Page 137 of Fire and Bones
“That was fast.”
“Cancer is a mean bastard.”
“It is.”
“She’s worried about Chuck but doesn’t know exactly when she’ll get home.”
“What about Ben?”
“I’d ask him, of course, but he’s out of town for the rest of the week. And a chinchilla really would trigger his allergies.”
“When will you be back?”
“Here’s the thing. The network liked my on-site reporting, so they’ve asked me to do a series on abandoned mines, the hazards they pose to the environment, to public safety, that angle. Did you know there are over forty-eight thousand abandoned coal mines in the US?”
“I didn’t.” A sinking feeling was overtaking me.
“This could be my big break, Tempe.”
Where had I heard that before?
“Ryan is flying to DC to join me the day after tomorrow,” I said. “We’d like—”
“Of course!” Chirpy as a sparrow in a sprinkler. “You’re both welcome to stay at my house for as long as you like.”
“Perhaps you could find—”
“Words can’t express how much I appreciate this. Chuck texted this morning to tell me he adores you. Said that in his fantasy life he’d live with you always.”
“How’s that work, what with the tiny claws and all?”
“He uses gloves with touch-screen tips.”
“Uh-huh.” Rolling my eyes, though no one could see.
“You’ll need to buy more food. I owe you, girl.”
“You do.”
Sibley Memorial Hospital has been serving the sick and injured in our nation’s capital since 1890. Staff and patients from those early days would be gobsmacked at the size of the complex today.
A multi-pavilioned, red brick and glass Goliath, Sibley sprawls above the intersection of MacArthur Boulevard and Loughboro Road, in Northwest DC, not far from the American University campus. The parking garage is the size of an airport terminal.
I pulled in shortly after eleven. Found a spot after circling upward so high I feared a nosebleed. Sharing an elevator with an obese woman holding an unruly toddler, two nuns, and a kid trying—with limited success—to control a bouquet of balloons, I descended, crossed to the portico-shaded walkway, and entered the main building.
The tiled lobby gleamed with an enthusiasm equal to that at the ME’s office. People waited in gray vinyl chairs, drinking soda, slumping, or fidgeting impatiently. Signs routed patrons to the cafeteria, gift shop, business office, and myriad medical departments. Pediatrics. Urology. Radiology. Oncology.
An information counter faced the glass doors through which I’d entered. The receptionist, an elderly woman wearing lipstick the color of a baboon’s butt, offered a smile whose brightness rivaled that of the flooring.
I gave her Deery’s name.
As her fingers worked a keyboard the smile dissolved.
“I’m so sorry, miss, but that patient is cleared for visits only by family and police officials.” Looking genuinely regretful.
“Oh, no.” Feigning devastation. “May I have these sent up to him?” Raising the nosegay of daisies and tulips I’d purchased for such a possibility.
“Of course. Let me have them.”