view. Nor was there any patient-pleasing decor, just matter-of-fact posters of phone numbers and procedures incomprehensible to lay people, and stacks of functional medical equipment. He was in a small glass-walled room, sealed off to minimize the risk of infection.
Dance now joined Michael O’Neil outside the room. Her shoulder brushed his. She felt an urge to take his arm. Didn’t.
She stared at the injured detective, recalling his shy smile in Sandy Sandoval’s office.
Crime scene boys love their toys…. I heard that somewhere.
“He say anything since you’ve been here?” she asked.
“No. Been out the whole time.”
Looking at the injuries, the bandages, Dance decided out was better. Much better.
They returned to the CCU waiting area, where some of Millar’s family sat—his parents and an aunt and two uncles, if she’d gotten the introductions right. She doled out her heartfelt sympathy to the grim-faced family.
“Katie.”
Dance turned to see a solid woman with short gray hair and large glasses. She wore a colorful overblouse, from which dangled one badge identifying her as E. Dance, RN, and another indicating that she was attached to the cardiac care unit.
“Hey, Mom.”
O’Neil and Edie Dance smiled at each other.
“No change?” Dance asked.
“Not really.”
“Has he said anything?”
“Nothing intelligible. Did you see our burn specialist, Dr. Olson?”
“No,” her daughter replied. “Just got here. What’s the word?”
“He’s been awake a few more times. He moved a little, which surprised us. But he’s on a morphine drip, so doped up he didn’t make any sense when the nurse asked him some questions.” Her eyes strayed to the patient in the glass-enclosed room. “I haven’t seen an official prognosis, but there’s hardly any skin under those bandages. I’ve never seen a burn case like that.”
“It’s that bad?”
“I’m afraid so. What’s the situation with Pell?”
“Not many leads. He’s in the area. We don’t know why.”
“You still want to have Dad’s party tonight?” Edie asked.
“Sure. The kids’re looking forward to it. I might have to do a hit-and-run, depending. But I still want to have it.”
“You’ll be there, Michael?”
“Plan to. Depending.”
“I understand. Hope it works out, though.”
Edie Dance’s pager beeped. She glanced at it. “I’ve got to get to Cardiac. If I see Dr. Olson I’ll ask him to stop by and brief you.”
Her mother left. Dance glanced at O’Neil, who nodded. He showed a badge to the Critical Care nurse and she helped them both into gowns and masks. The two officers stepped inside. O’Neil stood while Dance pulled up a chair and scooted forward. “Juan, it’s Kathryn. Can you hear me? Michael’s here too.”
“Hey, partner.”
“Juan?”
Though the right eye, the uncovered one, didn’t open, it seemed to Dance that the lid fluttered slightly.
“Can you hear me?”
Another flutter.
O’Neil said in a low comforting voice, “Juan, I know you’re hurting. We’re going to make sure you have the best treatment in the country.”
Dance said, “We want this guy. We want him bad. He’s in the area. He’s still here.”
The man’s head moved.
“We need to know if you saw or heard anything that’ll help us. We don’t know what he’s up to.”
Another gesture of the head. It was subtle but Dance saw the swaddled chin move slightly.
“Did you see something? Nod if you saw or heard something.”
Now, no motion.
“Juan,” she began, “did you—”
“Hey!” a male voice shouted from the doorway. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Her first thought was that the man was a doctor and that her mother would be in trouble for letting Dance into the room unsupervised. But the speaker was a young, sturdy Latino man in a business suit.
Juan’s brother.
“Julio,” O’Neil said.
The nurse ran up. “No, no, please close the door! You can’t be inside without a mask.”
He waved a stiff arm at her and continued speaking to Dance. “He’s in that condition and you’re questioning him?”
“I’m Kathryn Dance with the CBI. Your brother might know something helpful about the man who caused this.”
“Well, he’s not going to be very fucking helpful if you kill him.”
“I’ll call security if you don’t close the door this minute,” the nurse snapped.
Julio held his ground. Dance and O’Neil stepped out of the room and into the hallway, closing the door behind them. They took off the gowns and masks.
In the corridor the brother got right into her face. “I can’t believe it. You have no respect—”
“Julio,” Millar’s father said, stepping toward his son. His stocky wife, her jet black hair disheveled, joined him.
Julio ignored everyone but Dance. “That’s all you care about, right? He tells you what you want to know and then he can die?”
She remained calm, recognizing a young man out of control. She didn’t take his anger personally.
“We’re very anxious to catch the man who did this to him.”
“Son, please! You’re embarrassing us.” His mother touched his arm.
“Embarrassing you?” he mocked. Then turned to Dance again. “I asked around. I talked to some people. Oh, I know what happened. You sent him down into the fire.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You sent him downstairs at the courthouse to the fire.”
She felt O’Neil stiffening but he restrained himself. He knew Dance wouldn’t let other people fight her battles. She leaned closer to Julio. “You’re upset, we’re all upset. Why don’t we—”
“You pickedhim. Not Mikey here. Not one of your CBI people. The one Chicano cop—and you sent him.”
“Julio,” his father said sternly. “Don’t say that.”