The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [199]
“The mentally ill people—they were the worst off. I truly can’t understand how we as a society allow people who are so ill they can’t even remember to take their medications or even know that they need medication, to just roam the streets. They suffer the most because they’re the most helpless.”
Dane said, “I remember when one of the New York mayors wanted to get the sick people off the streets and into safe houses, but the ACLU went nuts.”
Nick said, “I remember. The ACLU cleaned up this poor woman, dressed her like a normal person, fed her meds so she could pass muster, and they won. Except that poor woman lost. Within days she was back on the street, off her meds, cursing and spitting at people, vulnerable and helpless. I wonder if any of the lawyers at the ACLU lost a bit of sleep over that.”
“Who are you, Nick?”
She grew very still, didn’t move, just stood there when he opened the door to the Grand Am. She said, “My name is Nick, short for Nicola. I don’t want to tell you my real last name. All right?”
“You mean, if you tell me your real name I would have heard of it?”
“No. It means that you have a computer and access to information.”
So there was something on her, something to be found, something other than just who she was. What had happened to her?
When he was seated in the driver’s seat, the key in the ignition, he turned to her and said, “I want to know who you are, not just your name.”
She looked straight ahead, saying nothing, until he pulled out of the Holiday Inn parking lot onto the street.
She said, “I’m a woman who could be dead before the first day of spring.”
His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Bullshit. You’re just being dramatic, and you’re wrong. I think by the first of spring, you’ll be doing what you were doing last month. What were you doing in December, Nick?”
“I was teaching medieval history.” She didn’t know why she said that. Well, he already knew she had a Ph.D., this much more wouldn’t tell him anything.
“Are you by any chance Dr. Nick?”
“Yes, but you already guessed that. You know that your brother loved history.”
“My brother was an impressive man, he was a very good man,” Dane said, and shut up, really fast. He could feel himself breaking apart, deep inside, where his brother’s blood and Dane’s own pain flowed together. He remembered Archbishop Lugano at Michael’s service, his hand on Dane’s shoulder, telling him to take it just one day at a time.
He concentrated on driving. He was momentarily distracted by a girl on roller skates, wearing shorts that showed half her butt cheeks, and she was waving to him, grinning and blowing him kisses over her shoulder. He waved back, grinned a bit, and said, “That’s some presentation.”
“Yes indeed, you’re right,” Nick said. “I agree, she does skate very well.”
Dane jerked around, surprised. “That was funny, Nick.”
She smiled. It was a small smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re all meeting at The Green Apple, over on Melrose.”
Nick sighed. “Doesn’t sound like they’ll have tacos, does it?”
“I just hope they don’t serve fried green apples. I’m an American, I love fat, but you know—my belly rebels fast if I eat even two pieces of KFC. It’s a bummer.”
“Don’t whine. It means you won’t ever have to worry about your weight.”
He smiled at her, then said, “I sure hope someone has found out something useful. The bottom line is that what you and I found out just leads to more questions.”
As it turned out, Sherlock and Savich had struck gold.
TWENTY-ONE
Sherlock said between bites of a carrot stick, “We dug up a guy who’s a real good friend of Weldon DeLoach’s. His name is Kurt Grinder. He’s a porn star. Yeah, yeah, I know—the name. I just couldn’t help myself so I asked him. He said it was, actually, his real name. He’s known Weldon for some eight years, ever since he came to LA. He said he saw Weldon DeLoach