Chapter Five

“Who is this?”

 

Jarvis ignored the question. “You’ve got three seconds tell me who you are and then you’re going to hear a click.”

 

There was a two-second silence, and the man’s voice continued. “This is Detective Lance Rayford, LAPD. You want to explain why you’re the only number programmed into a disposable phone I found on a guy slumped in a booth at Nate and Al’s, no ID, not a spec of paper, and fingerprints no one’s ever recorded?”

 

Jarvis’ heart jumped into his throat. He croaked out his question. “How’d he die?”

 

The cop snorted over the line. “He ain’t dead, not yet. Just close. And I’ll ask one more time: who is this?”

 

“Detective, I’ll assume the man is in an ambulance or at a hospital and you’re still at the scene. Tell me where he is and I’ll met you there.”

 

Silence on the line again. Waiting.

 

“My name is Jarvis. The man is a friend of mine.” Only the sound of a fading siren came over the connection.

 

This time the cop sighed, knowingly. “Okay, Jarvis, meet me at Cedars Sinai in an hour. And plan on being a lot more talkative.” The line went dead before Jarvis could kill it himself.

 

The cold shower lasted no more than two minutes and Jarvis was in the car, hair damp and hand gripping the steering wheel harder than he wanted to. The NPR news played quietly over the speakers as he raced along an almost empty Sunset Blvd toward the hospital.