ADDY PROCTOR WAS AT the front desk of the Trauma ICU. She wore a black woolen coat long enough to almost touch her clunky shoes. From behind, her white hair looked like the crest on a cockatoo. I walked up just in time to hear the tail end of her conversation with the nurse making her sign in.
“We’re all praying for him, dear,” Addy said. She had a beatific smile on her face. “My nephew was a scoundrel, but the good Lord will make sure he recovers.”
She looked over and saw me standing next to her, grinning.
“Aunt Addy,” I said.
“Oh, Van, I’m so happy you’re here.” She ushered me quickly away.
“Darn good thing you’re family,” I said. “They wouldn’t let you in otherwise.”
She snorted. “Stupid rule. What if someone has nobody else to watch over them? There are plenty of old farts in my circle who’d rather have their friends than their next of kin in a time of need.”
As we walked past other rooms, I saw some of the same visitors still here from the day before. There were a lot of round-the-clock vigils in Trauma.
A uniformed cop sat on a chair outside Dono’s room, watching us walk toward him. I introduced myself and Aunt Addy. He nodded in recognition at my name and let us into the room.
Dono looked the same. Down to the position of his feet under the thin cotton blanket.
Addy sat in one of the chairs and set her big wicker purse beside her. I stood. We both looked at Dono. The IV tube pulsed almost imperceptibly as the drip moved through it to his arm.
“I’ve sat with people before,” Addy said. “I like to read to them. Passes the time, at least for me. Do you think he’d mind? Would you?”
I sat down. “He liked to read.”
Addy pulled a paperback in a fabric slipcover from her purse, put on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, and began to read out loud. I couldn’t see the title and didn’t know the book. From the language I could tell it was old, maybe nineteenth century.
“What is that?” I asked when Addy paused to turn the page.
“Dickens,” she said. “Our Mutual Friend.”
“I didn’t understand the part you read about ‘Six Jolly …’”
“ … ‘Fellowship-Porters,’ ” she said. “It’s the name of a pub.”
I nodded. A big day for taverns. I wondered what Dono would need me to do to keep the Morgen running while he was laid up. Maybe his partner, Albie Boylan, would know.
“You read a lot of classic lit?” I asked.
“I have,” Addy said. “I was a teacher, once upon a time. And a librarian. Back when the card catalogs had actual cards.”
My phone rang.
“I’m calling about the name,” said a high male voice in a whispering rush. “You asked our buddy to have me call you?”
Ganz’s guy from the DMV. Our Mutual Friend, sure enough.
“John Terrence Callahan,” I said, “or John T., or J.T.”
I heard fast typing. “There’re a few of those in the state. Date of birth?”
“Start with the oldest and work up.”
Heavy exhale. “One in 1936 …”
“Too old.”
“Try that one. What are the stats on it?”
“Six foot two. Gray hair, brown eyes. Serious-looking picture. Not bad if you like silver foxes.”
Dono. “Give me everything on him.”
More sound of assaulting the keyboard. “Okay, he owns one car, a 2005 Lincoln.” He read off the license number. A Lincoln. Callahan traveled in style.
“What’s the address?”
“It’s 495 East Pike, number 1701.”
No building in that part of the Hill had seventeen floors. Probably a private mailbox business. So 1701 would be Dono’s box number.
“He’s got a boat, too,” I said.
“I see that. King County, but there’s no moorage location listed here. The registration address is the same as on the driver’s license.”
“What kind of vessel?”
“What? Oh, the boat. It’s a …” He said each item separately, like reading off a list. “A 2006 gray fiberglass twenty-two-foot Stingray 220SX outboard gasoline pleasure sport boat. I swear I have no idea what most of that means.”
“Anything else?”
“About the boat?”
“About anything at all. More vehicles, more licenses. Parking tickets, if you have them.”
“I don’t. Those are only on file with—Oh, you’re joking. Jesus. No, there’s nothing else, except that Mr. Callahan is licensed for commercial vehicles—Class C. And he’s not an organ donor.”
I looked at Dono’s still form and the machines keeping him alive. I hung up.
“Who’s Callahan?” Addy said.
“I have to go.”
“I guessed that. I’ll read for a while longer.”
I nodded. She didn’t open the paperback. We both watched Dono.
“What would he want?” she asked.
“What I want is to help the cops find who did this to him. And I don’t want him to die while I’m away doing it.”
“No clear choice,” Addy said. “Maybe if I stayed for you?”
“Thanks. But the hospital knows to call me if anything changes. It’s not about having someone here.”
“It’s about you and him.”
“Yeah.”
Barely a week until I had to report in at Benning. I could watch Dono every hour, and he might still be exactly like this when I left.
I got up. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anytime,” Addy said. I heard her start reading again before the door closed behind me.