ONCE I’D SEEN SARAH off to work and was dressed, I hopped into Trixie’s car (I had to sort out this business of getting my car back from Kelton, maybe on the weekend) and drove to Bayside Park. I pulled into the same spot I’d been in three days earlier. I didn’t feel the need, this time, to put Lawrence on alert. The first time, I didn’t quite know what to expect from Brian Sandler, but felt confident now that he posed no personal risk to me.
I looked out over the lake, switched on the radio. It was a phone-in show, where everyday nincompoops got to sound off on important political matters because it was considerably cheaper to produce a radio show that relied on nincompoops rather than people who actually knew what they were talking about.
We’d agreed to meet at nine, and I’d arrived five minutes early. I’d brought along a notebook to take down more information from him, as well as the scrap of paper on which I’d jotted down his various phone numbers.
I wondered what the hell I was doing.
I was on suspension. I wasn’t even sure I was going back. Yet here I was, waiting to meet with a man who had a hell of a story to tell, a story that couldn’t help but end up getting splashed across page one. Provided, of course, Bertrand Magnuson allowed me to write it.
My original thinking had been that I could use this story as leverage to get my job back. And not just any job, but my feature-writing job in the newsroom.
But there was another person who could use some help restoring a reputation and getting back into the newsroom. I could take all this stuff I was getting from Brian Sandler and hand it over to Sarah. Let her write it, take the credit, get the hell out of Home!
I’d have to tell Sandler, of course. I didn’t want to mislead him. I’d tell him about the suspension, but not to worry, my wife was a seasoned journalist. She’d been an investigative reporter before moving up the ranks and becoming an editor. She’d do a better job putting this story together than I would, truth be known.
That’s what I’d tell Sandler.
If he ever showed up.
I glanced at the digital dashboard clock. It was 9:15. Okay, not really late. There were any number of reasons why he might be fifteen minutes late.
But it was harder to explain being thirty minutes late.
At 9:31 a.m. I dug out the slip of paper with Sandler’s phone numbers on it. With my own cell phone, I tried his cell. It rang four times, then went to his voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Next, I tried his line at the city health department, and again, I got his voicemail. I wasn’t interested in leaving a message there, either. The only number I had left for him was home, and I punched it in.
After three rings, I figured no one was going to answer, but after the fourth, someone picked up.
“Hello.” Quiet, sullen. A young voice, it sounded like. Male.
“Hi. I’m looking for Brian? Brian Sandler?”
“Who’s calling?”
Should I say? Had Sandler told anyone he was talking to me, that he’d made arrangements to speak to a (suspended) writer from the Metropolitan?
“Just a friend,” I said.
“Well, he’s not here. This is his son. Can I help you?”
“Maybe you could tell me where I could reach him. I have his cell and office numbers, and tried both of them, but he’s not picking up.”
“He’s in the hospital,” the son said.
“What? When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What happened? Is he sick? Was he in an accident?”
The boy paused. “He got all burned.”
My stomach felt weak. “I’m so sorry. Listen, is your mother there? Could I speak to her please?”
“My mom’s at the hospital. Me and my sister are waiting for my uncle and then he’s going to take us to see him.”
“Which hospital?”
“The Mercy one?”
“Okay. Listen, I hope your dad gets better real soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
I put the phone in my pocket, turned the ignition, and drove from Bayside Park to Mercy General Hospital. I parked in one of the short-term metered spots near the emergency entrance and ran into the building, approached the information desk.
“Brian Sandler,” I said. “He would have been admitted yesterday?”
I was directed to the west wing of the third floor, room 361. When the elevator doors opened, I got my bearings, saw which way the room numbers were running, went down the end of one hall, hung left down another, and found the room. It would have been difficult to miss.
It was the one with a cop posted at the door.
“Is this Brian Sandler’s room?” I asked the officer. He gave me half a nod. “Look, my name’s Zack Walker, I’m with the Metropolitan. Technically, at the moment I’m sort of on a leave, but Mr. Sandler and I were supposed to meet this morning, and when he didn’t show up I called his home and found out he was here. What’s happened to him?”
“Sorry,” said the cop, “but I’m not authorized to make any comment, I’m just keeping out visitors.”
“Why are you here? They usually put you guys on the door if you think the patient’s going to try to escape or you think someone’s going to come in here and kill him.”
“Look, pal, if you need a quote or something from somebody, you’ll have to get it from the detective in charge or public relations.”
“Is Sandler’s wife here?”