When Shadow Love moved in, he brought a heavy coat, a plastic air mattress, a cheap radio with earphones, and his gun. Groceries were slim: boxes of crackers, cookies, a can of Cheez Whiz, and a twelve-pack of Pepsi.
After the shooting, Shadow Love had run down the stairs, tried to stroll through the lobby, then hurried on to the Volvo. He drove it until he was sure he couldn't have been followed, and dumped it. He stopped once at a convenience store to buy food and then settled into the hideout.
There was nothing on the radio for almost two hours. Then a report that Detective Lillian Rothenburg had been shot. Not killed but shot. More than he'd hoped for. Maybe he got her…
Then, a half-hour later, word that she was on the operating table. And two hours after that, a prognosis: The doctors said she'd live.
Shadow Love cursed and pulled the coat around him. The nights were getting very cold. Despite the coat, he shivered.
The bitch was still alive.
CHAPTER 26
Lucas spent the next day working his net, staying in touch with the hospital by telephone. In the early afternoon, Lily woke up and spoke to David, who was sitting at her bedside, and later to Sloan. She could add little to what they knew.
Shadow Love, she said. She had never seen his face, but it felt right. He was middle-height, wiry. Dark. Ate sausage.
That said, she went back to sleep.
At nine, Lucas called a friend at the intensive care unit: he had been calling her hourly.
"He just left, said he was going to get some sleep," the friend told Lucas.
"Is she awake?"
"She comes and goes…"
"I'll be right there," he said.
Lily was wrapped in sheets and blankets, propped half upright on the bed. Her face was pale, the color of notebook paper. A breathing tube went to her nose. Two saline bags hung beside her bed, and a drip tube was patched into her arm below the elbow.
Lucas' friend, a nurse, said, "She woke up a while ago, and I told her you were coming, so she knows. Don't stay long, and be as quiet as you can."
Lucas nodded and tiptoed to Lily's bedside.
"Lily?"
After a moment, she turned her head, as if the sound of his voice had taken a few seconds to penetrate. Her eyes, when she opened them, were clear and calm.:
"Water?" she croaked. There was a bottle of water on the! bedstand with a plastic straw. He held it to her mouth and she sucked once. "Damn breathing tube dries out my throat."
"You feel pretty bad?"
"Doesn't… hurt much. I feel like I'm… really sick. Like I had a terrible flu."
"You look okay," Lucas lied. Except for her eyes, she j looked terrible.
"Don't bullshit me, Davenport," she said with a small grin. "I know what I look like. Good for the diet, though."
"Jesus, it freaked me out." He couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Thanks for the rose."
"What?"
"The rose…" She turned her head away, then back and forth, as though trying to loosen up her neck muscle. "Very… romantic."
Lucas had no idea what she was talking about, and then she said, "I got through the first fifteen minutes… with David. I hurt so bad I wasn't thinking of you or anything, I was just happy to be here. And we were talking and when I thought of you, the first fifteen minutes were gone… and it was okay."
"Jesus, Lily, I feel so bad."
"Nothing you could do: but you be careful," she said in \ her rusty voice. Her eyelids drooped. "Are you getting anywhere?" • j Lucas shook his head. "We've got a screen of people around Clay-I still think it's him. I just haven't figured out j how. We're watching the dumbwaiter, but that's not it."
"I don't know," she said. Her eyes closed and she took j two deep breaths. "I'm so damn sleepy all the time… Can't think…"
And she was gone, sleeping, her face going slack. Lucas sat by her bed for five minutes, watching her face and the slow rise and fall of her chest. He was lucky, he thought, that he wasn't walking beside her coffin across another cemetery, just as with Larry…
Larry.
It came back in a flash, as real as the shotgun behind his ear. He'd been walking across the cemetery grass with Lily and Anderson, after leaving Rose Love's well-tended grave. Anderson was talking about the cost of grave maintenance and the perpetual-care contract he and his wife had bought…
And the question popped into his head: Who paid to take care of Rose Love's grave? Neither Shadow Love nor the Crows had enough money to endow a perpetual-care fund, so they must pay it annually or semiannually. But if they were on the road all the time, where would the bill be sent? Lucas stood, looked down at Lily's sleeping face, paced out of the ICU, past a patient who looked as though he were dying, and then back in, until he was standing by her bed again.
The Crows or Shadow Love, whoever paid for maintenance, might simply remember to write a check once or twice a year and mail it, without ever getting a bill. But that didn't feel right; there must be a bill. Maybe they had a postal box; but if they had their mail sent to a box, and didn't get back into town for a while, important messages might sit there for weeks. Lucas didn't know what the Crows had done, but he knew what he would do in their circumstances. He'd have a mail drop. He'd have the cemetery bill and other important stuff sent to an old, trustworthy friend. Somebody he could rely on to send the mail on to him. He half ran from the ICU to the nurses' station.
"I gotta have a phone," Lucas snapped at his friend. She stepped back and pointed at a desk phone. He picked it up and called Homicide. Anderson was just getting ready to leave.
"Harmon? I'm heading out to Riverwood Cemetery in a hurry. You get on the line, find out where Riverwood does its paperwork and call me. I've got a handset. If the office is closed, run down somebody who can open it up, somebody who does the bills. I'll be there in ten minutes."
"What have you got?" Anderson asked.
"Probably nothing," Lucas said. "But I've got just the smallest fuckin' hangnail of an idea…"
Clay and a security man stood in the parking garage and argued.
"It's a fuckin' terrible idea," the security man said intently.
"No, it's not. When you get a little higher in management, you'll recognize that," Lawrence Duberville Clay replied. An undertone in his voice hinted that it was unlikely the security man would ever rise higher in management.
"Look: one car. Just one. You wouldn't even see it."
"Absolutely not. You put a car on me and you better warn the people inside that I'll fire their asses. And you with them. No. The only way for me to do this is to go out on my own. And I'll probably be safer than if I was here. Nobody'11 expect me to be out on the street."
"Jesus, boss…"
"Look, we've been through this before," Clay said. "The fact is, when you're surrounded by a screen of security, you don't have any feel for anything. I need to get away, to be effective."
They had a car for him, a nondescript rental that one of the agents had picked up at the airport. Clay took the wheel, slammed the door and looked out at the unhappy security man.
"Don't worry, Dan. I'll be back in a couple, three hours, no worse for the wear."
Lucas had to wait ten minutes at the cemetery office, watching the moon ghost across the sky behind dead oak leaves. He shivered and paced impatiently, and finally a Buick rolled up and a woman got out.
"Are you Davenport?" she asked in a sour voice, jingling her keys.
"Yes."
"I was at a dinner," she said. She was a hard woman in her early thirties, with a beehive hairdo from the late fifties.
"Sorry."
"We really should have some kind of papers," she said frostily as she unlocked the door.