“Broke his ribs.”
He looks down at me smiling, incredulous. “With what, your finger?”
“Tire iron.” I point under the front edge of the sofa.
Otriz pushes the couch a little until it slides a few inches, exposing one end of the tire iron.
“Jack. Something over here you missed.”
One of the evidence techs comes over, hands in surgical gloves.
“Did Saldado touch it?” says Ortiz.
I nod.
“Dust it for prints, then tag it,” he tells the tech. “You’ll need to get his prints too, to eliminate ’em. And blood,” he says. “See if you get any traces. We might get lucky. DNA for an I.D. Our man here says he broke a few ribs with the thing there.”
I cough, clear my throat to get his attention again.
“What is it now?”
I tap the front of my shirt, on my chest on the other side, away from my cut arm.
“What are you saying?”
“His blood.”
Ortiz comes down for a closer look. Where the Mexican coughed it up when we hit the floor. There is a fine mist of tiny specks, little dots of dried blood like bits of rust across the chest of my white shirt, some on the side of my face.
“Jack. Get a pair of scissors.”
A second later the evidence tech comes back. A few snips and he cuts a four-inch-square swatch out of my shirt.
“You become more cooperative somebody sticks you with a knife. I’ll have to remember that next time I come to your office for an interview. Anything else you have?”
I shake my head. “That’s good for now. You’re lookin’ a little peaked,” he says. “You guys want to get him outta here?” To the EMTs now, “That arm’s gonna take some stitches. If I call ahead to the E.R. and tell ’em they got a lawyer on the way, I’m sure they can find their biggest needle.” He smiles at me.
“Fine idea,” says the evidence tech. “Tell them to get that fuckin’ harpoon they use to close on autopsies. That’ll give him something to talk about when he rolls up his sleeves at bar meetings.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Ortiz, now wearing his dark glasses again, is smiling. “You want me to call your partner?”
I nod. I try to form the words, but nothing comes out. I try again. “My daughter.”
“You want me to have him call her?”
Quick nods.
“They’re gonna hold you at least overnight. For observation,” he says. “And we’re gonna talk some more tomorrow, hmm? So that you know, don’t try and tell me there’s no connection between your friend here and the other client, Mr. Metz. Cuz I know there was.”
I shake my head.
“Don’t bother,” he says. “I’m also going to assume you’re gonna tell me about it, when you’re feeling better, like tomorrow?”
Before I can respond, Ortiz has turned around to talk to one of the uniforms. “I want a hold put on him. Material witness,” he says. “He doesn’t get a release from the hospital until I sign him out. Personally. You understand?” Then he looks down at me and winks. “See you in the morning.”
Espinoza’s murder is all over the front page of this morning’s paper, along with pictures of Saldado’s apartment building fenced off from the street by yellow tape. Harry has brought copies along with a change of clothes to my hospital room at County General. Security is sitting outside my door, making sure I don’t leave.
“Even made the evening news,” says Harry.
“When do I get out of here?”
“Relax. It could be worse.”
“You want to tell me how?”
“You could be sharing a room with someone else.”
“I am. With you.”
“You could be here under a managed-care plan.”
“There you have me.”
“Try turning on the soaps.” Harry points to the overhead TV. “Take your mind off of things.”
“That’ll take my mind all right.”
“Relax. At least Saldado didn’t cut a nerve,” he says.
Harry is right. My arm is hurting like hell this afternoon, throbbing all the way to my armpit, from there to my brain right behind my eyeballs, like little strikes of lightning.
“One of the few times I agree with the cops,” he says. “Tell them what you know, and let’s get back to work for the American people,” says Harry.
“What do I know? Espinoza’s dead.” Harry has brought me slacks and a clean shirt, so I change as we talk. Gingerly I roll the sleeve down over my bandaged arm and button the cuff at the wrist.
“Looks like you’re going to be writing with your left hand for a while.”
“I take it they didn’t find Saldado?”
Harry shakes his head. “They’re still checking the neighborhood, talking to people. My guess is they’re wasting their time. You had a stiff in your living room, would you stick around?”
I don’t answer him.
“Me neither,” he says.
“With a broken rib, could you run like that?” I ask.
“Depends what I was running from,” says Harry.
I’ve got one foot up on the side of the bed trying to tie the shoelace with a stiff arm.
“You want me to do that?”
“When I start drooling, you can put me in St. Florence’s home for extended living. Until then I can tie my own shoes,” I tell him.
“Fine. Just trying to help.”
“How long can Ortiz keep me here?”
“Tell you one thing. Wouldn’t want to be your nurse,” he says.
“Harry?”
“What?”
“How long can Ortiz keep me here?” Harry looks at me, shrugs a shoulder. If I have to depend on my partner to spring me from the hospital, I may as well take up squatter’s rights.
I bring up the other shoe, place it on the edge of the sheet where the mattress meets one of the side rails, and go to work on the laces. That’s when I hear voices outside the door. A second later, it opens. I stop with my foot on the bed and look up.
Ortiz waltzes through the door, this time with his partner, the blond linebacker.
“As we speak,” I say.
“What did I tell you, Norm? Give a lawyer a day with his ass stretched across a bedpan, and he’ll smile when he sees you.”
“In case you haven’t looked, this one isn’t smiling,” I tell him.
“Listen to this. Off the happy juice for a few hours and the first part of him that works again is his mouth. You remember Sargeant Padgett?” says Ortiz.
“How could I forget.” Padgett has a pad and pencil out, ready to take notes. “How you doin’?”
“From the looks of it, better than you.” Padgett slumps into the other visitor’s chair next to Harry.
“Don’t tell me you write?” says Harry.
I look at him. “Be nice.”
“Listen to your partner,” says Ortiz. “He wants to go home.”
