brain didn’t. It was bouncing back and forth off the inside of your cranium with considerable impact. That resulted in concussions. They’re to be taken seriously.”
“Feels serious,” Carver said.
“What happened to your rib?”
“I was kicked.”
“You didn’t mention that yesterday.”
“Didn’t seem I was kicked hard enough for anything to break, but then I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”
“It’s a wonder you were thinking at all.” She lifted the ice pack from the tray, as if about to place it on his forehead as the nurse had done. He shook his head no.
“You two have been talking about me,” he said to Beth.
“Uh-huh. Quite a lot, actually.”
Carver saw her eyes dart toward the door, and he braced for pain and slowly moved his head so he could look in that direction. The wide oak door was swinging open slowly.
It stopped when it was open about two feet, and McGregor poked his head around it. When he saw Carver, he smiled. Not the kind of smile to cheer an invalid.
“I wanted to make sure I had the right room,” he said. “Didn’t want to walk in on a nurse doing it with a doctor. That kinda thing goes on all the time in hospitals, you know. It’s all those empty beds. And the drugs.” He came all the way into the room. His brown suit was wrinkled, the coat unbuttoned to reveal a stained white shirt and the edge of his leather shoulder-holster strap. He glanced at Beth but didn’t otherwise acknowledge her presence.
“You two have met,” Carver said.
“Sure,” McGregor said. “Roberto Gomez’s widow.”
Carver saw Beth stiffen. She didn’t like to talk about her marriage to the late drug czar. It was a life she’d escaped with Carver’s help and would rather not revisit even in conversation. There were memories there she shared with no one. Not even Carver,
“So you got the shit beat out of you,” McGregor said. “There is some justice.”
“Did the hospital call and report I was here?” Carver asked.
McGregor nodded. “Violent crime and all that. Ordinarily I would’ve waited a while and sent a man over. Then, when I realized it was you got beat up, I thought I’d handle it myself. Especially since I was the one warned you to stay out of that business with Marla Cloy.” McGregor walked closer to the bed, picked up the ice pack, and pressed it to his forehead experimentally.
“Why don’t you swallow that?” Carver said. “I’d feel better.”
McGregor dropped the ice pack and smiled. The pink serpent of his tongue peeked out from the space between his yellow front teeth. Carver could feel the hostility emanating from Beth. McGregor didn’t seem to notice it, but Carver knew he was basking in it.
“Some people have mentioned you’d been around asking questions,” McGregor said.
“What people?”
“Woman named Willa Krull, for one. Says she thought you were a cop.”
“I didn’t tell her that,” Carver said. “She must have drawn her own conclusion.”
“Oh, no doubt,” McGregor said. “I made sure that was how it happened and you took care to cover your ass. If I ever nail you for impersonating a police officer it’ll be to the cross, and you’ll fucking die and rot up there.”
“Why did Willa Krull call the police?”
“She was checking on you. Didn’t think you smelled right. Then we got another call, this one from Marla Cloy herself.” McGregor’s tongue flicked again and his smile widened. “A dickhead like you is full of surprises. Here I was thinking you were working for her, and it turns out she never heard of you till you came around pestering her.”
“Well, that’s a conclusion you jumped to on your own. You and Willa Krull will do that kind of thing.”
“Turns out you’re actually working for Joel Brant. Working for the guy that’s stalking her! That’s fucking great! What are you doing, helping him set the Cloy bitch up for the kill?”
“I’m doing that like you’re working to prevent her from being killed.”
“Preventing ain’t my job. After they bleed and shit their last is when I move in.”
“A crime was committed against Fred Carver,” Beth pointed out. “Isn’t that what you’re here to investigate?”
McGregor glared at her. “Sure, officially.” He got out a notepad and pencil from an inside pocket of his wrinkled suit coat. ‘I’ll try to be objective here, do my job. Did you get a look at this guy I already regard as a friend?”
“Too good a look. He was big, taller than you, and maybe two-eighty. Muscular, Wore a leather vest, no shirt, dirty jeans, white sneakers, no socks. Had grease smudges on him like he might have been working on a car or some other kind of machinery. Pale blue eyes, filthy, smelled bad, looked as if he wasn’t too bright. If you had a big brother, this guy might be him.”
“I like him more and more.”
“He might have been driving a black minivan.”
“Why ‘might’?”
“I remember catching a glimpse of one pulling into the parking lot a few minutes before he came in. Didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
“A black minivan almost ran me off the road near the cottage,” Beth reminded Carver.
McGregor gave her a look to let her know she was on hold, then turned his attention back to Carver. “Did you get the license-plate number?” he asked.
“Being unconscious when it drove away, I didn’t see the plates,” Carver said.
“What about you, Mrs. Gomez? You saw this phantom van too. You catch the plate number?”
Beth shook her head no, staring angrily at McGregor, “Do you have any idea who the assailant is?”
“No.”
“Are you going to find out?”
“Of course! I’m the law. But I have to warn you not to be optimistic. I mean, the description could fit almost anyone.”
“You’re really some kind of cop.”
McGregor grinned and absently scratched his left armpit.
“He tries to get people mad at him,” Carver explained to Beth. “He feeds on it.”
“He’s gonna goddamn choke on it,” Beth said softly.
McGregor loved it. He threw back his head and laughed, stretching his mouth open wide. A thousand fillings were visible.
“This guy who beat you up,” McGregor said, when he was finally finished laughing, “was he white, Hispanic, or Afro-fucking-hyphenated-American?”
“I told you he had blue eyes and brown hair. He was white.”
McGregor bent lower so he could look directly into Beth’s eyes. “Well, you never know, the way the races are mingling these days.” He snapped his notepad closed and tucked it inside his suit coat, then straightened up and poked his pencil into his shirt pocket.
“You truly are disgusting,” Beth said.
This time McGregor ignored her. He ran a hand through his lank, greasy hair, then turned to face Carver directly, pointing a long forefinger at him. There was a lot of dirt under the nail.
“Listen, dickhead,” he said, “you stop fucking around with this Marla Cloy thing. Final warning.”
“It’s no concern of yours until she’s been killed,” Carver reminded him.
“I’m making
Then he spun on his heel and strode from the room.
Beth was fuming, pacing pantherlike with her fists clenched. “That asshole!”
McGregor poked his head back around the half-closed door. He was grinning wickedly, his tongue flicking like
