He heard the phone clunk, listened to her opening and closing drawers, papers rustling, other drawers being rattled, and finally she was back on the line. “Oh, yes, here it is. Right in its place. Daddy will be so proud.”
“I really appreciate this, Ms. Rivitz. It’s a good thing for people to help each other.”
“Oh yes, I agree,” she said, “But what are you doing to help me?”
He shook his head. “I’ll ask the general to give you a call.”
“You would do that?”
“Yes, ma’am, absolutely.”
She gave him the number and address, which was in Tidewater, Virginia. “You’re certain the general will call me?”
“Yes, ma’am, you can count on it.”
“Oh yes, I waited on Truman, Ike, Kennedy, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Bush, Clinton, and now another Bush. Do you know that Clinton did nasty things with girls in the Oval Office? And he never served our country in uniform.”
“Thank you, Ms. Rivitz.” He hung up before she could ramble on to whatever stop her train was rolling to next. Why in the hell had the Senate invited her to testify?
He dialed the number but got a recording telling him the area code was changing and to make a note of it. He was about to call the new area code when Fern LeBlanc popped into his cubicle, her eyes wide, her hands shaking like she had broken wrists.
“Come!” she said in a high, shrill voice. “Hurry!”
Captain Grant was on the floor of his office, his chair on its side. Service felt for a pulse and the captain’s eyes fluttered open. “Not a stroke,” he muttered. “Chair tipped over.”
“I’m calling 911,” Fern LeBlanc said, heading for her phone.
“Stop her,” Grant said, but it was too late.
She was on her phone, tears welling. “This has happened twice before and he insists I not call help,” she said, “but I’m telling you he’s not well, Detective. This time I called.”
It was the first time Service had seen anything other than professionalism or anger in her eyes. “You did the right thing,” he said, but she was already on the phone again.
“Doctor Beaudoin, this is Fern LeBlanc. It’s happened again.” She nodded curtly and said, “Thank you, they’re on the way.”
She looked at Service. “His physician will be here soon.”
The captain had his chair back up and was sitting in it when Service walked into his office. Grant’s eyes were glazed and distant.
“Not a stroke,” the captain said. “I was tipping in my chair, dozed off, and down I went.” He rubbed his head. “Got a knot.”
“She called 911, Captain.” Grant looked dazed, a little disoriented, and clearly unhappy.
“She thinks I’m made of eggshells,” the captain complained.
“Probably a good idea to get your head checked out,” Service said.
“She called your doctor too.”
“Blast that woman!” the captain said.
Dr. Pope Beaudoin was six-four and close to three hundred pounds, with shaggy silver hair and rimless glasses. He arrived before EMS, went directly into the captain’s office, and closed the door.
When they came out the doctor supported one of the captain’s arms.Ware Grant was dragging his left foot and looking pale. Service walked out with them.
EMS met them at the front door. The captain and doctor got into the ambulance. “I’ll be back,” Captain Ware Grant said. “Don’t get shot down, Detective.” The doors closed, the siren came on, and the ambulance raced away toward the hospital.
LeBlanc came outside jingling her keys. “I’m going to the hospital,” she said. “Will you cover the phones?”
When he finally got around to making the call to Teddy Gates, he got an answering machine recording, which said, “I’m not here and if that’s not obvious, don’t leave a message.” Classic Teddy Gates, blunt as a fist hatchet, whatever that was. From tenth grade world history Service had retained two terms, fist hatchet and Hammurabi’s Code, both of which no longer had a context, but popped into his mind at odd times.
“This is Grady Service, calling the general.” He paused before leaving his own numbers when a live voice intervened. “Sarn’t Service, you asshole!”
“Captain?”
“Best damn job I ever had. Where the hell is that barbarian Sarn’t Treebone?”
“Detroit Metropolitan Police, vice lieutenant.”
“No wonder Detroit’s so fucked up,” the general said with a laugh.
“You a cop?”
“Detective, Department of Natural Resources.”