LITMIR.BIZ

      7

      The drive to Sun Valley Memorial was a westward stretch of freeway that had Decker riding into the late-afternoon sun. Squinting, he yanked down the unmarked’s visor, which did little to mitigate the glare, then fished around in the glove compartment until he felt a pair of sunglasses. Cheapies—the lenses were gridmarked with scratches. But it was better than driving blind.

      Maybe Lilah had been able to see something from under the blindfold. It had been made of lightweight material folded over several times, but it hadn’t been form-fitting. She could have sneaked a glance or two out of an open corner.

      If he got lucky.

      He took the Branch Street exit, turned left, then traveled another mile on surface streets. The winds were blowing dust, little eddies of soot that looked like gold powder in the late-afternoon light.

      The Foothill Substation of the LAPD patrolled the east end of the San Fernando Valley—the last bastion of rural Los Angeles filled with miles of grazing land. Slowly and steadily, commercialization was eroding the undeveloped acres, but the ranchers were a stubborn lot, often refusing to sell even if there was profit to be made. Creatures of habit, they, like Decker’s father, wouldn’t know what to do with the money if they didn’t have their work—tasks that challenged the body and roughened the hands.

      As he veered the Plymouth away from the mountains and onto Foothill Boulevard, the terrain changed. Open fields yielded to lumber- and brickyards, scrap-metal dealerships, roofing companies, wholesale nurseries, and block-long discount stores advertising everyday sale prices. The boulevard twisted and turned through large open lots until the hospital came into view.

      Sun Valley Memorial—a three-story square building plastered in green stucco—shared the block with a flower farm abloom with mums and marigolds. Decker parked the car in the half-full EMERGENCY ONLY lot, stuck his OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS card on the dash, and took the elevator up, getting off on the second floor.

      The visitors’ area was small and nearly empty. To the right a woman and teenaged boy sat playing cards. On the other side of the room was a man reading a magazine and an elderly woman listening intently as a doctor, still dressed in surgical scrubs, spoke to her in hushed tones. No one was sitting at the desk marked INFORMATION.

      Decker bypassed the lobby and walked down the long corridor until he found the nurse’s station. He presented his badge to a young man wearing a white uniform.

      “Sergeant Decker of the LAPD. I spoke with Dr. Kessler earlier in the day and he told me I could come down and interview Lilah Brecht. She’s in room two-fifty-five.”

      The man leaned over the counter to study the badge. “Lilah Brecht …”

      “Yes, Lilah Brecht. She was admitted this morning, victim of an assault.”

      “Lilah Brecht …” the man repeated.

      With a smile, Decker asked, “Can you page Dr. Kessler for me?”

      “I know who Lilah is. I’m her floor nurse. I seem to remember Dr. Kessler saying something about you coming down. I’m sure he wrote it in her chart.”

      Decker waited.

      “I’m not sure where the chart is now,” the nurse said. He scratched a hairy forearm. “Maybe down in Neuro. But it doesn’t matter. She’s out of it right now.”

      “She’s sedated?”

      “No, no.” The nurse frowned. “You don’t sedate people with possible head injuries. She’s asleep. It’s been a long day for her. Her brother tried to talk to her about a half hour ago, but she was—”

      “Her brother? You mean Dr. Brecht?”

      “Yep.”

      “He

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