Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(58)

“I already forget what happened anyway,” I say. “Head trauma, you know.”

“And you’re still too weak to question,” Sadie adds.

“I am, yes, though I still want to be released as soon as possible. I can recuperate better at home.”

“I’ll see whether I can arrange it.”

Sadie rises.

“We kept this quiet, Win. Out of the papers.”

“Thank you.”

“There were other people who wanted to stay bedside. I advised against it because I wanted to make certain you spoke to me first. They all understood.”

I nod. I don’t ask who. It doesn’t matter.

“Thank you,” I say. “Now get me out of here.”

*



But it isn’t that easy.

Two days later I am moved out of the ICU into a private room. It is there, at three in the morning, while I am still blessedly riding the edge between the morphine highway and full slumber, that I sense more than hear my hospital room door open.

This is not uncommon, of course. Anyone who has endured a prolonged stay in a medical facility knows that you are prodded and probed at the strangest hours of the night, almost as though the intent is to keep you from any true REM sleep. Perhaps, to again use a superhero analogy, my Spidey senses were tingling, but I somehow know that whoever was broaching was not a nurse or physician or a member of the custodial crew.

I stay very still. I do not have a weapon on me, which is foolish. I also do not have my customary reflexes or strength or timing. I carefully open my eyes just a smidge, but between the drugs and the late hour, my vision is that of a man looking through gauze.

I do, however, see movement.

I could perhaps open my eyes a bit wider, but I don’t want whoever is entering to know that I’m awake.

Still, I make out a man. My first thought is one that makes my pulse spike.

It’s Trey Lyons.

But I can see now that this man is too large. He stays in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me. I consider my next move.

The call button.

Every hospital room has one, of course, but being that I am not good about asking for help, I had paid little heed when the nurse explained it all to me. Hadn’t she wrapped the cord about the bed railing? Yes. Had that been on my left or right?

Left.

With my body still under the covers, I try to snake my left hand toward the call button without being seen.

A male voice says, “Don’t do that, Win.”

So much for playing possum. I open my eyes all the way now. My vision is still murky, and the lights are low, but I can see the big man—and he’s very big, I see now—standing by the door. I make out a long beard and a cap of some kind atop his head. Another man—swept-back gray hair, expensive suit—steps fully into the room. He is the one who warned me off the call button. He nods at the big guy. The big guy steps out of the room and closes the door behind him. Swept Back grabs a chair and pulls it up to me.

“You know who I am?” he asks me.

“The Tooth Fairy?”

It’s not my best line, but Gray Hair still smiles. “My name is Leo Staunch.”

I had guessed that.

“My men were following you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You picked up the tail fast.”

“Amateurish move,” I reply. “Almost insulting.”

“My apologies,” Staunch says. “What’s your involvement with Ry Strauss?”

“He had my painting.”

“Yeah, we heard. What else?”

“That’s it,” I say.

“So all your snooping. It’s just about an art heist?”

“It’s just about an art heist,” I repeat. “Also: Did you just use the word ‘snooping’?”

He smiles, leans closer to me. “We all know your rep,” he whispers.

“Do tell.”

“People describe you as crazy, dangerous, a psycho.”

“Nothing about my natural good looks or supernatural charisma?”

I realize my rather feeble attempts at humor may seem out of place. If you think these lines are cringeworthy, you really must meet Myron. But they do serve a purpose. You never show fear. Not ever. My reputation, which I’ve carefully cultivated, is to appear unhinged. That’s intentional. Cracking wise during moments like this lets your opposition know that you will not be easily intimidated.

Staunch pulls the chair a little closer. “You’re looking for Arlo Sugarman, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer. Instead I ask, “Did you kill Ry Strauss?”

And he predictably replies: “I’m the one asking questions.”

“Can’t we both?”

Staunch likes that one, though Lord knows why. “I had nothing to do with Ry Strauss’s murder, though I can’t say I’m sorry.”

I try to read his face. I can’t.

Staunch says, “You know they murdered my sister, right?”

“I do, yes.”

“So where is Arlo Sugarman?”

“Why?” I ask.

His eyes turn black. “You know why.”

“And yet,” I continue, “you want me to believe you had nothing to do with Ry Strauss?”