Clare lay back on the bed, her eyes closed, her hands above her head as she stretched catlike. For the first time I noticed, lined up on the bedside table, that can of whipped cream she'd mentioned, as well as a bottle of honey, a block of dark chocolate, a mug of hot water, and a bowl of ice cubes.
“I thought you were joking about the whipped cream.”
“I never joke about food.”
“Um …” I said, considering the lineup on the table.
“Use your imagination, Vin.” Clare sighed as she rolled over on the bed, lifting her ass high, toward me. “Just start with the honey and move on to the chocolate,” she purred. “Happy New Year, big boy.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was still dark outside when the cell started ringing, dragging me from a sleep so dark and deep it was like I had to crawl up from the bottom of a coal mine. I stumbled around the room, barking my shins on various bits of furniture and swearing until I located my pants and pulled the goddamn thing out of a pocket. “Jesus H. Christ,” I muttered under my breath. The ringing stopped. The screen announced one missed call. Who the fuck would be ringing at five a.m. on New Year's Day, for fuck's sake? The question was enough to vaguely awaken my curiosity, which was still more asleep than the rest of me, and every bit as grumpy. “It had better be the goddamn Pope,” I said aloud.
Half asleep, Clare asked, “Who is it?”
“What? Don't know yet. Missed it.”
The cell suddenly buzzed in my hand. I stabbed the green button. “What?” I snarled at the caller.
A recorded voice informed me that I had a new message. I hit the button.
Sounds of a party spilled out of the earpiece. “Special Agent Cooper? You there, dude?”
It was a familiar voice, but I couldn't place it.
“Happy New Year! Hey, I found out why that slut, Amy fucking McDonough, didn't turn up for work today.” Boris — Boris from Elmer's — with a head full of ecstasy and booze from the sound of it. “She's in Pensacola General, dude. She went to see her doctor and ended up there. Just heard the news from some bimbo friend of hers at this shindig here. Hey, sorry about what happened yesterday. That was, like, totally rude of me, you know? Anyway, like, Happy New Year. Have a nice life.”
“Everything okay?” said Clare, rising onto an elbow, now fully awake.
“Yeah. Might have a lead on Ruben Wright's girlfriend.”
“That's good.”
I wasn't sure what to do — go back to bed, or get an early start.
“You coming back to bed?”
“Thought I might take a shower.”
“Sure. But first, let's get you all dirty.”
Clare sure knew how to settle an argument.
The first of January was shaping into a fine day. At breakfast, Clare and I ate enough for four. The old lady in the orthopedic shoes approved, a healthy appetite being, so she said, akin to a healthy mind. If only she knew. Maybe she'd give it some further consideration when she changed our sheets and wondered why we appeared to have baked a cake in bed.
Clare headed back to Fort Walton Beach with her bag of tricks, looking forward to picking up her son and hanging out with him for the day. I went the opposite way — into town and Pensacola General Hospital. I'd called beforehand to make sure Boris wasn't pitching me a curve ball. An Amy McDonough had indeed been admitted.
I made my way to the front desk and badged the person sitting beneath the word “Reception.” She was a petite, small-boned woman wearing frameless glasses on the end of her nose and a thin blue cardigan around her shoulders. She reminded me of a frightened bird. The woman checked the computer screen after pecking at a few keys. Yes, Amy McDonough was a patient, but not for too much longer. She told me the computer expected that Ms. McDonough would be checking out in the morning, once the doctors had done their rounds. I asked what McDonough had been admitted for and was told I'd have to speak with a doctor. She also gave me a ward and directions to help find it.
Even with the directions, locating the ward wasn't easy. The hospital was a rabbit warren of additions piled on carelessly over the years with little thought given to the whole. Once I got to the ward, though, Amy McDonough's red hair made her easy to spot. She shared the room with a woman who was lying on her side, a fluid the color of butterscotch flowing through a tube attached to her gut into a plastic bag hanging below her bed. She was snoring lightly. Amy was sitting up flicking through an old Vanity Fair. The Hollywood couple on the cover were embracing and smiling ferociously for the camera. It was the same couple who'd recently battled through the divorce courts, ripping into each other and each other's bank accounts.
I held up my badge. “Ms. Amy McDonough? Special Agent Vin Cooper. I'm with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. I'm looking into the death of Master Sergeant Ruben Wright. I believe he was a friend of yours.”
McDonough bit her lip. Her eyes watered and then plump tears plopped onto her cheeks.
“Can I help you, sir? It's a bit early for visiting hours.”
I turned. A guy — who looked too young to get a driver's license — wearing a doctor's coat with a stethoscope over a shoulder was standing behind me, hands on his hips, head at an indignant angle. I showed him the badge, which, I hoped, would have the effect of automatically extending visiting hours. “I'm inquiring into the death of an associate of Ms. McDonough's,” I told him. “I have just a few questions for her.”
The doctor motioned me to follow him around the corner, out of earshot. “I won't be releasing the patient today. I'm concerned about her mental state. She's in shock.”
“Can you tell me what her medical problem is?” I asked. The look he gave me let me know I was about to get the old doctor-patient-privilege lecture. I headed him off at the pass. “Look, Doc, I'm just here to ask a few questions about the deceased. Your patient's not a suspect. I'll be sure to tread carefully.” The doctor appeared to wrestle with this spray of half-truths. The moment of indecision lingered, and then he said, “She's anemic — lost a lot of blood.”
“You want to tell me why?” I was thinking maybe a gunshot wound, or maybe a—
“She came here after having her pregnancy terminated at a clinic. Started bleeding and wouldn't stop.”
An abortion. That wasn't on my mental list. Maybe it should have been. I kept the surprise out of my face.
“You have ten minutes,” he said.
I walked back into the ward, feeling a little like the clouds had thinned to reveal a hazy sun. Amy McDonough was now sitting up, legs over the side of the bed, blowing a puffy red nose into a wet wad of tissues. “I'm going to ask you a few questions,” I said, using my most soothing tone, the doctor observing my bedside manner from around the door. I gave him a brief reassuring smile. He frowned and walked off down the corridor.
I dropped the act and sat on the bed opposite the redhead. “Did Ruben know you were pregnant? And that Butler was the father?” I asked.
McDonough sniffed, and avoided eye contact. “Yes. I didn't tell him, but he knew.”
“Who told him?”
“I don't know.”
I did. Wignall's comment about Butler came to mind: He's the type who likes to get the business done quick so he can get down to the pub and brag to his friends about it.
“Did you know Ruben had multiple sclerosis?”
“What?”
“You weren't aware of that?”
She shook her head. Her chin quivered.
“He was diagnosed with it a couple of months before he died,” I said.
She shook her head again.
“Did you know one of the symptoms of MS is impotence, Ms. McDonough?”