Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,11

lack of funds. There are agencies that can step in to help indigent patients.”

“They had another match for that kidney,” Gudgeon argued, raising his voice. “They didn’t need her. They had Dawn on the ropes. They were going to go with the person who could pay. Health care’s changed; it’s big business now. They don’t care about the little guy.”

“Did you visit Ms. Davis in the hospital?”

“No. She didn’t want any visitors.”

“Phone her?”

“No. She had no phone in her room.”

“And when exactly did she disappear?”

“That was it. I dropped her off at Newcastle Memorial, and I haven’t heard from her since.”

“Did you call the hospital and ask about her status?”

“Yes. They said she checked out the next day.”

Rosco shook his head slowly. “I don’t know much about this kind of major surgery, but leaving the hospital after twenty-four hours seems like an unlikely scenario for what you’re describing.”

“It seemed odd to me, too; I admit that. I tried to get more information, but they won’t release details except to next of kin. I didn’t want to push them any further. I didn’t want to go on record as asking.”

Rosco rolled his chair closer to the desk, leaned on his forearms, and leveled his gaze on Walt’s. “You’re sure you don’t want to go to the police with this?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t want my children to hear a word of this.”

“If, and I’m not saying you have, but if you have been conned out of this money, there is virtually no way you will be able to reclaim a nickel if you refuse to pursue it through the legal system; I have to tell you that, Walt.”

“I haven’t been cheated. I’m an old man who’s fallen for a young girl who needed my help. Maybe I was a fool, okay, but I only want to know that Dawn’s safe and well.”

“Had you been intimate with her?”

“That’s nobody’s damn business.” Gudgeon bristled, then added an abrupt, “What’s this going to cost me?”

Rosco closed his notebook and said, “Let me first see what I can find out. I’ll work up a fee schedule later.”

CHAPTER

4

Friday lunchtime at Lawson’s Coffee Shop was without a doubt its busiest two hours of the week. It was payday for Newcastle’s city employees, and the restaurant sat dead square in the center of the action. With the municipal courthouse a block away, the DA’s office behind that, and the police department another block and a half distant, Lawson’s was packed to the rafters at every week’s end; and depending on what had “gone down” during that particular seven-day period, the atmosphere among the town’s legal guardians could swing from jovial and partylike to outright glum.

The eatery was one of the few remaining single-story structures in the downtown area. Caught in a kind of fifties time warp, its decor was classic diner: lots of plate glass windows facing the street, lots of chrome dotting the long pink Formica countertop with its matching swiveling stools, and a linoleum floor that had carried so many feet in identical directions it could have doubled as the Yellow Brick Road—except that Lawson’s tiles were gray and pink. Pink was the coffee shop’s theme color—bubble gum, cherry, flamingo, cotton candy: Somehow they all blended together in the vinyl-upholstered banquettes and booths, in the waitresses’ uniforms, and in the walls themselves.

What was remarkable was that no one questioned the choice—and hadn’t for half a century. Just as none of the regular patrons would have dreamed of asking why the jukebox stations in every booth still operated on nickels, or why only artists like Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, and Patsy Cline were represented. Lawson’s was pre-rock-and-roll, pre-Elvis; and just forget about rap, hip-hop, or ska. Besides, the volume was turned down so low it was impossible to hear the songs over the din of clattering glasses, dishes, and silverware, and the boisterous banter between customers, waitresses, fry cooks, and dishwashers.

Rosco stepped through Lawson’s etched-glass doors at twelve-thirty and couldn’t help but smile. The clamor inside was actually louder than outside. Street noise had nothing on the restaurant. He was immediately greeted by Martha Leonetti, senior waitress, self-styled top dog, and wiseacre supreme. She and the eatery were more or less the same age, proof of which was the blond beehive hairdo Martha had sported for the thirty-plus years she’d been employed there.

As was her wont, she slapped Rosco on the butt and said, “Hiya, cute buns, where’s that little wife of yours? You two are like those