I motioned to Hugh Weaver. “Roland was sitting about the way Detective Hatch is. How far apart would you say our heads are?”

Weaver squinted. “Three feet, give or take a couple inches.”

Hatch looked disappointed. I didn’t know whether he was upset because I hadn’t told him anything helpful, or whether his sour expression was one of the interrogation techniques cops used to get the person being questioned to keep talking. I stared back at him and kept my mouth shut.

A Scientific Investigation Division tech who had been kneeling in front of the bar called, “Hey, Detective.” He summoned Hatch with a wave.

“I bet he found the bullet,” I said.

Hatch told me to stay where I was. He and Weaver went over to talk to the SID tech. The tech photographed the front of the bar, then, with great care, he began digging an object out of the wood. In less than a minute, he’d extracted it. With a ceiling light directly above him, I could see that the object was a bullet.

I watched the two detectives examine it, after which the tech dropped it into a clear plastic evidence bag, sealed and initialed it. If they were following procedure, the bullet would be taken to Ballistics for microscopic examination.

Hatch and Weaver came back to my table.

“What kind of a bullet is it?” I asked.

Weaver said, “Sniper-”

“Shut up! What’s the matter with you?” Hatch said.

Weaver’s face turned crimson. While he kept his hands down at his sides, I saw his fingers curl into fists.

I stood up and grabbed my handbag. “I’ve answered your questions, Detective. Now, I want to know where the paramedics took Roland Gray.”

Hatch and I stared at each other.

He blinked first.

22

St. Clare’s Hospital was the city’s newest facility and covered half a block on Colorado Boulevard between Sixth and Seventh Streets. I’d never been there, but a recent article in the Los Angeles Chronicle had listed its emergency room as one of the best in the state.

It was nearly two in the morning and there were plenty of parking spaces available in the hospital’s visitor lot. I picked a spot beneath the nearest security light. Before I got out, I stuck to my woman-alone nighttime habit of scanning my surroundings for potential danger. Seeing none, I climbed down to the pavement, and looked around again. Still nothing to cause my mental alarm to go off. I locked the Jeep and hurried toward the entrance to the emergency room.

In contrast to other emergency room reception areas I’d been in, these walls were painted a cheerful yellow, the lighting was bright but not harsh, and there was only the faintest trace of disinfectant in the air. Half a dozen people occupied chairs around the room. Some sat in tense postures, others seemed sunk in weary resignation.

One man was at the reception counter, bent across the expanse of Formica, speaking quietly to a young woman wearing a floral print medical smock. Even though his back was to me, there was something familiar about his stocky frame, the short, curly hair, and the tweed jacket.

Approaching the reception counter on his right side, I saw the young woman smile at him. He scribbled something on a slip of paper, handed it to her, and she took it. It struck me that this exchange was more social than medical.

“Excuse me.”

She looked up at the sound of my voice, and the man turned toward me. Now I saw why he’d seemed familiar: This was the man who’d appeared at the entrance to the ballroom Wednesday night, asking to speak to Roland.

“You’re Will Parker,” I said.

“And you are Della Carmichael, the cooking lady.” He pronounced “lady” as “lie-dee.” In contrast to Roland Gray’s upper-class British accent, Parker’s was pure Cockney.

“Mr. Parker, do you know how Roland is? Have you seen him?”

“Just left ’im. They’re going to move ’im up to the second floor for more tests. An’ call me Will. Mr. Parker’s me dad.”

Eager to get the informalities over, I said quickly, “Yes, all right. I’m Della.” I turned to the woman behind the desk. She was typing something into her computer. “I’d like to see Roland Gray.”

She paused, one hand poised over her keyboard, and eyed me skeptically. “Are you a relative?”

“No, a friend. I was with him tonight-”

“Sorry. Family only.” She went back to whatever she was typing.

Will Parker cupped my arm under the elbow, steered me away from the desk, and lowered his voice. “They let me in ’cause I told the medical blokes I’m ’is brother.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

Parker lifted his shoulders an inch. “Dunno yet. A bullet grazed ’is fore’ead. Wot the bloody ’ell ’appened?”

Briefly, I told him the little I knew. Then a question occurred to me. “How did you know he was here?”

“There’s a card in ’is wallet says I’m who to call in case of emergency.”

The receptionist held up a form and waved it at Parker.

“More bloody paperwork,” he said. “Be back in a jif.”

Parker returned to the reception desk and I thought about the card in Roland’s wallet. I didn’t have any such instruction in mine, and resolved to take care of that oversight. But with Mack gone, whom should I name? My mother and sisters live in San Francisco, too far away in an emergency. Nicholas D’Martino and I were having a relationship, but there was no commitment-except that we see only each other for as long as we’re together. Maybe the right person was my best friend, Liddy Marshall. I decided to talk to her about it tomorrow.

Parker wrote something on the form and handed it back across the counter. Returning to me, he asked, “Did the cops catch the bloody sodden bugger who shot ’im?”

“No. Do you have any idea who might want to hurt Roland?”

Parker bit his lower lip and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. “The women ’e stops seeing tend to cry, not pick up weapons. No jealous husbands ’cause ’e doesn’t trifle with the marrieds.” Parker shrugged. “Look, miss, there’s no point our waiting around tonight. ’Ow about letting me buy you a brandy?”

“I appreciate the invitation, but if I can’t see Roland I’ll go home and get some sleep.”

“Need a lift?”

“My car is in the lot. Oh, but Roland’s car is in front of the coffeehouse where we were. Caffeine an’ Stuff, on Montana Avenue and Twelfth Street.”

“Good to know. I’ll go over there, leave me own wheels, an’ drive the Duchess.”

“The Duchess?”

“That’s wot we call the ol’ girl.” Will Parker cupped my elbow again. “I’ll take you to your car and follow you to be sure you get ’ome safe.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Me mum would be ashamed of me if I didn’t at least escort you to your vehicle.” He guided me toward the exit, but before we took more than two steps, the outside door opened and in strode Detectives Hatch and Weaver.

The two investigators saw me and headed for my spot on the waiting room’s industrial carpet. Neither one of them looked happy, but next to Hatch’s angry glare, Weaver’s frown seemed almost cordial.

“If you talked to Gray before I questioned him, you’re looking at an obstruction charge,” Hatch snapped.

“I haven’t even seen him. I told you that I only wanted to find out his condition.”

With a grunt, Hatch stalked off toward the woman at the reception desk.

“Who are you?” Weaver demanded, looking at Will.

“Will Parker. I work for Mr. Gray.”

“Yeah? Wha’daya do?”

“General factotum.”

Weaver squinted at Parker. “What’s that?”

“Whatever me boss needs done.” Parker inclined his head closer to Weaver and lowered his voice. “I told the girl at the desk I was ’is brother so I got a quick look at ’im, but ’e wasn’t conscious.”

I was getting impatient. “I didn’t see Roland. I’ve told you and Detective Hatch everything I know about what happened tonight. I’m exhausted and I’d like to go home.”