A Trace of Murder. Блейк Пирс
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nodded and shuffled out of the room. Then, suddenly, his head popped up and he asked a question.
“How long does she have, Detective Locke, assuming she was taken? I know there’s a ticking clock on these things. How much time do you realistically think she has?”
Keri looked at him hard. There was no guile in his expression. He seemed to genuinely be clinging to something rational and factual to hold on to. It was a good question and one she needed to answer for herself.
She did some quick mental math. The numbers she came up with weren’t good. But she couldn’t be that blunt with a potential victim’s husband. So she softened it a bit without lying.
“Look, Doctor. I’m not going to lie to you. Every second counts. But we still have a couple of days before the evidence trail starts to grow cold. And we’re going to pour major resources into finding your wife. There’s still hope.”
But internally, the calculation was much less encouraging. Usually, seventy-two hours was the outer limit. So assuming she was taken sometime yesterday morning, they had a little less than forty-eight hours to find her. And that was being optimistic.
CHAPTER FIVE
Keri walked down the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center hallway as quickly as her aching body would allow. Becky Sampson’s house was only blocks away from the hospital so Keri didn’t feel too guilty about making a quick pit stop to check on Ray.
But as she approached his room, she could feel the recent, familiar nervousness start to churn in her gut. How were they going to make things normal between them again, when there was this silent secret they shared but couldn’t acknowledge? As she reached his room, Keri resolved on what she hoped would be a temporary solution. She’d fake it.
The door was open and she could see that Ray was asleep. There was no one else in the room. The latest labor contract with the city stipulated that hospitalized officers got private rooms whenever available, so he had it pretty sweet. The room had a view of the Hollywood Hills and a big-screen TV, which was on but muted. Some old movie with Sylvester Stallone competing in an arm-wrestling competition filled the screen.
No wonder he fell asleep.
Keri walked over and studied her sleeping partner. Lying in bed, with a floral hospital gown loose about his body, Ray Sands looked much more frail than usual. Normally his six-foot-four, 230-pound African-American frame was intimidating, as was his completely bald head. He’d more than earned his sometime nickname of “Big.”
With his eyes closed, his right glass eye, the one he’d lost in a boxing match years ago, wasn’t noticeable. No one would guess that the forty-year-old man now lying in a hospital bed with an untouched bowl of red Jell-O next to him had once been Ray “The Sandman” Sands, an Olympic bronze medalist and professional heavyweight contender once considered a frontrunner to win the title. Of course, that was before an underrated southpaw with a brutal left hook had destroyed his eye and ended his career at age twenty-eight with one punch.
After flailing about for a while, Ray found policing and worked his way up to become one of the most highly regarded Missing Persons investigators in the department. And with Brody’s imminent retirement, he was in line to take over his position in Robbery-Homicide.
Keri glanced out at the distant hills, wondering what their status would be in six months, when they were no longer partners or even in the same unit. She pushed the thought away, unwilling to imagine life without the one steadying influence in her life since Evie was taken.
Suddenly she sensed she was being watched. She glanced down and saw that Ray was awake, quietly staring at her.
“How’s it going, Smurfette?” he asked playfully. They loved teasing each other about their dramatic size difference.
“Okay, how are you feeling today, Shrek?”
“A little tired, to be honest. I had a big workout a while ago. I walked all the way down the hallway and back. Look out, LeBron James, I’m on your heels.”
“Did they give you a timetable for when they’re letting you out?” she asked.
“They said maybe end of the week, if things keep progressing. Then it will be two weeks of bed rest at home. If that goes well, I’ll be allowed to assume desk duty on a limited basis. Assuming I haven’t shot myself from boredom before then.”
Keri sat quietly for a moment, mulling over how to continue. Part of her wanted to tell Ray to take it slow, not to push too hard to get back to work. Of course, saying that would be hypocritical, as that was exactly what she’d done. And she knew he’d call her on it.
But he had been shot while helping save her life. She felt responsible. She felt protective of him. And she felt other things she wasn’t quite prepared to think about at the moment.
Ultimately, she decided that giving him a distraction to focus on might be a better way to go than lecturing him.
“Along those lines, I could use your help with a case I just landed. You willing to mix in a little analysis with your Jell-O?” she asked.
“First of all, congrats on getting back on field duty. Second, how about we skip the Jell-O and go straight to the case?”
“Okay. Here are the basics. Kendra Burlingame, Beverly Hills socialite wife of a successful plastic surgeon, hasn’t been heard from since yesterday morning—”
“What was yesterday again?” Ray interrupted. “The pain meds have me a little loopy when it comes to, you know, days of the week.”
“Yesterday was Monday, Sherlock,” Keri said snarkily. “Her husband says he last saw her at six forty-five a.m. before he went to San Diego to supervise a surgery. It’s currently two forty on Tuesday afternoon, so that’s about thirty-two hours missing.”
“Assuming the husband’s telling the truth. You know the first rule when it comes to missing wives—the husband did it.”
Keri was annoyed that everyone, including her seemingly enlightened partner, seemed to constantly remind her of that. When she responded, she couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Really, Ray, is that the first rule? Let me write that one down because this is the first time I’ve heard it. Any other pearls of wisdom you care to offer, oh wise one? Maybe that the sun is hot? Or that kale tastes like aluminum foil?”
“I’m just saying—”
“Believe me, Ray, I know. And the guy is currently suspect number one. But she could have just run off too. I think that as a law enforcement professional, it might be worthwhile pursuing other leads, don’t you?”
“I do. That way, you have a leg to stand on when you arrest him.”
“Nice to see you using your keen investigative skills rather than just jumping to unfounded conclusions,” Keri said mockingly, trying not to smile.
“That’s how I roll. So what’s next on the agenda?”
“I’m going to see Kendra’s best friend when I leave here. Her place is just around the corner. The husband said Kendra was acting funny after the two of them returned from a high school reunion.”
“Is anyone checking on the doctor’s trip to San Diego?”
“Brody’s headed down there now.”
“You got partnered with Frank Brody on this?” Ray said, trying not to laugh. “No wonder you’d rather spend time with an invalid. How’s that going?”
“Why do you think I didn’t object when he offered to go to San Diego? The local guys down there could have just as easily followed up but he insisted and I figured it would keep him and his maroon atrocity of a car out of my way for a while. Besides, I’d rather spend time in the company of a worn-out, weak-muscled, bed-ridden sad sack like yourself than Brody any day.”
All the banter had lulled Keri into a sense of comfort and she realized, too late, that her last comment had sent them right back to