Hodges is in the lobby and headed for the door when his phone vibrates. It’s Norma Wilmer.
“Is he gone?” Hodges asks.
Norma doesn’t have to ask who he’s talking about. “Yes. Now that he’s seen his prize patient, he can relax and do the rest of his rounds.”
“I was sorry to hear about Nurse Scapelli.” It’s true. He didn’t care for her, but it’s still true.
“I was, too. She ran the nursing staff like Captain Bligh ran the Bounty, but I hate to think of anyone doing . . . that. You get the news and your first reaction is oh no, not her, never. It’s the shock of it. Your second reaction is oh yes, that makes perfect sense. Never married, no close friends—not that I knew of, anyway—nothing but the job. Where everybody sort of loathed her.”
“All the lonely people,” Hodges says, stepping out into the cold and turning toward the bus stop. He buttons his coat one-handed and then begins to massage his side.
“Yes. There are a lot of them. What can I do for you, Mr. Hodges?”
“I have a few questions. Could you meet me for a drink?”
There’s a long pause. Hodges thinks she’s going to tell him no. Then she says, “I don’t suppose your questions could lead to trouble for Dr. Babineau?”
“Anything is possible, Norma.”
“That would be nice, but I guess I owe you one, regardless. For not letting on to him that we know each other from back in the Becky Helmington days. There’s a watering hole on Revere Avenue. Got a clever name, Bar Bar Black Sheep, and most of the staff drinks closer to the hospital. Can you find it?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m off at five. Meet me there at five thirty. I like a nice cold vodka martini.”
“It’ll be waiting.”
“Just don’t expect me to get you in to see Hartsfield. It would mean my job. Babineau was always intense, but these days he’s downright weird. I tried to tell him about Ruth, and he blew right past me. Not that he’s apt to care when he finds out.”
“Got a lot of love for him, don’t you?”
She laughs. “For that you owe me two drinks.”
“Two it is.”
He’s slipping his phone back into his coat pocket when it buzzes again. He sees the call is from Tanya Robinson and his thoughts immediately flash to Jerome, building houses out there in Arizona. A lot of things can go wrong on building sites.
He takes the call. Tanya is crying, at first too hard for him to understand what she’s saying, only that Jim is in Pittsburgh and she doesn’t want to call him until she knows more. Hodges stands at the curb, one palm plastered against his non-phone ear to muffle the sound of traffic.
“Slow down. Tanya, slow down. Is it Jerome? Did something happen to Jerome?”
“No, Jerome’s fine. Him I did call. It’s Barbara. She was in Lowtown—”
“What in God’s name was she doing in Lowtown, and on a school day?”
“I don’t know! All I know is that some boy pushed her into the street and a truck hit her! They’re taking her to Kiner Memorial. I’m on my way there now!”
“Are you driving?”
“Yes, what does that have to do with—”
“Get off the phone, Tanya. And slow down. I’m at Kiner now. I’ll meet you in the ER.”
He hangs up and heads back to the hospital, breaking into a clumsy trot. He thinks, This goddam place is like the Mafia. Every time I think I’m out, it pulls me back in.
14
An ambulance with its lights flashing is just backing into one of the ER bays. Hodges goes to meet it, pulling out the police ID he still keeps in his wallet. When the paramedic and the EMT pull the stretcher out of the back, he flashes the ID with his thumb placed over the red RETIRED stamp. Technically speaking this is a felony crime—impersonating an officer—and consequently it’s a fiddle he uses sparingly, but this time it seems absolutely appropriate.
Barbara is medicated but conscious. When she sees Hodges, she grasps his hand tightly. “Bill? How did you get here so fast? Did Mom call you?”
“Yeah. How are you?”
“I’m okay. They gave me something for the pain. I have . . . they say I have a broken leg. I’m going to miss the basketball season and I guess it doesn’t matter because Mom will ground me until I’m, like, twenty-five.” Tears begin to leak from her eyes.
He doesn’t have long with her, so questions about what she was doing on MLK Ave, where there are sometimes as many as four drive-by shootings a week, will have to wait. There’s something more important.
“Barb, do you know the name of the boy who pushed you in front of the truck?”
Her eyes widen.
“Or get a good look at him? Could you describe him?”
“Pushed . . . ? Oh, no, Bill! No, that’s wrong!”
“Officer, we gotta go,” the paramedic says. “You can question her later.”
“Wait!” Barbara shouts, and tries to sit up. The EMT pushes her gently back down, and she’s grimacing with pain, but Hodges is heartened by that shout. It was good and strong.