K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

"He probably would have killed her if you hadn't showed."

"Oh, geez, don't say that. I was this close to leaving when I spotted him."

"What about a description? Big guy? Little?"

"Can't help you there. I only saw him for a second, and it was largely in the dark."

"You're sure it was a man?"

"Well, I couldn't swear to it in court, but if you're asking what I thought at the time, I'd say yes. A woman doesn't usually whack another woman with a lead pipe," I said. "He was white, I know that."

"What else?"

"Dark clothes, and I'm sure he was wearing hard shoes because I heard his soles scratching on the pavement as he walked away. He was cool about it, too. He didn't run. Nice, leisurely pace, like he was just out for a stroll."

"How do you know he wasn't?"

I thought about it briefly. "I think because he didn't look at me. Even in the dark, people are aware of each other. I sure spotted him. In a situation like that, someone looks at you, you turn and look at them. I notice it most when I'm out on the highway. If I stare at another driver, it seems to catch their attention and they turn and stare back. He kept his face to the front, but I'm sure he knew I was watching."

Cheney hunched over his plate and started in on his pie. "We had a couple of cars cruise the area shortly after the call came in, but there was no sign of him."

"He might live somewhere down there."

"Or had his car parked nearby," he said. "Did she say she had a date tonight?"

"She didn't mention an appointment. Could have been Lester, come to think of it. She said he'd been in a foul mood, whatever that consists of." The pie was the type I remembered from grade school: a perfect blend of cherry glue and pink, shriveled fruit, with a papery crust that nearly broke the tines off the fork. The first bite was the best, the pie point.

"Hard to picture Lester doing something like this. If she's beat up, she can't work. Mr. Dickhead's all business. He wouldn't tamper with his girls. More likely a john."

"You think she pissed some guy off?"

Cheney gave me a look. "This wasn't spur of the moment. This guy went prepared, with a pipe already wrapped to hide his fingerprints."

I finished my pie and ran the fork around the surface of the Styrofoam plate. I watched the red of the cherry pie filling ooze across the tines of the plastic fork. I was thinking about the goons in the limousine, wondering if I should mention them to Cheney. I'd been warned not to tell him, but suppose it was them? I really couldn't see the motivation from their perspective. Why would an attorney from Los Angeles want to kill a local hooker? If he was so crazy about Lorna, why beat the life out of her best friend?

Cheney said, "What."

"I'm wondering if this is related to my investigation."

"Could be, I guess. We'll never know unless we catch him."

He began to gather crumpled napkins and empty Pepsi cans, piling empty plastic packets on the tray. Distracted, I pitched in, cleaning off the tabletop.

When we got back to the emergency room, Serena called the OR and had a chat with one of the surgical nurses. Even eavesdropping, I couldn't pick up any information. "You might as well go on home," she said. "Danielle's still in surgery, and once she comes out, she'll be in the recovery room for another hour. After that, they'll take her to intensive care."

"Will they let me see her?" I asked.

"They may, but I doubt it. You're not a relative."

"How bad is she?"

"Apparently she's stable, but they're not going to know much until the surgeon gets finished. He's the one to give you details, but it's going to be a while yet."

Cheney was watching me. "I can run you home, if you like."

"I'd rather stick around here than go home," I said. "I'll be fine if you want to go. Honest. You don't have to baby-sit."

"I don't mind. I got nothing better at this hour anyway. Maybe we can find a couch somewhere and let you grab a nap."

Serena suggested the little waiting room off ICU, which was where we ended up. Cheney sat and read a magazine while I curled up on sofa slightly shorter than I was. There was something soothing about the snap of paper as he turned the pages, the occasional clearing of his throat. Sleep came down like a weight pressing me to the couch. When I woke, the room was empty, but Cheney'd draped his sport coat across my upper body, so I didn't think he'd gone far. I could feel the silky lining on his jacket, which smelled of expensive after-shave. I checked the clock on the wall: it was 3:35. I lay there for a moment, wondering if there was some way to stay where I was, feeling warm and safe. I could learn to live on a waiting room couch, have meals brought in, tend to personal hygiene in the ladies' room down the hall. It'd be cheaper than paying rent, and if something happened to me, I'd be within range of medical assistance.