by Sue Grafton
Dead ahead, above the information desk, the word INFORMATION was writ large. I waited my turn and then asked a Mrs. Lewis, the patient information volunteer, for Mickey Magruder’s room. She was probably in her seventies, her eyelids crepey as a turtle’s. Age had cut knife pleats in the fragile skin on her cheeks, and her lips were pulled together in a pucker, like a drawstring purse. She did a quick check of her files and began to shake her head with regret. “I don’t show anybody by that name. When was he admitted, dear?”
“On the fourteenth. I guess he could be registered as Michael. That’s how the name reads on his birth certificate.”
She made a note of the name and consulted another source. Her knuckles were knotted with arthritis, but her cursive was delicate. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Is it possible he’s been discharged?”
“I doubt it. I heard he was in a coma in ICU.”
“You know, he might have been taken to the Santa Monica facility on Sixteenth Street. Shall I put in a call to them?”
“I’d appreciate that. I drove all the way down from Santa Teresa, and I’d hate to go home without finding him.”
I watched her idly as she dialed and spoke to someone on the other end. Within moments, she hung up, apparently without success. “They have no record of him there. You might try Saint John’s Hospital or Cedars-Sinai.”
“I’m almost certain he was brought here. I talked to police detectives yesterday, and that’s what they said. He was admitted early Wednesday morning of last week. He’d been shot twice, so he must have been brought in through emergency.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t help. All I’m given is the patient’s name, room number, and medical status. I don’t have information about admissions.”
“Suppose he was transferred? Wouldn’t you receive notice?”
“Ordinarily,” she said.
“Look, is there anyone else I could talk to about this?”
“I can’t think who unless you’d want to speak to someone in administration.”
“Can’t you check with Intensive Care? Maybe if you describe his injuries, they’ll know where he is.”
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “there is a trauma social worker. She’d certainly have been alerted if the patient were the victim of a violent crime. Would you like me to call her?”
“Perfect. Please do. I’d appreciate your help.”
By now, other people were lining up behind me, anxious for information and restless at the delay. Mrs. Lewis seemed reluctant, but she did pick up the phone again and make an in-house call. After the first couple of sentences, her voice dropped out of hearing range and she angled her face slightly so I couldn’t read her lips. When she replaced the receiver, she wouldn’t quite look at me. “If you’d care to wait, they said they’d send someone.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not that I know, dear. At the moment, the social worker’s out of her office … probably on the floor somewhere. The ICU charge nurse is going to try paging her and get back to me.”
“Then you’re telling me he’s here?”
The man behind me said, “Hey, come on, lady. Give us a break.”
Mrs. Lewis seemed flustered. “I didn’t say that. All I know is the social worker might help if you want to wait and talk to her. If you could just have a seat … .”
“Thanks. You won’t forget?”
The man said, “Hell, I’ll tell you myself.”
I was too distracted to engage in a barking fest, so I let that one pass. I made my way over to an empty chair. Driving down to L.A., I hadn’t pictured things turning out this way. I’d fancied a moment by Mickey’s bed, some feeling of redemption, the chance to make amends. Now his latent paranoia was rubbing off on me. Had something happened to him? Had Detectives Claas and Aldo been holding out? It was always possible he’d been admitted under an assumed name. Crime victims, like celebrities, are often afforded the added measure of protection. If that were the case, I wasn’t sure how I was going to sweet-talk my way into his alias. All I knew was I wouldn’t budge until I got a lead on him.
Someone had left behind a tattered issue of Sunset Magazine. I began to leaf through, desperate for a diversion from my anxiety about him. I needed to get “centered.” I needed serenity, a moment of calm, while I figured out whose butt I was going to kick and how hard. I settled on an article about building a brick patio, complete with layouts. Every ten or fifteen seconds I looked up, checking the clock, watching visitors, patients, and hospital personnel entering the lobby, emerging from the cafeteria, passing through the seeing-eye doors. It was important to dig out the area to a depth of six inches, adding back a layer of gravel and then a layer of sand before beginning to lay brick. I chose the herringbone pattern for my imaginary outdoor living space. Thirty minutes went by. I finished all the articles on horticulture and went on to check out the low-fat recipes utilizing phyllo and fresh fruit. I didn’t want to eat anything that had to be kept under a moist towel before I baked it.
Someone sat down in the chair next to mine. I glanced over to find Gian Aldo, and he was pissed. The woman at the desk had clearly ratted me out. Aldo said, “I figured it was you. What the hell’s going on? I get a call saying some woman’s over here making a stink, trying to get Mickey’s room number from a poor unsuspecting volunteer.”
I felt the color rise in my cheeks. “I didn’t ‘make a stink.’ I never even raised my voice. I came to see how he was. What’s the big deal?”
“We asked to be notified if anyone came in asking for Magruder’s room.”
“How was I supposed to know? I’m concerned, worried sick. Is that against the law?”
“Depends on your purpose. You could’ve been the shooter … or had you thought about that?”
“Of course I thought about that, but I didn’t shoot the man,” I said. “I was anxious about him and thought I’d feel better if I could see him.”
Aldo’s dark brows knit together and I could tell he was struggling to moderate his attitude. “You should have given us warning. We could have met you on arrival and saved you the time and aggravation.”
“Your overriding purpose in life.”
“Look, I was in the middle of a meeting when the call came through. I didn’t have to rush right out. I could have let you sit and stew. It would have served you right.” He stared off across the lobby. “Actually, my overriding purpose is protecting Magruder. I’m sure you can appreciate the risk, since we don’t have the faintest idea who plugged him.”
“I get that.” I could see the situation from his perspective. This was an active investigation, and I’d gummed up the works by ignoring protocol. Since Mick was my ex and since mine was the gun that was found at the scene, my sudden appearance at the hospital didn’t look that good. “I’m sorry. I get antsy for information and tend to cut to the chase. I should have called you. The fault was mine.”
“Let’s don’t worry about that now.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get back to work, but if you want, I can take you up to ICU for a couple minutes first.”
“I can’t have time alone with him?”
“That’s correct,” he said. “For one thing, he’s still unconscious. For another, it’s my responsibility to keep him safe. I answer to the department, no ifs, ands, or buts. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but that’s the way it is.”
“Let’s get on with it then,” I said, suppressing the surge of rebelliousness. Clearly, I’d have to yield to him in everything. This man was officially the keeper of the gate. Seeing Mickey was more important than bucking authority or winning arguments.
I got up when he did and followed him through the lobby, feeling like a dog trained to heel. We took a right down the corridor, saying nothing to each other. He pressed for the elevator. While we waited, he pulled out a package of gum and offered me a piece. I declined. He removed a stick for himself, tore it in half, peeled off the paper, and popped the gum in his mouth. The elevator doors slid o
pen. I entered behind him, and we turned and faced front while we ascended. For once I didn’t bother to memorize the route. There was no point in scheming to find Mickey on my own. If I pulled any shenanigans, Detective Aldo was going to nail my ass to the wall.
We entered the 7-E Intensive Care Unit, where the detective was apparently known by sight. While he had a brief conversation with the nurses at the desk, I had a chance to get my bearings. The atmosphere was curious: the lights slightly dimmed, the noise level reduced by the teal-and-gray patterned carpeting. I guessed at ten or twelve beds, each in a cubicle within visual range of the nurses’ station. The beds were separated by lightweight green-and-white curtains, most of which were drawn shut. These were the patients who teetered on the edge, tethered to life by the slimmest of lines. Blood and bile, urine, spinal fluid, all the rivers in the body were being mapped and charted while the soul journeyed on. Sometimes, between breaths, a patient slipped away, easing into the greater stream from which all of us emerge and to which all must return.
Aldo rejoined me and steered me around the desk to the bed where Mickey lay. I didn’t recognize the man, though a quick glance at Aldo assured me this was him. He wasn’t breathing on his own. There was a wide band of tape across the lower portion of his face. His mouth was open, attached to a ventilator by a translucent blue tube about the same diameter as a vacuum cleaner hose. The top half of the bed was elevated as if he were on permanent display. He lay close to one side, almost touching the side rails, which had been raised to contain him like the sides of a crib. He wore a watch cap of gauze. The bullet wound had left him with two blackened eyes, puffy and bruised as though he’d been in a fistfight. His complexion was gray. There was a tube in the back of one hand, delivering solutions from numerous bags hanging on an IV pole. I could count the drips one by one, a Chinese water torture designed to save life. A second tube snaked out from under the covers and into a gallon jug of urine accumulating under the bed. What hair I could see looked sparse and oily. His skin had a fine sheen of moisture. Years of sun damage were now surfacing like an image on film bathed in developing fluid. I could see soft down on the edges of his ears. His eyes weren’t fully closed. Through the narrow slits I could watch him track an unseen movie or perhaps lines of print. Where was his mind while his body lay so still? I disconnected my emotions by focusing on equipment that surrounded his bed: a cart, a sink, a stainless steel trash can with a pop-up lid, a rolling chair, a glove dispenser, and a paper towel rack—utilitarian articles that hardly spoke of death.
The presence of Detective Aldo lent a strange air of unreality to our reunion. Mickey’s chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, a bellow’s effect forcing his lungs to inflate. Under his hospital gown, I could see a tube top of white gauze bandages. When I’d met him, he was thirty-six. He was now almost fifty-three, the same age as Robert Dietz. For the first time I wondered if my involvement with Dietz had been an unwitting attempt to mend the breach with Mickey. Were my internal processes that obvious?
I stared at Mickey’s face, watching him breathe, glancing at the blood pressure cuff that was attached to one arm. At intervals, the cuff would inflate and deflate itself, with a whining and a wheeze. The digital readout would then appear on the monitor above his head. His blood pressure seemed stable at 125 over 80, his pulse 74. It’s embarrassing to remember love once the feeling’s died, all the passion and romanticism, the sentimentality and sexual excess. Later, you have to wonder what the hell you were thinking of. Mickey had seemed solid and safe, someone whose expertise I admired, whose opinions I valued, whose confidence I envied. I’d idealized him without even realizing what I was doing, which was taking my projection as the stone cold truth. I didn’t understand that I sought in him the qualities I lacked or hadn’t yet developed. I’d have denied to the last breath that I was looking for a father figure, but of course I was.
I became conscious of Gian Aldo, who stared at Mickey with a silence similar to mine. What could either of us say beyond the trite and the obvious? I finally spoke up. “I should let you get back to work. I appreciate this.”
“Any time,” he said.
He walked me down through the hospital and across the plaza. I punched the elevator button and he waited with me dutifully. “I’m fine,” I said, meaning he could leave.
“I don’t mind,” he said, meaning not-on-your-sweet-life.
When the elevator arrived, I got on and turned, giving him a little wave as the doors slid shut. I found my car, unlocked it, turned the key in the ignition, and put the gears in reverse. By the time I made the three circles upward to ground level, he was waiting in his car by the exit, his engine idling. I pulled out of the lot onto Tiverton, and when I reached Le Conte I turned left. Detective Aldo did likewise, keeping pace with me as I headed toward the freeway. He was still asserting his control, as I was keenly aware. I could understand his desire to see me off, though I felt like the villain in a Western movie being escorted out of town. I kept track of his car in my rearview mirror—not that he made any effort to disguise his intent. West on Sunset, north on the 405, driving toward the 101, we formed a two-car motorcade at sixty miles an hour. I began to wonder if he was going to follow me all the way home.
I watched the cross streets go by: Balboa, White Oak, Reseda … did the man have no faith? What’d he think I was going to do, circle back to UCLA? At Tampa, I saw him lean forward and pick up his radio mike, apparently responding to a call. The subject must have been urgent because he suddenly veered off, crossing two lanes of traffic before he headed down the exit ramp. I kept my acceleration constant, my gaze fixed on the mirror to see if he’d reappear. Detective Aldo was a sneak, and I wouldn’t put it past him to try a little misdirection. Winnetka, DeSoto, Topanga Canyon passed. It looked like he was gone. For once my angels were in agreement. One said, Nobody’s perfect, and the other said, Amen.
I took the next off-ramp.
10
Mickey had been shrewd in listing an address on Sepulveda. According to the Thomas Guide, there are endless variations. Sepulveda Boulevard seems to spring forth in the north end of the San Fernando Valley. The street then traces a line south, often hugging the San Diego Freeway, all the way to Long Beach. The North and South Sepulveda designations seem to jump back and forth, claiming ever-shifting sections of the street as it winds from township to township. There are East and West Sepulveda Boulevards, a Sepulveda Lane, Sepulveda Place, Sepulveda Street, Sepulveda Eastway, East Sepulveda Fire Road, Sepulveda Westway. By juggling the numbers, Mickey could just about ensure that no one was ever going to pinpoint his exact location. As it happened, I’d collected three variations of the same four digits: 2805, 2085, and 2580.
I placed the addresses in numerical order, beginning with 2085, moving on to 2580, and then to 2805. I reasoned that even if finances had forced him to sell his car, he still had to get around. He might use a bike or public transportation traveling to and from his place of employment—unless, of course, he’d also lost his job. He probably did his shopping close to home, frequenting the local restaurants when he felt too lazy to prepare a meal, which (if the past was any indication) was most of the time. The detectives had mentioned the shooting had occurred in a commercial district with lots of bars close by. Already in my mind, a mental picture was forming. Mickey’d never owned a house, so I was looking for a rental, and nothing lavish, if I knew him.
I cruised the endless blocks of Sepulveda I’d selected. While this wasn’t L.A. at its worst, the route was hardly scenic. There were billboards everywhere. Countless telephone poles intersected the skyline, dense strands of wire stretching in all directions. I passed gas stations, a print and copy shop, three animal hospitals, a 7-Eleven, a discount tire establishment. I watched the numbers climb, from a car wash to a sign company, from a construction site to a quick lube to an auto body shop. In this area, if you weren’t in the market for lumber or fast food, you could always buy discount leather or stock up at the Party Smarty for your
entertaining needs.
It wasn’t until I reached the 2800 block in Culver City that I sensed this was Mickey’s turf. The H-shaped three-story apartment building at 2805 had a rough plaster exterior, painted drab gray, with sagging galleries and aluminum sliding-glass doors that looked like they’d be difficult to open. Stains, shaped like stalactites, streaked the stucco along the roofline. Weeds grew up through cracks in the concrete. A dry gully ran along the south side, choked with boulders and refuse. The wire fence marking the property line now leaned against the side of the apartment complex in a tangle of dead shrubs.
I drove past, scanning the nearest intersection, where I saw an electronics shop, a photo lab, a paint store, a mini-mart, a pool hall, a twenty-four-hour coffee shop, two bars, and a Chinese restaurant, Mickey’s favorite. I spotted a driveway, and at the first break in traffic I did a turn-around, coming up on the right side of the street in front of 2805. I found a parking place two doors away, turned off the engine, and sat in my car, checking out the ambience, if the concept isn’t too grand. The building itself was similar to one Mickey occupied when the two of us first met. I’d been appalled then, as I was now, by his indifference to his environment. The sign out front specified studios and 1 & 2 bedroom apartments NOW RENTING, as if this were late-breaking news.
