The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [18]
“It is about time for a bit more pain medication,” a nurse said as she came through the door, Savich at her heels. No one said a word as she injected the painkiller into Lily’s IV. She leaned over, checked Lily’s pulse, smoothed the thin blanket to her shoulders, then straightened. “The pain will lessen almost immediately. Call if you have too much more discomfort, Mrs. Frasier.”
Lily closed her eyes. After a few minutes, she said quietly, “Thank you, Dillon. It was pretty bad, but not now. Thank you.” Then, without another word, she was asleep.
“Good,” said Savich and motioned for them all to leave. “Let’s go to the waiting room. Last time I looked, it was empty.”
“My wife and I are grateful to you for being here,” Elcott Frasier said. “Tennyson needs all the support he can get. The past seven months have been very hard on him.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” Savich said. “Lily hitting that redwood gave us just the excuse we needed to come here and support Tennyson.”
“My father didn’t mean it the way it sounded, Dillon,” Tennyson said. “It’s just been difficult—for all of us.” He looked down at his watch. “I’m afraid I have patients to see. I will be back to check on Lily in about four hours.”
He left them with Elcott Frasier, who asked a passing nurse to fetch him a cup of coffee. She did without hesitation because, Sherlock knew, she wasn’t stupid. She recognized the Big Man on the hospital board of directors when she saw him. Sherlock wanted to punch his lights out.
Savich leaned down, kissed Sherlock on the mouth, and said low, “No, don’t belt him. Now, I’ve got all sorts of warning whistles going off in my head. I’m going to look at that car. Grill our brother-in-law’s father, okay?”
“No problem,” Sherlock said.
When Dillon found Sherlock two hours later, she was in the hospital cafeteria eating a Caesar salad and speaking to Dr. Theodore Larch.
“So do you think she was so depressed that she decided to end it? Again?”
“I’m a surgeon, Mrs. Savich, not a psychiatrist. I can’t speculate.”
“Yeah, but you see lots of people in distress, Dr. Larch. What do you think of Lily Frasier’s state of mind?”
“I think the surgical pain is masking a lot of her symptoms right now—that is, if she has any symptoms. I haven’t seen any myself. But what do I know?”
“What do you think of Dr. Rossetti?”
Dr. Larch wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “He’s, ah, rather new here. I don’t know him all that well. Dr. Frasier, however, knows him very well. They went to medical school together, I understand. Columbia Presbyterian Medical School, in New York City.”
“I didn’t know that,” Sherlock said and tucked it away. She wanted to meet this Dr. Rossetti, the pompous man Lily didn’t like and whom Tennyson appeared to be pushing very hard on his wife.
She smiled at Dr. Larch, took a bite of her salad, which was surprisingly good, and said, “Well, you know, Dr. Larch, if Lily didn’t try to kill herself, then that means that just perhaps someone is up to no good. What do you think?”
Dr. Ted Larch nearly swallowed the ice cube he was rolling around in his mouth.
“I can’t imagine, no, surely not—that’s crazy. If she didn’t do it on purpose, then it’s more likely that something just went wrong with the car, an accident, nothing more than a tragic accident.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. Since I’m a cop, I always leap to the sinister first. Occupational hazard. Hey, I know. She just lost control of the car—maybe a raccoon ran in front of the Explorer and she tried not to hit it—and ended up smacking the redwood.”
“That sounds more likely than someone trying to kill her, Mrs. Savich.”
“Yes, the raccoon theory is always preferable, isn’t it?”
Sherlock saw Dillon out of the corner of her eye. She rose, patted Dr. Larch on his shoulder, and said, “Take good care of Lily, Doctor.” At least now, she thought, walking quickly toward Dillon, Dr. Larch would keep a very close eye on Lily because