yeah, but we didn’t know it was a
he.
”
“True. Did you call it in to the LAPD?”
“Of course. And I told her doctor. Dr. Wallace Stevens. He said Sandie actually talked a little bit a couple of times, later in the day.”
“A
coherent
little bit?”
“I don’t know. But she sounded semi-coherent to me.”
“Wow. If she can finger the person who attacked her, that could crack the Gillian Rose murder.”
“The police are still not saying Gillian Rose was murdered.”
“Yeah, right. What do
you
think?”
“My uneducated guess? I think she must have been, but it seems the LAPD have no wounds, no weapon, no evidence of foul play, no nothing.”
“What was the cause of death, do we know?”
“Just what the wires reported. Heart failure.”
“Yup, well, that’s what death is. Your heart fails, you’re dead.”
“Can’t argue with that. What’s
your
news?”
“I’ve got myself a literary agent! She loves my book, and she’s already got a marketing plan, she says. Can you believe it?”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Wendy!”
“First, she wants a doctor’s validation, a doctor who’ll collaborate with the nutritional information and put his name on the book. That’ll be easy; we’ve interviewed a zillion nutritionists—I’ve got a file full of them. Then she wants some rewrites, and some adds. More of my quick-fix low-fat, low-carb menus, and two additional chapters: one chapter on famous short women in history, and one on clothes that add the illusion of height. And she wants to include photos along with the diagrams.”
“Oooh, very exciting,” Maxi said. “Time to have a party, don’t you think?”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll bring the wine.”
“No way,” Maxi said. “It’s your party; I’ll get the wine. And some goodies from Bristol Farms. I’ll bring it all in tomorrow morning and we’ll party tomorrow after the Six. I’ll post it on the computer.”
“Okay. And pick up some more plastic wineglasses, will you? We’re almost out.”
“You got it,” Maxi said, and she gave Wendy a hug.
“Hi, Charlie. I need
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