PETE LED ME over to a black-and-white where two uniformed officers stood waiting. As Frank’s partner, Pete already knew about O’Connor’s notes and Frank’s conversation with Hernandez. As we drove to the hospital, I told him about the visit with Dr. MacPherson. I asked him if they could please have someone check on the professor. I thought of MacPherson’s last cautioning words to Frank-he was right, harming a cop was no big deal to whoever had come after us.

“Do you know who was in the Lincoln?” I asked.

“No, not yet. I don’t know if anyone told you-they’re both dead.”

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Do you think this was the car that fired the shots into your house?”

“Yes, pretty sure. But I’m not positive.”

“That’s okay. If it is, ballistics will probably be able to match the gun to the bullets from your wall. These guys followed you from San Pedro?”

I told him about the drive back, and the chase. It seemed as if it had all happened to someone else, except that I was holding a skull in my lap. It was funny in a way. I didn’t want to have it near me earlier. Now it was my link to believing we still had an edge over whoever wanted Hannah’s identity to remain a secret.

“Here,” I said, reluctantly handing the box to Pete. “It’s her skull. And here are the computer drawings. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take one set in to the paper. And this is a list of places she was most likely to have lived before coming here, or at least, where she lived as a child.”

“Thanks, we’ll get the pictures out to all these places and make some phone contacts with the local PDs. If somebody hadn’t made all this noise, I probably couldn’t get anyone to take a look at it, you know? But now we’ve got a homicide, two attempteds, and a long list of other charges to excite people about.”

We pulled up to the ER entrance of St. Anne’s. It was getting to be familiar territory. I got out of the car and rushed into the waiting room. The nurse at the counter told me that Frank was still in the ER; they would let me know when I could see him.

I sat down on one of the plastic chairs. Pete checked in with the desk as well, showing his ID and telling the nurse he would be waiting with me.

“Hey, how’s your sister’s husband?” he asked as he sat down next to me.

“Still critical. Thanks for helping him and taking care of Barbara.”

“Your sister’s okay. It was rough for her, you know? But all things considered, she did okay.”

“Yes, she did.”

“You hanging in there? Most people would want to go home and crawl under the covers after what happened to you today.”

I shrugged, and felt the stiffness that was starting to set in on my back and neck. I stood up and stretched.

“Starting to get sore?”

“Yeah, a little.”

THE NURSE CAME OVER to Pete and me, told us Frank was being taken to a room, and that the doctor would talk to us now. We went through the door to the hallway outside the waiting room and were met by a young man in scrubs. He introduced himself as Dr. Baldwin.

When I told him my name, he said, “Detective Harriman has been asking about you.” Then, talking mainly to Pete, but giving me polite eye contact now and again, he told us that Frank had suffered a concussion and a broken nose, two cracked ribs, and various minor facial injuries. Luckily, the ribs hadn’t punctured his lungs. Frank was conscious now but we should keep our visit brief.

Frank was lying in the bed, his head and shoulders slightly elevated. His face was chalk-white. His eyes, nose, and upper lip were puffy; he lay very still. Even knowing that he was probably going to be okay, it scared me to see him like this. As we approached the bed, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on our faces. “Hi,” he managed to say.

“Hello. Good to see you’re awake,” I said.

“You’re hurt,” he said, seeing the bandage.

“Look who’s talking.”

He swallowed, and made a motion for the water glass. I held the straw up to his lips and he took a long drink.

“Thanks.” He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he said, “Hi, Pete.”

“Hey, Frank. Doctor tells us you’re gonna be fine, but that it will hurt like hell for a while.”

“It already does,” he said. I wondered if we should leave, but it was hard to make myself do it.

He managed an odd, lopsided grin. “Glad you’re okay. I was worried.”

I took his hand, held it between mine. “You worried me, too. Get some sleep. I’ll be back to see you in the morning.”

“Okay,” he said, and squeezed my hand as I let go. As I turned to leave, he said, “Irene?”

I turned back. “Yes?”

“Miss your deadline?”

“There will be another one tomorrow, and another one the day after that. Don’t worry about it. Get better.”

I moved to the foot of the bed, and Pete moved up toward him. “She’s right, Frank, just get better. And don’t you worry about Irene. I’ll watch out for her.”

“Thanks, Pete,” he whispered.

He closed his eyes again, falling asleep this time; Pete and I, like tiptoeing children, stepped quietly away from his bed.

On our way down the hallway, we met Captain Bredloe, Frank’s boss in Homicide. He was a tall, strapping man with a deep voice. I stood to one side while Pete told him Frank was asleep and not able to talk much right now, but that he should be okay. The captain hesitated, looked down the hallway toward the room, then turned and walked out with us.

Pete went over the list of Frank’s injuries. The captain asked a few questions, then looked over at me as Pete gave a brief summary of what I had told him about the day’s activities.

“You’re a reporter?” Bredloe asked.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“You worked with O’Connor, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” That seemed like something as long lost as childhood right now.

“I liked O’Connor,” he said. “You be careful.” He paused, then said, “Can we give you a ride somewhere?”

“My car’s just over at the paper. Frank met me there before we went to San Pedro.” I thought of the picnic on the cliffs.

“So your car has been there all day?”

“Pretty much. Since about nine this morning.”

“Hmm. Pete, have it checked out before she gets in it.”

A simple phrase, but it made me feel queasy.

He noticed. “I’ll tell you what, you look like you could use some rest. Why don’t I take you home and let Pete deal with your car?”

It sounded like a good idea. I told them I could get a ride in with Lydia tomorrow. I gave Pete my car keys and left with the captain.

On the way to Lydia’s, he talked to me about O’Connor, told stories of his own first days on the force, when O’Connor was already a journeyman reporter. Apparently they had lifted a few glasses together at Banyon’s back when Bredloe was a single man. “O’Connor always gave us a fair shake,” he said. “He wasn’t as sympathetic as some would have liked him to be, but he was always fair.” We pulled up in front of Lydia’s house. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Kelly. I’ll just watch you to the door.”

I thanked him and said goodnight, feeling the stiffness again as I got out of the car. I waved to the captain as I let myself in.

Lydia exclaimed over me, mothered me, fussed over me once again. My weary, lifeless retelling of the day’s events brought further sympathy and care. “Take another hot bath tonight or you’ll be super sore tomorrow,” she advised. I agreed, and went down the hall to run the bath. She came in with a coffee-colored drink.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A B-52-Kahlъa, Grand Marnier, and Irish Cream.”

“Jesus, Lydia, what are you trying to do, embalm me?”

“Trust me.”

My resistance was low. I climbed into the bath and sipped the sweet drink that went down my throat like liquid fire. The bathroom door opened, and in strolled Cody. He climbed up on the edge of the tub and started meowing at me. I scratched his ears and chin with my dry hand, and he rubbed against it and almost fell in. He settled down on the bath mat and watched me. I could hear him purring. It’s nice to be loved.