Wednesday, 9:50 am, Ste. Anne’s Medical Center, Rowena Avenue, Silver
Lake, Los Angeles
“What the hell is this I hear about you being in the hospital?”
Martinez growled into the phone. “You’re off for a couple of days and you forget how to cover your ass? I thought I taught you better.”
“Yeah, well they took me by surprise,” David said.
“They? Not seeing conspiracies, are you? That’s not like you, Davey.” David heard Martinez plop into his chair, which he could imagine sagging ponderously under the big Latino’s weight.
David changed the subject. “What’s happening with PSB’s investigation?”
“They tried real hard, but McKee came back today and said it’s all a load of crap and they can’t prove a thing.”
“So I’m in the clear?”
“Clear as rain. Captain’s going to make it offi cial tomorrow, and I’m not sure he’s too happy about that, but he’s gonna do it.”
David wasn’t surprised to hear that about Captain Fredericks.
The man was a notorious homophobe, an attitude tempered by Lieutenant McKee. David was under no illusions that McKee liked him, but he valued a man for the job he performed, not who he slept with. But now, clutching the phone in his fi st, David was reluctant to believe what Martinez was saying.
“It’s over?”
“Hey man, from the vibes I’m getting, it never even started.”
David didn’t bother bringing up Martinez’s decidedly uncool reaction when he suspected David of downloading kiddie porn.
His partner would remember things differently.
126 P.A. Brown
“Well, that’s got to be good—”
A dull
wump
shook his bed, rattling the metal frame and spilling tepid coffee across his lap. He heard the distant sound of breaking glass.
An alarm wailed. Screams punctuated the rising voices.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor and a fi re alarm began an ear-splitting howl.
“What the devil?” Martinez asked.
“I don’t know.” David sat up and barked into the phone,
“Alarms. I think you better call this in—”
The phone abruptly went dead. Then he heard the loud blat of a busy signal.
He scrambled to his feet, clutching the receiver. “Martinez!”
He dialed 911. Nothing but the fast busy signal of a line going nowhere.
“Damn—”
Someone ran by the open door, white coat fl apping.
Abrahms.
“Doctor!” David ignored the pull of wrenched muscles as he scrambled out of bed and hurried into the corridor. “Abrahms, hold it right there.”
The doctor slowed and turned. “David, this is not a good time—”
It was hard to feel cop-like with a damp hospital gown barely covering his knees and his ass hanging out the back of the open garment, but David put on his best cop face and stood over Abrahms.
“Do you know what happened?”
Abrahms shook his head. “Something bad.” He looked disheveled and shrunken, as though he had taken a savage beating.
“I think it was on the main fl oor.”
It was diffi cult to hear over the screaming alarm. A pair of nurses ran past. Doors slammed and voices rose in confusion.
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“I need to get down there and see,” David said. “Chris might be there!”
A pair of white-coated women skidded to a stop in front of them. “We need to start evac,” the taller of the two said. “The west entrance is clear. We can move the ambulatories down the back fl ights. I’ve already got EMTs working to clear out the post ops from ICU. We’re short-handed though—”
“David, you can go with these two. They’ll move the ambulatory patients outside. You’ll be safer there.”
In the distance they could hear the approaching shriek of emergency response vehicles and the wail of alarms. Help was coming. But help for what? What had just happened?
David had to fi nd Chris.
Abrahms touched his shoulder. “You should leave, David.
We’ll take care of things now.”
In other words, let the experts do their job. David had been a cop almost all of his adult life. He didn’t know how to be anything else. He shook Abrahms’ hand off his shoulder.
“I was talking to my partner,” he said. “He’ll bring more aid.
If you’re shorthanded I can help.”
Abrahms offered him a quick smile of thanks, and glanced down at David’s bare legs. “You might want to put something on.”
David considered refusing; there was no time. But common sense prevailed. Back in his room, he grabbed the jeans he had been wearing the night before and slipped them on. The knees were torn out, but at least he wasn’t fl ashing his ass anymore.
There was no shirt to put on; he had to slip the vest he’d been wearing over his hospital gown.
He put on the heavy black boots he had worn to please Chris and met back up with Abrahms.
“You don’t need to do this,” Abrahms said.
128 P.A. Brown
Every fi ber in his being said he had to fi nd Chris, but David couldn’t walk away from people who needed him any more than he could stop breathing. Chris understood that.
“Yes,” David replied. “I do.”
The next hour was a blur of lifting and maneuvering patients from beds to the fl exible stretchers that were easier to carry down the stairs. The halls grew crowded with EMTs and hospital staff.
Smoke and the stench of burning chemicals seeped from room to room; David was sure he could hear the crackle of approaching fl ames. He still had no idea what had happened. A gas leak? An electrical transformer blown? Chemical explosion?
Chaos reigned outside. They came out the side door nearest to Rowena. Their position gave them a sweeping view of the front of the hospital. Black smoke billowed from the entrance.
Helicopters thumped overhead, waiting their turn to evacuate non-mobile patients. Police, ambulances and fi re trucks vied for space on the crowded road. What little green space had existed before was now chewed into gray ruts, while thick hoses snaked across lawns, streets and sidewalks.
Barriers blocked Rowena and Hyperion and the nearest side streets. David could already see reporters pressed up against them, vying for the ideal camera shot or sound bite. David saw the KNBC truck pull in behind KTLA. Whatever it was, was big enough to bring in the network feeds. He also spotted Roz Parnell of the
Times
talking to a uniformed offi cer who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her chest. David could only hope she wouldn’t spot him.
David struggled with his fi fth patient-fi lled stretcher and made it to the waiting ambulance, where an EMT relieved him of his burden. His body, already bruised from the attack the night before, was one massive ache.
Taking deep lung-cleaning breaths, he straightened from where he’d been leaning against the ambulance and braced himself to go back inside. He spotted an EMT at the front of the hospital, walking around the rubble-strewn sidewalk. The technician stopped and knelt, picking something out of the debris. Further L.A. BYTES
129
on, he saw a roaming uniformed offi cer gingerly snatch a bunch of fl owers from the sidewalk. David stepped toward the side door, prepared to go back inside to assist with the next patient. A hand snaked out, nearly jerking him off his feet.
Martinez glared at him.
“
Dios
, man, you don’t give up, do you?”
David sagged back against the van. “How long have you been here?”
“Fifteen-twenty minutes.” Martinez eyed the open leather vest David was wearing over his hospital gown, and his torn jeans. He didn’t ask. Smart man. “What a mess—”
“Any word on what happened? I heard a blas—”
“Some kind of IED,” Martinez said. “The boom boys got their robot and dogs going through the front of the building—I guess they’ll tell us what kind it was once they know. There’s a lot of rubble blocking the area—”
“Any sign of Chris?” David leaned forward, exhaustion forgotten. “Did you see Chris, Martinez?”
“No, no sign of him. I’m sure he’s okay—”
David glanced down the street at the
Café Fresco
, opposite the front entrance, then let his gaze follow the path Chris would have taken with their breakfast. The area was crowded with lookie-loos held back by more barriers, but no Chris. Ice lodged in his chest, numbing his limbs, making breathing diffi cult.
His gaze snapped back to the
Café Fresco
. A very pregnant woman stood in the doorway of the restaurant. A broad shouldered man stood behind her, towering over the diminutive woman.
David shook off his lethargy and started across the ragged lawn. He darted around a black and white that was parked at a forty-fi ve degree angle to an EMT vehicle loading up patients for transport off-site.
He approached the pregnant woman, all too aware he carried no ID, no badge to prompt answers from anyone.
130 P.A. Brown
“Ma’am,” he said. “Do you work here?”
“
Si
,” she murmured. “For eleven months now.” She glanced shyly at the man behind her. “Since we were married.”
“What time did you start this morning?”
“
Seis—
six o’clock. Every day we open for breakfast.”
David looked at the big, silent man behind her. Did he even speak English? This time David’s gaze swept back to where Martinez was helping load evacuees into buses.
“¿
Estubo aqui un hombre esta manana
? Was there a man here this morning?” David asked, adding a description of Chris. “
El
hombre tiene cabello rubio, ojos azules, bien parecido y muy bien vestido. I
quizas tenia una bolsa.
”
“
¿Bolsa?
”
“Yes,” David said. “A bag.”
The woman played with the buttons of her blouse where it bulged over her belly. She smiled shyly. She conferred with the man behind her.
“
Si
, he was my last customer.” She frowned. “Soon after he left there was a
rugido grande
,” she said. “An explosion.
Muy
fuerte.
”
“Did you see him after he left? Do you know if he went toward the hospital across the street?”
“
No hici, no.
Sorry.”
David met the dark eyes of the man hovering over his wife.
“Sir, did you see anything? Did you see this man?”
“
No, no vio nada
,” he said and taking his wife’s arm he pulled her back into their café.
David spun around and stared at the rubble that had once been the hospital’s main entrance. Sour bile fi lled his throat.
“
Hola
, Davey,” Martinez hailed him.
Reluctantly David turned to face his partner.
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“McKee says you’re back on duty, but you gotta stop down at Northeast to make it formal.”
“Chris is in there.”
“What?” Martinez came to an abrupt stop in front of him.
His face was a mask of confusion. “Chris? Why on earth would he be here?”
“He was bringing me clothes. He stopped to grab breakfast,”
David waved his bare arm toward the
Café Fresco
. “They confi rmed he was there minutes before the blast. Where else would he be?”
Martinez muttered something in Spanish. “I heard they’re bringing dogs in. They’ll fi nd him, David.”
David wasn’t going to leave Chris’s life in anyone else’s hands.
“I can’t leave until I know he’s safe.”
A van pulled up behind one of the idling fi re trucks and a woman got out. She pulled the rear door of the van open, and seconds later a black lab jumped out. The dog wore a bright yellow coat with big block letters that said “Rescue” over a web harness, which the woman snapped a leash to.
Striding across the street, David made an end-run around the fi re truck and approached the woman. Her dog looked up at him.
“Ma’am?”
She took in his bruised face and torn jeans. The lab thumped his tail.
“Sir! You can’t come in here.” A tall, lanky, uniformed offi cer David didn’t recognize hurried toward him, his hand outstretched.
“This is a restricted zone. Please, clear the area.”
“I’m—”
“He’s with me.” Martinez fl ashed his badge. “Detective Martinez Diego and my partner, David Laine. We have strong reason to believe there’s a man in there.”
“Who?”
132 P.A. Brown
They both swung around to look at the woman with the dog.
“Sorry,” she said, tightening her hold on the lab’s leash. “I’m Sarah Greives, and this is Maverick. Who’s missing?”
“My husband, Chris Bellamere.” David ran his fi ngers through his thick hair. Willing them to stop yammering about things that were unimportant. “He called me from here this morning just before this happened.” Abruptly David turned and stared hard at Sarah. “This is really a waste of time. He’s here.”
“Then let’s go fi nd him,” she said. “If he’s here, Detective Laine, Maverick will fi nd him.”
David didn’t wait for her. He strode across the torn up lawn and up the fi rst set of debris-strewn steps. Behind him he heard the tap-tap of dog toenails against the concrete. Through the ruined front doors he could see the bomb squad clustered around something on the rubble-covered ground that looked like a badly designed go-cart track. Behind him, Martinez directed the uni to start a grid search of the rubble.
“Seek, Maverick,” Sarah said. “Find him.”
Maverick immediately became all business. Nose to the ground the dog went where Sarah directed, but aside from following her lead, he was clearly working to his own rules.
The blast had brought down most of the front entrance, scattering bricks and mortar everywhere, much of it channeled by the blast where the front door used to be. The worst of the damage was outside. Debris was piled several feet deep; most of the front steps and the doorframe were gone. Dust still hung in the motionless air. It was this area that Sarah had Maverick work.
David grabbed a mask from a hovering EMT and put it on.
He moved parallel to Sarah and Maverick, studying the ground, trying to look beyond the destruction. Martinez stayed beside him. Glass and dusty bricks crunched under their feet. David stirred up even more dust; it coated his legs and hair and settled on the exposed skin of his chest and arms. It itched. His eyes stung and he blinked away the grit on his eyelashes. Even through L.A. BYTES
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