***
One sleepless night later, to my credit, I have fifty pieces of evidence logged, thirteen interview requests from the press, an eight-page incident report, two angry phone calls from the motor pool for the dented car, and one lawyered-up suspect. Not to mention a stern talking to by Harry for not keeping him in the loop or waiting for back-up. All this sudden interest in my safety is getting old and stifling. I feel like a pissed-off China doll.
At least the whole debacle wasn’t for nothing. The computer guys are working on tracing the e-mail and wire transfers. We know one of Ryder’s aliases. A scumbag is off the street. But according to city hall, the best news is that we actually have a lead. We don’t look incompetent for a change. The press conference I just gave went as smooth as Don Juan. Too bad I looked like a gargoyle.
And now to cash in my superstar award. I get to go home and sleep. Maybe even eat something, take a shower, and change my clothes. I’m on call if anything comes up, but even God isn’t that cruel not to allow me eight full hours of sweet oblivion.
Harry isn’t in his office as I walk out, but Lt. Pete DiQueeno of Special Victims is. He waves as I pass, and I do the same. I guess we’ve all been relieved for a few hours. My off-duty car is exactly where I left it over twenty-four hours ago, though there are five fliers under the wipers. I reach my bed ten minutes later. I kick off my shoes, put on my pajamas, climb in, and pass out thirty seconds later.
A loud ringing by my ear jerks me out of Jo’s Happy Place. I look at the clock. A little past noon. Almost three hours. I’m too tired to think of something witty to say.
“Det. Joanna Fallon,” I say when I answer the phone.
“Jo, it’s Cam,” my partner says.
“What?”
“The guard, Dodd, is finally awake. Thought you’d want to be there when I talk to him.”
This perks me up like a verbal cup of coffee. “Yeah. Hell, yeah.”
“I’ll swing by your place in twenty. Bye.”
Twenty minutes to turn human again. I toss on my gray suit, purple shirt, brush my teeth and hair, scarf down a Pop Tart, and clip on my badge and gun just as Cam buzzes his arrival. Out the door I go.
Cam sits in the idling car and barely waits until I get in before pulling away. Like me, he resembles the walking dead with bloodshot eyes and sallow skin. At least he didn’t go on the national news looking like that.
“When did Dodd regain consciousness?” I ask.
“About an hour ago, poor bastard. He’s still pretty fucked up. We only get a few minutes with him.”
“Then we better make them count.”
One of the many things I love about Cam is that silence doesn’t feel awkward with him. Neither one of us is a big talker, so we barely say three words on the ride to the hospital. Not that either of us has the energy for anything so superfluous as small talk.
Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow Hospital, Galilee’s crowning glory, sits right at the edge of the Andalucía River which separates the city proper from the state park and The Garden. I turn my head to the left and I see The Falls in the distance. The thirty-story white building is always busy with doctors, patients, and visitors filing in and out. Two ambulances pull up to the ER as we park. As we walk to the elevator behind an orderly pushing an old woman, I spot Veronica sitting in the waiting room, jotting down notes. She doesn’t see me. Crap, I really owe her a call.
Logan Dodd is on the fifth floor, the critical care burn unit. His private room is under guard by two uniforms. A middle-aged Indian man in blue scrubs and white lab coat approaches us. “I’m Dr. Amil Sharma, Logan Dodd’s physician,” he says. “Before you go in, you’ll need to put on protective gear to prevent infection.”
Both the doctor and the two of us don our paper gowns, latex gloves, and face masks. We look ridiculous, but we don’t want our witness dying on us before trial just because I breathed my cooties on him. Cam looks at me and his eyes crinkle with a smile.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
“As well as can be expected,” the doctor says. “We had to amputate his hand at the wrist, and he’ll need more skin grafts where the acid splattered his thigh. He’s in for a long recovery process, in all respects.”
“At least he’s alive,” Cam says.
“He’s on heavy pain medication,” Sharma says. “Morphine. Please avoid agitating him, if possible.”
“We’ll be gentle,” I say.
Lying in his hospital bed, Logan Dodd looks less like a 6”3’ prison guard and more like a pale child. IVs and other tubes in nasty places hang from his body. The sheet covers the carnage inflicted on him. He’s awake, but his eyes are barely open. Doped out of his mind.