say-“you’ve been taking out your problems on me. Giving me grief because it’s all you’ve got to give. Making me crazy.”
“We never-” her mother protested, but Wendy cut her off.
“I don’t want to hear it. Any of it. I’m not putting up with your bullshit anymore. You hear me? I’m through being treated like a nobody. Because I’m not a nobody. And if you can’t understand that, then it’s your problem, not mine.”
The line was quiet save for the buzz of the long-distance connection.
“Is that what you called to tell us?” her mother asked finally in a small, oddly subdued voice.
“Yes,” Wendy said after a moment’s thought. “As a matter of fact, it was.”
“Then what was all this guff about the trouble you’re in?” Her father sounded as if he didn’t know whether to be hurt or angry.
“You can read about it in the paper,” she said coldly. “On the front page.”
She hung up before they could say anything more.
Then she threw her head back on the pillow and marveled at what she’d done.
I told them off, she thought, astonished. I let them know exactly what I think, how I feel. I got them off my back. At last.
The accomplishment seemed as significant as surviving the Gryphon’s attacks last night.
She shut her eyes, her lips parted in a tremulous smile. She felt light and free.
“Good morning, Wendy.”
Her eyes flashed open. Sebastian Delgado stood in the doorway, watching her.
“Oh. Good morning. Detective.”
He stepped into the room, closing the door. She noticed he was wearing the same brown suit she’d seen last night. Dark crescents bruised his eyes. She remembered the cot in his office and doubted he’d had the chance to use it.
“The nurse down the hall told me you were awake,” Delgado said. He pulled up a chair and sat at her bedside. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Not bad. A little woozy from the Valium they gave me.”
“Nothing more serious than that?”
“Uh-uh. Apparently the paramedics did their job.”
He nodded. “They reached you almost immediately. There’s a firehouse only half a mile from the scene of the… the accident.”
“Believe me. Detective, it was no accident.”
Delgado smiled. “I didn’t think it was. You ran him off the road, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” She remembered herself screaming obscenities as she slammed the Camaro into the squad car again and again.
“He stole the patrol car and pursued you after you escaped from the house?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
She thought about it. “No,” she said finally, “I never did. In the house it was dark, and when he was chasing me, there was too much going on.”
“I can imagine.”
She took a breath. The next question had to be asked, even though she knew the answer. “Jeffrey is dead. Isn’t he?”
“Yes, Wendy.” He spread his hands and let them drop in his lap. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
“I should have protected you better,” he said softly. “I should have posted more than two men outside the house. But I didn’t think the Gryphon could find you there. And I assumed that, if he did, two men would be enough to stop him. I was wrong on both counts.”
“I’m not blaming you. Detective. Nobody is.”
He made a noncommittal sound. It was clear he was blaming himself.
“What about Porter?” she asked. “And Sanchez?”
“Porter’s body was found in the brush across from the house, where the car was parked. He got out of the car for some reason, and the Gryphon ambushed him. We haven’t found Sanchez yet, but we don’t hold out any hope for him either. His body is probably in the wreckage of the car.”
“Probably? You mean you haven’t looked?”
“We’ve been unable to get near the car. When the fuel tank exploded, it ignited a brushfire. The winds spread the flames pretty fast; in a Santa Ana condition, that dry chaparral is like tinder. The whole mountainside was set ablaze. The fire department is still damping down the last of the hot spots.”
“Was anyone hurt in the fire?”
“No. It was contained before it could threaten any homes.”
“But if you can’t get to the car, you don’t know for sure that he died in the crash.” She heard the mounting panic in her voice but couldn’t quell it. “What if he got away somehow? What if he’s still out there?”
Delgado leaned forward and took her hand. “Believe me,” he said quietly, his voice as gentle as his touch, “there is no way anyone could have survived that explosion.”
The red flower of flame bloomed again in her mind. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I am. I’m a cop. I’m always right.” The words were spoken lightly, but she could see the sudden bitter self-reproach in his eyes, the brief, ugly twist of his mouth, and she knew he would not forgive himself for the mistakes he felt he’d made.
Wishing to reach out to him as he’d done for her, she raised her free hand and ran her fingers over his knuckles. “It was sweet of you to come see me.”
He shrugged, a shade too casually. “I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop by the hospital and check on your condition.” He glanced in the direction of the bureau. “When you’re ready to go home, look in the top drawer. You’ll find a set of clean clothes from your closet. I had one of my officers-a female officer-pick out some items for you.” He smiled. “I thought you might be tired of wearing pajamas.”
She returned the smile. “Are you always so solicitous toward the civilians you deal with?”
His eyes met hers. “Not always.”
She felt the shiver of a spark between them. They both broke eye contact at once.
“Look, I’d better get going,” Delgado said briskly. “The mop-up operation on the mountain must be nearly done by now.” He released her hand and rose from his chair. “Later I’ll take your statement about what happened last night. The ladies and gentlemen of the press are rather eager to know the details as well. For the moment we’re keeping them at bay; nobody except staff members is being admitted to this wing of the hospital. But I’m afraid I can’t hold them off forever. Before long you’ll have to face the media.”
“After last night, I can face anything.”
He nodded, unsmiling now. “I know you can.”
20
Delgado drove east on Hollywood Boulevard, then turned north onto Nichols Canyon Road, returning to Jeffrey Pellman’s house.
As he drove, he replayed the conversation with Wendy in his mind. He’d lied to her about one thing. He hadn’t stopped off at Cedars-Sinai because he was in the neighborhood. He’d gone out of his way to see her. He suspected she knew it too.
Ran him off the road, Delgado thought with a slow shake of his head.
Of course he’d already assumed that she’d gone on the attack in the car chase. Having spent the past few hours reconstructing the events of the previous night, he believed he knew what had transpired at nearly every turn.
Ralston, the coroner’s assistant, had been preparing to perform an autopsy on Jermifer Kutzlow, and Delgado
