Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [104]
Dr. Henderson was standing at the nurses’ station when I arrived there. A heavy, balding man with a fringe of gray hair, he scrutinized both me and my identification carefully, then led me to a lounge area.
“You say you have a message from Mrs. Mourning’s husband?”
“Yes. He asked me to deliver it to her personally.”
“Just where is the husband?”
“Baja.”
Henderson frowned. “He remained there, in spite of his wife being shot?”
“He was unavoidably detained,” I said vaguely. “Has Diane asked for him?”
“When she was first brought in, she seemed concerned as to his whereabouts. You understand, she’s been drugged for pain. She’s quite restless, keeps mumbling his name, among other things.”
“Other things?”
“Something about a letter and being inside a house.”
“I see. What’s her condition?”
“Critical, but stable. Gunshot wound with questionable kidney compromise.”
“Were the police notified?”
He nodded.
“Have they talked with her?”
“Not yet. As I said, she’s in considerable pain and has to be drugged.”
“Would she be able to understand the message from her husband?”
“Probably.”
“May I see her?”
Henderson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It might reassure her. Five minutes, though, no more.”
He had a nurse take me to Diane’s private room. She lay on a bed by the window, an I.V. inserted in her arm. The high hospital bed diminished her; she looked even smaller, paler, more fragile. As the nurse left us and shut the door behind her, I approached and touched Mourning’s arm.
She opened her eyes groggily; their pupils were dilated, her gaze unfocused.
“Diane,” I said, “it’s Sharon McCone, from RKI.”
“No.” The word came out a whisper, tinged with fear.
“It’s all right. I’m not here to hurt you. What happened at Fontes’s villa?”
She shut her eyes again.
“Who shot you?”
No reply.
“Were you shot in the house?”
After a moment she nodded.
“Who did it? Salazar?”
“… don’t know. Didn’t see …”
“Where in the house were you?”
“Living room.”
“And who told the police you were shot on the beach?”
“… Don’t know. Blacked out …”
“Was Timothy there?”
Her eyes opened again, fear glazing them now. “Timothy …” She pressed her lips together, shook her head from side to side.
“Diane, this next question is important. Does Ann know her husband is dead?”
“Stan? Not dead. In Mexico City.”
“Who told you that?”
She closed her eyes again.
“Diane, who said so?”
“… Gilbert … said …” She was fading—or pretending to.
“Diane, what did Gilbert say?”
No reply. Her lips were white-edged now, and her breathing was faster and shallower; perspiration beaded her forehead. I looked for the call button and rang. The nurse bustled in and took charge.
“Doctor’s an idiot for letting her have a visitor,” she told me. “And if you see him on your way out, you can tell him I said so.”
* * *
As I left the hospital I felt a certain amount of guilt about my insistent questioning of a critically injured woman, but I banished it by reminding myself that said woman had arranged the kidnapping of her own husband. Besides, the information I’d gleaned—that Fontes had lied to Navarro, telling her Brockowitz was in Mexico City when he was actually in the San Diego County morgue—gave me even more leverage than I’d hoped for with Navarro. If I could get to her, I was sure I could convince her …
All the way to my next stop, I puzzled over Mourning’s shooting. An accident? Perhaps someone had mistaken her for a burglar. The early hours of the morning were a bad time to be wandering through the home of someone as security-conscious as Fontes. Well, I told myself, no amount of worrying at the question would provide an answer now. My immediate business deserved my undivided attention.
When I got to Gooden’s, I found the pictures were ready early, thanks to a slack Sunday business. They’d also turned out focused and clear. Next I went to a nearby branch of Bank of America and drew out the maximum—two hundred dollars—on my automatic teller card.