“I’m not going to let that happen.”
She intended to go straight home. She’d called the hospital to check on Webster and was told there was no change. But, as with Clooney’s wife, she had to check for herself.
She strode down the corridor toward ICU, dreading every step. Hating the scent, the sound, the feel of the hospital. When the nurse on duty demanded if she was family, she didn’t hesitate. She lied.
And moments later found herself in the narrow cubicle, made smaller by the bed and machines, looking down on Webster’s white face.
“Well, this is just dandy, isn’t it? Didn’t I tell you this was going to piss me off? You know how bad it makes me look for you to be lying here, taking the easy way? Damn it, Webster.”
She broke down and laid a hand over his. Cold, she thought. His was too cold. “You think I have time for this? I’m up to my ears in work, and instead of lending a hand, you’re just stretched out hiding in a coma. You’d better get up off your ass.”
She leaned down, spoke clear and strong into his face. “You hear me, you bastard? You’d better get up off your ass, because I’ve had too many cops die on my watch just lately. I’m not letting you add to the number. And if you think I’ll put a posy on your grave and shed a tear, you are wrong, pal. I’ll spit on it.”
She squeezed his hand, waited for a response that didn’t come. “Jerk,” she muttered, with more affection than she’d realized she had for him.
She turned away, came to a skidding halt when she saw Roarke at the door. A thousand thoughts jumbled into her head, and not a single one of them came through clearly.
“I thought you might drop by here.”
“I was just . . .” Her hands found her pockets on the end of a shrug.
“Trying to help a friend,” he finished and crossed to her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, touched his lips to her forehead. The gesture was very gentle, very supportive, and very married. “Do you think I begrudge that?”
“I guess not. It’s a . . . the situation is a little weird, that’s all.”
“Do you want to stay with him awhile longer?”
“No. I said what I came to say.” But she glanced back. “When he comes out of this, I’m going to kick his ass just for the hell of it.”
“I’ll hold your coat.” Roarke slipped an arm around her. “Let’s go home, Lieutenant. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
It was busy and went by too quickly. From her station in Security Control, she was able to watch any and every section of the club on-screen.
She argued about the lights—too dim—but he hadn’t changed them. She sniped about the music—too loud—but he’d gone his own way there, as well. Now she saw she’d missed one more angle to hassle him over.
The crowd.
She hadn’t anticipated the number of people who’d pour in, jam in, elbow in for the club’s reopening. She went on slow burn, realizing that Roarke would have anticipated it.
“We don’t have enough cops,” she said to Feeney. “He hasn’t been open an hour, and they’re packed in like he’s offering free drinks and group sex to every second customer.”
“Might be he is. He’s got a way with drumming up business. We’re okay, Dallas. This security setup’ll handle it. Look there, we got a joker in sector two, table six, spiking his lady’s drink. A little Exotica’d be my guess.”
“Let Roarke’s security handle that kind of thing.” She rested a hand on Feeney’s shoulder as they both watched the screen. “I
don’t want police interference in the routine.” And she wanted to see just how good his security was.
Damn good, she decided, when within thirty seconds a large man in a black suit strolled up to the table in question, confiscated the drink, and lifted the offender out of his chair in one smooth move.
“Slick and quiet,” Feeney commented. “That’s the way to keep things steady.”
“I don’t like it. I don’t like the whole deal. Too much can go wrong.”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong. You just got the heebie-jeebies.”
“The what?”
“Ants in your pants, nervous twitters.”