Authors: Nancy Bush
A bell went off at the nurse’s station up ahead to her left, jarring her nerves further, but Jordanna ducked into the bathroom on the right. Inside, she leaned against the wall beside the door, watching it start to close behind her.
What the hell are you doing?
The complaining nurse suddenly snapped, “You’ve got to be kidding!” Then footsteps marched toward her. Jordanna moved quickly away from the door and to the sink, sure her charade was about to be unmasked. She pretended to wash her hands, but no one entered the bathroom. Cocking her head, she tried to listen, but the door was firmly shut now and the bathroom walls apparently too insulated to hear through. In that moment she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and forced herself to clear the lines of anxiety between her brows.
Gathering her courage, she carefully stepped back into the hallway and hurried back to the corner once again. To her right was the nurse’s section. If she went left, she would reach the branch of the hallway that led to Danziger’s room. Swallowing, she dared a quick look and saw that his door was open. The complaining nurse’s voice suddenly sounded from the direction of the nurse’s station. It was muffled at this distance, but she was plainly still upset.
“Can I help you?”
Jordanna just managed to keep from leaping out of her skin at the unexpected female voice. She turned to find a young aide behind her. She’d come from farther down the hall. To Jordanna’s right, another nurse was approaching the nurse’s station with a file in her hands.
“I’m just debating whether to see my husband again, or let him get some rest,” Jordanna told her, inclining her head toward the branching corridor.
“There’s a waiting area ahead.” The aide pointed past the turn to Danziger’s room and toward the opposite end of the hall from the nurse’s station. If she chose to go there, Jordanna would have to cross the corridor that led to Danziger’s room, and if the policemen were standing outside his door, it was more than possible one of them might see her. Would they think she was just some other visitor, or would they know how Carmen Danziger dressed?
“Thank you,” she said to the aide, who smiled and turned toward the nurse’s station. Jordanna stood still for a moment, then held her breath and decided to cross to the waiting area. She moved quickly, forcing herself not to turn her head. In her peripheral vision, she caught a glimpse of one of the officers still in the hallway, but she kept her pace even, only breathing a sigh of relief when she was safely down the hall and at the small waiting room, which was really an alcove with several brown faux-leather side chairs and a glass table with metal legs. A row of windows gazed down upon the very parking lot where Jordanna was thinking about leaving her car, and she leaned her chin on one hand and calculated the distance from Danziger’s room to the elevator, and then the elevator to the back door....
The woman’s voice was full of annoyance. “. . . asleep, and when he’s awake, you can question him.”
A man’s voice answered, implacable and cool. “We’ll wait.”
“I’ve paged Dr. Cochran,” the woman warned. “Until he arrives, I suggest you wait in the hall.”
“Ma’am, we’ve spoken with Dr. Cochran and he knows we’re here.”
“Even if that’s true, patient health is Laurelton General’s first responsibility,” she responded crisply, undaunted. “Please wait in the hall until Mr. Danziger awakens.”
Silence. Dance pictured a glare-off between the man and woman. Even in his dull state, he had a pretty good idea that the man was a police officer. There was just something authoritative in his tone. And they would be wanting to question him. They would want to know if he knew anything about the explosion. Dr. Cochran had basically released him, so they wouldn’t miss this opportunity while he was still at the hospital.
He toyed with the idea of letting the nurse duke it out with the officers; there were at least two of them or the man wouldn’t have been speaking in plurals.
But Dance didn’t see how that was going to help him. He sensed he was in trouble, either a target of the bombing or someone who’d merely gotten in the way. What that meant, he wasn’t sure. His head felt stuffed with cotton; it hurt to think. Either way, he wanted to get the hell away from the hospital, where he felt like a sitting duck. If this Jordanna person could spring him, he was going to go with her.
She could be in on it.
He opened his eyes.
Two people were in the room, and he sensed another standing just outside the door. The iron-jawed, middle-aged nurse with the glare was just as he’d expected. The fifty-ish man with clipped gray hair gazed calmly back at her and wore a policeman’s uniform. The third person was outside his line of sight.
It was the nurse who saw him first. Her eyes momentarily flicked his way, but returned to the police officer without letting him know Dance was awake. But then the officer in the hallway suddenly entered and his gaze collided with Dance’s.
“His eyes are open,” he said, effectively breaking the glare-off between the other two.
“Mr. Danziger,” the nurse said, bustling over to his bedside officiously. “How are you feeling? Can you talk? These policemen wish to speak with you, but you do not have to right now.”
“I can talk,” Dance rasped.
Her lips tightened. “I’ve paged Dr. Cochran, and—”
“No, I’ll talk,” he said again, clearing his throat. “I want to.”
She inhaled a breath, hesitated a moment, then said, “If you’re sure,” in a tone that said there was no way he could be.
“Mr. Danziger,” the policeman greeted him, ignoring the nurse and gazing at Dance through flinty eyes. “If you’re feeling up to it, we’d like your account of the accident.”
“Was it a bombing?” Dance asked him.
The older officer—McDermott, by his name tag—glanced at the nurse, who tried to ignore his pointed stare before bustling out of the room in a flurry of indignation.
Once she was gone, McDermott turned his attention back to Dance. “It appears to have been.”
The younger officer, whose name tag read BILLINGS, kept silent, clearly leaving the questions to his more experienced partner.
“We’ve been waiting to interview you,” McDermott explained. “You feel up to it?”
Dance kind of figured the interview was coming at him regardless, but he managed a careful nod.
“Do you mind telling us what you were doing at Saldano Industries?” the older officer asked.
“I was meeting Maxwell Saldano there.”
“A business meeting?”
“We were planning to play golf,” Dance said, sidestepping the question. “I was meeting Max at his office.”
“Maxwell Saldano is your brother-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“Your wife was here earlier . . . ?” McDermott frowned and looked back toward the door as if he was wondering what had become of her.
Dance was wondering the same thing, except his thoughts were on the woman named Jordanna. Was she getting ready to take him out of here? He hoped to hell she stayed away while the police were here, although why he trusted her like a lifelong friend and not the police was a question he couldn’t quite answer. He didn’t
mis
trust the officers exactly, but he was in something deep that he didn’t completely remember at the moment. He understood he was lucky to be alive. And he wanted out of the hospital.
You don’t know this Jordanna. She could be part of the setup.
Setup? Was this a setup?
His brain suddenly offered up a memory.
The audiotapes . . .
“Mr. Saldano wasn’t at the company building when the explosion happened,” McDermott said.
“He was late,” Dance said, tired all over. Maybe his injuries were worse than he’d thought, but he didn’t care. He was leaving today, no matter what Cochran said.
The drugs were making it impossible to think straight. The bombing couldn’t have been about him. No one was after him. No one knew about the tapes except Max.
And Max
wasn’t there..
..
Dance licked dry lips and asked, “Have you talked to Max?”
“One of our detectives has spoken to Mr. Saldano, and she would like to talk to you, too.”
“She?”
“Detective Rafferty.”
He sensed underlying disapproval in the man’s voice. Because she was a woman? Or because she was a detective? Or both? Deciding to twist the knife a bit, he asked, “This Rafferty’s the boss, huh?”
“No,” McDermott snapped back, unable to help himself, his lips tight. The younger officer looked uncomfortable. Dance had done enough reports on crime and dealt with enough police to know there was often a wall between the uniformed officer and the detectives. The detective being a “she” was bound to pour salt in the wound, especially since there was something about McDermott, nothing definable . . . call it a reporter’s nose . . . that smacked already of misogyny. Or, he supposed it could be simple envy, but whatever it was, Dance was pretty sure McDermott had stepped out of his job description to interview him.
“We like to corroborate people’s accounts,” McDermott explained.
Read that as he’d taken it upon himself to interview Dance first. Maybe he was stumping for a job promotion.
“Do you remember the explosion?” McDermott asked.
“No . . .” Dance admitted truthfully. He could remember the before and after, but his mind seemed to be skipping the actual event, shying away from it, he supposed. Isn’t that what happened to trauma victims? He could recall the plans he’d made in the morning . . . on the cell phone with Max. They’d talked about golf and a little about Carmen, that she was on her way to Europe . . . Italy.... He’d kept bigger issues to himself, sensing his time with Max was precious and tenuous. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the drive to Saldano Industries’ main building. He could recall climbing into his Highlander—the car his ex had always wanted him to replace with a BMW, like that was going to happen—and then putting it into reverse.... Or, at least he thought he could. His hand had been on the gear shift, but the feeling of low dread was what he remembered most....
He thought he could remember the explosion. The huge
boom
seemed to still ring in his ears and fill his insides as if at a cellular level. But the only other thing he could recall was that Max hadn’t been there.
And he was sick of that line circling his mind.
“What did Max say?” he repeated.
“Detective Rafferty can fill you in,” he snipped.
Yep. Misogynistic, professional envy. “You’re not going to tell me?” Dance pushed.
“She did the interview of Mr. Saldano.”
“Unless she gets here fast, she’ll have to catch me at home,” Dance warned. “I’m being released.”
And I won’t be home, either.
“Today?” McDermott asked, his brows lifting.
“Yes.” Dance was certain. “I’d like to help you more, but this bombing is a Saldano problem.”
“You know that for certain?” Billings interjected eagerly, earning a scowl from McDermott.
“It’s the most likely scenario,” Dance said. He didn’t really believe what he was saying, but he was tired of their questions, especially since it sounded like he might be going through them again very soon with the female detective.
The officers left a few moments later and Dance collapsed back on his pillows, glad for the reprieve. He was strong enough to leave, and that was what he was going to do. Maybe he was a fool to accept help from this Jordanna person, but he was going to do that, too.
She could be anybody. She already dressed up like your wife to gain access, for Christ’s sake.
At that precise moment, the door swung inward and Jordanna appeared again, still in the tight green dress and heels. Her gaze met his and she put a finger to her lips as she slipped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I’m going to go home and get some things,” she told him. “When I return, I’ll come through a back door, if possible. We’ll go out the same way. When do you get released?”
“Soon, I hope. A police detective’s planning to interview me. There were two officers here.”
“McDermott and that younger man. I saw them leave your room.”
“Did they see you?” he asked curiously.
“No, but I’ve met McDermott already,” she admitted.
“As Carmen?” he asked.
“Well, yeah. It was when I was at reception. . . .”
“You don’t really want to see him up close and personal again because he could start asking questions.”
“You got that right.” Her smile was quick and disappeared immediately.
“What’s your stake in this?”
She shook her head, hesitated, then shook it again. “I don’t trust the Saldanos.”
“You know the Saldano family?”
“By reputation, but that’s enough.” Her tone made her feelings clear on that.
“They’re not as bad as you think they are.”
“Then why are you here, instead of one of them?”
“Bad timing.”
“Very bad, if that’s true,” she agreed. “Were you working on a story?”
“No,” he lied, and he saw her eyes search his face.
“You were working on something on the Saldanos.” It was a statement instead of a question.
“What’s your interest in them?” he asked.
“I just . . .” She hesitated.
When she didn’t finish, he grew impatient and demanded, “Tell me, where do you fit into this?”
“I just want to help you.”
“A lie,” he stated with certainty. When she turned away, he said with dawning realization, “You know something about the Saldanos and me.”
“No.”
“Oh, shit. You’re a reporter. Channel Seven?” he demanded.
She jerked in surprise. “I’m not on television.”
“But you are a reporter. You’re looking for a story.” He could hear the derision in his voice.
“I’m here to save your hide,” she snapped back. Hearing herself, she whispered harshly, “And yeah, okay, I’m a reporter, and maybe I’d like a story. But there’s a reason you’re in this hospital bed. Someone put you here.
They
did. The Saldanos.”
“What makes you such an expert?”
“I’ve been following you, Mr. Danziger. I don’t know what happened, but something did, and now they need you out of the way.”