I didn’t give him time to argue. Estelle made a quick call, and when she hung up we left the house, with Wesley Crocker still propped up on his crutch in the middle of my living room.
The drive to Posadas General Hospital was silent most of the way. By the time we reached North Pershing, I broke the silence and said, “You have a lot of work to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can handle it.”
She looked over at me. “Thanks, sir. I’ll be by in the morning, though. After you’re settled. There are some things I’d like to go over with you.”
The car came to a halt, parked appropriately in one of the “doctors only” spots.
“Estelle,” I said, and I rested my hand gently on her arm. “Save your time and energy. You don’t need my help. Just go for it.” I grinned at her. “Thanks again.”
Before she had time to answer, I slipped out of the car, damn near stumbled on the rough pavement, and then trudged up the sidewalk toward the entrance of the hospital.