Backfire
Page 96
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“No can do, Dr. Kardak. I’ve got a five-year-old son who doesn’t need to see his mother lying in a hospital bed. I’d like to leave this afternoon.”
He studied her face for a moment. “Five years old, you say? What’s his name?”
“Sean. He’s the image of his papa. He plans to marry three different girls. He’s also planning on working three jobs so they’ll all be happy.”
Dr. Kardak chuckled. “Sean sounds like my kid Peter, all mouth and laughter and boundless energy. There aren’t any girls yet on Peter’s somewhat limited horizon.” He looked toward the curtain, called out, “Judge Hunt, how long have you two known each other?”
“More than five years,” Ramsey said from behind the curtain. “When I first met Sherlock, she was three months pregnant, throwing up whenever anyone in her hearing said the word pregnant.”
“Oh, goodness, I’d forgotten,” Sherlock said. “I remember belting Dillon a couple of times when he let the word slip out.”
Dr. Kardak pursed his lips. “I’m going to mention that to one of my shrink friends.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s a practicing Freudian therapist. I shudder to think what he’ll have to say.” He studied Sherlock for a moment longer. “Very well, if nothing unexpected shows up, you may go home, but you’re to rest, let everyone wait on you. You are not to bake even the sweet-potato casserole, you understand me?”
Sherlock nodded. “I won’t even make my sausage stuffing. Promise.”
“You may, however, eat as much as you want.” He pulled the curtain open and nodded toward Ramsey. “As for Judge Dredd here, he gets to enjoy our hospitality for a while longer. I understand there’s to be a Thanksgiving feast here in the room tomorrow. The floor staff can’t talk about much else. The chef told my assistant he was even preparing a surprise for your dinner. I’m thinking I might drop by, see if there are any leftovers. Maybe watch one of the football games.”
When he left ten minutes later, Sherlock heard Dillon speaking to Dr. Kardak outside in the hall. When Dillon came into the room, he was smiling and carrying two cups of coffee. Sherlock held her arms out to him.
San Francisco General Hospital
Wednesday morning
Molly sat beside her sleeping husband, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. He looked thin, she thought, even with all the extra meals the nurses brought in for him. He wasn’t eating enough, despite their efforts. It was the pain and dependence and niggling fear, she imagined, fear for her, and for Emma, and for the boys.
Molly laid her cheek against his shoulder and wondered for the dozenth time who the man was who had shot him. Who hated him, and Dillon, so much?
At least Sherlock was going home after her brain scan. Molly looked at the big hand of the clock on the wall. Sherlock would be back soon. Deputy Marshal Ray Rozan was with her, her Kevlar vest, Sherlock called him. As for Savich, he hadn’t budged an inch from her side until the phone call. The call was short. When he’d punched off his cell, he’d looked at his wife and she’d told him with no hesitation, “Go. I’ll be fine with Deputy Rozan.” That was it. Molly knew the call had to be urgent to make him leave Sherlock. She admired Sherlock’s restraint. She hadn’t asked him what had happened, and he hadn’t said a thing.
Molly thought Sherlock looked perfectly fine to go home when they’d helped her into a wheelchair for her CT scan. Having all the dried blood washed out of her hair and the clunky bandage replaced with a strip of plastic tape had made a huge difference.
Molly looked toward Officer Lamar Marks standing beside the window, staring down into the parking lot. Was he thinking about Thanksgiving tomorrow? She knew he wasn’t on duty tomorrow, since he had three kids and a truckload of relatives coming to his house. Another SFPD officer had volunteered. He’d eat very well for it, she thought, smiling.
But maybe Officer Marks was thinking about the same thing Molly was: There were two separate killers. It was difficult to accept that that could be possible, yet everyone had always wondered, Why would Xu shoot Ramsey?
“Molly?”
She looked up to see Dillon standing in the doorway.
“Sherlock’s still getting her tests?”
She replied in a whisper, “She should be back soon, Dillon; that’s what the nurse told me. Ramsey’s sleeping, which is excellent. What happened? Who called you?”
He smiled at her shotgun questions, motioned for her to join him at the door. “A Chinese physician was found murdered early this morning in his office in Sausalito. There was ample evidence Xu had been there yesterday. We understand the doctor closed his office that afternoon, sent everyone home. Xu was probably there already, demanding treatment. Given all the blood in the examining room, Xu was in bad shape.” He paused for a moment. “Dr. Mulan Chu was a primary-care doctor that Xu knew somehow. Perhaps he’d treated Xu before. It’s a pity Xu got to the doctor before he got the warning we were sending out.”
He studied her face for a moment. “Five years old, you say? What’s his name?”
“Sean. He’s the image of his papa. He plans to marry three different girls. He’s also planning on working three jobs so they’ll all be happy.”
Dr. Kardak chuckled. “Sean sounds like my kid Peter, all mouth and laughter and boundless energy. There aren’t any girls yet on Peter’s somewhat limited horizon.” He looked toward the curtain, called out, “Judge Hunt, how long have you two known each other?”
“More than five years,” Ramsey said from behind the curtain. “When I first met Sherlock, she was three months pregnant, throwing up whenever anyone in her hearing said the word pregnant.”
“Oh, goodness, I’d forgotten,” Sherlock said. “I remember belting Dillon a couple of times when he let the word slip out.”
Dr. Kardak pursed his lips. “I’m going to mention that to one of my shrink friends.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s a practicing Freudian therapist. I shudder to think what he’ll have to say.” He studied Sherlock for a moment longer. “Very well, if nothing unexpected shows up, you may go home, but you’re to rest, let everyone wait on you. You are not to bake even the sweet-potato casserole, you understand me?”
Sherlock nodded. “I won’t even make my sausage stuffing. Promise.”
“You may, however, eat as much as you want.” He pulled the curtain open and nodded toward Ramsey. “As for Judge Dredd here, he gets to enjoy our hospitality for a while longer. I understand there’s to be a Thanksgiving feast here in the room tomorrow. The floor staff can’t talk about much else. The chef told my assistant he was even preparing a surprise for your dinner. I’m thinking I might drop by, see if there are any leftovers. Maybe watch one of the football games.”
When he left ten minutes later, Sherlock heard Dillon speaking to Dr. Kardak outside in the hall. When Dillon came into the room, he was smiling and carrying two cups of coffee. Sherlock held her arms out to him.
San Francisco General Hospital
Wednesday morning
Molly sat beside her sleeping husband, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. He looked thin, she thought, even with all the extra meals the nurses brought in for him. He wasn’t eating enough, despite their efforts. It was the pain and dependence and niggling fear, she imagined, fear for her, and for Emma, and for the boys.
Molly laid her cheek against his shoulder and wondered for the dozenth time who the man was who had shot him. Who hated him, and Dillon, so much?
At least Sherlock was going home after her brain scan. Molly looked at the big hand of the clock on the wall. Sherlock would be back soon. Deputy Marshal Ray Rozan was with her, her Kevlar vest, Sherlock called him. As for Savich, he hadn’t budged an inch from her side until the phone call. The call was short. When he’d punched off his cell, he’d looked at his wife and she’d told him with no hesitation, “Go. I’ll be fine with Deputy Rozan.” That was it. Molly knew the call had to be urgent to make him leave Sherlock. She admired Sherlock’s restraint. She hadn’t asked him what had happened, and he hadn’t said a thing.
Molly thought Sherlock looked perfectly fine to go home when they’d helped her into a wheelchair for her CT scan. Having all the dried blood washed out of her hair and the clunky bandage replaced with a strip of plastic tape had made a huge difference.
Molly looked toward Officer Lamar Marks standing beside the window, staring down into the parking lot. Was he thinking about Thanksgiving tomorrow? She knew he wasn’t on duty tomorrow, since he had three kids and a truckload of relatives coming to his house. Another SFPD officer had volunteered. He’d eat very well for it, she thought, smiling.
But maybe Officer Marks was thinking about the same thing Molly was: There were two separate killers. It was difficult to accept that that could be possible, yet everyone had always wondered, Why would Xu shoot Ramsey?
“Molly?”
She looked up to see Dillon standing in the doorway.
“Sherlock’s still getting her tests?”
She replied in a whisper, “She should be back soon, Dillon; that’s what the nurse told me. Ramsey’s sleeping, which is excellent. What happened? Who called you?”
He smiled at her shotgun questions, motioned for her to join him at the door. “A Chinese physician was found murdered early this morning in his office in Sausalito. There was ample evidence Xu had been there yesterday. We understand the doctor closed his office that afternoon, sent everyone home. Xu was probably there already, demanding treatment. Given all the blood in the examining room, Xu was in bad shape.” He paused for a moment. “Dr. Mulan Chu was a primary-care doctor that Xu knew somehow. Perhaps he’d treated Xu before. It’s a pity Xu got to the doctor before he got the warning we were sending out.”
