Sue Grafton - E Is for Evidence

He looked battered, with a dark track sketched along his forehead where the stitches had been put in. One wrist was bandaged, from cuts perhaps, or burns. His face was pale, his moustache stark, his dark hair disheveled. He seemed shrunken, as if Olive's death had diminished him.

Ebony appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene with a cursory glance. She hesitated, waiting for the aide to finish. The room seemed unbearably crowded. I needed fresh air.

"I'll come back in a minute," I murmured. I wheeled myself out. Ebony followed me as far as the visitors' lounge, a small alcove with a green tweed couch, two matching chairs, an artificial palm, and an ashtray. She took a seat, searching through her handbag for her ciga-rettes. She lit one, sucking in smoke as if it were oxygen. She looked totally composed, but it was clear that the hospital atmosphere unsettled her. She picked a piece of lint from the lap of her skirt.

"I don't understand any of this," she said harshly. "Who'd want to kill Olive? She never did anything."

"Olive wasn't the target. It was Terry. The package with the bomb in it was addressed to him."

Ebony's gaze shot up to mine and hung there. A pale wash of pink appeared in the dead white of her face. The hand with the cigarette gave a lurch, almost of its own accord, and cigarette ash tumbled into her lap. She rose abruptly, brushing at it.

"That's ridiculous," she snapped. "The police said there was nothing left of the package once the bomb went off." She stubbed the cigarette out.

"Well, there was," I said. "Besides which, I saw it. Terry's name was printed on the front, not hers."

"I don't believe it." A wisp of smoke drifted up from the crushed cigarette stub. She snatched it up again, work-ing the live ember out with her fingertips. She was shred-ding the remains of the cigarette. The strands of raw to-bacco seemed obscene.

"I'm just telling you what I saw. Olive could have been the target, but the package was addressed to him."

"Bullshit! That bastard! Don't tell me Olive died be-cause she picked it up instead of him!" Her eyes suffused with tears and she struggled for control. She got up, pacing with agitation.

I turned the wheelchair slightly, tracking her course. "What bastard, Ebony? Who are you referring to?"

She sat down abruptly, pressing the butts of both palms against her eyes. "No one. I'm sorry. I had no idea. I thought someone meant to kill her, which was horrible enough. But to die by mistake. My God! At least she didn't suffer. They swear she died instantly." She sobbed once.

She formed a tent of her hands, breathing hard into her palms.

"Do you know who killed her?"

"Of course not! Absolutely not! What kind of monster do you think I am? My own sister…" Her tone of out-rage fell away and she wept earnestly. I wanted to believe her, but I couldn't be sure. I was tired, too close to events to sort out the false from the true. She lifted her face, which was washed with tears.

"Olive said she wasn't going to vote with you," I said, trying the possibility on her for size.

"You're such a bitch!" she shrieked at me. "How dare you! Get away from me!"

Bass appeared in the archway, his gaze turning to mine quizzically. I jammed backward on the push rim, pivoting in the wheelchair. I pushed myself down the cor-ridor, passing a room where someone was calling for help in a low, hopeless tone. A clear plastic tube trailed from under the sheet to a gallon jug of urine under the bed. It looked like lemonade.

Olive usually brought the mail in. I'd seen her toss it on the hall table carelessly the day before. She might have been the intended victim even if the package was ad-dressed to him. I really couldn't remember what she'd told me about who she was siding with in the power play be-tween Ebony and Lance. Maybe he did it as a means of persuading the others to fall in line.

Darcy was waiting in my room when I got back. " Andy 's gone," she said.

I eased myself back into bed while Darcy filled me in on the details. Andy had come whipping into the office at about 10:00 the day before. Mac had insisted on keeping office hours until 5:00, despite the fact that it was New Year's Eve day. Andy had a lunch meeting scheduled as well as a 2:00 appointment with one of the company vice-presidents. Darcy said Andy was in panic mode. She tried to give him his phone messages, but he cut her dead, hur-ried into his office, and began to load his personal items into his briefcase, along with his Rolodex. Next thing she knew, he was gone.

"It was too weird for words," she said. "He's never done anything like that before. And why the Rolodex? I'd already been through it and I didn't find a thing, but what made him think of that?"

"Maybe he's psychic."

"He'd have to be. Anyway, we didn't see him again for the rest of the day, so after work I hopped in my car and drove out to his place."

"You went all the way out to Elton?"

"Well, yeah. I just didn't like his attitude. He really had his undies in a bundle and I wanted to know what it was about. I didn't see his car parked anywhere near his apart-ment, so I went up and peeked in his front window. The place was a pigsty and all the furniture was gone. Maybe a card table in the living room, but that was it."

"That's all he's got," I said. "It looks like Janice took him for a bundle and she's clamoring for more."

"She can clamor all she wants, Kinsey, the man is gone. His next-door neighbor saw me peering in the win-dow and he came out and asked me what I was up to. I told him the truth. I said I worked with Andy and we were worried because he left the office in a snit without telling us what to do about his appointments. This guy claims he saw Andy going down the steps yesterday morning with two big suitcases banging against his legs. This was maybe nine-thirty, something like that. He must have come straight to the office, packed up his stuff, and taken off. I called his place every couple of hours last night and again this morning. All I get is his machine."

I thought about it briefly. "Did the newspapers carry an account of Olive's death?"

"Not till this morning and he was gone by then."

I could feel a surge of energy, part restlessness, part dread. I pushed the covers back and swung my legs over the side of the bed. "I've gotta get out of here."

"Are you supposed to be up?"

"Sure. No problem. Check the closet and see if Daniel brought me any clothes." The green cocktail dress was gone, probably dissected by a pair of surgical scissors in the emergency room the night before, along with my tatty underwear.

"It's empty, except for this," she said. She held up my handbag.

"Great. We're in business. As long as I've got my keys, I can get some clothes when I get home. I assume you've got a car here."

"Can you leave without a doctor's permission?"

"I got it. She told Daniel I could go as long as he looked in on me, which he said he would."

Darcy studied me uncertainly, probably guessing what I said was part fib.

"God, don't worry about it, Darcy. It's not against the law to check out of a hospital. It's not a prison sentence. I'm a volunteer," I said.

"What about your bill?"

"Would you quit being such a stickler? My insurance pays for this so I don't owe them anything. They've got my address. They'll find me if they need to."

Darcy was clearly unconvinced, but she shrugged and helped me into the wheelchair, pushing me down the cor-ridor toward the elevators. One of the nurse's aides stared at us as we went by, but I gave her a little wave and she apparently decided she didn't need to concern herself.

When we got downstairs, Darcy lent me her coat and left me in the glass foyer while she went to fetch the car. There I sat in my borrowed coat and little paper slippers, handbag in my lap. If my doctor walked by, I wasn't sure what I'd do. People passing through the foyer gave me cursory glances, but nobody said a word. Being sick is bullshit. I had work to do.