Pike knew she had not spoken as soon as he saw her, and thought it unlikely she would regain consciousness. The shape of the bandage on her head suggested a bullet had entered beneath her left eye, angling away from the midline. The way the visible part of her face was swollen and discolored suggested bone fragments from the maxilla had exploded into her sinuses, mouth, and eye like shrapnel. The pain would have been excruciating. Pike lifted the sheet enough to see the incisions taped across her chest and abdomen, which were still orange from the Betadine solution used to clean the area. He lowered the sheet, and tucked it beneath her. The upper chest wound had done the most damage. The bullet had likely deflected off her ribs or clavicle, and punched down through the diaphragm into her abdomen. Between the time she was shot and the time she was wheeled into surgery, her left lung had collapsed, the chest cavity had filled with blood, and the blood had drained through the diaphragm into her abdomen. As she lost blood, her blood pressure dropped until it was so low her organs began shutting down, like a car engine without enough oil. A car engine without oil will run, but the engine will damage itself. Let it run long enough, you can replenish the oil all you want, but the damage will have been done, and the engine will die. Ana Markovic had bled out internally, and now she was dying.

Pike had seen men die this way before, and knew if this young woman was ever going to offer what she had seen, she would have to offer it soon.

Pike said, “Ana?”

Her visible eye flagged, rolled, drooped.

Pike touched her cheek.

“Ana, we need your help.”

The eye rolled, then drooped again, an autonomic move without conscious thought.

Pike took her hand. He stroked it, then pinched the soft flesh between her thumb and index finger.

“What did they look like?”

She did not respond.

“Who shot you?”

A rigid female voice cut him from behind.

“Move away from her.”

Pike calmly turned. A woman in her late twenties who was probably the sister stood framed in the door. Eyes like flint chips, black hair pulled tight, and a pronounced East European accent.

Pike said, “I was trying to wake her.”

“Leave go her hand, and move away.”

She wore a suede jacket over designer jeans and cradled an oversized leather shoulder bag with one hand. The other hand was inside the bag, and ominously still.

Pike placed Ana’s hand on the bed.

“I’m sorry. I came to see if she was awake. The Meyers were friends of mine.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“The people she worked for?”

“Frank and Cindy. Ana cared for their boys.”

“You know Ana?”

“We never met, no.”

The woman didn’t soften in any way Pike could see. Her eyes charted his face, his build, his shades, and cropped warrior hair. She didn’t like what she saw. Not even the shirt.

She stepped aside to clear the door.

“You should leave now. They don’t like the visitors.”

Her hand stayed in the purse.

Pike said, “Has she said anything that could help us?”

“Us. Now you are the police?”

“I misspoke. A name. A word. Something that could identify the people who did this.”

“I think you go. She tells us who did this thing, I will tell the police.”

Pike considered her for a moment, then went to the door.

“I understand. I’m sorry about your sister.”

The woman edged further to the side as Pike left. He glanced back, and saw her watching from the door as if sizing him for a coffin. He glanced again when he reached the nurses’ station, but this time she was gone.

Pike waited at the station until Barbara Farnham returned, then asked if she had checked with the other nurses. She had, but all of them had responded the same. Ana Markovic had made no sounds, nor shown any signs of recovery.

“I’m sorry, but you’ve seen her. I wish I could be more optimistic for you.”

“Thanks for checking.”

When Pike reached the elevator, Ana’s sister was waiting. He nodded, but she looked away. The elevator arrived with three other people aboard, so they rode down in silence, Pike on one side, Ana’s sister on the other.

The sister exited the elevator first, but stopped at a lobby newsstand as Pike continued to the parking structure. He saw her watching as he passed, and caught her reflection in a wall of glass when she followed him.

Pike crossed to the parking garage, then stopped on the ground floor for the elevator. Pike always took the stairs no matter how many flights he had to climb, but now he waited for the elevator. He was not surprised when Ana’s sister stepped up beside him.

This time, she made a tight smile.

“We are destined to see each other.”

Pike said, “Yes.”

The elevator was empty when it opened. No one else waited to board. Pike held the door, letting her go first. The woman stepped aboard, and moved to the back corner. Pike followed her, as certain of what she was about to do as if he could see it on a Sunset Boulevard billboard. Her hand was still in her purse.

Pike said, “Which level?”

“Three.”

As the doors closed, her hand came out of the purse with a small black gun that Pike twisted away even before she raised it. She swung at him, trying to hit, but Pike caught her arm, careful not to break it. She tried to knee him, but he leaned in just enough to pin her with his hip. He pulled the button to stop the elevator. A loud buzzer went off, but not for long.

“I didn’t come here to hurt her.”

She was trapped. Breathing hard, eyes cut to slits, she looked like she wanted to rip his throat with her teeth.

Pike said, “Calm down. Look.”

Keeping her pinned, he one-handed the clip from the pistol, and jacked the slide to clear the chamber. A nice little Ruger.380.

Pike kept his voice calm and measured.

“You see? I wasn’t one of the men who killed them.”

He stepped away, raising his hands.

“Frank Meyer was my friend.”

Pike held out the unloaded gun.

“You see?”

She straightened herself, maybe embarrassed, but maybe not altogether convinced. She clutched the gun with both hands, her back pressed to the wall.

“How did you find her?”

“The police told me.”

“Those bastards might find her, too. What if they come to kill her?”

“So you’re standing guard?”

“They leave her here with no one! I do what I have to do.”

Pike’s phone vibrated, so loud in the closed space she glanced toward his pocket. Pike would have ignored it, but he was expecting Carson Epp, and that’s who it was. Pike took the call, staring at her as he spoke.

“Pike.”

“I will have Lonny on the line in twenty minutes. Will you be able to take it?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty.”

Pike returned the phone to his pocket, then tipped his head at her pistol.

“Put it away.”

She put the Ruger into her purse. Pike added the clip and the loose cartridge, then offered his hand.

“My name is Pike.”

She stared at him, the dark eyes remaining suspicious. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, her cheeks were lean, and a small scar capped the bridge of her nose where she had been cut as a child. Pike’s hand had been cooked dark by the sun, but her skin was pale as milk.

She gripped his hand quickly.

Pale and warm, but hard underneath.

She said, “Rina.”

“Karina.”

“Yes.”

“Russian?”

“Serbian.”

“Leave the gun home. They won’t come here. Their risk would be larger than the chance she could identify them. They know that, so they won’t take the chance. The police know the same thing, which is why they didn’t post a guard.”

Her eyes narrowed again, mapping him like before.

“You are not a policeman?”

“Frank was my friend.”

The elevator buzzed again, anxious to move.