The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(55)

“Do you need a lawyer?”

“Joseph,” Francine said.

Erik blinked, confused. “No. I’m a witness.”

Francine spoke sharply to her husband in French. Joe didn’t look at her but his face softened and now both hands touched Erik’s arms and shoulders. A warm palm on his face and a tug on his ear. A father’s touch.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Erique?”

“I’m fine.”

“You poor thing,” Francine said, her voice cracking. Her arms around Erik again. Francine was holding him now, holding him like a mother, but she was crying. Was she mother or child? Erik struggled to think straight. He needed a drink badly.

“Where’s David?” he asked.

“I sent him down the street to the Sheraton,” Joe said. “We need a room tonight. I told him to get two rooms and whoever needs to stay can stay. Franci, chère, come here. You can’t keep crying on the boy and he’s about to collapse. Cry on me.”

“I’m sorry,” Francine said, wiping her eyes. “Where is your mother, Erique?”

“Florida. She’s coming tomorrow morning. I need to get some water. Do you want anything?”

“No, no. You go.”

Erik hesitated, nearly asked Joe for a cigarette, knowing he’d have them. But he didn’t want to smell like smoke later when he saw Daisy.

If they let him see her.

They better let him see her.

He found a bank of vending machines and got himself a Coke. Downing half of it in a few greedy swallows, he was mildly amazed his wallet was in one pocket, and his keys in another. Bits and pieces of an ordinary life. Clearly he’d gotten up this morning and put things in his pockets, but the morning was forgotten. Yesterday eluded his grasp as well, along with the previous week. Time rewound to James stepping onto the stage and no further.

James.

Erik reached back in his pocket. The flattened penny slid coolly against his fingers, the edges both sharp and soft. He took it out. Looked at it. In the glow of the vending machine light the flattened metal looked dull and morose. It seemed to give off a shamed vibe. As if it didn’t want to be looked at. Erik put it away again.

In the waiting room, Lucky was sitting with the Biancos.

“How’s Will?” Erik asked.

“The shot in the side was clean. In and out. Cracked a rib but no internal organs hit.”

“What about his hand?”

“He’s lost two fingers, pinkie and ring. Middle finger is fifty-fifty, they have to watch it. Index should be all right. Massive soft tissue damage to his palm. The tendons are a mess. I don’t know about the carpal ligament but all the bones in his wrist are intact, thank God. Surgeon says he did great.” Lucky’s voice fell apart. She let out a tremendous breath and seemed to deflate under the drape of Erik’s arm. She sniffed hard and Francine automatically passed her a tissue.

“Will they let you see him?” Erik asked.

“Detective Khoury is in there now,” she said, pressing the tissue to her eyes.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bianco?”

The party turned as one to the surgeon who had appeared in the waiting room. His scrubs were navy blue and he wore a patterned skull cap. Joe stood up.

The doctor came closer. “You are Margaret’s father?”

Margaret? Erik thought, startled. Margaret is James’s sister.

“I am Joseph Bianco, Marguerite is my daughter. This is my wife. This—” he touched Erik’s shoulder. “—is my son and the young lady is my daughter’s roommate. But she is family.”

“I’m Dr. Akhil Jinani. I’m a vascular surgeon and I operated on your daughter this evening.” He and Joe shook hands. “Please, sit down.”

Erik stared at the doctor. He was Indian. Or perhaps Arab. Dark-skinned and a bit of black hair threaded with silver peeking beneath his cap. Yet his features were young, almost pretty. A boy’s face in an older man’s body.

“Marguerite is resting and doing fine,” Dr. Jinani said, the words brisk and tight within the lilting accent. “And they are moving her from recovery into the ICU. She is not going to die, Mrs. Bianco. And right now there’s nothing to indicate we will lose the leg.”

He paused to let them all digest and for Francine to get another tissue. Erik was still stupidly struggling to grasp Daisy sharing a name with James’s sister.

“I will try to make this as simple as possible,” the doctor said. “In surgery tonight we explored the gunshot wound and found the damaged femoral artery. We were able to stop the bleeding and I placed a graft to bypass the injured section and establish flow distally. In other words, the pulses behind her knee and the top of her foot were restored, and the leg began to warm up.”

“Which is good,” Francine said.

“All good signs, yes. I am optimistic she will recover fully and retain the use of her leg.”

Another pause then, as the question passed unasked around the circle of people. To ask if she would dance again seemed trivial when set against the relief of her being alive and all right. But this was Daisy.

Dr. Jinani looked around his audience carefully. “I briefly heard what happened at the university,” he said. “On the news. And naturally we had to cut her out of tights and toe shoes. I assume she is an accomplished dancer?”