15

Before I got to the elevator, a police car pulled up into the ambulance bay outside the Emergency Room. Dazzling red and blue lights flashed like Morse code through the corridor. A few clerks leaned over the partition. A short balding man with an oversized nose got out of the car. The detective charged through the parting glass doors. A nurse skittered toward him, grinning and holding her hands clasped beneath her chin. The detective said something I couldn't hear, picked her up, and carried her along a few steps before whispering something into her ear and depositing her on the ground again just at the beginning of the corridor. Bent double, the nurse gasped and waved at his back before straightening up and smoothing out her uniform.

The detective held me with his eyes as he moved toward me.

I stopped and waited. As soon as he got into the lobby, he said, "Go on, get the elevator, don't just stand there." He waved me toward the buttons. The clerks who had been leaning over the partition to see what was going on smiled at him and then at each other. "You were going to call the elevator, weren't you?"

I nodded and went to the closed doors and pushed the up button.

The detective nodded at the clerks. His heavy face seemed immobile, but his eyes gleamed.

"You didn't call us, did you?"

"No," I said.

"We're all right, then."

I smiled, and the gleam died theatrically from his eye. He was a real comedian, with his saggy face and his unpressed suit. "Police should never go to hospitals." He had the kind of face that could express subtleties of feeling without seeming to move in any way. "Will you get inside that thing, please?" The elevator had opened up before us.

I got in and he followed me. I pushed the third floor button. The elevator ascended and stopped. He left the elevator, taking the turns that would lead him to April Ransom's room. I followed. We went past the nurses' station and rounded the bend of the circular corridor. A young uniformed officer came out of April's room.

"Well?" the detective said.

"This could actually happen," said the uniformed policeman. His nameplate read Thompson. "Who is this, sir?"

The detective looked back at me. "Who's this? I don't know who this is. Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of John Ransom's," I said.

"News gets around fast," the detective said. He led the way into April's room.

John Ransom and a doctor who looked like a college freshman were standing on the far side of the bed. Ransom looked slightly stunned. He looked up when he saw me—his eyes moved to the unkempt detective, then back to me. "Tim? What's going on?"

"What is going on?" asked the detective. "We got more people in here than the Marx Brothers. Didn't you call this guy?"

"No, I didn't call him," John said. "We had dinner together."

"I see," said the detective. "How is Mrs. Ransom doing, then?"

John looked vague and uncertain. "Ah, well…"

"Good, incisive," said the detective. "Doctor?"

"Mrs. Ransom is showing definite signs of improvement," said the doctor. His voice was a thick plank of dark brown wood.

"Does it look like the lady might actually be able to say something, or are we standing in the line at Lourdes here?"

"There are definite indications," said the doctor. The heavy wooden voice sounded as if it were coming from a much larger and older person who was standing behind him.

John looked wildly at me across the bed. "Tim, she might actually come out of it."

The detective came up behind him and insinuated himself at the bedside. "I'm Paul Fontaine, and the assault on your friend's wife is related to a homicide case I'm handling."

"Tim Underhill," I said.

He cocked his big oval head. "Well, Tim Underhill. I read one of your books. The Divided Man. It was crappy. It was ridiculous. I liked it."

"Thanks," I said.

"Now, what was it you came here to tell Mr. Ransom, unless it is something you would prefer to conceal from our efficient police department?"

I looked at him. "Will you write down a license number for me?"

"Thompson," he said, and the young policeman took out his pad.

I read the license number of the man's car from the page in my notebook. "It's a blue Lexus. The owner followed John and me all day long. When I stopped him in the lobby downstairs, he flashed a toy badge and said he was a policeman. He ran away just before you got here."

"Uh huh," said Fontaine. "That's interesting. I'll do something about that. Do you remember anything about this man? Anything distinguishing?"

"He's a gray-haired guy with a ponytail. Gold post earring in his left ear. About six-two and probably two hundred and thirty pounds. Big belly and wide hips, like a woman's hips. I think he was wearing an Armani suit."

"Oh, one of the Armani gang." He permitted himself to smile. He took the paper with the license number from Thompson and put it in his jacket pocket.

"Following me?" John asked.

"I saw him here this afternoon. He trailed us to Eastern Shore Drive, then down to Jimmy's. He was going to come up to this floor, but I stopped him in the lobby."

"That was a pity," Fontaine said. "Did this character really say that he was a policeman?"

I tried to remember. "I think he said that he was with the police."

Fontaine pursed his mouth. "Sort of like saying you're with the band."

"He showed me one of those little gold badges."

"I'll look into it." He turned away from me. "Thompson, visiting hours are over. We are going to wait around to see if Mrs. Ransom comes out of her coma and says anything useful. Mr. Underhill can wait in the lounge, if he likes."

Thompson gave me a sharp look and stepped back from the bed.

"John, I'll wait for you at home," I said.

He smiled weakly and pressed his wife's hand. Thompson came around the end of the bed and gestured almost apologetically toward the door.

Thompson followed me out of the door. We went past the nurses' station in silence. The two women behind the counter pretended unsuccessfully not to stare.

Thompson did not speak until we had almost reached the elevators. "I just wanted to say," he began, then looked around to make sure that nobody was listening. "Don't get Detective Fontaine wrong. He's crazy, that's all, but he's a great detective. In interrogation rooms, he's like a genius."

"A crazy genius," I said, and pushed the button.

"Yeah." Officer Thompson looked a bit embarrassed. He put his hands behind his back. "You know what we call him? He's called Fantastic Paul Fontaine. That's how good he is."

"Then he ought to be able to find out who owns that blue Lexus," I said.

"He'll find out," Thompson said. "But he might not tell you he found out."