K is for Killer by Sue Grafton Page A

swing by and pick you up on the way. I’ll be cruising a big area, and it’s hard to know where I’ll be.”
    â€œYou know where I live?”
    â€œSure,” he said, and rattled off my address. “I’ll be there about eleven.”
    â€œThat late?” I squeaked.
    â€œThe action doesn’t even get rolling ’til after midnight,” he said. “Is that a problem?”
    â€œNo, it’s fine.”
    â€œSee you then,” he said, and hung up.
    I glanced at my watch and noted with despair that I had about four hours to kill. All I really wanted was to hit the sack, but not if I was going to have to get up again. When I’m down, I like to stay down. Naps leave me feeling hung-over without the few carefree moments of an intervening binge. If I was going to drive around with Cheney Phillips until all hours, I thought I’d be better off staying on my feet. I decided I might as well conjure up some work in theinterim. I drank two cups of coffee and then paid Rosie for my dinner, taking my jacket and handbag as I headed out into the night.
    The sun had set at 5:45, and the moon probably wouldn’t be rising until 2:00 A.M. At this hour, everybody in the neighborhood was still wide awake. In almost every house I passed, front windows glowed as if the rooms within were aflame. Night moths like soft birds batted ineffectually against the porch bulbs. February had silenced all the summer insects, but I could still hear a few hearty crickets in the dry grass and an occasional nightbird. Otherwise, the quiet was pervasive. It seemed warmer than last night, and I knew, from the evening paper, that the cloud cover was increasing. The winds were northerly, shaking through the thatch of dried palm fronds above me. I walked the half block to my apartment and let myself in briefly to check for messages.
    There was nothing on my machine. I went out again before I yielded to the temptation to call Cheney and cancel tonight’s big adventure. The squeak in the gate seemed like a melancholy sound, cold metal protesting my departure. I got in my car and turned the key in the ignition, cranking the lever for the heater as soon as the engine roared to life. There was no way the system could deliver hot air so soon, but I needed the illusion of coziness and warmth.
    I headed out the 101 for half a mile and took the Puerta Street off-ramp. St. Terry’s Hospital was only two blocks down. I found a parking space on a side street, locked the car, and walked the remaining half block to the front entrance. Technically, visiting hours didn’t start until eight, but I was hoping the nursing director on the cardiac care unit would bend the rules a bit.
    The glass doors slid open as I approached. I passed the hospital café to the left of the lobby, with its couches arranged in numerous conversational groupings. Several ambulatory patients, wearing robes and slippers, had elected to come down and sit with family members and friends. The area was rather like a large, comfortably furnished living room, complete with piped-in music and paintings by local artists. The scent in the lobby was not at all unpleasant but nonetheless reminded me of hard times. My aunt Gin had died here on a February night over ten years ago. I shut the door on the thought and all the memories that came with it.
    The gift shop was open, and I did a quick detour. I wanted to buy something for Lieutenant Dolan, though I couldn’t think quite what. Neither the teddy bears nor the peignoirs seemed appropriate. Finally I picked up an oversize candy bar and the latest issue of
People
. Entering a hospital room is always easier with an item in hand—anything to smooth your intrusion on the intimacies of illness. Ordinarily I wouldn’t dream of conducting business with a man in his pajamas.
    I paused at the information desk long enough to get his room number and directions to CCU, then hiked down countless