At the sound of Goldberg’s voice, the sharpshooter at his temples faded a little, as if his brain had reached out for the auditory lifesaver and been dragged away from the sharks. At least temporarily.
“Hey,” he moaned.
“Are you all right?”
“Yup.”
“Headache?”
“Not at all.”
Goldberg laughed briefly. “Look, there’s something going around. I’ve had four nurses and two admins take to the floor just like you have. I’ve called in for extra staff and sent the others home to bed.”
“Wise of you.”
“Guess what.”
“Don’t say it. I’m going, I’m going.” Manny forced himself to sit up, and then, when he was ready, he pulled his sorry ass off the floor by using the rails of the hospital bed.
“You were supposed to be gone this weekend, Chief.”
“I came back.” Fortunately, Goldberg didn’t ask about the horse race results. Then again, he didn’t know there were any to be shared. Nobody had a clue about what Manny did outside the hospital, mostly because he’d never thought it was important enough compared to the work they did here.
Why did his life feel so empty all of a sudden?
“You need a ride?” his chief of trauma asked.
God, he missed Jane.
“Ah . . .” What was the question? Oh, right. “I took some Motrin—I’ll be fine. Page me if you need me.” On the way out, he clapped Goldberg on the shoulder. “You’re in charge until tomorrow at seven a.m.”
Goldberg’s response didn’t register.
Turned out that was a theme. Manny wasn’t tracking at all as he found the north bank of elevators and took one down into the parking garage—it was almost as if that last round of the owies had TKO’d everything but his brain stem. Stepping out, he put one foot in front of the other until he got to his designated space. . . .
Where the fuck was his car?
He looked around. The chiefs of service all had assigned parking spots, and his Porsche was not in its slot.
His keys were not in his suit pocket, either.
And the only good news was that as he became royally incensed, the headache backed off completely— although that was obviously the result of the Motrin.
Where. The. Hell. Was. His. Goddamn car.
For shit’s sake, you couldn’t just bust a window, roll start it with the clutch, and head out. You needed the pass card he kept in his—
Wallet was gone, too.
Great. Just what he needed: a stolen billfold, a Porsche on the way to an illegal chop shop, and a go-around with the cops.
The security office was down where you checked out of the garage, so he hoofed it along instead of calling because gee-frickin’-whiz, his cell phone had been taken, too, natch—
He slowed. Then stopped. Halfway to the exit, in the row where patients and families parked, there was a gray Porsche 911 Turbo. Same year as his. Same NYRA sticker on the back window.
Same license plate.
He approached the thing like there was a bomb taped to its undercarriage. The doors were unlocked, and he was cautious as he popped the driver’s side open.
His wallet, keys, and cell phone were under the front seat.
“Doc? You all right?”
Okaaay. Apparently, there were two theme songs of the night: no memories and people asking him the one question he was guaranteed not to answer truthfully.
Looking up, he wondered what exactly he could say to the security guard: Hey, has someone turned my marbles in to Lost and Found?
“What you doing parked down here?” the guy in the blue uni asked.
“Damn, you should have called, my man. We’d have fixed that quick.”
“You’re the best.” At least that wasn’t a lie.
“Well, take care—and get some rest. You don’t look so hot.”
“Excellent advice.”
“I shoulda been a doctor.” The guard lifted his flashlight on a wave. “Night.”
“G’night.”
Manny got into his phantom Porsche, started the engine, and threw her into reverse. As he drove over to the garage’s exit, he took out his pass card and used it without a problem to open up the gate. Then on St. Francis Avenue, he hung a louie and headed downtown for the Commodore.
Driving along, he was certain about one and only one thing.
He was losing his ever-loving mind.
TWELVE
U should be home by now, Butch thought, as he stared into space at the Pit.
“He should be here,” Jane said behind him. “I talked to him nearly an hour ago.”
“Great minds, great minds,” Butch muttered as he checked his watch. Again.
Getting off the leather couch and walking around the coffee table, he went over to his best friend’s computer setup. The Four Toys, as those high-tech bastards were called, were worth a good fifty grand—and that was about all Butch knew about them.
Well, that and how to use a mouse to locate the GPS chip in V’s phone.
No reason to zero in. The address told him everything he needed to know . . . and also gave his gut a whirl. “He’s still down at the Commodore.”
When Jane said nothing, he glanced up over the monitors. Vishous’s
Butch was willing to bet they were thinking the same thing: V’s staying late at the Commodore when he knew his sister had been operated on and was safely here at the compound was sketchy—especially given the brother’s mood.
And his extremes.
Butch went over to the closet and got out his suede coat.
“Is there any way you could—” Jane stopped and laughed a little. “You read my mind.”
“I’ll bring him back. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay. All . . . right. I think I’ll go and stay with Payne.”
“Good idea.” His quick response was about more than just the clinical benefits to V’s sister’s doctor staying on site—and he wondered if Jane knew it. Then again, she wasn’t stupid.
And God only knew what he was going to find at V’s place. He’d hate to think of the guy cheating with some skank, but people made mistakes, especially when they snapped from stress. And better that someone other than Jane get an eyeful of what might be doing.
On his way out, he gave her a quick hug—which she immediately returned, solidifying herself and squeezing him back.
“I hope . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.
