truth.”
She said nothing, just kept her face pointed straight ahead as we walked. Not tilted down at the uneven earth, or even averted from my own gaze. Just straight ahead, her profile a smooth dark cameo backlit by the setting sun. Her beautiful lips pressed tightly together.
I took the plunge.
“Okay, I wondered if something was up from the first moment you contacted me. I knew that Biegler would’ve vetoed calling me in. And that Harry would give you all kinds of grief. Yet you called me anyway. Even though, as you yourself mentioned, there was already a departmental psychologist on scene.”
Still she said nothing.
“Then, when I was working with Treva, I noticed that your interest in her emotional state was more than professional. You seemed genuinely worried about her. Later, at the bank, after I told you I had to leave to accompany Treva to the hospital, I saw you make a cell phone call. Heard you repeat a phone number you’d been given. I recognized the number. Pittsburgh Memorial. And what do I find when we get down there? That somebody from the department had ordered Treva kept in ICU, for her own protection. Fewer visitors. Easier to guard.”
I let this sink in, though it was hard to gauge her reaction. I was beginning to regret having even ventured here with her. In a real way it was none of my business.
I went on anyway. “Not to mention your reaction to the detective assigned to her. Robertson. So maybe getting her stashed in the ICU was some sort of extra protection. Why?
“Which got me wondering: if you had been the one who’d had her put there, maybe you’d also asked that a detective be assigned to guard her. Though that made no sense either. By your own admission, the department’s stretched too thin. The manhunt for the gunmen is too important, politically and otherwise, to waste a detective on that assignment. As far as anyone knows, Treva’s in no physical danger. Not at the moment. Not since she’d been released from the bank. So any regular uniform could stand guard outside her room.”
By this time, we’d come to an old city bench that had been placed facing the water. Wood slats for seats, curved iron legs embedded in circular concrete pockets buried in the hard earth. Civic improvement, circa 1900.
Without a word, or even a confirming nod to each other, we sat at the same time on the bench.
I waited a moment, then turned to her.
“Treva’s not in some kind of danger, is she?” I asked. “I mean, not anymore. Right?”
Eleanor Lowrey gave a long sigh, then lowered her head as though its weight had finally become too much. Her chin rested on her chest.
“No.” Her voice was a hush. “Not that I know of. I just…well, I wanted her sequestered in ICU. Under guard. So that when she woke up…I mean, if I happened not to be there, she’d know I’d been thinking about her. Making sure she was safe. That she’d see another detective, like me, watching over her.”
She let a smile tug at her lips.
“Well, maybe not exactly like me.”
“Tell me. I don’t think Robertson would inspire much confidence in anyone.”
I saw the warmth return to her violet eyes.
“Why did you call me, Eleanor?”
“For the same reason I told you, Dan. Because you’re good. Better than the idiot shrink they had on scene. I’ve worked with him a few times, and believe me, calling him an idiot is an insult to actual idiots.” She paused. “I called you because I figured I could trust you with Treva.”
I waited. I’d talked enough—too much, probably—and now she needed to tell me about it in her own way. In her own time.
She took a breath. “When we found out the gunmen had released a hostage, Biegler sent me over to where the EMT guys were working on her. At first, with her head down, all wrapped up in that blanket, I almost didn’t recognize her. Then, when our eyes met…I mean, Treva was definitely out of it. In shock or whatever, like you said. But she knew who I
She said nothing, just kept her face pointed straight ahead as we walked. Not tilted down at the uneven earth, or even averted from my own gaze. Just straight ahead, her profile a smooth dark cameo backlit by the setting sun. Her beautiful lips pressed tightly together.
I took the plunge.
“Okay, I wondered if something was up from the first moment you contacted me. I knew that Biegler would’ve vetoed calling me in. And that Harry would give you all kinds of grief. Yet you called me anyway. Even though, as you yourself mentioned, there was already a departmental psychologist on scene.”
Still she said nothing.
“Then, when I was working with Treva, I noticed that your interest in her emotional state was more than professional. You seemed genuinely worried about her. Later, at the bank, after I told you I had to leave to accompany Treva to the hospital, I saw you make a cell phone call. Heard you repeat a phone number you’d been given. I recognized the number. Pittsburgh Memorial. And what do I find when we get down there? That somebody from the department had ordered Treva kept in ICU, for her own protection. Fewer visitors. Easier to guard.”
I let this sink in, though it was hard to gauge her reaction. I was beginning to regret having even ventured here with her. In a real way it was none of my business.
I went on anyway. “Not to mention your reaction to the detective assigned to her. Robertson. So maybe getting her stashed in the ICU was some sort of extra protection. Why?
“Which got me wondering: if you had been the one who’d had her put there, maybe you’d also asked that a detective be assigned to guard her. Though that made no sense either. By your own admission, the department’s stretched too thin. The manhunt for the gunmen is too important, politically and otherwise, to waste a detective on that assignment. As far as anyone knows, Treva’s in no physical danger. Not at the moment. Not since she’d been released from the bank. So any regular uniform could stand guard outside her room.”
By this time, we’d come to an old city bench that had been placed facing the water. Wood slats for seats, curved iron legs embedded in circular concrete pockets buried in the hard earth. Civic improvement, circa 1900.
Without a word, or even a confirming nod to each other, we sat at the same time on the bench.
I waited a moment, then turned to her.
“Treva’s not in some kind of danger, is she?” I asked. “I mean, not anymore. Right?”
Eleanor Lowrey gave a long sigh, then lowered her head as though its weight had finally become too much. Her chin rested on her chest.
“No.” Her voice was a hush. “Not that I know of. I just…well, I wanted her sequestered in ICU. Under guard. So that when she woke up…I mean, if I happened not to be there, she’d know I’d been thinking about her. Making sure she was safe. That she’d see another detective, like me, watching over her.”
She let a smile tug at her lips.
“Well, maybe not exactly like me.”
“Tell me. I don’t think Robertson would inspire much confidence in anyone.”
I saw the warmth return to her violet eyes.
“Why did you call me, Eleanor?”
“For the same reason I told you, Dan. Because you’re good. Better than the idiot shrink they had on scene. I’ve worked with him a few times, and believe me, calling him an idiot is an insult to actual idiots.” She paused. “I called you because I figured I could trust you with Treva.”
I waited. I’d talked enough—too much, probably—and now she needed to tell me about it in her own way. In her own time.
She took a breath. “When we found out the gunmen had released a hostage, Biegler sent me over to where the EMT guys were working on her. At first, with her head down, all wrapped up in that blanket, I almost didn’t recognize her. Then, when our eyes met…I mean, Treva was definitely out of it. In shock or whatever, like you said. But she knew who I
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