“The fun never ends,” the nurse said wearily. “Henry, it’s Ms. Gibbons again. And you got the short straw.” The nurse took a handheld out of her tunic pocket, keyed in the page.
“Can you give us Quigley’s status?”
“I can tell you she had a quiet night, and was taken down for tests early this morning. It’s better if you speak to Dr. Campo—and there she is. Dr. Campo, the cops are here about Suite 600.”
Eve shook hands with a short woman wearing a white tunic over black pants. Her hair sprang out in short, dark curls around a thin, long-jawed face. Her sharp green eyes assessed Eve, then Peabody.
“I knew the Icoves,” she said in a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “Both of them.”
“Me, too. Briefly.”
“Didn’t like them, never did. Like them less now. That said, our Ms. Quigley is very lucky. Without quick medical intervention she’d be facing a much harder road—if she’d lived. I don’t suppose you want all the medical jargon any more than I want a bunch of cop talk. Comes to a trial, I can give all of that. Now, I’ll tell you she’s lucky. No brain damage, and no reason she shouldn’t make a full recovery. Her memory’s a little spotty, and she’s experiencing occasional double vision, but that’s not uncommon in these cases. I’m going to tell you what I expect you already know I’m going to tell you. She’s been through a physical and emotional ordeal, requires rest and as much calm as possible. You can talk to her, but keep it brief. If she becomes overly upset, that’s it.”
“Good enough.”
“Word is, her husband whacked her.”
“He’s in custody.”
“I had one of those once—a husband. Instead of whacking him, and it was tempting, I divorced him.”
“The simple reason you’re not in custody.”
“Still wish he was. Okay, this way. We see too much domestic bullshit in here,” Campo said as she led them down a wide corridor. “Not as much as you, I expect, but plenty. Makes me wonder why people don’t need to take a psych test before they get a marriage license.”
Campo’s demeanor changed from leaning toward irascible to gentle as she walked into 600.
The scent of roses from the huge bouquet across from the bed nearly overpowered the sticky scent of hospital.
Natasha lay in the bed, the head lifted to support her in an incline. Pristine white bandages covered the right side of her head and wrapped around her forehead, but didn’t quite cover all the purpling bruising. Her hair lay over her left shoulder in a loose braid. Without enhancement, with the strain of the last hours, she looked older and more delicate.
Beside her, Martella sat in a roomy sleep chair, her sister’s hand in hers, eyes exhausted.
“Doctor—oh, the police already. She’s sleeping. She needs to sleep.” Moving slowly, Martella released her sister’s hand, rose to walk quietly across the room that more closely resembled a good hotel suite than a hospital. “Can you come back? She’s just had all these tests. She’s worn out. Lance ran out to get her some Greek yogurt, some berries. You said that was all right?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Campo told her, patted Martella’s shoulder as she moved over to study the numbers on the machines. “She’s stable. Martella, you should get some rest yourself, and some food.”
“I will. I will. But I don’t want to leave her until—”
“Tella.”
Natasha’s voice, barely more than a whisper, had Martella rushing back to the bedside. “I’m right here. Don’t worry, I’m right here.”
“Ms. Quigley.”
“Who is that?” Natasha turned her head. Her right eye showed more bruising and severe swelling from the blow. “Oh. Yes. I know you.”
“Are you up to answering some questions?” Eve asked her.
“I can try.”
“You don’t need to tire yourself, Tash,” Martella began.
“It’s all right. I want to know what happened. It’s all so confusing. Catiana? Is Cate really dead? It seems like a terrible dream.”
“What do you remember?”
“I was upstairs. I was upset, still a little upset from when you’d been there before. JJ was home. Yes, that’s right, he’d come home. He’d been . . . Where had he been?”