taken to a room, and that the doctor would talk to us now. We went through the door to the hallway outside the waiting room and were met by a young man in scrubs. He introduced himself as Dr. Baldwin.
When I told him my name, he said, “Detective Harriman has been asking about you.” Then, talking mainly to Pete, but giving me polite eye contact now and again, he told us that Frank had suffered a concussion and a broken nose, two cracked ribs, and various minor facial injuries. Luckily, the ribs hadn’t punctured his lungs. Frank was conscious now but we should keep our visit brief.
Frank was lying in the bed, his head and shoulders slightly elevated. His face was chalk-white. His eyes, nose, and upper lip were puffy; he lay very still. Even knowing that he was probably going to be okay, it scared me to see him like this. As we approached the bed, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on our faces. “Hi,” he managed to say.
“Hello. Good to see you’re awake,” I said.
“You’re hurt,” he said, seeing the bandage.
“Look who’s talking.”
He swallowed, and made a motion for the water glass. I held the straw up to his lips and he took a long drink.
“Thanks.” He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he said, “Hi, Pete.”
“Hey, Frank. Doctor tells us you’re gonna be fine, but that it will hurt like hell for a while.”
“It already does,” he said. I wondered if we should leave, but it was hard to make myself do it.
He managed an odd, lopsided grin. “Glad you’re okay. I was worried.”
I took his hand, held it between mine. “You worried me, too. Get some sleep. I’ll be back to see you in the morning.”
“Okay,” he said, and squeezed my hand as I let go. As I turned to leave, he said, “Irene?”
I turned back. “Yes?”
“Miss your deadline?”
“There will be another one tomorrow, and another one the day after that. Don’t worry about it. Get better.”
I moved to the foot of the bed, and Pete moved up toward him. “She’s right, Frank, just get better. And don’t you worry about Irene. I’ll watch out for her.”
“Thanks, Pete,” he whispered.
He closed his eyes again, falling asleep this time; Pete and I, like tiptoeing children, stepped quietly away from his bed.
On our way down the hallway, we met Captain Bredloe, Frank’s boss in Homicide. He was a tall, strapping man with a deep voice. I stood to one side while Pete told him Frank was asleep and not able to talk much right now, but that he should be okay. The captain hesitated, looked down the hallway toward the room, then turned and walked out with us.
Pete went over the list of Frank’s injuries. The captain asked a few questions, then looked over at me as Pete gave a brief summary of what I had told him about the day’s activities.
“You’re a reporter?” Bredloe asked.
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“You worked with O’Connor, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” That seemed like something as long lost as childhood right now.
“I liked O’Connor,” he said. “You be careful.” He paused, then said, “Can we give you a ride somewhere?”
“My car’s just over at the paper. Frank met me there before we went to San Pedro.” I thought of the picnic on the cliffs.
“So your car has been there all day?”
“Pretty much. Since about nine this morning.”
“Hmm. Pete, have it checked out before she gets in it.”
A simple phrase, but it made me feel queasy.
He noticed. “I’ll tell you what, you look like you could use some rest. Why don’t I take you home and let Pete deal with your car?”
It sounded like a good idea. I told them I could get a ride in with Lydia tomorrow. I gave Pete my car keys and left with the captain.
On the way to Lydia’s, he talked to me about O’Connor, told stories of his own first days on the force, when O’Connor was already a journeyman reporter. Apparently they had lifted a few glasses together at Banyon’s back when Bredloe was a single man. “O’Connor always gave us a fair shake,” he said. “He wasn’t as sympathetic as some would have liked him to be, but he was always fair.” We pulled up in front of Lydia’s house. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Kelly. I’ll just watch you to the door.”
I thanked him and said goodnight, feeling the stiffness again as I got out of the car. I waved to the captain as I let myself in.
Lydia exclaimed over me, mothered me, fussed over me once again. My weary, lifeless retelling of the day’s events brought further sympathy and care. “Take another hot bath tonight or you’ll be super sore tomorrow,” she advised. I agreed, and went down the hall to run the bath. She came in with a coffee-colored drink.
“What is it?” I asked.
