A Confidential Source by Jan Brogan Page B

at Barry’s, Matt, the quart-of-milk guy, with the dark eyes and nice smile. Only now
     he wasn’t smiling. I was barely inside the room, but he quickly stepped in front of me, deliberately blocking my path to the
     patient’s bed. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
    What was
he
doing here? I might have asked, but there was an air of authority about him, something official, like maybe he was a plainclothes
     cop. It dawned on me that that was why the other cop could leave his post. He had backup. “I just wanted to check—check and
     see if this was the guy from Barry’s—the guy from last night.”
    He looked at me for a long time as he processed all this. My heart started to pound, remembering my aggressive flirting the
     night before. God, this was awkward. Somewhere in his house was a grocery bag with my phone number on it.
    “You’re a reporter?” It was part question, part exclamation.
    I nodded.
    “Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. Then he put his arms out and backed me completely out the door, so we were standing in
     the hallway. He was square in front of me, blocking the door, making me aware again of his height, his shoulders. “How long
     after I left?”
    “Five, maybe ten minutes.”
    “I’m sorry you had to go through all that.” He had a nice voice, a warm tenor that made you want to believe he meant what
     he said. I had to make myself focus on the off-center nose instead of the unclouded brown eyes. I took a small step to the
     left, trying to position myself to see around him. He immediately shifted his weight in the same direction.
    “So what are you doing here?” I asked.
    As it turned out, Matt Cavanaugh wasn’t a plainclothes cop, but a prosecutor with the attorney general’s office. “And you
     just happened to be at the Mazursky Market last night?” I asked.
    “I told you, I live in the neighborhood.”
    There was a moan from the bedroom. Matt turned around, glanced at the bed, and then took another step, to back me farther
     down the corridor.
    “Is that why they assigned you to this case?” I asked.
    “One of the reasons.” He looked down the corridor in both directions. We were still alone. “I’m sorry, but you’ve got to get
     out of here.”
    “I just want to get a glimpse of his face. Just a quick peek to see if it’s him and I’ll get out of here.” I gave him my most
     beseeching look: hopeful eyes, pleading smile, air of can-do optimism. He stared at me for a moment, as if he needed a better
     read, as if there was something he didn’t quite understand.
    Then, I made the slightest gesture, not even a real movement, toward the door, just a change in posture, and his expression
     grew hard. Not only was Matt Cavanaugh not going to consider my request, but I’d really pissed him off.
    “Are you out of your mind? Completely out of your mind? You’re a potential witness. What if he woke up and saw you? Wouldn’t
     his public defender
love
that?”
    “I thought he was unconscious,” I said, but it sounded feeble, even to me.
    “I don’t care if he’s
dead.
This would taint your testimony.” He stood there shaking his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe that none of this had
     dawned on me.
    “Hey, I’m a reporter, not a prosecutor,” I said in my own defense.
    “No kidding,” he said, but he refrained from a blanket criticism of reporters as a subspecies. Instead, he reached behind
     him and pulled Delria’s door shut so it clicked. Debate over. Subject closed.
    I started to turn away, but I hadn’t taken two steps when he touched my arm, forcing me to turn around. His anger, his annoyance,
     had abated. There was something else in his expression.
    I waited, hoping, I guess, for something personal: a reference to our meeting at the Mazursky Market, or maybe an apology
     that he had to be so gruff. And for a moment, I saw warmth again in his eyes. He hesitated, as if there was something he wanted
     to say but couldn’t.
    “What?” I