“Ready,” she said. Everything in hand, she looked around to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
Dixon eyed her, his brows raised.
“What?” she asked.
“Drowned rat?”
“Does it work for me? Or make me look fat?”
“You couldn’t ask me that before you put on your gun?”
“You are such a chicken.”
“Yeah, yeah. Heard it before from my wife, who, if anyone inquires, looks like a supermodel,” he said, pulling his car keys from his pocket. He eyed her, thoughtful. Since she tended to be reserved at work, he was no doubt noticing. “Just how much have you had to drink?”
“Not nearly enough. Give me two minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Sydney took her things into the restroom; combed her soaked, shoulder-length brown hair into a ponytail; wiped the rain-smeared mascara from beneath her eyes; decided she looked presentable. After popping a mint, she met Dixon in the parking garage. By the time they left, the rain had finally stopped, and she hoped it wouldn’t return for the night. The hospital’s parking lot was filled to capacity, and they had to drive around a couple of times in search of a parking space, since those reserved for law enforcement were full. Busy night. As usual.
“Over there.” Sydney pointed toward the glow of red brake lights at the far end of the lot, as someone began to back up.
Dixon pulled around, and when it was apparent some guy in a red Ford Tempo was already headed for the same spot, Dixon gunned it a bit harder, winning the space by a matter of seconds. “That’s why they spend the big bucks on driver training at the academy,” he said, angling in.
“Dang. And I thought it was to teach you how not to spill your coffee on high-speed chases.” She stepped out of the car, then opened the back door to retrieve her briefcase.
“Asshole!”
Sydney glanced up, saw the red Ford Tempo, the driver shoving his hand out the open window, his middle finger pointed skyward. Jerk, she thought looking past him to the next row over, where a newer model white delivery utility truck cruised slowly. The driver wore a yellow ball cap, pulled low, and even though Sydney couldn’t see his eyes, she had the distinct feeling he was looking right at her.
Maybe it was just the totality of the day, but it was the same feeling she’d had when she’d left the bar, and thought someone was watching her then. She slammed the car door, telling herself that she was imagining things. It was a hospital parking lot. No one was watching her.
No one but Mr. Ford Tempo, who apparently wasn’t done with them. He put his car in reverse, backed up, flipped them off again, then gunned it out of there to the far side of the lot.
Dixon shook his head. “Can’t believe the manners on people these days.”
“Sort of like your manners stealing the guy’s parking space?” she said, hefting her briefcase, then pulling her jacket closed against the wind.
“Details,” Dixon said, and they walked up to the emergency room doors.
Their victim, a young girl, maybe eighteen, had been moved to a single-bed room. The strawberry-blond hair above her right temple was shaved; the staples that held her scalp shut glittered in the fluorescent light. Her face was a mosaic of black and purple splotches, her cheeks swollen. Tomorrow it would be worse.
Sydney set down her briefcase, while Dixon quietly approached the girl, who didn’t open her eyes. “Tara?” he whispered.
Tara took a deep breath, but didn’t respond, and Sydney knew she was trying to gather the strength to go on with this, to talk to the cops. It was the part Sydney hated, making them relive the events, but without it, without walking them back through the crime, some of the finer details and memories would be lost.
While Dixon got all the preliminary questions out of the way, Sydney leaned against the wall and shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat, concentrating on the smell of antiseptic wash, trying to forget what day it was tomorrow, trying but failing. All the while, Dixon spoke quietly, urging Tara to talk to them, to cooperate. His voice was soft, soothing, and Sydney glanced out the window into the parking lot below, letting her thoughts drift. She was a million miles away from the dim hospital room, when somewhere in her conscious mind, she realized she saw a man wearing a yellow ball cap walking in the shadows of the parking lot. Though he did nothing that shouted he was a threat, her gut told her something was up, perhaps because he wasn’t walking toward the ER, but away from it. Sydney scanned the parking lot, looking for accomplices. She saw none. What she did see was that damned white utility truck, parked illegally near a delivery door. Who the hell made deliveries at two in the morning? The next guess was a logical conclusion, because of that feeling of being watched, that he was making his way to their car. Maybe he hadn’t been watching her, just the vehicle, finding a mark that looked like they’d be inside for a while.
She glanced over at Dixon. He was still talking to the victim, trying to get some basic information.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, walking up to him, putting her hand on his shoulder and squeezing hard enough for him to know she was doing anything but what she was telling him. “I really need to get some fresh air.”
He looked up at her, his brows raised, but he nodded, and she gave a gentle smile to their victim, something she hoped would alleviate any fears. Tara Brown was supposed to be safe here. Last thing Sydney wanted to do was announce that she was going after a suspicious person in the parking lot, something she was sure would shatter any semblance of peace the girl had left.
She walked out, heard Dixon quietly say, “I’ll be right back,” and a moment later, he followed.
“What’s up?”
“Not sure if you noticed that guy in the white truck. Maybe it’s nothing, but my gut tells me he’s set his sights on your car.”
“That’s all we need,” he said, glancing back toward the room.
“I’ll grab someone before I go out. You stay with her, tell her I went for coffee or something.”
“Be careful. And make it quick.”
Sydney took the elevator down, walked through the emergency room, and stopped the first cops she saw. They were guarding a drunk who had apparently fallen and needed stitches. She flipped open her credentials, said, “One of you feel like chasing down someone with me in the parking lot?”
The two officers looked at each other, and the taller nodded. “I can go. What’d you have?”
“At the moment, nothing more than a feeling this guy doesn’t belong in the parking lot,” she said, as they both strode out the ER doors. The SFPD officer introduced himself as Bryan Harper, and they shook hands. “Sydney Fitzpatrick. Nice to meet you.” She quickly told him what she saw from her victim’s hospital room that overlooked the parking lot. “Maybe it’s nothing,” she said, as they walked down the ramp, “but it’s my boss’s car, and he’d like to keep the windows intact.”
“You get points for that?”
“I hope so,” she said, slowing him when they reached the aisle where Dixon’s car was parked. They could see the top of the guy’s head, or rather the top of his yellow ball cap just over the row of cars, and then he ducked down; perhaps had seen them come out. That itself told her it was more than nothing.
They moved out of plain sight, sidling along the row of parked vehicles. At one point, the suspect looked up, and she had to duck between two sedans. Harper motioned that he was going to parallel on the next aisle over. When he was in position, he pointed, and they started moving forward.