Nancy Bush's Nowhere Bundle: Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide & Nowhere Safe. Nancy Bush

      Chapter 11

      Laurelton General Hospital sat on a hillside, its north side sporting two more levels than its south. The main entrance and emergency were on level three, which was street level except for the north end where the slope added two levels beneath it. September and Gretchen walked toward the main front doors together. The outer glass doors slid back to allow entry and started closing behind them while the inside set whispered open.

      A middle-aged woman sat at a semicircular desk. She looked up at the two women and September could practically read her thought: Cops. Maybe it was the way they walked, she thought. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Determined. No emotion visible. Maybe it was something more indefinable.

      “May I help you?” she asked. Her hair was short, dyed dark and thinning.

      Gretchen took the lead, explaining who they were and what they wanted. Both Kurt Upjohn and Jessica Maltona had been whisked into surgery at Laurelton General; Upjohn for two bullets through the abdomen, Maltona for a shot to the chest that, surprisingly, hadn’t killed her outright. Both were stabilized and had brief moments of lucidity, though the jury was still out on their long-term prognosis. No one was saying anything but September sensed it boiled down to two words: “not good.”

      “Dr. Denby’s on rounds,” the receptionist told them, as she pushed a button on her phone. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

      With extreme patience, Gretchen said, “He’s expecting us. Which room is Mr. Upjohn’s? We’ll meet him there.”

      “North wing,” she answered sourly. “Fourth floor.”

      Gretchen gave her a cold smile of thanks. Knowing she was bound to get in trouble for it, September pointed out, “You set out to piss people off.”

      “Not consciously.”

      “Consciously,” she argued.

      Gretchen slid her a look. “I’ve been the only woman on this team until you, Nine. I’ve developed a style that works. Watch and learn.”

      September didn’t respond. She’d been watching and she’d been learning, and she knew that Gretchen pissed people off, coworkers and witnesses and perps and victims alike.

      Dr. Denby met them at the fourth-floor elevator. He was a short, slight man with a pencil-thin, blond beard that traced the length of his jawline and made his head look a little too large for his body. His brown eyes were stern and when they locked onto Gretchen’s blue cat-eyes, they grew sterner.

      September suspected Gretchen was about to piss him off as well and braced herself.

      “Dr. Denby?” a woman’s voice asked, before a word was spoken. All three of them turned to the nurse approaching in the pink uniform.

      “Yes,” Denby snapped out.

      The nurse gave Gretchen and September a harried look. “Four-twenty-seven. Mr. Upjohn? You said to tell you when he woke up?”

      “Good timing,” Gretchen said, and Denby simply brushed past the nurse and strode with short, fast, irritated steps to Upjohn’s room, with September and Gretchen following behind. At the door to the room, Denby blocked their entrance. “Wait here,” he commanded, before going the rest of the way inside.

      “Prick,” Gretchen said. She waited about a minute and then walked in the room anyway. September slipped in behind her—watch and learn—and caught the fulminating look on Denby’s face, but mimicked Gretchen, who’d already turned her attention to the patient. Denby bit back whatever he’d planned to say, though it was hard for him.

      Kurt Upjohn looked at them through bleary eyes. His skin was sallow and his hair stuck out from his head. The blankets covered everything but a hint of bandage by his neck. If she hadn’t known about the surgery, September might think the man had been on a bender. She’d seen his corporate image picture: big smile, smoothed bald head, something was a little feral about his smile. Now, he just looked fragile.

      “Mr. Upjohn, these women are from the Laurelton police,” Denby said tightly. “They would like to have a few words with you. If it’s too much of an effort, we can postpone it.”

      Gretchen said, “These women are Detectives Sandler and Rafferty.”

      Denby blinked, a bit shocked at Gretchen’s open hostility. September guessed not many people took him on, certainly not many women.

      Upjohn’s tongue rimmed dry lips, then he croaked out, “Ask away.”

      “The big question on everyone’s mind is why Zuma?” Gretchen began without preamble. “Why did this guy attack your company?”

      “Don’t know.” With a pained twist of his lips, he rasped, “My son . . . is dead?”

      Denby cut in, “Your wife was here. Do you remember?”

      “Um . . . Camille, yes . . . she told me.”

      “Can you think of one reason . . . any reason . . . for this to happen?” Gretchen persisted. “Sour business dealings? Anything personal?”

      “No . . . Are they . . . is the second floor still working? The gamers?” he clarified.

      “The business is shut down,” Gretchen said.

      “Where’s Berelli? What happened to Berelli?” His eyes rolled around as if loose in his skull.

      “He’s fine. We’ve spoken with Mr. Berelli,” Gretchen assured him.

      “I want to see him.” He focused on the doctor. “I want to see him.”

      “Mr. Berelli . . .” Denby repeated, nodding.

      Gretchen intervened, “I can contact Mr. Berelli and tell him you wish to see him.”

      “I want to see Phillip today,” Upjohn said. His voice was fading out and he cleared his throat with an effort.

      Denby said, “It’s time to leave.”

      “I have a few more questions.”

      The doctor practically stepped on Gretchen, who stood her ground for a moment, but Upjohn’s eyes had closed and Denby didn’t look like he would be put off. She finally acceded, and September and Denby followed her into the hallway.

      “Is Camille Dirkus still here?”

      “I don’t know. His wife was here this morning.”

      “She’s not his wife,” September said.

      “Ex-wife.” He looked irked that she’d corrected him.

      September wondered if they would get anything further from the officious doctor, but Gretchen wasn’t intimidated.

      “What about Jessica Maltona?” she asked Denby.

      “I’m not responsible for her. She’s under Dr. Egan’s care.” He seemed delighted to be able to throw that out.

      Gretchen didn’t hesitate. She dropped Denby