Nickel City Crossfire by Gary Ross (popular romance novels .txt) 📗

jacket pocket. The call was from Yvonne, and I stepped into the corridor to take it.

“I never saw any lights over the garage,” she said, almost breathless. “All the times I’ve been here, never. But I just saw Keisha! I saw her come out and get in the van—”

“The flower shop van?”

“Yes! The flower lady is driving.”

I had been right about Fatimah sheltering Keisha in the apartment above her garage but the absence of light in the windows meant I hadn’t anticipated Keisha was smart enough to cover them. Damn it! Now I was angry I hadn’t played the hunch myself, days ago. Maybe I could have avoided all this, spared Mona the bullet. Maybe—

“They’re heading up Kensington toward Main,” Yvonne continued. “Should I try to catch them?”

“No,” I said. “They’re coming to me.”

I broke off and stepped back into the waiting room just in time to hear a nurse speaking softly to the elderly man and his sons: “If you want to say goodbye, it’s time.”

I stepped out and moved a respectful distance away from the doorway as the three men, one son awkwardly embracing the father and the other carrying their coats, followed the nurse to their loved one’s room. If Dr. Markham had been here, he might have tried to pray with them, or at least to send up a prayer in their wake. But I had been agnostic since being orphaned in childhood. Raised by agnostic godparents—now that was a term full of irony—I had long believed prayer was unnecessary if an all-knowing God knew your thoughts. So I thought about the men, and the journey of loss that lay ahead, and wished them well. Then I glanced at Winslow, who seemed comfortable in the recliner after all. Sitting, I picked up my coffee cup from the small table where I’d left it and took a hefty swallow.

Keisha was on her way, and I needed to be alert.

23

Having already seen a larger one on Isaiah Kelly, I recognized the Flowers by Fatimah work uniform at once.

About twenty minutes after my phone call from Yvonne, a khaki-clad woman slipped inside the doors at the far end of the corridor that led to the ICU. Carrying a large bouquet whose green cellophane covering obscured her face, she stopped and looked about for a few seconds before tentatively moving forward. I looked long enough to determine it was Fatimah, not Keisha. Then I leaned forward and took a People magazine off the table. I began to page through a story about the British Royal Family, absorbing none of it because I forced all my attention to my peripheral vision. How she had got past the security desk was a question I would have to remember to ask—if I didn’t spook her into running. As she drew closer to the waiting room doorway, I leaned back and raised the magazine to hide my face. After she moved past where I sat, I stood in the doorway and watched her.

An after-hours flower delivery on a Sunday night to an ICU that barred flowers was certain to get the attention of staff in the nursing pod. Two nurses, a heavyset middle-aged woman and a thinner youngish man, looked up from their computer screens simultaneously and rose to intercept the obviously confused delivery person. They reached Fatimah before she got to the pod and took turns explaining how there must be some mistake. As if short-listed for a Tony Award, Fatimah fiddled with a delivery slip and mumbled something about a special delivery for Mrs. Simpkins. I couldn’t see her face but her trembling shoulders and the flutter in her voice made me think maybe she wasn’t acting at all.

“Sorry,” the man said gently, “but flowers aren’t allowed in Intensive Care.”

“They said I’m supposed to deliver them tonight.” Fatimah’s voice held a mixture of confusion and fear that felt real. “My boss—”

“Take them back downstairs,” the woman said. “They’ll be kept in storage until Mrs. Simpkins is assigned to a regular room.”

“But I’m supposed to put them right by her bed so she’ll see them in the morning.”

“We don’t allow flowers in here because they may aggravate a patient’s condition,” the man said, his patience flagging. “Look, I don’t want to call security.”

“I think there’s still family in the waiting room,” the woman said. “Her husband and her nephew.” Her oversized red plastic eyeglass frames turned toward the doorway where I stood. “Sir,” she said in a stage whisper, “maybe you can help this woman with these flowers for your aunt. Sign whatever she needs and get them back downstairs.”

Fatimah turned around and looked at me, eyes widening and mouth falling open in surprise. Then she looked past me.

I spun around just in time to see the corridor door closing behind a slender, salt-and-pepper-haired woman in short-sleeved blue scrubs and a long-sleeved black tee shirt. A metal clipboard was in her hand and a name tag was clipped to the v-neck of her top. But both her smooth face and her reaction at the sight of me belied the wig she wore. Pivoting on one foot, Keisha Simpkins dropped the clipboard, threw a shoulder against the door, and pushed her way back out.

I bolted after her to the slowly closing door and slammed through. Around the corner, I glimpsed her ducking into a wide entryway. I followed and reached the bank of elevators reserved for hospital staff. It was empty but I’d heard no bell, so I went through and rounded another corner to the elevators reserved for visitors. She had pushed the call button but was already backpedaling away when I got there. I stopped and held up my hands. But she continued to back up until her shoulders were against the nearest door to the stairs. Her left arm snaked behind her so she could grasp the knob. Her right hand produced a butterfly knife from the pocket of her scrubs, and she flicked it open like a pro.

“Dr. Simpkins!”