by Jance, J. A.
“You’re here at the hospital?” Crystal demanded. “I thought I told you to stay at the scene.”
“And I thought you could use some assistance. Where are you?”
“I’m with Hannah. They’ve stitched up her head wound and are wheeling her down to X-ray. I’ll come right down. Where are you?”
“Right outside the entrance to the ER,” Ali answered. “What are you going to do?”
“I can talk to Gloria,” Crystal answered, “but I can’t detain her. I’ve got no probable cause, no warrant.”
“But Hannah told me she was sure Gloria was responsible,” Ali said. “She saw her at the crime scene, and now she’s here at the hospital.”
“An accusation like that, especially one made to a third party, isn’t sufficient grounds for me to take Gloria into custody.”
Ali looked around. Several yards away a uniformed security guard was smoking a cigarette and messing with his cell phone. Shay was nowhere in sight. She’d probably had a problem locating a parking place. And if she were here, she’d say the same thing Crystal just had: “Stay outside. Stand down.” But Ali didn’t feel like standing down. And she didn’t feel like taking orders either.
“Ask Hannah,” Ali urged. “See what she has to say. In the meantime I’ll see what, if anything, I can do to get Gloria to hang around awhile.”
With that thought in mind, Ali charged into the lobby just as a couple with a little boy tried to exit. The kid, looking miserable and chagrined, wore a newly applied cast on one arm. The parents looked stressed. All three of them shied away in horror when they caught a glimpse of Ali’s bloodied clothing.
“As I said, we currently have no patients by the name of Gilchrist,” the clerk was saying to Gloria as Ali came to a halt at the counter, “none at all. You must be mistaken.”
“I am not mistaken,” Gloria insisted. “I followed the ambulance that brought her here. My grandmother is somewhere inside this hospital, and I demand that you let me see her.”
The frazzled clerk glanced in Ali’s direction. “Excuse me, ma’am,” she said, “you’ll need to step away from the counter and wait your turn.”
Backing away, Ali studied Gloria Reece, doing what Frigg would have described as a quick threat assessment. The woman was dressed in a loose-fitting light blue T-shirt, a pair of white shorts, and strappy sandals. There was a telltale bulge in the middle of her back that suggested the presence of a firearm, most likely carried in a small-of-back holster. The shorts precluded any kind of ankle-holstered backup weapon, but the purse anchored on Gloria’s right shoulder might well hold one of those. If there was any kind of confrontation, both the purse and the holstered weapon had to be taken out of play at once.
Gloria and the clerk were still arguing back and forth when Shay entered the lobby and got in line with Ali, who immediately sent the new arrival a text:
Gloria is at the counter. She’s armed. Small-of-back holster. Maybe gun in purse.
What should we do?
Delay her long enough to give Lieutenant Manning a chance to talk to Hannah.
Don’t worry. She’ll be delayed, all right. With help from the DMV, I located her vehicle down in the parking garage. Thanks to my box cutter, it currently has two flat tires. When it’s time for her to leave, she’ll need a tow truck.
Good show. Keep an eye on her.
Where are you going?
Outside for a minute. I’ll be right back.
Ali remembered spotting that uniformed security guard standing outside, and that’s precisely where she headed. He was still in the same spot, lighting up another cigarette well within the boundaries of the designated smoking zone. As she got closer, Ali saw that he wasn’t armed, but there was something about his bearing that hinted at his being ex-military, maybe someone who’d done a couple tours of duty in the Middle East. His name tag said he was Brad Copley. Noting the hardness of his features, Ali realized that, armed or not, Brad was someone not to be taken lightly.
The only remaining question was how to engage him. What was the best way to enlist his help on Ali’s side of the conflict? Should she come across as someone with some law-enforcement background and experience, or should she go all damsel-in-distressy? Seeing him stuff a pack of Marlboros back into his shirt pocket gave her the answer she needed. He was young, he was male, and he smoked Marlboros. If Brad was one macho dude, playing the DID card was Ali’s best option.
“Excuse me,” she said breathlessly, dashing up to him. “The sign over there on the door says this is a gun-free zone, right?”
Looking at her with concern, he stubbed out his newly lit cigarette in the sand of a waist-high ashtray. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.
“And that means no guns at all, right?” she asked.
“That’s correct—no guns at all. Why, what seems to be the problem?”
“There’s a woman inside the lobby arguing with the clerk behind the counter,” Ali replied, feigning uncertainty. “I don’t want to cause any trouble, but I’m pretty sure she’s wearing a gun under her shirt. I was standing behind her in line and saw what looked like a gun right there in the small of her back.”
Brad pressed a button on a shoulder-mounted radio. “Possible gun in ER lobby,” he said. “Request assistance.” With that he strode off toward the door while Ali followed close on his heels. Once inside the waiting room, he immediately took charge.
“Excuse me, ladies,” he said, holding his hands in the air in an attempt to calm the raised voices emanating from the counter. “Is there a problem here? Anything I can do to help?”
“Yes, there’s a problem,” Gloria replied.
Seeing the uniform must have made her realize that she had overplayed her hand. With every eye in the room now on her, she made a concerted effort to lower her voice. “They brought my grandmother here by ambulance a little while ago, but now they won’t tell me where she is or what they’ve done with her.”
“I can see why you’d be concerned,” Brad said, taking out a small notebook and a stubby pencil. “What’s your grandmother’s name?”
“Hannah,” Gloria answered impatiently, “Hannah Gilchrist. She was involved in a serious car crash in Sherman Oaks.”
“And your name?”
“Gloria,” she replied, “Gloria Reece.”
“Would you happen to have your ID on you, Ms. Reece?”
Brad was unfailingly polite, and he waited patiently while an exasperated Gloria fished her driver’s license out of her purse.
“Thank you so much,” he said. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind stepping aside for a moment and giving me some details, I’ll see if I can help you out.” He walked away from the counter toward the far side of the lobby. With every eye in the room focused on her, Gloria had no choice but to follow.
Ali was impressed. Brad’s professional de-escalation of the situation was something drilled into every wannabe cop during police-academy training—keep it calm, keep it light, keep it conversational. And once Brad and Gloria crossed the room, Ali noticed that Brad positioned himself so he would be facing the front entrance while Gloria would have her back to the door. A moment or two later, an arriving black-and-white slid silently to a stop under the portico, and two uniformed officers—a man and a woman, both carrying weapons—emerged. Their understated arrival went completely unnoticed by Gloria Reece.
“What time did you say the accident occurred?” Brad was asking.
“Probably close to an hour ago now,” Gloria answered.
The two uniforms walked up behind Gloria. At that point, without changing his tone of voice, Brad Copley delivered his zinger. “Van Nuys Central Trauma is a gun-free zone, Ms. Reece. Is it possible that you’re carrying a weapon in that small-of-back holster?”
As soon as he said the words, the female officer stepped forward. Before Gloria could react, the officer plucked the weapon from its holster and grabbed the purse before stepping away far enough to be safely out of reach. While Gloria spun around
angrily to face the new arrivals, Brad maintained his professional composure.
“Do you happen to have your concealed-carry permit on you today, Ms. Reece?” he asked.
As confusion and outrage registered on Gloria’s face, Ali found herself smiling. Gloria’s weapon wasn’t the only firearm in that gun-free zone that day, but it was most likely the only illegal one. In gun-control central Southern California, that would probably be enough for her to be taken into custody, and at that moment that was precisely what was required.
“I don’t have it with me right now,” Gloria muttered.
“So maybe we should all step outside to discuss this,” Brad suggested. As the four of them exited through the sliding door, the woman behind the counter looked as though she was about to pass out.
“You mean she had a gun?” the clerk asked faintly. “The whole time she was standing here yelling at me, she was carrying a weapon?”
“She was,” Shay said, stepping out of line and clearing the way for the next person to approach the counter. “And just for the record, she wasn’t Hannah Gilchrist’s granddaughter either.”
While the conversation outside grew more and more animated, Ali picked up her phone and sent a text to Crystal:
I believe Gloria is about to be taken into custody.
Taken into custody? I told you we don’t have enough for an arrest warrant.
Weapons charge. Handgun in her possession with no concealed-carry permit.
How did that happen?
Sometimes you just get lucky. Where’s Hannah?
Still in X-ray.
If Gloria came looking for Hannah, armed and dangerous, maybe you can get her to tell you about what’s really going on.
The presence of an unlicensed weapon should give me enough probable cause to obtain a search warrant.
Good luck with that. And when you go for warrants, be sure to get one for her vehicle as well.
What kind of vehicle?
Range Rover.
Where is it?
It’s down in the parking garage, disabled.
Disabled? How did that happen?
Anybody’s guess. Apparently it has a couple of flat tires. And there goes Gloria. The cops just cuffed her and are loading her into the back of a squad car.
They’ll probably take her to Valley Station. I’ll give them a call and let them know that we’re looking at way more than a simple weapons charge. I’ll ask them to hold her in an interview room until I can get there.
What’s happening with Hannah?
They took her directly from X-ray to have an MRI. I’m pretty sure they’ll be admitting her after that. Where will you be?
We’ll hang out down in the lobby in case any more bad actors show up on the scene.
Who’s we?
Shay Green. She’s working security for me today.
Sounds like having security would have been a good idea for any number of people. Okay, I’ll be in touch.
“What now?” Shay asked when Ali pocketed her phone.
“Now we wait,” Ali said. “Hannah talked to me. It remains to be seen if she’ll talk to LAPD.”
59
Van Nuys, California, June 2017
Hannah Gilchrist lay perfectly still in the MRI tube and concentrated on not surrendering to a powerful urge to scream. The pain medication they had given her earlier was wearing off by the time the X-ray session ended. Now, during a seemingly endless series of MRIs, she was again in absolute agony. She was also claustrophobic, and she hated that awful thumping sound.
But when she could separate herself from the pain and the noise, she kept seeing in her mind’s eye the woman she’d met up with in the ER—the cop with the uniform and the badge, the one with her mother’s face—with Isobel’s face. Hannah had heard the cop’s name, but she couldn’t remember it. Still she had to be one of Eddie’s offspring, one who had taken after Hannah’s side of the family—the Andersons rather than the Gilchrists. Whoever she was, she’d been at the funeral and she’d come to the hospital after the crash. What was it she’d said earlier about wanting to keep Hannah safe?
“We’re done now,” the attendant said. “Let’s get you moved to your room.”
As soon as they rolled Hannah’s gurney out into the waiting room, the cop with Isobel’s face appeared next to her, walking beside the gurney as it traversed two different sets of elevators and several long corridors. No matter how hard Hannah tried, she couldn’t quite summon the name.
“Who are you again?” she asked finally, as they rolled along.
The woman nodded. “My name is Lieutenant Crystal Manning. I’m with LAPD.”
“And you’re one of Eddie’s.” It was a statement, not a question, and Crystal nodded a second time. “You look just like my mother,” Hannah continued. “Her name was Isobel. I never liked her much.”
Crystal smiled grimly. “We’re even there,” she muttered. “I never liked my mother either, and my father wasn’t much better.”
That was a surprising admission. Hannah had always assumed that the people who’d come to Eddie’s clinic and successfully conceived a child would have turned out to be perfect parents. Evidently that wasn’t true.
While riding upstairs in an elevator filled with several other people, both women remained silent. As they started down another long corridor, Hannah spoke again. “What about Marco Gregory, my driver? Is he okay?”
Crystal nodded. “My understanding is he was brought here, too, but he was treated and released.”
“Good,” Hannah said. “And why are you here?”
“Someone tried to kill you, Mrs. Gilchrist. You already knew that, because you told my friend Ali Reynolds as much before they managed to cut you loose from the wreckage. She also said you know who’s responsible. Now I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”
In reply Hannah zipped her lips and turned her head away.
They rolled her into a room while Crystal waited outside in the corridor. When the attendant and a pair of nurses transferred her from the gurney to the bed, Hannah managed to keep quiet during the shift, but it hurt so much she could barely stand it. Afterward one of the nurses stayed around long enough to take Hannah’s vitals. As soon as he left, though, Crystal reappeared and settled into a visitor’s chair.
“Am I under arrest?” Hannah asked.
“No,” Crystal answered, “not at all.”
“Then I don’t have to talk to you.”
“That’s correct,” Crystal agreed, “but there’s something you need to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Gloria Reece showed up here at the hospital a little while ago. She came armed with a handgun and claiming to be your granddaughter. Based on what you told Ali earlier, I instructed them not to let her inside.”
Neither woman spoke for the better part of a minute. “Where is Gloria now?” Hannah asked at last.
“In an interview room at Valley Station for the time being, waiting for me to come and talk to her,” Crystal answered. “She was carrying a gun with no sign of a concealed-carry permit. That’s why she was taken into custody—on a weapons charge.”
“But she came to the hospital looking for me and armed with a weapon?”
“That’s correct,” Crystal replied. “Now, why do you suppose she would do something like that?”
Hannah said nothing, so Crystal continued. “Back at the crash scene, you told my friend Ali that three people had turned on you, and you named names—your son, Edward; Luis Ochoa; and Gloria Reece. While you were undergoing your scans, I made a few phone calls. I’ve learned that Edward Gilchrist and Luis Ochoa are both lifers at Folsom State Prison. And I also learned that Gloria Ochoa Reece is the daughter of Luis’s late brother, Antonio.
“From what I saw this afternoon, what happened in the street in front of the funeral home was an organized hit, done with malice aforethought. So what do those three individuals have against you, Mrs. Gilchrist? Ali told me you disobeyed some kind of directive,
and the three of them turned on you. Why would they be so determined to take you out? Why would your own son want you dead?”
Just then two white-coated men appeared in the doorway of Hannah’s room. Hannah recognized the first one, Dr. Pennington, but the second was a complete stranger. It was the ER doc who actually entered the room.
“Ms. Gilchrist, I’m afraid we have some very bad news for you,” he said gravely. “The MRI revealed—”
“I already know about the cancer, if that’s what you mean,” Hannah interrupted. “According to the biopsy, it’s a recurrence of breast cancer that has already metastasized to at least three separate organs. It was diagnosed about two weeks ago. I could already see the dollar signs in my oncologist’s eyes. He was ready to go all out in terms of cancer-care warfare—surgery, chemo, radiation, the full-meal deal—but I put my foot down. I told him that at my age I’m prepared to let things run their course. I’m not in pain from the cancer, at least not so far, and when that happens, I’ll deal with it. What I want to know right now is can you fix my hip?”
The second man entered the room. “I’m Dr. Donald Fairfield,” he said. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon. Yes, I can replace your damaged hip. However, we’re talking invasive surgery with a painful, long-term recovery, and given your prognosis—”
“The recovery can’t be any more painful than what I’m dealing with right now,” Hannah snapped back at him. “My oncologist gave me six months to a year, if that. I want my hip fixed for however long I have. If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.”
Hannah could tell from the startled expression on the man’s face that she’d caught him off guard, and that made her feel a little better. She had seemed to lose some of her gumption over time, and right now she was glad to have it back.
“Very well,” he agreed. “When did you eat last?”
“I had brunch around eleven,” she answered, “just before I left the hotel.”
He checked his watch. “Because of the danger of aspirating food particles into your lungs while you’re under anesthesia, we need to wait several more hours before we can schedule the surgery.”
