here.”
“Point taken, Frances. And for the record, I agree. I’ll talk with him.” I glanced up at the office clock. “I don’t want to leave here with the police still on-site, but they’ve made it clear I’m not needed.” I took a moment to consider my options. “Flynn said they would be questioning John while the paramedics transport Mr. Ellroy. Maybe if I hurry down to the hospital right now, I can talk to him about relocating to the Marshfield Hotel before Rodriguez and Flynn arrive.”
“Good luck avoiding those two.”
* * *
AFTER ATTENDING TO A FEW MORE DETAILS, I struck out for the hospital. Sunny, muggy heat engulfed me the moment I stepped out of my car to hurry to the entrance. I wanted to rush, but found it difficult to move quickly without working up a sweat. I skirted around an ambulance idling outside the ER, and wondered if it was the one that had transported Mr. Ellroy.
The moment the doors whooshed open and I stepped through I lifted my arms, hoping to halt the outpouring of perspiration. The hospital’s brightly lit admissions area—white tile walls, cobalt blue floors—was blessedly cool, but my goose bumps weren’t due to the chill. I knew I’d never be able to escape the immediate reaction I always experienced when encountering that fake-fresh scent that every hospital shares. I’d been in this one far too often with my mother to ever permanently shake its effect. The appalling aroma came in waves bearing hope, fear, and tension laced with antiseptic, stale coffee, and bleach. I wondered if all hospitals belonged to a co-op where they purchased the same “Let’s try to cover the odor of illness” fragrance to pipe in by the gallon. Somebody ought to tell them it wasn’t working.
Today looked to be a slow day in the ER. Plastic steel-frame chairs lined the walls. All empty. I walked through the quiet passage to a high-top circular desk that sat between two sets of automatic doors, both sets clearly labeled, NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION in bold red lettering. A young, uniformed Emberstowne cop lingered nearby, watching a car commercial on a ceiling-mounted TV.
The woman at the circular desk didn’t appear eager to authorize my entrance. With tightly curled brown hair, a trim build, and crisp movements, she gave off a vibe of efficiency and addressed me with one of those brisk up-and-down assessments.
“You want to see a patient,” she repeated after I introduced myself. Not a question. “A gunshot victim. And you don’t have authorization.”
“He was shot at Marshfield Manor.”
“You already said that.”
The Emberstowne cop perked up and turned toward us.
“I need to talk with him about where he’ll be staying once he’s discharged,” I said. “I promise I’ll be brief.”
“We take our patients’ right to privacy seriously here.”
Arguing my case wasn’t going to work. I switched tactics. “You’re right,” I said. “You have no reason whatsoever for letting me in to see him . . .”
Her eyes narrowed. She was waiting for the “but,” so I gave it to her. “But I believe Mr. Ellroy will want to see me, given the choice. Do you think it would be possible”—I was treading lightly here—“for you to ask if I could have five minutes of his time?”
She started to answer, but I interrupted.
“If he says no, I’ll leave. Easy as that.”
She picked up a pen. “Spell your name for me, please.”
I’d begun to do so when the doors to the right of the desk folded open like a double set of old-fashioned phone booths. The only difference was these mechanisms moved swiftly and silently rather than with an earsplitting screech. One of the paramedics who had helped stabilize Mr. Ellroy at Marshfield came through. He nodded to the attentive cop then lifted his hand in greeting when he saw me. “He’s going to be okay,” he said when he got to the desk. “Lucky that doctor lady was there. Not that we haven’t handled worse stuff
“Point taken, Frances. And for the record, I agree. I’ll talk with him.” I glanced up at the office clock. “I don’t want to leave here with the police still on-site, but they’ve made it clear I’m not needed.” I took a moment to consider my options. “Flynn said they would be questioning John while the paramedics transport Mr. Ellroy. Maybe if I hurry down to the hospital right now, I can talk to him about relocating to the Marshfield Hotel before Rodriguez and Flynn arrive.”
“Good luck avoiding those two.”
* * *
AFTER ATTENDING TO A FEW MORE DETAILS, I struck out for the hospital. Sunny, muggy heat engulfed me the moment I stepped out of my car to hurry to the entrance. I wanted to rush, but found it difficult to move quickly without working up a sweat. I skirted around an ambulance idling outside the ER, and wondered if it was the one that had transported Mr. Ellroy.
The moment the doors whooshed open and I stepped through I lifted my arms, hoping to halt the outpouring of perspiration. The hospital’s brightly lit admissions area—white tile walls, cobalt blue floors—was blessedly cool, but my goose bumps weren’t due to the chill. I knew I’d never be able to escape the immediate reaction I always experienced when encountering that fake-fresh scent that every hospital shares. I’d been in this one far too often with my mother to ever permanently shake its effect. The appalling aroma came in waves bearing hope, fear, and tension laced with antiseptic, stale coffee, and bleach. I wondered if all hospitals belonged to a co-op where they purchased the same “Let’s try to cover the odor of illness” fragrance to pipe in by the gallon. Somebody ought to tell them it wasn’t working.
Today looked to be a slow day in the ER. Plastic steel-frame chairs lined the walls. All empty. I walked through the quiet passage to a high-top circular desk that sat between two sets of automatic doors, both sets clearly labeled, NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION in bold red lettering. A young, uniformed Emberstowne cop lingered nearby, watching a car commercial on a ceiling-mounted TV.
The woman at the circular desk didn’t appear eager to authorize my entrance. With tightly curled brown hair, a trim build, and crisp movements, she gave off a vibe of efficiency and addressed me with one of those brisk up-and-down assessments.
“You want to see a patient,” she repeated after I introduced myself. Not a question. “A gunshot victim. And you don’t have authorization.”
“He was shot at Marshfield Manor.”
“You already said that.”
The Emberstowne cop perked up and turned toward us.
“I need to talk with him about where he’ll be staying once he’s discharged,” I said. “I promise I’ll be brief.”
“We take our patients’ right to privacy seriously here.”
Arguing my case wasn’t going to work. I switched tactics. “You’re right,” I said. “You have no reason whatsoever for letting me in to see him . . .”
Her eyes narrowed. She was waiting for the “but,” so I gave it to her. “But I believe Mr. Ellroy will want to see me, given the choice. Do you think it would be possible”—I was treading lightly here—“for you to ask if I could have five minutes of his time?”
She started to answer, but I interrupted.
“If he says no, I’ll leave. Easy as that.”
She picked up a pen. “Spell your name for me, please.”
I’d begun to do so when the doors to the right of the desk folded open like a double set of old-fashioned phone booths. The only difference was these mechanisms moved swiftly and silently rather than with an earsplitting screech. One of the paramedics who had helped stabilize Mr. Ellroy at Marshfield came through. He nodded to the attentive cop then lifted his hand in greeting when he saw me. “He’s going to be okay,” he said when he got to the desk. “Lucky that doctor lady was there. Not that we haven’t handled worse stuff
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