Savich and Sherlock got off the elevator at Stanford Hospital and headed toward the ICU. A police officer sitting in a chair in the unit outside Golden’s door eyed them up and down as they approached, then slowly nodded and rose, even before they had their shields out.
“Officer—Lazarus, I’m Agent Savich,” Savich said and shook his hand. “This is Agent Sherlock. Anything happening we should know about?”
“No, sir, everything’s calm now. But before—everyone thought she was dying. The doctors and nurses, they really moved fast.”
Savich’s heart sped up again, remembering how he’d felt when Ruth had told them Kathryn Golden’s heart had failed. But she was okay now, thank the good Lord.
“The neurologist is with Ms. Golden. I heard him assuring everyone she was stable now. Lieutenant Ramirez and one of his detectives left about five minutes ago. He didn’t look very happy, what with her still unconscious.”
“Any problem with the media?” Sherlock asked.
Officer Lazarus gave her a manic grin. “Yeah, I’ve booted out three or four of the varmints since I’ve been here. They’re sure having a good time, what with the bomb exploding at the Mariner, and Ms. Golden being a psychic and all, it means they have more to report about than the hike in our parking meter rates. Hope you find the guy who did this.”
When Savich quietly opened the door, he saw an older man wearing a white coat, his shoulders a bit stooped, his stethoscope pressed against Kathryn Golden’s chest. After he jotted something in her chart, he looked up at them and frowned.
“You just came from the Mariner?”
“How can you tell?” Sherlock asked him, giving him her sunny smile. “We scrubbed up pretty good before we came.”
“It must be the eau de smoke you’re wearing. Lieutenant Ramirez isn’t here. Who are you? What do you want? Why did the officer let you in?”
Both Savich and Sherlock held up their shields, introduced themselves.
“Hmm—FBI. I never met any FBI agents before. I’m Dr. Saint.” He looked closely at Sherlock. His shoulders straightened. “You and I are both blessed and cursed with our names, aren’t we?”
A kindred spirit, Sherlock thought. Like her, he’d undoubtedly heard it all. She said, “My dad leans toward calling it blessed— he’s a federal judge in San Francisco, likes the looks of abject terror he gets from defense attorneys and their clients. Actually, we missed out on the Mariner business. We were in another fire up in San Francisco. Please forgive the smoke perfume.”
“You were at that house fire in Pacific Heights? Really? I just heard about it—some big mansion was bombed, right?” At Savich’s nod, he shook his head. “Too much crazy stuff going on around here. Hey, you mean those two fires were connected?”
“It’s a little too soon to tell you that yet,” Sherlock said. “How’s Ms. Golden?”
Dr. Saint bent over her, lightly touched his fingertips to her temple. “As you can see, she’s been better. We had quite a scare with her heart rhythm and blood pressure a little while ago, and moved her into the unit here. That could have been from blunt-force trauma or head injury, but it seems to be under control now. The primary concern is that she’s never been fully alert, and we’re simply not sure why. The CT and even the MRI were normal, no hemorrhages, no edema. As for the rest, she’s got some bruises, some contusions, and a nasty cut on her leg that Dr. Ring sutured up. Her vitals are stable now. She’s not in a coma, but in a sort of a twilight state, partly from the drugs we had to give her. Now we just have to wait because she doesn’t seem quite ready to come back to us. She’s been through quite an ordeal.”
“Yes,” Savich said, looking down at her, “she has. You’re sure her heart is all right now?”
Dr. Saint nodded. “Never any guarantees in life or in medicine, but I doubt it will happen again, not at this point.”
Kathryn Golden’s face was pale as the fog that had hung outside the Sherlocks’ windows that morning, except for the faint bluish bruises. Both of her arms lay straight at her sides, IV lines tethered to both wrists. Still, she didn’t look as bad as Savich had thought she would, which was a relief. He would have recognized her anywhere, since he’d seen her so clearly last night. He said, “We’d like to sit here with Ms. Golden for a while if that’s all right with you, Dr. Saint.”
“I don’t see why not. It’s your time, and she isn’t going anywhere. Sometimes the sound of a voice can actually help, so if you want, talk to her. If there’s any change we need to worry about, we’ll see it on the monitors.” He shook their hands and left, smiling and nodding to Sherlock. Savich looked from his wife to Dr. Saint’s retreating back, eyebrow raised.
“What can I say?” Sherlock said as she walked to the single chair by the window. “You combine the smell of smoke with my name and I become irresistible.”
Savich was smiling as he sat at the side of Kathryn Golden’s bed. He leaned close, picked up her hand, and lightly rubbed his fingers over her skin. Too dry, he thought.
He focused on her and began speaking. “I’m here, Kathryn. I hope you can feel that I’m here, feel my hand holding yours. You’re going to be fine, there’s nothing to worry about. You scared the doctors for a little while, but you’re okay now. It’s time for you to wake up. I’d like to meet the person I’ve been thinking about so much lately.”
There was no response, but Savich continued, telling her what had happened at the Mariner Hotel. He spoke to her for perhaps five minutes, then paused, and looked over at Sherlock. She simply nodded at him and so he turned back. “Let me tell you about my little boy, Sean. He’s with his grandfather today. My father-in-law is a San Francisco native and a federal judge. They’re over at the courthouse, way up on the nineteenth floor. Can you imagine the fun he’s having—the center of every adult’s attention. This morning he said he wanted to watch his granddad punch out a criminal.”
There was still no response.
“Kathryn, do you know Thomas Pallack? I understand he was a client of Dr. Ransom’s for many years, in fact right up to the time of Dr. Ransom’s murder.”
