Sam Latham was an all-around good guy. Thirty-six years old, married and the father of two young children. He worked in the editorial department of one of the major publishers, and he simply loved books, especially mysteries, and joined scholars everywhere in considering Edgar Allan Poe to be the father of the detective novel. Genevieve had met him through her mother, and though she couldn’t say she knew him well, she had always liked him, his wife and their kids, Vickie, eleven, and Geoffrey, fourteen.
When she arrived at the hospital, she expected something more than what she found: a quiet hallway; Dorothy, Sam’s wife, in the room with him; and a woman who introduced herself as his mother, Stella, returning with coffee from the hospital cafeteria.
No cops in the hallways, no one on guard.
Because apparently no one believed that Sam had been the intended victim of a killer. Despite the so-called psychic.
“Genevieve!” Sam said with pleasure, seeing her at the door. He had a cut below one eye, and the bruising that accompanied it, but other than that he appeared to be fine, though the sheets could have been covering other injuries.
“Sam, Dorothy…Mrs. Latham,” she said after introductions were made.
His mother was probably around sixty-five. She had stunning silver hair styled to set off her tiny features. She immediately looked apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know Sam was expecting visitors. I could have gotten you a coffee.”
“It’s all right, but thank you so much for the thought,” Genevieve said. She’d stopped downstairs for a flower arrangement, which Dorothy came forward to accept.
“How are you?” Genevieve asked Sam, as Dorothy added the flowers to the others filling the room.
“Fine,” Sam said.
“He’s such a liar,” Dorothy said, distressed. “He goes into surgery tomorrow. For his leg.”
“Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry,” Genevieve said.
His mother cleared her throat. “Are you going to be here for a while, dear? I thought Dorothy and I might go grab something to eat.”
“They won’t leave me alone,” Sam said with a groan.
Genevieve glanced quickly at Dorothy, who tried to appear impassive. Apparently Dorothy was more worried than the police were. Maybe she’d seen the psychic on TV.
“I’ll be happy to stay and chat with Sam until you return,” Genevieve said.
His mother flashed her a grateful smile; Dorothy gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Sam,” Dorothy asked, “will you be okay?”
“Honey, go eat. Genevieve will guard me. She has a black belt now.”
Gen didn’t have a black belt. But she didn’t contradict him.
The other two women left, and Genevieve took the chair by the bed. She looked at the IV drip, and the various tubes to which he was attached.
“Well, other than the hardware, you do look good,” she told him.
He showed her a little clicker which had been hidden in his hand. “Morphine,” he said, with a dry grin.
“Wow, Sam, I’m so sorry. It must have been a horrible accident.”
“Yeah. A horrible accident,” he repeated.
“But it was an accident,” she said. “Right?”
He looked at her, as if suddenly realizing she had come for more than a simple visit. “I guess,” he told her. “Genevieve, I didn’t see anything. I was driving along, thinking about a new manuscript we’d just paid a small fortune for, and then…”
She could have chatted a while, talked more about his kids, pretended. But Sam wasn’t about to pretend, so she wouldn’t, either.
“Then…bang.”
“Yep. Then…that sound. That awful impact,” he said, shaking his head.
She inhaled deeply. “Well…you look good,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.
He shook his head. “Genevieve, you’re full of bull. I look like shit. And you’re a nice person, and I’m sure you’d visit me no matter what, but you’re worried because of Thorne Bigelow. You think someone wants to kill all the Ravens. Including your mother.”
She didn’t attempt to deny it. “What do you think?” she asked him.
“I don’t know what to think,” he said. “A couple of people reported a car driving erratically. The cops wanted to know if I had seen it, too.”
“And did you?”
“I didn’t. I was driving, then…wham. I was out. The air bag saved my life—that’s why the bruises. But I was knocked out. The next thing I knew, I was on a stretcher with a microphone in my face while I was being stuffed in an ambulance. And they were shooting stuff into me, and I was grateful, because I managed to break a leg, despite the air bag.”
She nodded, reached for his free hand and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”
“I’m having a tough time seeing how anyone could have planned to murder me on the highway like that. He couldn’t have any idea who he might kill, and he obviously didn’t succeed in killing me, if that was even his plan.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “But what if…?”
“What if…what?” Sam pursued.
“What if he didn’t care if he killed a dozen other people at the same time?” she asked.
Lori Star. Candy Cane.
She lived in a rent-controlled building in Soho. When she opened the door to their knock, she kept the chain on as she looked out. Her eyes were wide, hopeful.
“Are you with another news station?” she asked.
Raif shook his head solemnly, showing his badge. “Sorry.”
“Cops,” she said with annoyance.