– the woman’s. He pulled a credit card-like ID from the wallet. “Well, well – FAA license. Your second pilot.”
Gomez looked sideways at me.
I shrugged.
“Wanna go double or nothing?” he asked.
“Hit me.”
“What are those buzzards?”
“Birds,” I said. “Black ones …”
He shook his head.
“I know, you wonder how I do it …”
There was a slight change for the better in the mood, but it wasn’t my banter that had done the trick. We’d found a survivor. Life had triumphed. I almost felt light-hearted.
“Hey, Lieutenant. Where you taking her?” I asked.
He was speaking on his cell with his back to me. Holding the phone against his chest he replied over his shoulder, “Thomason Hospital. And we’re gonna give her an armed guard.”
“We’re coming along. Got some questions for her,” Gomez told him.
“You’ll have to stand in line.”
“We’re cutting in,” I said.
The lieutenant nodded, world-weary-style. “Jesus, you Feds are all alike.”
*
“She’s exhausted, in shock and she’s on a morphine drip,” said Doctor Monroe, a thin black woman with heavily lidded eyes and the look of terminal tiredness about her. “I don’t know how much sense you’ll get out of her. Keep it as brief as possible.”
Gomez, Cruz, Matheson, Foote and I all ignored that.
The doctor checked left and right and came in a little closer, something on her mind. Dropping her voice, she said, “Is it true what they’re saying on TV?”
“What are they saying?” Chief Foote asked her.
“There’s been a massacre. They’re saying it might be Mexicans – from across the border. Is that true?”
“We’re not in the rumor business, Doctor,” said Foote, deftly palming off the question.
I moved to the patient’s bed. I’d already learned, with as much digging as the intervening hour would permit, that the Learjet pilot’s name was Roberta E. Macey of Venice Beach. She was forty-four, married to a civil engineer and had three kids, two of whom had left home. She was the senior pilot at California Executive Jet and a US Marine KC-130 aerial tanker driver before that. I also knew that, having survived at least five hours under the sun with no water or shelter and the temperature for most of it hovering around 110 degrees Fahrenheit, all while enduring a compound fracture of her tibia and fibula, she was no cream puff.
Monroe loitered.
The Chief glared at her. “If you don’t mind, doctor,” she said, “Police business.”
The doctor returned a look as if she’d just been told she had unseemly body odor. “Five minutes, no more,” the women said, her nose a little in the air. “I’ll be just outside.”
With a glass against the door.
Macey was propped up in bed, the veins in her wrists attached by lines to various bags held aloft from a stand. A monitor with a sensor clipped to her index finger beeped away quietly to one side. She appeared to be asleep, though she was frowning. Her face had been cleaned up but it was badly sunburned and there was a deep gash across a cheek now covered by a gauze bandage. Anti-bacterial wash gave her an all-over orange pallor. Her broken leg was in a temporary cast and raised above the bed, held there in a sling suspended from an overhead pole.
“Ms Macey?” said the Chief Deputy, leaning over the bed. “Roberta?”
The patient groaned, swallowed drily and opened her eyes. She appeared a little disoriented, unsure of the surroundings and the people in her face.
“Ms Macey, we’re the police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“What happened?” she asked dreamily.
“We were hoping you’d be able to tell us,” said Foote.
“You might let her in on what we know,” I suggested. “Give her some context. Might help.” And might not. Being told what had happened could just as easily push her over the edge, if she was close to it.
“There was some kind of a raid on the airport this morning,” said Cruz. “A lot of
Gomez looked sideways at me.
I shrugged.
“Wanna go double or nothing?” he asked.
“Hit me.”
“What are those buzzards?”
“Birds,” I said. “Black ones …”
He shook his head.
“I know, you wonder how I do it …”
There was a slight change for the better in the mood, but it wasn’t my banter that had done the trick. We’d found a survivor. Life had triumphed. I almost felt light-hearted.
“Hey, Lieutenant. Where you taking her?” I asked.
He was speaking on his cell with his back to me. Holding the phone against his chest he replied over his shoulder, “Thomason Hospital. And we’re gonna give her an armed guard.”
“We’re coming along. Got some questions for her,” Gomez told him.
“You’ll have to stand in line.”
“We’re cutting in,” I said.
The lieutenant nodded, world-weary-style. “Jesus, you Feds are all alike.”
*
“She’s exhausted, in shock and she’s on a morphine drip,” said Doctor Monroe, a thin black woman with heavily lidded eyes and the look of terminal tiredness about her. “I don’t know how much sense you’ll get out of her. Keep it as brief as possible.”
Gomez, Cruz, Matheson, Foote and I all ignored that.
The doctor checked left and right and came in a little closer, something on her mind. Dropping her voice, she said, “Is it true what they’re saying on TV?”
“What are they saying?” Chief Foote asked her.
“There’s been a massacre. They’re saying it might be Mexicans – from across the border. Is that true?”
“We’re not in the rumor business, Doctor,” said Foote, deftly palming off the question.
I moved to the patient’s bed. I’d already learned, with as much digging as the intervening hour would permit, that the Learjet pilot’s name was Roberta E. Macey of Venice Beach. She was forty-four, married to a civil engineer and had three kids, two of whom had left home. She was the senior pilot at California Executive Jet and a US Marine KC-130 aerial tanker driver before that. I also knew that, having survived at least five hours under the sun with no water or shelter and the temperature for most of it hovering around 110 degrees Fahrenheit, all while enduring a compound fracture of her tibia and fibula, she was no cream puff.
Monroe loitered.
The Chief glared at her. “If you don’t mind, doctor,” she said, “Police business.”
The doctor returned a look as if she’d just been told she had unseemly body odor. “Five minutes, no more,” the women said, her nose a little in the air. “I’ll be just outside.”
With a glass against the door.
Macey was propped up in bed, the veins in her wrists attached by lines to various bags held aloft from a stand. A monitor with a sensor clipped to her index finger beeped away quietly to one side. She appeared to be asleep, though she was frowning. Her face had been cleaned up but it was badly sunburned and there was a deep gash across a cheek now covered by a gauze bandage. Anti-bacterial wash gave her an all-over orange pallor. Her broken leg was in a temporary cast and raised above the bed, held there in a sling suspended from an overhead pole.
“Ms Macey?” said the Chief Deputy, leaning over the bed. “Roberta?”
The patient groaned, swallowed drily and opened her eyes. She appeared a little disoriented, unsure of the surroundings and the people in her face.
“Ms Macey, we’re the police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“What happened?” she asked dreamily.
“We were hoping you’d be able to tell us,” said Foote.
“You might let her in on what we know,” I suggested. “Give her some context. Might help.” And might not. Being told what had happened could just as easily push her over the edge, if she was close to it.
“There was some kind of a raid on the airport this morning,” said Cruz. “A lot of
Similar Books
