“Not really. Just met him last night. He stopped by our booth to say hello to Casey Shannon, who we were throwing a little retirement party for, as you probably picked up on.”
“Oh yes, the ‘Wall Street Cop.’” Her eyes narrowed. “Is he some kind of financial expert or something?”
“Hell no, just a copper who worked that part of town and, in so doing, got to know some of the Stock Market crowd.” I gave her the whole smile now, but didn’t push it. “I’m going to ask you a nosy, none-of-my-business question.”
Her head bobbed back and her smile got just a little wary. “You are, huh?”
I shrugged. “I’m a professional snooper by trade. You know that. And I witnessed a crime last night. So I can’t help myself. I get interested.”
Sheila returned the shrug. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Are you two an item, Ms. Ryan?”
She shook her head. “No, we’re just... friendly acquaintances?”
“Are you asking me?”
“No, of course not. I just meant... I know him from the restaurant. He’s a patron, a frequent one.” Her shrug only involved one shoulder. “He’s good-looking, very smooth, charming, and he likes to joke around with me. Just a fun flirt. Nothing more.”
“Maybe. But I couldn’t help noticing he seemed more than just casually interested in you.”
Her mouth smiled but her forehead frowned. “You are a snoop, aren’t you?”
“Definitely. Has Colby ever asked you out?”
“No! We’re just friends. Friendly.”
“Yet you’re here visiting him at the hospital, first thing in the morning.”
She leaned toward me, as if speaking to a backward child. “Mr. Hammer, I know him from the restaurant. He got hit by a car outside that restaurant! I was just being... polite. Nice.”
“Did your boss ask you to stop by on the restaurant’s behalf?”
“No. I just thought it was... you know, the right thing to do.” She stood. “Mr. Hammer, I have a hair stylist appointment to get to, if you don’t mind.”
I stopped her, gently, with a hand at her elbow. “Ms. Ryan... Sheila. Was Colby responsible for that black eye you’re trying, not very well, to hide?”
The green eyes flashed down at me. “No! Really, Mr. Hammer. You’re out of line now. I told you, we are not... how did you so quaintly put it? An ‘item.’ Anyway, I’m... never mind.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m already in a relationship.”
I got to my feet and now I was looking down at her and her puffy eye. “With somebody else who gave you that mouse, you mean? What, that bartender? You promised me last night you were breaking it off with your abusive boy friend, I just figured it might be Colby.”
Her teeth were clenched; they were small and white and pretty. “You were right the first time.”
“I was?”
“This is none of your fucking business!”
She marched off quickly to the elevator and stood there, steaming a little, while she waited for the car.
I sat back down and frowned and tried to figure out why the back of my neck was tingling. This really was none of my business, fucking or otherwise. I had no dog in this fight. No client, no money riding.
When had that ever stopped me?
The girl was gone, but a doctor was exiting a room just down the hall, pausing to make some clipboard notes. I got up and made it down there in time to confirm that he’d emerged from the room whose number identified it as Colby’s, the door to which was closed.
“Excuse me, doctor,” I said, when he’d finished his notations and was about to resume his duties, and noticed my presence for the first time. His name badge said DR. MARTIN CORNELL. He was about forty with short dark hair, a trim matching beard and alert but distant brown eyes behind wireframe glasses.
“Yes?” he said, with as much patience as could be expected from a man as busy as he no doubt was.
“I’m a friend of Mr. Colby’s,” I asked. “Would I be out of line asking how he’s doing?”
He thought about that for a moment, then apparently decided sharing his patient’s condition would do no harm. “He suffered some bruises. Considering the circumstances, he’s a lucky man indeed.”
“Great to hear. I was at the scene.”
“Were you?”
“Yes, and he was complaining about a head injury, right after the incident. That’s what was worrying me. Vince and I go way back, you see.”
That seemed to mildly amuse the doctor. “Well, you must go back a ways, if you call him ‘Vince.’”
“Oh?”
“He made it clear to me, in no uncertain terms, that he prefers to be called Vincent.”
I grinned. “Yeah, I don’t let him get away with that crap. When I knew him, we called him a lot worse than ‘Vince.’ So is it a concussion, or...?”
“Mr. Colby has all the common symptoms of a concussion, yes — headache, dizziness, coordination problems, he’s had some nausea and vomiting, blurred vision, sensitivity to light, sensitivity to noise, and so on.”
“How serious is it?”
He flipped a hand. “Oh, we’ll be releasing him later today. The effects of concussion are usually temporary, recovery complete. I’m only concerned about... well, nothing.”
“Doctor. Please. Maybe I can help.”
He thought about that, then surprised me by putting a supportive hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know Mr. Colby. He was not my patient before today. But you should be aware — so that you’re not alarmed or react in a way that would disturb him — that your friend may be suffering from one of the less frequent effects of concussion.”
“What’s that?”
“Behavior or personality changes.”
“Really.”
“Can you tell me... what is your name?”
“Hammer.”
“Can you tell me, Mr. Hammer — is Mr. Colby usually known to... fly easily off the handle, let’s say?”
“No. He’s known to be quite self-composed.” At least that was my understanding.
One eyebrow rose above the wireframes. “Well, right now he’s showing some definite ill temper. Not that ‘ill temper’ is a common diagnosis of mine. But it’s evidenced here. His father came by earlier — his mother is deceased, I understand — and I informed the older Mr. Colby of this. But he’d already witnessed as much, and obviously seemed disturbed by it...” He sighed, lifted both eyebrows this time, then said, “You can see him now.”
“Thank you, Dr. Cornell.”
He went off and I went in.
The room was private, not surprisingly, and spacious. Some flowers, quite a few really, had already made their way here, lining a windowsill and finding room on a nightstand. Vincent Colby wasn’t hooked up to any hanging bottles with tubes stuck in him or anything, and he was propped up, casually watching CNN on the high-mounted TV.
“Yes?” he said, squinting at me as I stood at the half-open door.
“Mike Hammer, Mr. Colby. We met last night at Pete’s. I was just checking to see how you’re doing. I saw that red hot rod try to make a speed bump out of you.”
He smiled, gave me a curled-fingered gesture. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you — vision’s a little fouled up... it’s like I’m looking through dirty glasses. Come in, Mike. And Mr. Colby is my father — I’m Vincent.”
I walked to his bedside. He looked much the same, tan and fit, though the curly hair was a dry dark tangle now. He had a reddish-blue hematoma on his forehead, over his left eye.
“My secretary,” I said, “is accusing me of ambulance chasing, coming around here. But really it’s just my damn curiosity getting the best of me. As usual.”