Memory in Death (In Death 22)

“Let me get on that. I’m out.”

She whirled toward the door, pulling it open just as Peabody pushed from the other side. “Sweepers are heading up.”

“We’ll get them started. We’ve got to go. Bobby’s heading to the hospital. Hit by a cab.”

“Hit by—what the hell—”

“Don’t ask, I can’t tell you. Let’s just get this moving, and get there.”

She went in hot, dodging clogged traffic as her sirens blasted. And doing her best to ignore quick, sharp pinches of guilt.

Had she put Bobby in a position to be hurt? Two cops on him, a homer with audio. Still not enough?

“Could just be an accident.” Peabody tried not to whimper as they threaded between a van and a cab with a layer of cheap paint to spare. “People, especially out-of-towners, have road accidents in New York every day. Step out too far, don’t look where they’re going. Gawking at the buildings instead of watching the lights.”

“There’s no point in hurting him. No point.” She rapped her fist on the wheel. “What does it get you? Roarke’s not going to cough up two mil because some guy he doesn’t know is in the path. Why should he? Why would he? It serves no purpose to hurt Bobby.”

“You said Baxter reported he was eating and drinking, at the curb. He gets bumped, or slips. It’s sleeting, things are slippery. Dallas, sometimes things just happen. Sometimes it’s just bad luck.”

“Not this time. No bullshit coincidence.” Her voice was fierce and furious. “We missed it, that’s all. We missed something, someone, and now we’ve got a witness in Emergency.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I made the call, so it’s on me. You make copies of the recording. Get a copy shot down to the lab. I want to be able to hear everything, every voice.”

She pulled up to the emergency entrance. “Park it,” she ordered, jumping out. “I need to get in there.”

She strode to the doors, through.

It was the usual place of pain. Victims waiting to be heard, to be helped. The sick slumped in chairs. The healthy waiting impatiently for whoever they’d come with to be treated, released, admitted.

She spotted Trueheart, somehow younger in a sweatshirt and jeans. He sat close to Zana, holding her hand, murmuring to her as she wept.

“Eve! Eve!” Zana jumped up, threw herself into Eve’s arms. “Bobby. Oh, my God. It’s all my fault. Bobby’s hurt. He’s hurt so bad. I don’t know—”

“Stop.” Eve pulled back, gave Zana one brisk shake. “How bad is he hurt?”

“They didn’t say, they won’t tell me. He was bleeding. His head. His head, and his leg. He was unconscious.” Tears spurted. “I heard them say concussion, and something broken, and maybe—”

“Okay, what happened?”

“I just don’t know.” Now she sank back into the chair. “We were just waiting for the light. We’d gotten some soy dogs and coffee. It was cold, but it felt so good to get out. And I said I wanted to buy a hat, and they were across the street. Then I spilled my coffee, so we missed the light and couldn’t go. We were waiting and he just fell. Or slipped. I just don’t know. I tried to grab his coat. I got my hand on it. I think I did.”

She stared down at her hand. Eve noted the light bandage. “What happened to your hand?”

“I spilled the coffee. It splashed all over when I grabbed for him. Burned my hand a little. I started to fall. I think. Somebody pulled me back. But Bobby…”

Zana wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked. “The cab hit him. It tried to stop, but it was too quick, and it hit him, and then he flew back, and fell. So hard.”

“Where is he?” She looked at Trueheart.

“They took him to Treatment Room Two. Baxter’s on the door.”

“Zana, stay here. Trueheart, stand by.”

She strode through the waiting area, straight by a nurse who called out for her to stop, and swung right when she saw Baxter at a pair of double swinging doors.

“Goddamn it, Dallas. We were ten feet away. One on either side.”