Peeper by Loren D. Estleman Page A

into a pot containing a rubber tree.
    Outside the door to the ward, he showed his badge and ID to a uniformed officer and the three newcomers went in. It was a turquoise room containing four beds, two of them enclosed by curtains. A third was empty, and Lyla Dane lay in the fourth.
    Ralph had prepared himself for—what, the Phantom of the Opera? A lot of scars and oozing, anyway. However, except for the white bandages encasing her head like a chain-mail hood and the perennially surprised look of a face with its eyebrows singed off, she appeared to have sustained no frontal damage, for her face was exposed and unmarked. Ralph guessed that she had turned her head at the instant of the explosion. Her arms were swathed in gauze and a tube ran from one to a bottle suspended upside down in a rack beside the bed. Her eyes were closed.
    O’Leary bent over her and whispered something Ralph didn’t catch. Her eyes opened then and she nodded feebly. Straightening, O’Leary beckoned to Ralph. Ralph shuffled forward reluctantly. He wondered why she had asked for him. What could she have to say to the man who was supposed to have been blown up by the blast she had walked into?
    â€œNng wu.”
    He bent down. “What?”
    â€œNg yu.”
    â€œSay again?” He took off his hat and brought his ear very close to her lips.
    â€œFuck you.”

Chapter 13
    â€œFuck you?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?” A stern-faced nurse stopped in the act of passing O’Leary to glare at him.
    â€œTalking to a friend.” When she’d gone on, he lowered his voice. “Fuck you? That’s what she said, fuck you? She had us haul you all this way to say fuck you?”
    â€œI don’t think Hallmark has a card for that.”
    Ralph had told O’Leary the truth because he wasn’t sure how much he and Officer Mileaway had overheard. The three were standing in the hallway outside the ward, where the pimple-faced resident had herded them after Lyla Dane had delivered her message and gone to sleep. “Maybe she was delirious,” Ralph added.
    â€œI don’t think so. I can’t figure out this ass-backwards charisma you’ve got. People go out of their way to tell you what a scuzzbucket you are. How can one man mark up so many enemies before he’s sixty?”
    â€œI’m forty-three.”
    â€œNo kidding? Jesus, what did you do to yourself?”
    â€œHey, you ain’t nobody’s Bob Barker neither.”
    O’Leary lit a cigarette and flipped the match back over his shoulder, narrowly missing Officer Mileaway’s left ear. “Back to square one. Where were you night before last?”
    â€œThe Vinegaroon on Cass from five to eight-thirty. I got into a chug-a-lug contest with a colored guy named Arvil. Lost by half a mug.”
    â€œWhat was the bet?”
    â€œLoser sprang for the pay toilet.”
    â€œNo good. You could have gone to Lyla Dane’s apartment anytime between eight-thirty and sunup and rigged the switch. Where else?”
    â€œThe Macedonian Room from a little after eight-thirty till about ten. A broad belted me with her purse when I followed her into the ladies’ room. It was an honest mistake.”
    â€œIt’d be the first honest thing you ever did. Name?”
    â€œShe didn’t introduce herself. She had a butterfly tattooed on her ass, if it helps.”
    â€œWhich cheek?”
    â€œBoth of them. It was a big sucker.”
    â€œAnyone else who might remember you?”
    â€œEveryone within earshot of the ladies’ room.”
    â€œWhat about the bartender?”
    â€œBig guy named Sam. No, wait a minute, that was Gunsmoke . They get that all-western channel on cable. I don’t remember.”
    â€œWe’ll check the place out. Then where?”
    â€œFlorentino’s, for about five minutes.”
    â€œWhat can you do in a bar in five minutes?”
    â€œGet tossed out of it by