napkin. “If you were living, those would be foxes’ names and phone numbers on that wrinkled old napkin, not victims.”
“Victims are easier to deal with. They don’t expect flowers.”
“But women have curves and don’t smell like those sweaty cops you were talking to earlier tonight.”
“Could be, but the cops will still respect me in the morning.”
“That’s not funny, Max.”
And not true, either. If the department didn’t solve these murder cases, no one was going to respect him in the morning, least of all himself.
He glanced at his watch. Nearly 1:00 a.m., and he was still wide-awake. Not much point going back to his empty apartment and tossing around in that king-size bed all by himself. “Okay, Jake, one more beer.”
“You got it, Max. The night is young. And you see that table of hotties sitting over there sipping margaritas…”
Max swivelled around on the bar stool and stared at the three young women flirting with a couple of the department’s newer and fortunately unmarried recruits sitting at the table next to them.
“I see them. Now what?”
“Hell, Max. Do I have to tell you everything? Send them a drink. Go over and talk to them. You might just get lucky tonight.”
“I’m old enough to be their father.”
“But you aren’t their father.”
“If I was, I’d tell them to stay the hell away from those cops they’re working so hard to pick up. Cops make lousy husbands.”
Jake shook his head and walked away. By the time he returned with the beer, Max was deep in thought about getting lucky. Luck for him would be arresting the Avenger—before he struck again.
CALLIE FINISHED WRITING out the orders for a thorough toxicology check on Bernie, handed it to the nurse on duty and walked back to the small cubicle where the patient was stretched out on the examining table. Ordinarily the E.R. doctor who had taken charge of Bernie when he arrived at the hospital would take over at this point, but Callie had decided to be Bernie’s doctor of record since she’d treated him at Mary’s.
“So how much longer do I have to stay here?” Bernie asked, shifting his weight to his right side and sticking one bare foot from beneath the bleached white sheet.
“Only about ten more minutes in here, but I’m admitting you to the hospital.”
“Don’t even think about it.” He waved his hand as if dismissing her last statement. “I can’t stay in the hospital. My business doesn’t run itself.”
“Which makes it all the more important that you stay here long enough for us to find out what caused your problems tonight.”
“I know what caused it. Stress. And if I don’t get out of here, the stress will double.”
“Stress could have brought on tonight’s episode,” she admitted, “but it’s not likely.”
“It doesn’t matter what caused it. I’m fine now,” he insisted. “I saw my blood pressure reading. It’s 140 over 100. That’s practically normal.”
“Much closer to normal than it was, but I’d still like to run a few tests, and you need to see a cardiologist.”
“So, what are we looking at? One day?”
“Possibly. Maybe more depending on when a cardiologist can see you and what kind of results we get from the tests.”
He rolled his eyes. “I have to be out of here by Monday morning at the latest.”
“I say we discuss that after we know more. I’m going to limit the number of visitors you can have to two at a time, fifteen minutes a visit, four times a day. You need to get some rest.”
“Fine by me. I don’t want people hanging around gawking at me hanging out of this thing.” He pulled on the loose fabric of the hospital gown to make his point.
She made a few notations on his chart, told him she’d see him in the morning and stepped out the door, shedding her white lab coat as she did.
“Hey, no one told me they were filming E.R. here tonight. If they had, I would have dressed for the occasion, too.”
Callie turned to see Mikki McCallister striding toward her. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”
“One of my darlings started running a high fever and his parents were nervous wrecks. I told them I’d meet them here and check him out.”
“Have you seen the patient yet?”
“Just left them. He’s got one of those stubborn viruses that don’t realize they’re supposed to check out after twenty-four hours. He’ll be fine, just needed the special touch of Dr. Mikki—and some glucose. What about you? Did you miss us so much you had to leave the soiree and pay a visit to the emergency room?”
“You got it. I think it’s the ambiance around here I can’t stay away from. Impatient patients. Harried doctors. And that woman yelling in Room 4 because we won’t keep supplying her with pain pills for her imaginary ailments.”
“So why are you here?” Mikki asked.
“One of the guests at the party collapsed and his heart stopped beating. I had to manually pump the chest to get it going again, so I stopped by to check on him.”
“Heart attack?”
“Atypical symptoms. It’s possible it was an allergic reaction, maybe to something he ate or drank at the party.”
“Speaking of food, I’m famished. How about stopping off at the Bar and Grill with me for a burger? You can wow the night crew with your cleavage.”
“Wowing Jake the bartender. Now why didn’t I think of that?”
Mikki was talking nonstop, but Callie’s mind stayed on Bernie as they walked to their cars.
The world would have been a better place if you’d let him die.
If Jerry Hawkins thought that, then others probably did, too—like the man that both the press and the police dubbed the Avenger. But would a serial killer be crazy enough to attempt murder at a house with nearly a hundred people milling around?
“Meet you in the bar,” Mikki said, unlocking her car door. “And don’t look so glum. I’m getting strange vibes about the rest of the night. Must have something to do with that knockout dress of yours.”
“Your vibes should go on Prozac.”
Callie slid behind the wheel, mindful of the red cocktail dress that slid up to mid thigh when she sat. The dress was a bit more revealing than she usually wore, a splurge purchase on one of her rare trips to Rodeo Drive. She’d loved it on the mannequin and liked it even better on her.
But
