Devitt was standing on the sidewalk outside the front doors of St. Mary's Hospital waiting for Olsen, who had just arrived, to join him. It was just before 8 a.m.
Olsen let a couple of cars pass before he strode briskly across Stanyan Street, frowning in concern as he approached his colleague. Devitt looked terrible, like he hadn't slept a wink; Olsen was pretty sure that was the case.
The interim head of Homicide nodded his salutation as the older man joined him. "I thought you were bringing Mike with you?" he asked, surprised.
Olsen's frown got even deeper. "I haven't been able to get in touch with him," he answered as they walked into the hospital's large main lobby, approaching the information desk. "He wasn't at home when I got to his place last night. I called when I got home and left a message but I still haven't heard from him."
They had reached the desk, both of them holding out their credentials. Olsen asked for Steve's room number; it was on the fourth floor.
They crossed the lobby towards the bank of elevators, putting their badges away. "Where is he?" Devitt asked as he punched the UP button.
With a frustrated exhale, Olsen shook his head. "I have no idea. I called George Cassidy this morning but he wasn't in yet. I left him a message too."
They stepped into the empty car and, as the door closed, Devitt shook his head slowly. "I don't like the sound of that…"
# # # # #
The receiver to his ear, Cassidy listened to Olsen's message with growing concern. His brow deeply furrowed, he hung up. "Chris!"
A young detective at the far end of the bullpen shot to his feet, crossing towards the inner office at a jog. "Yeah?"
"Do you know what car Mike Stone was using?"
The IA cop shrugged, shaking his head. "I have no idea. Why?"
"Do me a favor, will ya? Get ahold of the garage and find out what car they gave him and then put an APB out on it, okay?"
The young man's eyes widened. "Yeah, ah, sure, right away…" He hurried back across the room.
Cassidy got up and walked to Mike's desk, sitting in the chair and starting to rifle through the several thin file folders piled neatly on one corner. He knew what the veteran detective had said he was going to do but Mike hadn't said where. Maybe he could find something that would tell him.
# # # # #
A white-coated doctor met the two police captains outside the closed hospital room door.
"I'm afraid Inspector Keller's not up for visitors just yet," Doctor Cohen said with an almost regretful smile. "He's still sedated because of the chest tube." When both cops looked even more concerned, he smiled encouragingly. "He's responding well and his collapsed lung is re-inflating at a normal pace, so there's nothing to be worried about. This is the best we can hope for right now."
"He's doing okay?" Devitt asked, needing more reassurance, it seemed.
Cohen smiled. "Considering his injuries, including the broken jaw, he's doing very well. But it's going to be a slow process. And there's nothing we can do to speed it up, believe me."
Glancing at Devitt, Olsen asked, "So, ah, so when do you think he'll be awake and we can see him?"
"Well, I wouldn't think it would be before later today… much later, I would say. More likely around dinnertime tonight. If his lung continues to inflate as we hope, the tube could be removed sometime this afternoon, and then we can allow him to wake up. But all that takes time and we're not going to rush it."
Both detectives were nodding. "No no, we understand," Devitt said softly, looking away and taking a deep breath.
Olsen and Cohen exchanged a concerned look, then the older cop nodded, glancing at his colleague; Cohen smiled in understanding.
"Ah, listen, while you're here," Cohen said brightly, "why don't you go in and see him for a couple of minutes?"
Devitt brightened. "We can?"
"Of course." The doctor took a step towards the door and opened it for them.
They entered the small room slowly and quietly. Steve was lying flat, a flannelette blanket pulled up to his waist. He was attached to a heart monitor and the chest tube protruded from his lower left ribs. The left side of chest was covered with an angry deep purple bruise.
They stepped closer to the bed. Olsen winced and Devitt closed his eyes, exhaling unsteadily. There was another large bruise on the right side of the young cop's face, which was swollen, his chin jutting forward unnaturally; they knew his teeth were wired together to set the broken jaw.
Shaking slightly, Devitt reached out and laid a hand softly on Steve's forehead, brushing the disheveled hair back.
With a heavy heart, Olsen watched his colleague, knowing the guilt and worry Devitt was shouldering. After a few long seconds, he put his hand on his colleague's arm. "Come on," he said gently, "let's go find Mike, okay?"
Nodding reluctantly, Devitt removed his hand from Steve's forehead and slowly followed Olsen to the door.
# # # # #
The pain brought him to consciousness again. It hadn't stopped and he knew he had fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion. He tried not to move, keeping his eyes closed and attempting, without much success, to keep his breaths shallow.
Suddenly everything that had flashed though his mind a few hours before, all the frightening possibilities that his pain-filled, slightly disoriented brain had begun to envisage, came flooding back. He opened his eyes.
He wasn't in a hospital room.
It was a normal room… a bedroom he realized… in someones house. There were curtains on the closed window to his right, and pictures on the walls. He could see a dresser with a mirror beside the door on the far side of the room, and a tall, cluttered bookcase on his left.
Under the heavy blanket that was pulled up almost to his chin, he raised his right forearm. The needle in the back of his hand stung but he ignored the pain. As he tried to grab the blanket to pull it off, he became aware of a metal weight, like a heavy bracelet, around his right wrist. He pulled his arm free of the blanket and froze. It was a handcuff.
There was a thin blue-and-white nylon rope tied firmly to the empty cuff dangling from the short chain on the other end. He twisted carefully, trying to ignore the agony emanating from his left shoulder, following the nylon rope with his eyes. It was tied securely to the head of the bed, leaving him only enough slack to allow his hand to lie at his side or raise to his face.
Stunned, he tried to look down at himself. He was still wearing his own clothes, the left side of his unbuttoned dress shirt now deep red with dried blood. His once white undershirt, equally soaked with blood, had been cut in half lengthwise and pulled back to expose his heavily bandaged shoulder.
He dropped his head carefully back onto the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut, gasping with the pain the effort had cost him. His mind reeled, trying to come to grips with the sudden undeniable reality of his situation. He froze momentarily then tried to move his legs; he couldn't. He opened his eyes and, gritting his teeth against the pain once again, raised his head enough to see the footboard. There was nylon rope lashed around both ends, disappearing under the blanket, and he knew without looking that the other ends were tied around his ankles.
With a strangled, disheartened whimper, he lowered his head, wincing when the laceration on the back of his head made contact the pillow. He stared, unseeing, at the ceiling, trying to slow his pounding heart.
# # # # #
"George. Anything yet?" Olsen was on the phone in Mike's office, Devitt standing at the far side of the desk, staring at him intently. Healey and Haseejian drifted towards the inner office.
"Did you see Steve this morning?" Healey asked quietly, glancing at Olsen.
Devitt nodded distractedly, trying to keep his focus on the other captain. "Ah, yeah, but he was still out. We might be able to talk to him sometime tonight."
"How's he doing?" Haseejian asked, equally quietly.
Devitt shrugged helplessly. "They say he's doing okay, all things considered."
Healey gestured towards Olsen with his chin. "What's going on?"
Devitt tore his eyes away from the man behind the desk. "We can't find Mike."
"What?" Healey and Haseejian exclaimed together.
Olsen hung up and stood, his gaze taking in all three very worried faces before him. "Mike was driving a dark blue Galaxie. George put out an APB on it but it hasn't been spotted yet. And he's also trying to find out what address Mike was going to last night." He sounded angry and frustrated.
"What the hell's going on?" Healey almost demanded.
Olsen looked at him and sighed heavily. "Nobody's seen Mike since late yesterday afternoon. George said he was going out to interview some woman about a complaint and then he was going to call it a day but nobody's seen him since he left IA. I went by his house last night and left a message on his answering machine, but there's been nothing. I haven't even been able to tell him about Steve."
"What can we do?" Haseejian asked.
Olsen shook his head. "Until we find that car, I'm not really sure we can -" The phone on the desk rang and he snapped it up. "Olsen," he barked then listened, his brow furrowing. "Okay… Okay, yeah, we're on our way." He slammed the receiver down then looked up. "They found the car. It's at Pier 64."
"64?" Healey echoed, surprised. "What the hell would he doing all the way over at Pier 64?"
Olsen shrugged as he circled the desk and started for the door. "Who the hell knows but that's where his car is."
The others followed as he almost jogged to the door.
# # # # #
The pain in his shoulder would wan for a bit then come back so strong it would take his breath away. He was trying to ride out the waves as best he could, attempting without much success to stay focused on the light fixture in the middle of the ceiling.
The door shot open and a short, plump woman with wild curly red hair and a huge smile almost bolted into the room. "Oh good," she squealed in an excited, cheery voice as she stopped at the right side of the bed, "you're awake again." She smiled warmly, staring into his eyes, then reached out and gently laid her hand against the fine stubble on his right cheek. "How are you feeling this morning, Lieutenant Stone?"
Knowing he was helpless, and knowing had to keep this woman on his side as he tried to figure out exactly what was going on, he smiled weakly. "Call me Mike… please…"
Her smile got even wider. "Why thank you… Mike. You can call me Carole, okay?"
He nodded as best he could. "It hurts…" he gasped, dragging his right hand towards his left shoulder, ignoring the handcuff and nylon rope.
Her face fell slightly. "I know," she frowned sympathetically. "I tried to get the bullet out but it was too deep. So we're just gonna leave it in." She smiled brightly again, nodding.
He tried to keep the shock from registering on his face.
"Do you think you could eat some breakfast?"
Still staring at her, trying to figure out just how much he could get away with, he nodded. "I, ah, I need to go to the bathroom," he said softly with an embarrassed facial shrug.
Her brow furrowed. "Oh, of course you do. Unfortunately I don't have a bedpan so you're going to have to really go to the bathroom."
He swallowed, his heart starting to pound. This could be the opportunity he needed to get out of there, he thought.
"It's just in the hallway out there," she continued pleasantly as she circled the bed to the other side and began to untie the rope from the headboard as if nothing was amiss.
He followed her with his eyes, stunned that she had not mentioned the handcuffs or the ropes. He closed his eyes, swallowing a smile, not believing his luck. He would worry about her state of mind later, he thought.
She had the rope almost undone before she threw her head back and bellowed. "Oliver!"
There was a loud thud from another room then the sound of heavy footsteps coming closer. Mike opened his eyes and, gritting his teeth against the pain, raised his head to look towards the door. His heart skipped a beat and his eyes widened when a young man came into view, a young man so big he almost filled the entire doorway.
"Yeah, ma…?"
