Chapter Eleven
Say fifteen more minutes. Or even ten. He could wait ten minutes, right?
But Jim Dunbar had never been a patient man. Self-indulged impatience was more his style. And Karen, who should have already been there—early, just like him—she'd understand if he didn't wait.
Fifteen minutes early and the wait was killing him.
St. John Smythe lay comatose behind this door. Jim's hand floated to the handle again, but he pulled back. The man wasn't conscious; what would five more minutes matter? Karen would be there and if there was some miracle, she'd take notes.
He wouldn't. Not that he couldn't, but he'd never been that patient when writing things down—he'd created a brisk shorthand which only he could read. Terry'd only been starting to learn to decipher it. After he'd come back on the job, Jim had just used his blindness as an excuse not to carry a notebook—the shorthand would be useless between him and Karen now, anyway. But did he rely on her too much?
The silent hallway echoed the tiny flip of his watch. Twelve minutes. Surely he could wait twelve minutes?
His hand was back on the handle of the door. This time he didn't pull back. "Hank," he said quietly, "stay." The dog had already been positioned next to the wall, out of the way. Hank so rarely got to meet suspects and victims and families—always a danger of allergens, or of intimidating perps who would later claim police brutality, confession under duress, or of frightening witnesses. But the dog seemed to be used to being left behind.
Jim had been blind three years, back on the job about two, working in sync with Hank and Karen nearly as long—it had taken a few months for them all to mesh into their proper rolls. The intuition and synchronicity Jim had with his blindness had come later. He'd fought against believing what his other senses told him, but he was getting better at understanding his world, this narrow focus.
Click—metal on metal, releasing hold. The door, how it slid heavily through the air, opening inward, the slight creak initially of a hinge, the way the air-conditioning of the room rushed out to greet that of the hallway—warmer in the room, air currents swirling to even the temperature—he could already feel the dimensions. More than that, the shallow breathing in the bed, assisted by life support, a compressing sound, oxygen pumping in time with the weakened lungs. Beep-beep-beep-beep, heart monitor, sounded a little fast for a man on his death bed, but perhaps the infarction had weakened the muscle to the point that it needed to work twice as hard to keep him alive—the doctors had said they couldn't operate yet, not unless he awoke, or unless he got worse. A slight rattle across the room he couldn't place, it didn't sound like the air conditioning vent or even a normal part of hospice, but it was too regular of a clacking to be created by a human. Guessing, the air conditioning blowing some tubing, or even the blinds on the window. The regularity of the sound helped give the room dimensions.
The other thing he was becoming aware of, finally after three years, the most helpful sense was that of whether or not he was alone. And now, here in this hospital room, he was definitely not alone. And it wasn't the presence of St. John Smythe fluttering around him. He couldn't even be sure he was detecting a bit of cologne, or hearing another breath, it was something less tangible than that. Someone was there, staring at him; if ESP or telepathy had been possible, Jim knew he'd have felt every thought transferred from the—man, it was definitely a man—to him.
He let the door click shut, it swished, the air displacing momentarily and settling down again, like in a crypt.
He turned. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, so there was no hiding if he happened to be off of his guess, but he could swear the presence was—there. He stopped panning and waited, a small smile on his lips. Again, he could feel the connection.
"No one's supposed to be in here," a male voice said. A little nervous, but hardly a waver of tone, he sounded in his late twenties, bold, self-assured, but that undertone of nerves.
Jim swept out his badge and showed it, just long enough, tilting it just so as to catch either a light from above, if it were on, or light from the window, then he stowed it back away. "And you?"
A pause, perhaps to swallow, the voice a little less certain. "Security." A shifting, tennis shoes, a slight squeak.
Jim waited. He crossed his arms.
Fabric rustled, the rough fabric, loose, like a lab coat. "Sort of. Back-up security."
"And the real security went where?"
"Breakfast. They, um, didn't figure as he was going anywheres…"
"Not a high priority?"
"Well, um, see—"
"You don't need maximum security on a corpse?"
"Right—well, I mean, he's not dead—"
"Yet," Jim finished.
"Right—well, um—"
"Relax," Jim soothed, but inside, he could feel himself laughing. He wanted to work the guy over, figure out what he'd been doing, that was his own devilish side trying to get out. "So you're just here to make sure Mr. Smythe doesn't go AWOL, right?"
"Right."
"But what about visitors?"
"What about them?"
"Has he had any?"
"Oh, um, I wouldn't know."
Jim quirked an eyebrow.
"I usually work downstairs—cafeteria—but I brought up the breakfast trays, and, like, just in case, you know?"
Jim nodded.
"But he wasn't, of course."
"Of course."
"So here I was, and Diggins was tired, so—we swapped."
Jim grinned. "He's off delivering breakfast trays and you're here waiting for the old guy to kick the bucket."
"It's bound to happen." The voice sounded suddenly nervous.
"Oh?"
"I was, uh, just reading his chart."
Jim let his eyes shift toward the bed, toward the inevitable sick-bed chair next to it, next to this kid. He turned back, the overall silence of the hospital playing for him, giving him the benefit of cool quiet so he could track every movement this kid made. "What's your name?"
"Billy."
"What's the chart say, Billy?"
"It's c-confidential." The sound of wide eyes.
"What's the chart say, Billy?"
Jim listened attentively as Billy recited bits and pieces from memory, must be memory, as there was no fluttering of paper, no rustling, not even a movement from Billy, who was talking to the floor. Jim's own gaze was drawn downward, probably to the same place Billy was staring at. Christie had commented on this before, the way Jim had been trained after nearly 40 years of seeing, to track movements, to look away when the person he was speaking to turned away. It was all cued from the voice, he suspected, but Christie said it was uncanny, even unnerving, sometimes, when he was in tune with the person he was speaking with, how he'd even make eye contact for a prolonged period.
By the time Billy had finished, Jim found his posture had sagged, his gaze had been broken, and he just stared at the floor, though he straightened up, using the blast from the air conditioner and the beeping of the heart monitor as clues for his vertical line.
"That bad?" Billy asked.
Jim just nodded. St. John Smythe wasn't faring so well.
Hank's harness was like an extension of his hand—or of his eyes, of his very being. Jim knew how to read the movements of the German shepherd better than most cops knew how to read their partners.
Did he know Hank or Karen better? Both were vital to his success on the job. The dog, he knew every nuance of every movement. If the dog was distracted by a person it was a different feeling than when he was distracted by a squirrel in the park. Jim knew when he was hungry, thirsty, tired.
They balanced each other. For Hank, this wasn't so much a dog's life. He was out there, doing stuff, meeting people, going places. Any dog would kill for this position, even with all the responsibility. It was better than lying on a rug somewhere, alone, wondering when the human would come home next so he could pee.
By contrast, Jim didn't know Karen's movements as well. With her, it was more her voice, every tone meant something else, no matter what she was saying, he always felt he understood more by what she wasn't saying. Little things like how she shifted in her chair at the squad, or looked for something in her desk, everything had meaning to him. And quite often he found that meaning saying: you will never understand this woman.
She wasn't a thing like Christie. Christie he understood. The wife, the mood swings, toeing the line. He knew when to back off, though sometimes he refused. Christie was filled with that feminine mystique. He understood that she was a woman, and that he wasn't supposed to understand her.
Then there was Karen.
"You think he's dying because you talked to some orderly?"
Jim set his jaw, waiting at the street corner with Hank just in front of him. "He wasn't an orderly."
"That kid you were just talking to? Yeah, Jim, he had doctor written all over him."
"He wasn't a doctor."
Christie wasn't the sarcastic type. She'd never been able to handle humor. Not that she was rigid and humorless, but she was serious, intense, goal-oriented. And she'd never argue with him over something so cut and dried as a case.
"Well?" Karen prompted.
"Billy—"
"Right. Billy," she agreed.
The traffic shifted. He took another listen, then prompted Hank forward. At the end of the harness, the dog took an extra look-see, the harness taut as he looked one way, then the other, then straight, ready to go. Jim stepped off the curb after him. The city was loud, impersonal, full of taxis and swearing and the smell of burning rubber. And Karen, next to him, lost in the shuffle. It wasn't like the hospital room, so sterile Jim hadn't missed a cue. Here was where the world started to spin.
Hank paused at the curb, just long enough for Jim to find his footing on the sidewalk.
Karen touched his arm, a small tap, maybe to remind him of her question, or just to let him know she was there. Whatever it was, he focused on it, briefly, then lost her again as a car with an inordinately loud stereo pulled up alongside them. "Where's the car?"
"Down the block."
He followed her. Pedestrians brushed past and the sun beat down, baking the scents of the city into the pavement, into the very air and substance of life around him. The trees smelled of pastrami and garlic and bagels. The decorative fountains reflected the sounds of traffic and music and gossip. The pigeons were the most coherent sentient beings around. Jim focused on one cooing on a mailbox or a straggly bush just down the street. It was easiest to focus on one thing while he tried to think out here. "Billy works in the cafeteria, yes, but he read the chart—"
"And his diagnosis?" Karen asked, that grin in her voice that he hated. The one she always had when she thought he'd gone off the deep end.
"My diagnosis, Karen, from what he told me, is that we're out of luck."
"So what? Chances of him making it to trial anyway were slim. What else do you want from him?"
"The truth, Karen, is that too much to ask?"
There was pressure on his arm, her hand again, this time stopping him. He signaled Hank to stop and looked down at the woman at his side, his lips pressed together.
"You still think that line about him perjuring himself is worth something?"
He took on the tone he heard her use sometimes, mocking her, he said, "Get a grip, Jim, get over it."
"I don't sound like that." Sounded like she was rolling her eyes.
He pushed it. "I don't know what you look like, Karen, but I know what you sound like."
"Car's to your left, detective," she said. Again, the tone he associated with her rolling her eyes.
Jim let go of Hank's harness, holding only the leash. He reached out, took a step, then two steps. His hand found the car and he let his arm drop. Karen hadn't moved, but he wasn't sure exactly where she was. The city had swallowed her, but he let her go and just spoke; it'd be easier to explain himself without knowing for sure she was staring at him with her no-nonsense, get-a-grip tone. "You wanna know why I'm so obsessed with this? One, I don't know if Sinjin was even there. Two, if he was, I don't think he did it on purpose. Three, the way Mr. Hanson, esquire acted the entire time we were investigating this case, I wanted to rip his balls out and shove them down his throat."
"Oh, yeah, that's why I got into law enforcement, too."
Jim let his head drop, but it was more to hide his grin.
"There's something… something I hated about that family, too, but that doesn't mean they're capable of committing a crime. Just because they were always doting on the great Detective Dunbar and making sure he was comfortable, that's no reason to follow them until they screw up."
Jim sighed. Yeah, it got to him, how some people wouldn't let him screw up, how they were constantly hovering and making sure he was comfortable, some sort of invalid.
"Don't worry, I'm with you on this," she reassured him.
Jim cocked his head at her.
"The day we arrested Sinjin? Mr. Hanson hugged me."
Jim laughed loudly. "Yeah, that's a good reason."
"There was something off about it, Jim."
"You don't think it had anything to do with you being a pretty young lady?"
"He stroked my hair."
"You shoulda stayed a beat cop. You coulda spent all your time arresting huggers and muggers."
"Ha ha, very funny, get in the damn car."
A footstep, just one, then a car roared by, a hole in the muffler, and he lost her. Jim reached out again for the car, finding he wasn't standing completely upright. That happened sometimes, without a horizon to fix on, if he was concentrating on something else, he'd find himself leaning one way or another, his posture less than perfect. He let Hank into the car, then followed, slamming his door in time with Karen's.
"If everyone slammed their car doors at the same time in this city, we'd be in big trouble," Karen grumbled, starting the ignition.
"What now?" Jim asked, hooking in his seatbelt.
"Head back. Maybe run Mr. Hanson through CBI again."
Jim rolled his window down, grinning. "You had too much fun with that last time."
"Okay, so I'll Google him."
Hank jutted his panting face next to Jim's head in order to look out the windshield, or join the conversation.
A tune played by bells sped past the car. "Was that the ice cream man?" Jim asked. He followed the sound, listening ahead, straining his ears the same way he used to squint into the distance. Being blind was more three dimensional, forming pictures behind as well as ahead, but it was also more confined, sounds moving in and out of range.
"You want me to pull him over for speeding?"
Jim grinned. "Yeah, I kinda do. It'll be better than spending all morning on paperwork."
"I'll buy you a popsicle when we get back, okay? I don't think it'd go over to well if I was the one who had to arrest the ice cream man."
"Something to tell your grandkids."
"Don't start."
Jim loosened his tie. "Start what?"
"Nothing."
"No, really."
"If this heat doesn't let up, we should ask to work the night shift for a while."
"Really, Karen."
"Yes, really."
"Do I often ask about your grandchildren? I didn't realize you had any."
"Jim—"
"Karen."
"My mom called. "Karen, Karen,"" Karen imitated with a slight accent, sounded very Jersey, to the point of almost being Jewish, ""how's your man friend?""
"Your man friend?"
"She always asks that." She sighed heavily. ""'Cause you know Aaron's got a girl and they're going to be getting married.""
"Aaron's your brother?"
"Yeah. "Karen, dear, I'm not getting any younger and you should settle down. You've done the exciting thing, now it's time you settled down.""
"She's not getting any younger?"
"She wants grandkids, Jim. Doesn't your mom ever ask you why you and Christie haven't…?"
He shook his head. "She died. I was 18, so I joined the army."
"Oh. I, uh—"
"Get out, see the world."
"Did you?"
"Yeah. I saw the world. Saw a little more than I wanted to." He imagined her nodding in the silence. Hank pulled back and stuck his head out the window, panting hard into the wind. "But Karen," he said, focusing on her impersonation, "how long's your mother been Jewish?"
She laughed. "Since her best friend is Jewish. She moved up here from Puerto Rico, she thought everyone talked like that."
