Padding barefoot back down the hall to the almost clean kitchen, I handed a scrap of paper to Archie Winter. 'Here's Mrs. Kurobashi's number, I said. 'I told her what you wanted, and she said you're welcome to call.
With that, I returned to the bedroom and crawled into bed.
CHAPTER 14
I may have been in bed, but I hardly slept. I lay there listening to the droning voices of Ames and Winter. At one Winter left to return to his hotel. At two, Ames turned off the music and went to bed in the guest room. By four in the morning, the throbbing in my hand had me wide awake and pacing the floor, wondering if I could last the five interminable hours until Dr. Blair's office opened. During that dark time, the long hours between then and sunrise, I managed to convince myself that the good doctor's telephone diagnosis of sub-whatever was incorrect and that I was really developing a bad case of blood poisoning.
Early morning is a good time for really creative worrying. I never did go back to sleep.
I was sitting alone at the dining room table and drinking my third cup of coffee when the phone rang at seven. It was Ron Peters, calling for the first time since he and Amy had left to go on their honeymoon. Amy had insisted that the girls and their baby-sitter, Mrs. Edwards, go along on the trip. She said that since they were all going to live together as a family, a trip to the Oregon Coast would be a good way of getting started. That wasn't my idea of a perfect honeymoon, but from the animated sound of Peters' voice, they were having a great time.
'Did I wake you? Peters asked.
'No. I was already up and drinking coffee.
'I should have called earlier-in the week, I mean-but we've been having too much fun. By the way, how are the fingers? Heather wanted me to ask. She's been worried sick about it.
Heather knew about my fingers, too? Did every goddamned person in the whole world know about my fingers but me?
'They're giving me a little bit of trouble, I admitted reluctantly. 'As a matter of fact, I have an appointment to see the doctor today.
'I hope it's nothing serious, Peters said.
'Naw, I replied, with as much casual unconcern as I could muster despite the hours of worry. 'I'm sure it isn't. When are you coming home?
'Saturday night at the latest, he replied. 'The girls have to be back in school by Monday. We've kept them out a full week as it is. It'll take all day Sunday to get squared away, to get ready for work and school.
'Call me when you get in.
'Will do. Anything doing at work? Peters asked.
Ron Peters had been kicked upstairs. His new position in the media relations department had him rubbing shoulders with nothing but polished brass, big shots, and members of the press. I could hear the frustration in his voice and knew he missed the real world of the fifth floor and the easy camaraderie that goes along with being a detective.
'We're working the Kurobashi case, I said.
'I read about that one, Peters returned. 'It was big enough that it made the regional section of the Oregonian. It sounds interesting.
For the next few minutes I forgot about my fingers while Peters and I discussed the case. Talking things over with him always helps clarify my own thinking. He agreed with my conclusion that things didn't look very good for David Lions.
'Have you talked to anyone who's working on the Lions case in Illinois? Peters asked.
'Not yet, but that's good suggestion. I should do it now. Call Schaumburg before the rates change.
'I'll let you go then, Peters said. 'Take care of yourself, and those fingers too. Heather feels terrible about it, even though we've all told her it was an accident. She's afraid you're mad at her.
'Tell her not to worry. She's still my favorite toothless kid.
Peters laughed. 'Right. I'll do that.
Minutes later I was talking to a lieutenant named Alvin Grant in the Detective Division of the Schaumburg, Illinois, police department. He knew all about the phony David Lions.
'He's gone. His lawyer came in and bailed him out.
'Did he tell you how he came to have the card? I asked.
'Sure. Said he bought it for fifty bucks from some dude at the airport.
'Did he say what this guy looked like?
'It wasn't the real David Lions, if that's what you're thinking, Grant said. 'We talked to Dana Lions and got a complete description of her father. I talked to a Detective Halvorsen from out there in your neck of the woods as well. Believe me, this character isn't your David Lions. No way.
'What did he look like?
'The one who sold the card? Fairly tall, good-looking, dark. Wore gloves. From Grant's description the guy sounded a whole lot like Pamela Kinder's self-styled God's gift to women.
'While he was in custody, we managed to convince the little puke that he needed to do a composite drawing of the guy who unloaded the card, Grant continued. 'He had to finish before we let him out. I offered to FAX it to Halvorsen, but he said the resolution on their machine isn't very good. So I'm sending it Fed Ex. He said you might want a copy as well.
'I do, I said. 'Send it the same way. To my attention at Seattle P.D. They'll see that I get it.
On my way to Dr. Blair's office, I called Big Al on the car phone to tell him I'd be late. At 8:15, a full forty-five minutes early, I was sitting in the waiting room of Orthopedic Associates, conscious of nothing but the throbbing pain under my bandage. A brusque, businesslike nurse took me into a treatment room at 8:55 and expertly removed the bandages and splints, clicking her tongue in disapproval at the grimy condition of the bandage.
She left the room briefly, and for the first time, I got a look at my fingers. They were ugly, more purple than black and blue, and wildly swollen. The nails were blackened by the pools of blood trapped beneath them. The nurse came back in and caught me examining my nails.
'Pretty bad, aren't they? Wait a few days until the swelling goes down. They'll look like a matched set of pancake turners.
There's nothing like a little cheer and comfort from a lady in white.
When Dr. Blair finally appeared, he looked a whole lot more like Santa Claus than some of the department store models I've seen lately, but personality-wise, he was anything but jolly, and certainly no better than his surly nurse. He studied my fingers through thick bifocals.
'What's the matter with them? I asked.
'Nondisplaced ungual tuft fractures, he said.
'What's that?
He looked up at me, briefly meeting my gaze. 'They're broken, he said with no trace of a smile. He turned to the nurse. 'Bring me a paper clip, would you please?
'A paper clip? I yelped. That didn't sound very medicinal to me. 'What are you going to do?
'Drill 'em, he relied casually. 'Like I told you on the phone. It's the blood under your nails that's causing the pain.
He turned to a small cupboard beside me, reached into a drawer, and brought out a cigarette lighter.
'What's that for? I asked warily.
Dr. Blair didn't answer. The nurse returned to the treatment room and silently handed him a paper clip. He straightened it with utmost concentration. Once it was flat, he held it with a hemostat and began heating the straightened end with the lighter. When the end of the paper clip was glowing red hot, he took hold of my hand and pressed the hot metal to one of my blackened nails. I winced, expecting some pain while the paper clip sank easily through the nail as though it were melting plastic.
When the hole went all the way through, the trapped blood squirted into the air. 'It doesn't hurt because the blood cushions the pain, he explained.
I couldn't help wishing he had told me that before the operation rather than after it. I may be a homicide
