The door opened a crack and a heavy-set Mexican woman peered out.
"We're looking for Cecilia Kirk," Brent said.
"She's asleep. What do you want?"
Joe stepped forward. "We're actually looking for Elise Riddisee. Ms. Kirk picked her up at St. Jude's hospital earlier this morning. I'm Elise's husband, Joe Urgulano."
The maid's eyes widened. "Wait here."
A few minutes later the door opened again and a curvy woman with green eyes and a head of thick blonde curls stepped out. "Good morning, gentlemen." She smiled in a way that suggested their arrival was not unexpected. Her gaze fell on Joe, and the smile became more genuine. "How nice to see you again, Joe." She extended a hand.
He took her hand cautiously. "I'm sorry, I don’t remember..."
"I was at your wedding, although I'm not surprised you don't remember me. You only had eyes for Elise that day."
Joe nodded slowly. "I think I remember you. Her friend from the theater, right?"
Cece beamed. "Yes, Elise and I became friends during my brief, and I'm afraid rather futile, attempt at community theater." She laughed. "She was always so helpful to me, no matter how bad I was. My husband used to say that I should stick to theater patronage rather than theater performance, but Elise had faith in me." She noticed Brent was shivering. "Are you gentlemen cold?" She opened the door wide. "Please come in. You woke me out of a dream, and I've completely forgotten my good manners."
The two men stepped into an entrance of dark wood paneling and black marble floors. They looked around, taking in the high ceilings bordered with intricately carved molding. A wrought iron chandelier hung from the center of the small room, but was unlit, the primary sources of light being the faintly glowing wall sconces and the soft light of early morning filtering through the windows on either side of the door. Cece looked the men up and down. "You two boys look like you've been up all night."
"We have been," Brent said.
"And who are you, dear? I didn't catch your name."
"Brent Conner. We're sorry to have woken you up."
Cece gave a catlike smile. "This seems to have been a bad night for getting any rest."
"So we're at the right place then? You did pick Elise up from the hospital?" Joe asked.
"Yes, poor thing. She always hated hospitals. She said it has something to do with a bout of anemia as a child and those hospital vampires drawing blood all the time."
"So she's here now?" Joe craned his neck, trying to look behind her.
"Good lord, no." Catching the expression Joe's face, she tried to reassure him. "I did my best to convince her. I certainly have enough room for her and I thought for sure our old friendship would prevail." Cece pushed a curl out of her eyes. "But she was very emotional and would have none of it. She told me to take her to someone else's place. She said that she felt safer there than with me. Can you imagine?"
"Where did you take her?" Joe demanded. "Back to Sylvia Lobo's place?" He had slipped his keys into his jacket pocket, but he took them out and looked ready to make a dash for the door.
"With all those wild people? No, she was adamant about that-- there were too many people in and out of there for her taste. From the sound of it, I don't think I would've taken her there even if she wanted me to."
"So where did you take her?"
"I'm afraid she asked me not to tell."
"Oh, hell!" Joe slapped his forehead. "Everywhere I've gone tonight I've run into people who know where she is and won't tell me." He took a step toward her. "Please. I'm tired. I'm hungry. Elise is going to have a baby, and I don't even know where she is. I won't say it was you who told me. Just tell me where she is so I can go talk to her."
Cece gave him a reassuring smile. "I’m so sorry. I had no idea it was you who might be looking for her, or I would've tried harder to make her come here, but she swore you knew about all this."
"If you can call finding a note on the kitchen counter 'knowing' about it."
"That was a dirty trick, wasn't it?" Cece agreed. "Elise is planning to stay where I took her for at least a couple of days. Why don't you come in the kitchen and let Lupe fix you some breakfast? I've got several guest rooms, each with its own bathroom. You can take showers, get some sleep, and when you wake up I'll call her. I’m sure we'll be able to straighten this whole mess out. So how about it? It would be an honor to have a famous artist and his friend as guests in my home."
The men looked at each other. "How do we know you're not going to scare her into running away again?" Joe asked.
Brent nodded. "It would really be better if we just wrapped this thing up right now. Better for her, better for you, and just better all around."
Cece gazed at them solemnly. "I'm on your side, believe me, but based on my conversation with her, I don't think this is the right way to go about it." She smiled as if seeking to calm a couple of agitated children. "I'll handle this very discreetly. I won't even tell her you're here. I'll tell her I threw you completely off track and that there's no way you'll be finding her without my help. But of course, I'll tell her she should reconsider what she's doing. I'm sure she'll come around. I can be very persuasive." She put her hands on her hips and sighed. "So come on. I would love the honor of having you as my guests."
The two men gave each other dejected looks, their resolution faltering. "Well," Brent said, "Since we have no other good leads at this point, I guess you've got yourself some house guests."
Joe nodded wearily. "But there's no need to feel honored. Really, I'm the one that's honored. You've got a nice place here, Cece."
Cece clapped her hands. "So you'll stay? Oh, good." She turned toward one of the three pointed archways leading out of the foyer and motioned the men to follow her. They walked past oil paintings in gloomy Old Masters style, dark bookcases full of dusty tomes, and bunches of dried grasses and flowers in heavy silver vases while she kept up a cheery monologue about how lonely the house had been since her husband died. "So few of our old friends want to come and see me," she said as they entered the kitchen. "And the ones who do drop by seem to think I'm not properly sorry he's gone. You don't know who your real friends are until someone dies."
The maid had followed them into the room, and now Cece turned to her. "Lupe, dear, make up a pot of coffee for these gentlemen, and fix them..." she turned to Joe and Brent. "What would you like? It's morning, so omelets would be good. But maybe you'd prefer French toast? And Lupe makes delicious cinnamon apple pancakes." She turned to Lupe, who had begun spooning coffee into the coffee maker. "Do you have everything you need to make those cinnamon pancakes?"
Lupe nodded without looking up from her work.
"Good." She turned back to the men. "You two just sit back and relax. Lupe will take good care of you." She headed back toward the hallway. "I'll go upstairs and make sure the guest rooms are presentable. Do you have any bags with you?"
Brent stood up. "I'll bring them in." He held his hand out to Joe for the keys, then let Cece lead him back to the front door.
Cece watched while he brought in the bags, then directed him up the stairs. "There's three rooms on your right," she instructed him. "Pick one for yourself, and Joe can have whichever of the others he likes."
Brent trudged up the stairs and looked around. The first room was decorated in blue, with an iron frame bed and walls covered in scenes of ships being tossed about in storms. It had a window overlooking the street and after admiring the view for a moment Brent set the computer on the desk, dropped his bag beside the bed and sat down. He bounced on the mattress a little, then threw himself backward onto the feather pillows and closed his eyes. After a few minutes he got up, exhaustion weighing heavier on him for having rested a moment, and went to put Joe's duffel bag inside the doorway of the next room, larger than his own, full of dark mahogany furniture and paintings of bloody hunting scenes. Satisfied, he made his way down the stairs.
The smell of French roast coffee hit him as he entered the kitchen and he sat down at the breakfast table to find a steaming mug already waiting for him, with cream, sugar, and silver spoons set out on a tray in the center of the table. Joe was sipping his coffee, exchanging a few quiet words with Cece. They barely glanced up as Brent sat down. "I picked a room for you," Brent said. "It's green. But if you don't like it, there's another one down the hall."
"If it's got a bed, it'll do."
"Oh, you'll like the green one," Cece told him. "It's the largest guest room I have, although the one at the end of the hall is closer to mine, which could be more convenient."
"Like I said, I don't much care, so long as I have a place to lie down."
"There could be advantages to being closer to my room." Cece's eyes lit up as if she was about to make a pert remark, but Brent interrupted.
"Breakfast smells delicious. Nice of you to go to all this trouble for us."
Cece made a terse reply about the duties of a hostess, then stood up. "I suppose I should be off to bed. Make yourselves at home and sleep as late as you like. If there's anything you need, just ask." She made as if to touch Joe's shoulder then seemed to think better of it and headed down the hall.
"Did I say something wrong?" Brent asked.
"I thought you knew better than to interrupt someone, especially when they're doing you a favor."
The warm aroma of cinnamon and apples drifted from where Lupe was working over the skillet. Finally she brought two plates over. "If you want more, let me know."
"Thank you," Joe said, reaching for his fork.
"This looks delicious," Brent added.
Lupe said nothing and went to the sink where she began washing the cooking utensils.
The men dove into their pancakes, pausing only to let Lupe refill their coffee. When there was no longer even syrup residue on their plates, Joe leaned back in his chair and rested a hand on his stomach. "Best breakfast I've had in a long time."
"Thank you, Lupe," Brent said. "It was delicious."
Lupe looked up shyly from scrubbing the skillet. "Are you going to bed now? Is there anything you want?"
"No," they reassured her, and Brent added, "I think for right now, at least, we have everything we need."
Chapter Sixteen
"Cecilia Kirk," the nurse said, reading from the computer screen.
"Do you have an address or phone number?" Joe asked.
"We don't collect that information."
"How am I supposed to find her, then?"
"Maybe she's in the phone directory, but I can't help you with anything like that. Even if we had that information, it would be considered confidential."
"So that's all you can tell me?"
Before the nurse could answer, Brent tugged at his sleeve. "We can find her, especially since we also have the name Elise is going by."
Joe jerked his arm away. "Ellen James? Maybe it's the right name, more likely it's not."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you don't have to show ID in a public hospital. Why would she use a name that could endanger everything she's done so far to cover her tracks?" He gave Brent a contemptuous glance, then turned back to the nurse. "Have you got a phone book I can look at?"
Brent pulled out his smart phone. "That won't be necessary." He tapped his phone while Joe paced the floor, arms folded tightly across his chest. "Here she is," Brent finally said. "215 Rowan. I'm not familiar with that street. Judging from the telephone prefix, though, it's inner-city." He looked up. "Joe?"
"What?" Joe refused to look at him.
"Never mind," Brent turned to the nurse with a forced smile. "Could I get a piece of paper and something to write with?" When the nurse handed him a ballpoint and a post-it pad with the St. Jude Thaddeus logo on it, he thanked her and scribbled down Cecilia's phone number and address. He folded up the scrap of paper, put it in his wallet and thanked the nurse again. He turned to Joe. "What do you want to do? We could try calling, but that might not be as good a plan as just showing up. I have no idea where this street is, though."
"Neither do I," Joe said testily. He shoved his hands in his pockets and headed toward the exit without looking to see if Brent was following him.
Brent hurried to catch up. "We'll use my GPS," he offered. He pulled his coat tightly around himself as the wind blew trash, debris and other hazards across the parking lot. He tried to keep up with Joe, but couldn't follow his rapid, random weaving through the sea of parked cars. When they finally got to the truck, Brent was out of breath.
It took Joe several minutes to unlock the passenger door, then he started the engine and fiddled with the knobs controlling the heater and radio before unlocking Brent's door almost as an afterthought. When Brent finally got into the car, he was chilled and his nails were faintly blue. "Why are you being like this?"
Joe pretended to be absorbed in the mechanics of pulling out of the parking space. "As if you didn't know."
"What do you mean, 'as if I didn't know?'" Brent's voice was steady, but his hands shook. "I had no idea Elise was pregnant. I would've told you if I did."
"Like hell you would've."
"What do you mean? This makes everything make sense. Why would I have tried to hide it from you?"
"You know why."
Brent's eyes widened. "You think this is my baby? How do you know it's not yours?"
Joe pulled the truck out onto the street, picking a direction at random. "Why would she have left if it was mine?" He shook his head. "No, that's your kid. Any idea what you're going to name it? I wonder what your wife will say? Maybe she'll want to help raise it, do you think?"
Brent slammed a fist against the side of the door. "Man, you don't know it's not your kid. She probably doesn't know, herself. That's why she left-- I'm sure of it. To her way of thinking, this solves everything. Now it's no one's baby, and she doesn't have to explain anything to anyone. She can get an abortion, adopt it out, raise it herself, anything she wants, and there's no one she has to justify it to."
"She's not getting out of it that easy," Joe said, braking for a light. "She still has to explain it to me."
"Not if you don't know where you're going," Brent pointed out. "Do you even know where Rowan Street is?"
The light changed, and Joe stepped on the gas. "No."
"Then pull over while I look us up on GPS."
Joe cut the wheel and pulled into a gas station where he waited sullenly while Brent toyed with his phone. "Here it is," he finally said. "No wonder I never heard of it. Looks like it's only a couple blocks long."
"Let me see that." Joe jerked the phone out of Brent's hands. "Nice neighborhood," he observed. "That's over in Delphi Grove. I had no idea Elise had any friends rich enough to live there. What else don't I know about her?"
Brent sighed. "Maybe it's one of her dancer friends, made good. She has all kinds of friends. I don't know everything."
"Could've fooled me." Joe glared at Brent out of the corner of his eye as he pulled back out onto the street. "She has all kinds of friends, though, I'll grant you that. Drug dealers, woodcarvers, marketing directors...she seems willing to even make babies with marketing directors."
Brent turned around sharply in his seat. "Dammit, Joe! Stop it, okay? Just stop it. You and I have no idea whose baby this is, or even if she's really pregnant, for Christ's sake. What does that doctor know--those tests aren't always accurate. And like you said, she's not supposed to even be able to have a baby. So let's just forget the whole damn thing, okay? When we find her, if she's got something to tell us, let's let her do the telling, because I'm sure as hell not going to sit here arguing over who fathered a child that we don't even know exists."
"Oh, Elise is pregnant. I'm sure of it now. It's the only thing that makes sense. Explains why she was so moody and strange in the weeks before she left, asking me funny questions about whether I regretted never having kids. It explains why she left at all. Yeah, one of us is going to be a father."
"What makes you so sure it's not going to be you?"
"What makes you so sure it is?" Joe countered. When Brent didn't answer, he fell silent, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel tightly as he drove. As they were driving, the scenery had been changing from the tenements and run-down liquor stores near St. Jude's to more upscale shopping centers and apartment complexes. Now these gave way to tree-shaded museums, elegant tall churches, and stone-hewn private schools surrounded by crested iron fences and manicured shrubbery.
They turned onto a tree-lined boulevard shaded by oaks so tall the branches had woven together over the road. The sun was just beginning to turn the sky pink through the interlaced branches as they passed mansions of all description-- white-columned Georgians, red-tiled palazzos, and even a tiny castle of gray stone. After a few twists and turns, Joe found Rowan Street, a spur off a secondary street branching off the main road through Delphi Grove.
Brent leaned against the door, checking the street numbers. "There it is," he said. "The Gothic Revival up there on the left."
"The what?"
"The dark one with the pointy windows," Brent said testily.
Joe pulled into the circular driveway. "It would help if you spoke regular English."
"Gothic Revival is an architectural style."
"I never studied architecture, and you know it." Joe shut off the engine and rested his hands on the steering wheel, staring up at the twisting iron columns, casting gloomy shadows on the entryway in the pale morning light. "I hope they let us in, but at least we've found her."
Brent tried to smooth his hair. "I sure hope so, or that we can at least get some breakfast." He opened the door and jumped down, waiting on the steps for Joe to join him. Together they approached the ornately carved double door and after only a moment's hesitation, Brent rang the bell.
"Do you have an address or phone number?" Joe asked.
"We don't collect that information."
"How am I supposed to find her, then?"
"Maybe she's in the phone directory, but I can't help you with anything like that. Even if we had that information, it would be considered confidential."
"So that's all you can tell me?"
Before the nurse could answer, Brent tugged at his sleeve. "We can find her, especially since we also have the name Elise is going by."
Joe jerked his arm away. "Ellen James? Maybe it's the right name, more likely it's not."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you don't have to show ID in a public hospital. Why would she use a name that could endanger everything she's done so far to cover her tracks?" He gave Brent a contemptuous glance, then turned back to the nurse. "Have you got a phone book I can look at?"
Brent pulled out his smart phone. "That won't be necessary." He tapped his phone while Joe paced the floor, arms folded tightly across his chest. "Here she is," Brent finally said. "215 Rowan. I'm not familiar with that street. Judging from the telephone prefix, though, it's inner-city." He looked up. "Joe?"
"What?" Joe refused to look at him.
"Never mind," Brent turned to the nurse with a forced smile. "Could I get a piece of paper and something to write with?" When the nurse handed him a ballpoint and a post-it pad with the St. Jude Thaddeus logo on it, he thanked her and scribbled down Cecilia's phone number and address. He folded up the scrap of paper, put it in his wallet and thanked the nurse again. He turned to Joe. "What do you want to do? We could try calling, but that might not be as good a plan as just showing up. I have no idea where this street is, though."
"Neither do I," Joe said testily. He shoved his hands in his pockets and headed toward the exit without looking to see if Brent was following him.
Brent hurried to catch up. "We'll use my GPS," he offered. He pulled his coat tightly around himself as the wind blew trash, debris and other hazards across the parking lot. He tried to keep up with Joe, but couldn't follow his rapid, random weaving through the sea of parked cars. When they finally got to the truck, Brent was out of breath.
It took Joe several minutes to unlock the passenger door, then he started the engine and fiddled with the knobs controlling the heater and radio before unlocking Brent's door almost as an afterthought. When Brent finally got into the car, he was chilled and his nails were faintly blue. "Why are you being like this?"
Joe pretended to be absorbed in the mechanics of pulling out of the parking space. "As if you didn't know."
"What do you mean, 'as if I didn't know?'" Brent's voice was steady, but his hands shook. "I had no idea Elise was pregnant. I would've told you if I did."
"Like hell you would've."
"What do you mean? This makes everything make sense. Why would I have tried to hide it from you?"
"You know why."
Brent's eyes widened. "You think this is my baby? How do you know it's not yours?"
Joe pulled the truck out onto the street, picking a direction at random. "Why would she have left if it was mine?" He shook his head. "No, that's your kid. Any idea what you're going to name it? I wonder what your wife will say? Maybe she'll want to help raise it, do you think?"
Brent slammed a fist against the side of the door. "Man, you don't know it's not your kid. She probably doesn't know, herself. That's why she left-- I'm sure of it. To her way of thinking, this solves everything. Now it's no one's baby, and she doesn't have to explain anything to anyone. She can get an abortion, adopt it out, raise it herself, anything she wants, and there's no one she has to justify it to."
"She's not getting out of it that easy," Joe said, braking for a light. "She still has to explain it to me."
"Not if you don't know where you're going," Brent pointed out. "Do you even know where Rowan Street is?"
The light changed, and Joe stepped on the gas. "No."
"Then pull over while I look us up on GPS."
Joe cut the wheel and pulled into a gas station where he waited sullenly while Brent toyed with his phone. "Here it is," he finally said. "No wonder I never heard of it. Looks like it's only a couple blocks long."
"Let me see that." Joe jerked the phone out of Brent's hands. "Nice neighborhood," he observed. "That's over in Delphi Grove. I had no idea Elise had any friends rich enough to live there. What else don't I know about her?"
Brent sighed. "Maybe it's one of her dancer friends, made good. She has all kinds of friends. I don't know everything."
"Could've fooled me." Joe glared at Brent out of the corner of his eye as he pulled back out onto the street. "She has all kinds of friends, though, I'll grant you that. Drug dealers, woodcarvers, marketing directors...she seems willing to even make babies with marketing directors."
Brent turned around sharply in his seat. "Dammit, Joe! Stop it, okay? Just stop it. You and I have no idea whose baby this is, or even if she's really pregnant, for Christ's sake. What does that doctor know--those tests aren't always accurate. And like you said, she's not supposed to even be able to have a baby. So let's just forget the whole damn thing, okay? When we find her, if she's got something to tell us, let's let her do the telling, because I'm sure as hell not going to sit here arguing over who fathered a child that we don't even know exists."
"Oh, Elise is pregnant. I'm sure of it now. It's the only thing that makes sense. Explains why she was so moody and strange in the weeks before she left, asking me funny questions about whether I regretted never having kids. It explains why she left at all. Yeah, one of us is going to be a father."
"What makes you so sure it's not going to be you?"
"What makes you so sure it is?" Joe countered. When Brent didn't answer, he fell silent, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel tightly as he drove. As they were driving, the scenery had been changing from the tenements and run-down liquor stores near St. Jude's to more upscale shopping centers and apartment complexes. Now these gave way to tree-shaded museums, elegant tall churches, and stone-hewn private schools surrounded by crested iron fences and manicured shrubbery.
They turned onto a tree-lined boulevard shaded by oaks so tall the branches had woven together over the road. The sun was just beginning to turn the sky pink through the interlaced branches as they passed mansions of all description-- white-columned Georgians, red-tiled palazzos, and even a tiny castle of gray stone. After a few twists and turns, Joe found Rowan Street, a spur off a secondary street branching off the main road through Delphi Grove.
Brent leaned against the door, checking the street numbers. "There it is," he said. "The Gothic Revival up there on the left."
"The what?"
"The dark one with the pointy windows," Brent said testily.
Joe pulled into the circular driveway. "It would help if you spoke regular English."
"Gothic Revival is an architectural style."
"I never studied architecture, and you know it." Joe shut off the engine and rested his hands on the steering wheel, staring up at the twisting iron columns, casting gloomy shadows on the entryway in the pale morning light. "I hope they let us in, but at least we've found her."
Brent tried to smooth his hair. "I sure hope so, or that we can at least get some breakfast." He opened the door and jumped down, waiting on the steps for Joe to join him. Together they approached the ornately carved double door and after only a moment's hesitation, Brent rang the bell.
Chapter Fifteen
Both men lapsed into silence, staring around them at the floor and the room without really seeing any of it. After several minutes, the swinging doors burst open and a man in dingy gray scrubs stepped out and looked around. Joe and Brent stood up and the doctor came over to them. Joe extended a hand. "Thanks for coming out here to talk to us, doctor," he said.
"No problem." He shook Joe's hand, then turned to shake Brent's. "I'm Dr. Claup."
"Brent Conner."
The doctor turned back to Joe. "And your name, again?"
"Joseph Urgulano."
"You say you're Ellen's husband, right?"
"Is that the name she gave you?" Joe asked. "Ellen?"
Dr. Claup frowned. "Let's make sure we're both talking about the same woman. Around midnight, a dark-haired woman came in here alone. Young, late twenties. She said she'd been at a friend's house and started having abdominal pains, and one of her friends insisted she get checked out, but didn't want to wait here for her. It was kind of a strange story, because she had an overnight bag with her."
Joe nodded. "That's her. We were at that friend's apartment a couple of hours ago, and they say she was talking to someone and started feeling bad."
"Okay," the doctor said. "So it sounds like we are talking about the same person, then." He frowned at both men. "But she told me her name was Ellen. Is that not right?"
Joe and Brent looked at each other. "She goes by Elise at home," Brent said. "But if she wanted you to call her Ellen, that's fine, too."
"What we want to know," Joe said, "Is if she's still here, and if she's okay."
"Oh, she'll be fine," Dr. Claup said, waving his hands. "There really wasn't much we could do for her. We checked her blood pressure, did a few tests, asked a few questions, but she seemed all right. We finally gave her some juice, observed her for an hour, and tried to reassure her."
"So she's okay, then?"
"Of course," the doctor said. "It's probably just something she ate. She didn't seem in any danger of losing the baby."
"Baby?" Joe's face grew suddenly pale. Brent sat down and gripped the edge of the seat.
Dr. Claup looked from one man to the other. "She hadn't told you she's expecting?"
"No," Joe said. "What... how long..."
"About eight weeks or so." Seeing the look of dismay on Joe's face, he patted his shoulder. "I'm sure she meant to tell you soon, herself. Some women are kind of shy like that, you know. Especially with a first child. They like to wait a little bit, make sure everything's okay before they go getting Dad's hopes up." He grinned.
"But that's impossible," Joe said. "She can't have children. A doctor told her that a long time ago."
"Doctors can be wrong."
"And you're sure you aren't wrong about this?"
"Oh, there's no shade of a doubt." He smiled again. "I'm sorry to spoil her news for you, but you must be very happy."
Joe sat down and buried his face in his hands. Brent glanced at him anxiously. "Where is she now?"
Dr. Claup frowned, displeased at the reaction he was getting. "We discharged her a couple of hours ago."
"How did she leave if she was alone?"
The doctor spread his hands in innocence. "I gave instructions that she be released into the care of a responsible individual, since she seemed anxious and needed to rest for a bit, but I have no idea who she left with."
"Who would know?"
The doctor appeared flustered. "The desk clerk should have all the papers on file."
"We had trouble getting anything out of her," Brent said. "Could you maybe talk to her, or have someone else help us? It's really important that we find Elise... Ellen."
Dr. Claup folded his arms across his chest. "Is there something going on here you guys aren't telling me? Is Ellen avoiding you for some reason? You aren't under any kind of restraining order, are you?"
Joe looked up, angry and incredulous. "I never did anything to her, okay? Why does no one want me to find my wife?"
Brent indicated to the doctor with a jerk of his head they should move out of earshot. "Listen," he said quietly. "We've been looking for this woman all night. We're tired, hungry and frustrated. We're not in any kind of legal trouble. Everything's just sort of tangled up right now and we need to find her and tell her it's okay to come home."
"Where do you fit into all this?" the doctor asked. "Are you her brother or something?"
Brent's ears reddened. "I'm a friend."
The doctor nodded slowly to himself, as if seeing how the different pieces of a puzzle fit together. "Are you the baby's father?"
Brent sighed. "I suppose it's a possibility."
I'll get the head nurse to look up Ellen's... uh, Elise's file. It might have the name of the person we released her to."
"Thanks."
"Just having the name might not be much help," Dr. Claup warned.
"It'll be better than nothing."
The doctor shook his head. "I wouldn't be in either of you guys' shoes for anything."
"No problem." He shook Joe's hand, then turned to shake Brent's. "I'm Dr. Claup."
"Brent Conner."
The doctor turned back to Joe. "And your name, again?"
"Joseph Urgulano."
"You say you're Ellen's husband, right?"
"Is that the name she gave you?" Joe asked. "Ellen?"
Dr. Claup frowned. "Let's make sure we're both talking about the same woman. Around midnight, a dark-haired woman came in here alone. Young, late twenties. She said she'd been at a friend's house and started having abdominal pains, and one of her friends insisted she get checked out, but didn't want to wait here for her. It was kind of a strange story, because she had an overnight bag with her."
Joe nodded. "That's her. We were at that friend's apartment a couple of hours ago, and they say she was talking to someone and started feeling bad."
"Okay," the doctor said. "So it sounds like we are talking about the same person, then." He frowned at both men. "But she told me her name was Ellen. Is that not right?"
Joe and Brent looked at each other. "She goes by Elise at home," Brent said. "But if she wanted you to call her Ellen, that's fine, too."
"What we want to know," Joe said, "Is if she's still here, and if she's okay."
"Oh, she'll be fine," Dr. Claup said, waving his hands. "There really wasn't much we could do for her. We checked her blood pressure, did a few tests, asked a few questions, but she seemed all right. We finally gave her some juice, observed her for an hour, and tried to reassure her."
"So she's okay, then?"
"Of course," the doctor said. "It's probably just something she ate. She didn't seem in any danger of losing the baby."
"Baby?" Joe's face grew suddenly pale. Brent sat down and gripped the edge of the seat.
Dr. Claup looked from one man to the other. "She hadn't told you she's expecting?"
"No," Joe said. "What... how long..."
"About eight weeks or so." Seeing the look of dismay on Joe's face, he patted his shoulder. "I'm sure she meant to tell you soon, herself. Some women are kind of shy like that, you know. Especially with a first child. They like to wait a little bit, make sure everything's okay before they go getting Dad's hopes up." He grinned.
"But that's impossible," Joe said. "She can't have children. A doctor told her that a long time ago."
"Doctors can be wrong."
"And you're sure you aren't wrong about this?"
"Oh, there's no shade of a doubt." He smiled again. "I'm sorry to spoil her news for you, but you must be very happy."
Joe sat down and buried his face in his hands. Brent glanced at him anxiously. "Where is she now?"
Dr. Claup frowned, displeased at the reaction he was getting. "We discharged her a couple of hours ago."
"How did she leave if she was alone?"
The doctor spread his hands in innocence. "I gave instructions that she be released into the care of a responsible individual, since she seemed anxious and needed to rest for a bit, but I have no idea who she left with."
"Who would know?"
The doctor appeared flustered. "The desk clerk should have all the papers on file."
"We had trouble getting anything out of her," Brent said. "Could you maybe talk to her, or have someone else help us? It's really important that we find Elise... Ellen."
Dr. Claup folded his arms across his chest. "Is there something going on here you guys aren't telling me? Is Ellen avoiding you for some reason? You aren't under any kind of restraining order, are you?"
Joe looked up, angry and incredulous. "I never did anything to her, okay? Why does no one want me to find my wife?"
Brent indicated to the doctor with a jerk of his head they should move out of earshot. "Listen," he said quietly. "We've been looking for this woman all night. We're tired, hungry and frustrated. We're not in any kind of legal trouble. Everything's just sort of tangled up right now and we need to find her and tell her it's okay to come home."
"Where do you fit into all this?" the doctor asked. "Are you her brother or something?"
Brent's ears reddened. "I'm a friend."
The doctor nodded slowly to himself, as if seeing how the different pieces of a puzzle fit together. "Are you the baby's father?"
Brent sighed. "I suppose it's a possibility."
I'll get the head nurse to look up Ellen's... uh, Elise's file. It might have the name of the person we released her to."
"Thanks."
"Just having the name might not be much help," Dr. Claup warned.
"It'll be better than nothing."
The doctor shook his head. "I wouldn't be in either of you guys' shoes for anything."
Chapter Fourteen
Brent feigned indifference to the squalls of the baby two seats down and pretended to ignore the shrieks of two little boys who had managed to escape their mother. After several minutes though, he stood and began pacing his little corner of the room, casting occasional glances toward the doors and the admissions desk.
Finally his gaze fell on something else. He dug in his pants pocket, went to the bank of vending machines and dropped some coins in the coffee machine. A sudden tug at his coat made him turn around.
A pudgy boy in dirty sweats stood staring up at him. "Can I have a coke?"
"What does your mother say?" Brent looked around the room for someone likely to be the boy's mother, but saw no one who seemed willing to claim him.
The boy held out a sweaty palm, showing him some change.
Brent counted the coins. "Looks like you're about fifteen cents short." He dug in his pocket. "Here you go."
The boy took the coins, but continued to stare up at him expectantly.
"What now?" Brent took his coffee out of the bin and sniffed it warily.
The boy looked up at the coke machine. "Can't reach," he said, pointing to the coin slot.
An embarrassed smile crossed Brent's face. "I'm not very observant tonight, am I?" He let the boy give him the sweaty coins one by one. "What do you want?"
"Orange."
Brent pressed the button for orange soda. As soon as the can fell into the bin, the boy reached for it but then handed it up to Brent, who opened it for him, holding his paper coffee cup in his teeth.
"Thank you," the boy said.
Brent gave a little half-smile as the boy scampered off. He blew on his coffee and went to lean against a post where he could survey the entire room, front desk, doors and all. When the coffee was cool enough to drink, he took a sip, his eyebrows barely registering his distaste for the papery-tasting mixture masquerading as a beverage.
He had drunk nearly half the cup when Joe pushed through the steel doors and came over, grinning. "I found someone."
Brent nearly dropped the remainder of his coffee in his excitement. "You're kidding! What happened? Is Elise still here?" He looked around as if she might have suddenly walked into the room.
"The doctor was busy and couldn't talk, but he told me to wait out here and as soon as he gets done with a food poisoning case, he'll come out and talk to us."
"Oh, man, that's great!" Brent slapped Joe on the back. "Good going."
"It was nothing," His gaze fell on Brent's paper cup. "What's that? Coffee?"
"That's what the machine says, but I beg to differ." Brent gestured toward the vending machine.
Joe searched for some change in his pocket. "It's got to be better than nothing."
"Don't bet on it. Brent swirled the rest of the coffee in his cup. "So what did the doctor say? Is she all right?"
Joe took his coffee out of the machine. "He didn't tell me much of anything," he admitted. "Except that he knew the woman I was describing. Said to wait and he'd come talk to me. That's all."
Brent crumpled his empty cup. "Did he give you any idea how long he'd be?"
"Nope."
Brent glanced at his watch. "It's nearly four a.m.," he observed. "It'd be nice to have this whole thing over with before the sun comes up."
Joe didn't say anything and sipped his coffee silently as several minutes passed. Finally Joe frowned. "I guess I ought to thank you for helping me look for Elise. I don't know if I could've gotten this far without you."
Brent leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring into the space between his feet. "We did it together."
"No, the computer, getting into the office, getting into the apartment... I couldn't have done all that on my own. I appreciate it."
Brent shook his head. "If it wasn't for me, maybe all this wouldn't have been necessary."
"I don't know." Joe drained the last of his coffee and set the cup on the floor. "Like you said earlier tonight, Elise gets funny ideas in her head, and there's no undoing them. She could've been planning it ever since we moved to Troy, for all I know. She was never very happy about it. She was probably looking to leave from the day we moved there."
"I doubt it. She didn't have to go with you, and I've got no business still thinking of her as a kid. But this kind of behavior sure is more like the old Elise than the one you married."
"Well, none of that really matters," Joe said. "Point is, I appreciate your help."
"I wish it hadn't been necessary."
"There's something I want to know, though. What's going to happen now?"
"What do you mean?"
"I was thinking I'd like her to come home with me once I convince her everything's okay between us."
Brent nodded. "That's what I had figured on."
"So where do you fit into this?"
Brent spent a moment tugging at his cuffs before he answered. "Nowhere. She's your wife. If she wants to go back to you, I'm not going to interfere. I want her to be happy."
"So you're not doing this to get her back for yourself?"
Brent shook his head. "I can't imagine her being happy with me. I could be happy with her, but she'd be miserable."
"What makes you think that?"
"Just I vibe I pick up on sometimes. I don’t think she really likes me all that much."
"Don't be stupid. It's pretty obvious she does."
"No," Brent said with a deep sigh, "I’m sure she's 'fond of me,' as Sylvia put it earlier tonight, but we aren't really compatible. I may feel what I feel for her, but I don't think we would live together well, if that makes any sense."
Joe considered.
"Besides," Brent continued, "Elise and I are worlds apart in a lot of ways. Sylvia is more her type than you may realize. They've both got this aversion to doing things the conventional way. When they're not trying to take a shortcut, they're squandering their brains and talents. I could never understand it, and I never will."
"I can see where you think that with Sylvia, but not Elise. She's done well for herself."
"Not as well as she could."
Joe thought about this for a moment. "You've got a point. Sometimes I think she's her own worst enemy. Just when things are going good, she finds a way to put a halt to it all, like when she stopped painting." Joe shifted in his seat. "The morning after her gallery showing, there she was throwing away her paints, brushes, everything. I tried to stop her, but she even ripped up her unused canvases and unfinished paintings."
"Did she say why she was doing it?"
"Nothing that made any sense. She just said it was a waste of time doing all that work so a bunch of phonies could drool over it."
"If Elise would only stick with something for awhile, play the game a little, she'd be famous. I've never seen anyone with so much talent and so little understanding of how to make the most of it."
"Me either. She's better than me, and it's like she doesn't even know it. Or just doesn't care."
"I tried to help her, you know. I could've marketed her, made her a household name. I never could make her listen, though."
Joe picked up his empty cup and gazed at it thoughtfully. "Elise wouldn't make a good career artist. Or a good career anything. It's like it doesn't mean anything to her if people make too much of a fuss over it." Joe twisted the empty cup into a tight S-shape and began picking at the ends, shredding them into damp confetti. "I understand a little, but I could never give up something I like just because someone I didn't respect thought it was good. Besides, I like the artist's life, not knowing where my next meal is coming from, but I think Elise needs something different."
Brent scoffed. "'Not knowing where your next meal is coming from?' Who are you trying to kid? Look at that house you live in. Look at how famous you are. Sometimes I think you're a bigger liar than I am."
Joe shrugged. "I do all right, but it's not steady money. I might have a good year, I might have a bad one. It's hard on Elise. I can't always give her the things she wants. And it's not like I have a good education that I can talk her kind of talk to make up for when the money is bad. We don't watch the same movies, we don't read the same books. That's why I sometimes wonder if you and her wouldn't be such a bad match. I'm not stupid, you know. You have the same kind of education and you make the kind of steady money that would make her feel secure. Maybe she'd be better off with a guy like you."
Brent turned in his seat and looked at Joe earnestly. "You may not always have a paycheck, but you're steady in other ways. You're the one she doesn't have to apologize to for being who she is. She told me once that I can't relate, but she always knows you can."
Joe threw what was left of his cup on the floor and mashed it with the toe of his boot. "Well she's sure got a funny way of showing it. If she really thought I understood her, I'd be in my bed right now, asleep."
"Maybe you've got a point."
"Hell, I know I've got a point. There's something really wrong with this picture, and I'm going to find out what it is."
Finally his gaze fell on something else. He dug in his pants pocket, went to the bank of vending machines and dropped some coins in the coffee machine. A sudden tug at his coat made him turn around.
A pudgy boy in dirty sweats stood staring up at him. "Can I have a coke?"
"What does your mother say?" Brent looked around the room for someone likely to be the boy's mother, but saw no one who seemed willing to claim him.
The boy held out a sweaty palm, showing him some change.
Brent counted the coins. "Looks like you're about fifteen cents short." He dug in his pocket. "Here you go."
The boy took the coins, but continued to stare up at him expectantly.
"What now?" Brent took his coffee out of the bin and sniffed it warily.
The boy looked up at the coke machine. "Can't reach," he said, pointing to the coin slot.
An embarrassed smile crossed Brent's face. "I'm not very observant tonight, am I?" He let the boy give him the sweaty coins one by one. "What do you want?"
"Orange."
Brent pressed the button for orange soda. As soon as the can fell into the bin, the boy reached for it but then handed it up to Brent, who opened it for him, holding his paper coffee cup in his teeth.
"Thank you," the boy said.
Brent gave a little half-smile as the boy scampered off. He blew on his coffee and went to lean against a post where he could survey the entire room, front desk, doors and all. When the coffee was cool enough to drink, he took a sip, his eyebrows barely registering his distaste for the papery-tasting mixture masquerading as a beverage.
He had drunk nearly half the cup when Joe pushed through the steel doors and came over, grinning. "I found someone."
Brent nearly dropped the remainder of his coffee in his excitement. "You're kidding! What happened? Is Elise still here?" He looked around as if she might have suddenly walked into the room.
"The doctor was busy and couldn't talk, but he told me to wait out here and as soon as he gets done with a food poisoning case, he'll come out and talk to us."
"Oh, man, that's great!" Brent slapped Joe on the back. "Good going."
"It was nothing," His gaze fell on Brent's paper cup. "What's that? Coffee?"
"That's what the machine says, but I beg to differ." Brent gestured toward the vending machine.
Joe searched for some change in his pocket. "It's got to be better than nothing."
"Don't bet on it. Brent swirled the rest of the coffee in his cup. "So what did the doctor say? Is she all right?"
Joe took his coffee out of the machine. "He didn't tell me much of anything," he admitted. "Except that he knew the woman I was describing. Said to wait and he'd come talk to me. That's all."
Brent crumpled his empty cup. "Did he give you any idea how long he'd be?"
"Nope."
Brent glanced at his watch. "It's nearly four a.m.," he observed. "It'd be nice to have this whole thing over with before the sun comes up."
Joe didn't say anything and sipped his coffee silently as several minutes passed. Finally Joe frowned. "I guess I ought to thank you for helping me look for Elise. I don't know if I could've gotten this far without you."
Brent leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring into the space between his feet. "We did it together."
"No, the computer, getting into the office, getting into the apartment... I couldn't have done all that on my own. I appreciate it."
Brent shook his head. "If it wasn't for me, maybe all this wouldn't have been necessary."
"I don't know." Joe drained the last of his coffee and set the cup on the floor. "Like you said earlier tonight, Elise gets funny ideas in her head, and there's no undoing them. She could've been planning it ever since we moved to Troy, for all I know. She was never very happy about it. She was probably looking to leave from the day we moved there."
"I doubt it. She didn't have to go with you, and I've got no business still thinking of her as a kid. But this kind of behavior sure is more like the old Elise than the one you married."
"Well, none of that really matters," Joe said. "Point is, I appreciate your help."
"I wish it hadn't been necessary."
"There's something I want to know, though. What's going to happen now?"
"What do you mean?"
"I was thinking I'd like her to come home with me once I convince her everything's okay between us."
Brent nodded. "That's what I had figured on."
"So where do you fit into this?"
Brent spent a moment tugging at his cuffs before he answered. "Nowhere. She's your wife. If she wants to go back to you, I'm not going to interfere. I want her to be happy."
"So you're not doing this to get her back for yourself?"
Brent shook his head. "I can't imagine her being happy with me. I could be happy with her, but she'd be miserable."
"What makes you think that?"
"Just I vibe I pick up on sometimes. I don’t think she really likes me all that much."
"Don't be stupid. It's pretty obvious she does."
"No," Brent said with a deep sigh, "I’m sure she's 'fond of me,' as Sylvia put it earlier tonight, but we aren't really compatible. I may feel what I feel for her, but I don't think we would live together well, if that makes any sense."
Joe considered.
"Besides," Brent continued, "Elise and I are worlds apart in a lot of ways. Sylvia is more her type than you may realize. They've both got this aversion to doing things the conventional way. When they're not trying to take a shortcut, they're squandering their brains and talents. I could never understand it, and I never will."
"I can see where you think that with Sylvia, but not Elise. She's done well for herself."
"Not as well as she could."
Joe thought about this for a moment. "You've got a point. Sometimes I think she's her own worst enemy. Just when things are going good, she finds a way to put a halt to it all, like when she stopped painting." Joe shifted in his seat. "The morning after her gallery showing, there she was throwing away her paints, brushes, everything. I tried to stop her, but she even ripped up her unused canvases and unfinished paintings."
"Did she say why she was doing it?"
"Nothing that made any sense. She just said it was a waste of time doing all that work so a bunch of phonies could drool over it."
"If Elise would only stick with something for awhile, play the game a little, she'd be famous. I've never seen anyone with so much talent and so little understanding of how to make the most of it."
"Me either. She's better than me, and it's like she doesn't even know it. Or just doesn't care."
"I tried to help her, you know. I could've marketed her, made her a household name. I never could make her listen, though."
Joe picked up his empty cup and gazed at it thoughtfully. "Elise wouldn't make a good career artist. Or a good career anything. It's like it doesn't mean anything to her if people make too much of a fuss over it." Joe twisted the empty cup into a tight S-shape and began picking at the ends, shredding them into damp confetti. "I understand a little, but I could never give up something I like just because someone I didn't respect thought it was good. Besides, I like the artist's life, not knowing where my next meal is coming from, but I think Elise needs something different."
Brent scoffed. "'Not knowing where your next meal is coming from?' Who are you trying to kid? Look at that house you live in. Look at how famous you are. Sometimes I think you're a bigger liar than I am."
Joe shrugged. "I do all right, but it's not steady money. I might have a good year, I might have a bad one. It's hard on Elise. I can't always give her the things she wants. And it's not like I have a good education that I can talk her kind of talk to make up for when the money is bad. We don't watch the same movies, we don't read the same books. That's why I sometimes wonder if you and her wouldn't be such a bad match. I'm not stupid, you know. You have the same kind of education and you make the kind of steady money that would make her feel secure. Maybe she'd be better off with a guy like you."
Brent turned in his seat and looked at Joe earnestly. "You may not always have a paycheck, but you're steady in other ways. You're the one she doesn't have to apologize to for being who she is. She told me once that I can't relate, but she always knows you can."
Joe threw what was left of his cup on the floor and mashed it with the toe of his boot. "Well she's sure got a funny way of showing it. If she really thought I understood her, I'd be in my bed right now, asleep."
"Maybe you've got a point."
"Hell, I know I've got a point. There's something really wrong with this picture, and I'm going to find out what it is."
Chapter Thirteen
Joe circled the lot twice, cursing, before spotting a battered green Gremlin pulling out of a spot near the end of a row. He darted into it and they ran toward the emergency room entrance. In the transition area they startled an orderly pushing a woman in a wheelchair, brushed past them through the automatic door, and hurried through the crowded waiting room toward the admissions desk.
While they waited impatiently to talk to the clerk, they craned their necks, taking in the room of green tile, brown linoleum, and row upon row of orange plastic seats, all lit by the sickly glare of fluorescent lights. In one seat, an old woman in a threadbare coat sagged against a younger woman who was absorbed in a fashion magazine. A few women in ill-fitting second-hand clothes rocked crying babies while older children whined and swung their legs from the edge of the chairs. In the front row, a stringy-haired blonde in jeans and a studded jacket leaned over her tattooed boyfriend, clutching a dirty rag over his hand and whispering to him as the blood seeped through. Toward the back of the room, an elderly man, nattily dressed in khakis, golf jacket and cap, leaned over a cane, coughing great racking phlegm-filled coughs.
Brent's lip curled in distaste.
"What 's the matter," Joe said. "Is it sick people or poor people you can't stand?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Joe scoffed. "Why are you looking around like you're someplace that's contaminated, then?"
"It is contaminated. Everyone knows you can get sick hanging around a hospital."
Joe's eyebrows flickered and he turned away. The line had moved forward a little, and he waited while the young woman in front of him gasped to the clerk that she couldn't breathe. The clerk was unimpressed and gave her a form to fill out. "Got insurance?" When the girl shook her head, she handed her another form and told her to fill that one out, too.
Joe now moved to the front of the line. "I'm looking for a woman who came in earlier tonight. Elise Riddisee. I'm her husband."
The woman tapped at her keyboard. "Could you spell the name, please?" she asked. She typed the letters as Joe spelled it for her. "No one by that name."
"I bet she used the name Perry gave her," Brent muttered.
Joe stared at the clerk, nonplussed. "Maybe you remember her from earlier tonight. Skinny girl with short black hair and brown eyes? About 5'2" or so."
"Lots of people have been through here tonight," the woman said. "I don't remember what they all look like."
"She would've come in a few hours ago."
"I'm telling you, I don't keep up with all that. If you don't have a name or social security number, I can't help you."
Joe pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. "Try the social security number, then." He took out a slip of paper and read off a number.
The clerk tapped some more keys, then shook her head again.
"Can I talk to a doctor or a nurse?" Joe asked. "Someone who might've handled her case?"
The clerk sighed. "If she's not in my computer, she didn't come through here. Are you sure she came to this hospital? There are two other charity hospitals in town, you know."
"Yes," Joe said. "They told me they brought her here."
"Well, if they did, she wasn't admitted." Her attention turned to the next person in line. "Can I help you?"
A man pushed his way to the counter, an arm wrapped protectively around a woman's shoulders. "She's been throwing up since around ten o'clock tonight."
Brent jumped out of their way and moved toward the aisle leading from the waiting room to where a pair of swinging doors had been steadily opening and closing on nurses and patients. "Let's wait here and see if we can catch someone who knows something."
Joe nodded. "She may even still be here, for all we know."
"She probably doesn't have a ride, since some stranger brought her here. I wonder where she was thinking of going afterward."
Joe's face fell. "I hadn't even thought of that. You don't think she'd go back to Sylvia's place?"
Brent shrugged. "I doubt it. They said she had taken her bags, remember?" He paced in front of the swinging doors. "Why should she go back? She got what she went there for. And even if she did go back, she wouldn't stay two minutes once she heard we'd been there. They wouldn't lie to cover for us like they did for her. There's a twisted sort of unity among their kind."
"But where would she go instead, especially if she's sick?"
"She's got other friends," Brent reminded him. "If she doesn't want to go to one of them, she could always call a cab and go to a hotel. She's got enough cash to go just about anywhere she wants."
Joe shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "I guess we'll just have to hope we'll see her or find a doctor or nurse who remembers her."
Brent scanned the waiting room again, then he turned his gaze back to the double doors, a crafty smile playing about his lips. "Think anybody would notice if we went back there?"
"They'd probably throw us out."
"I don't think so," Brent said. "I mean, if they say something to us, we could just play dumb, act like we didn't know we weren't supposed to be back there or something. This is a charity hospital, so I'm sure they're used to seeing all kinds of weirdos. It's worth a shot."
Joe shook his head. "We're going to have a tough enough time explaining why I don't even know my wife's name. I don't want to make them more suspicious by going where we've got no business going."
"Suit yourself. I'm going to go back there and ask, though. You can wait out here."
"No," Joe said with a sigh. "If this is what we're going to do, I should be the one to go. She's my wife, after all."
Brent threw up his hands. "Fine." He headed toward the waiting area, scanning the room for an empty seat far enough away from all the sick people to provide a buffer. Finding one at the end of a row, he slumped into it and folded his arms across his chest.
While they waited impatiently to talk to the clerk, they craned their necks, taking in the room of green tile, brown linoleum, and row upon row of orange plastic seats, all lit by the sickly glare of fluorescent lights. In one seat, an old woman in a threadbare coat sagged against a younger woman who was absorbed in a fashion magazine. A few women in ill-fitting second-hand clothes rocked crying babies while older children whined and swung their legs from the edge of the chairs. In the front row, a stringy-haired blonde in jeans and a studded jacket leaned over her tattooed boyfriend, clutching a dirty rag over his hand and whispering to him as the blood seeped through. Toward the back of the room, an elderly man, nattily dressed in khakis, golf jacket and cap, leaned over a cane, coughing great racking phlegm-filled coughs.
Brent's lip curled in distaste.
"What 's the matter," Joe said. "Is it sick people or poor people you can't stand?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Joe scoffed. "Why are you looking around like you're someplace that's contaminated, then?"
"It is contaminated. Everyone knows you can get sick hanging around a hospital."
Joe's eyebrows flickered and he turned away. The line had moved forward a little, and he waited while the young woman in front of him gasped to the clerk that she couldn't breathe. The clerk was unimpressed and gave her a form to fill out. "Got insurance?" When the girl shook her head, she handed her another form and told her to fill that one out, too.
Joe now moved to the front of the line. "I'm looking for a woman who came in earlier tonight. Elise Riddisee. I'm her husband."
The woman tapped at her keyboard. "Could you spell the name, please?" she asked. She typed the letters as Joe spelled it for her. "No one by that name."
"I bet she used the name Perry gave her," Brent muttered.
Joe stared at the clerk, nonplussed. "Maybe you remember her from earlier tonight. Skinny girl with short black hair and brown eyes? About 5'2" or so."
"Lots of people have been through here tonight," the woman said. "I don't remember what they all look like."
"She would've come in a few hours ago."
"I'm telling you, I don't keep up with all that. If you don't have a name or social security number, I can't help you."
Joe pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. "Try the social security number, then." He took out a slip of paper and read off a number.
The clerk tapped some more keys, then shook her head again.
"Can I talk to a doctor or a nurse?" Joe asked. "Someone who might've handled her case?"
The clerk sighed. "If she's not in my computer, she didn't come through here. Are you sure she came to this hospital? There are two other charity hospitals in town, you know."
"Yes," Joe said. "They told me they brought her here."
"Well, if they did, she wasn't admitted." Her attention turned to the next person in line. "Can I help you?"
A man pushed his way to the counter, an arm wrapped protectively around a woman's shoulders. "She's been throwing up since around ten o'clock tonight."
Brent jumped out of their way and moved toward the aisle leading from the waiting room to where a pair of swinging doors had been steadily opening and closing on nurses and patients. "Let's wait here and see if we can catch someone who knows something."
Joe nodded. "She may even still be here, for all we know."
"She probably doesn't have a ride, since some stranger brought her here. I wonder where she was thinking of going afterward."
Joe's face fell. "I hadn't even thought of that. You don't think she'd go back to Sylvia's place?"
Brent shrugged. "I doubt it. They said she had taken her bags, remember?" He paced in front of the swinging doors. "Why should she go back? She got what she went there for. And even if she did go back, she wouldn't stay two minutes once she heard we'd been there. They wouldn't lie to cover for us like they did for her. There's a twisted sort of unity among their kind."
"But where would she go instead, especially if she's sick?"
"She's got other friends," Brent reminded him. "If she doesn't want to go to one of them, she could always call a cab and go to a hotel. She's got enough cash to go just about anywhere she wants."
Joe shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "I guess we'll just have to hope we'll see her or find a doctor or nurse who remembers her."
Brent scanned the waiting room again, then he turned his gaze back to the double doors, a crafty smile playing about his lips. "Think anybody would notice if we went back there?"
"They'd probably throw us out."
"I don't think so," Brent said. "I mean, if they say something to us, we could just play dumb, act like we didn't know we weren't supposed to be back there or something. This is a charity hospital, so I'm sure they're used to seeing all kinds of weirdos. It's worth a shot."
Joe shook his head. "We're going to have a tough enough time explaining why I don't even know my wife's name. I don't want to make them more suspicious by going where we've got no business going."
"Suit yourself. I'm going to go back there and ask, though. You can wait out here."
"No," Joe said with a sigh. "If this is what we're going to do, I should be the one to go. She's my wife, after all."
Brent threw up his hands. "Fine." He headed toward the waiting area, scanning the room for an empty seat far enough away from all the sick people to provide a buffer. Finding one at the end of a row, he slumped into it and folded his arms across his chest.
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