"Ella es horrible. Ugly," said Jose. "Grace Brookstein era hermosa."
Juan was insistent. "Les digo que, es ella. Quieres que la recompesa o no?"
Jose thought about it. He did want the reward. Badly. But he and his family were all in the States illegally. He didn't want to be the guy who called the NYPD out on a wild-goose chase.
He looked at the patient again. With her newly shorn, peroxide-blond hair, her pain-lined face and cold, listless eyes, she had none of the radiance of the beautiful young woman he'd seen on TV. And yet there was a resemblance...
THE DOCTORS HAD TOLD GRACE SHE could walk around the room if she felt up to it. The electrolyte drip had been removed from her arm. Gingerly, Grace swung her feet to the floor. After a week in bed, her legs felt like Jell-O. The pennyroyal had given her seizures, one of which had torn a muscle in her calf. She hobbled to the window.
In the parking lot below, a young couple was taking their newborn baby home. The father was wrestling with a car seat, a look of terrified anxiety on his face, while his wife calmly looked on, rocking the child in her arms. Grace smiled sadly.
What a lovely, normal, happy family. I'll never have that.
There was no time to dwell on her wistfulness. A police car pulled into the lot, then another, then another. Suddenly there were cops everywhere, swarming into the building like termites. Grace felt her heart rate jump. Are they looking for me?
A blond head emerged from one of the squad cars. Even before he looked up, Grace recognized his stocky, football player's physique. Mitch Connors. So they are here for me.
Adrenaline coursed through her body.
Think! There must be a way out.
MITCH CONNORS GOT INTO THE ELEVATOR. He was so tense he could hardly breathe. As if the prospect of finally catching Grace weren't overwhelming enough, he'd spent the past three days looking into John Merrivale's cover story for the day Lenny Brookstein disappeared. He had so much to tell her. So much still to do.
"Seal off all exits and entrances. I want guys on the emergency stairs, in the kitchens, the laundry, everywhere."
"Excuse me!" A furious chief resident stuck her arm in the elevator just as the doors were closing. In her early fifties with short gray hair and a steely don't-fuck-with-me expression, she gave Mitch a piece of her mind. "What the hell is going on here? This is a hospital. Who gave you permission to come storming in here like this?"
Mitch flashed her his badge, simultaneously pressing the button for the sixth floor. He should have alerted the hospital authorities, but with a tip this good, there was no time for niceties. "Sorry, lady. We have good information that Grace Brookstein is in the building. If you'll excuse me..."
"I won't excuse you! I don't care if Elvis Presley's in the building. My job is to save lives. You have no authority...hey! Get out of there!" Turning around, the chief resident saw four uniformed cops pushing open the swing doors to the OR. Seizing his chance, Mitch physically pushed her out of the elevator. The last thing he saw as the elevator doors closed was the furious doctor running toward him, shaking her fist like a cartoon villain.
Grace had better be here. If she wasn't, he was in big trouble.
"LINDA REYNOLDS. WHICH ROOM IS SHE IN?"
The staff nurse on the desk hesitated. "We're not supposed to give out patients' room numbers. Are you a family member?"
Mitch flashed his badge. "Yeah. I'm her uncle Mitchell. Where is she?"
"Six-oh-five," said the nurse. "It's at the end of the hallway on your right."
Mitch was already running. He burst into the room, gun drawn. "Police! You're under arrest!"
A terrified orderly put his hands in the air.
"Jesus! What did I do?"
"Where is she? Grace." The man looked blank. Mitch corrected himself. "I mean Linda. The patient. Where did she go, damn it?"
"Bathroom," the orderly stammered. "Three doors down. She'll be right back."
GRACE LOOKED AT THE GRATE COVERING the ventilation shaft. It was two feet square. The same size as the crate I escaped from jail in.
As she climbed onto the toilet seat, then up onto the cistern, tears of pain filled her eyes. Her left calf was in agony. She bit down hard on her lip to stop herself from screaming and reached up with both hands. Dislodging the grate was easy. As she pushed it aside, a shower of dust fell into her eyes, temporarily blinding her, but there was no time to stop and recover. Digging her nails into the ceiling, Grace hauled herself up, squeezing her tiny frame into the ventilation shaft like dough into a pasta maker. Carefully, she replaced the grate behind her. Dust still stung her eyes like acid, but it didn't matter. Ahead of her was nothing but darkness. Inch by inch, she pulled herself forward into the void.
MITCH WALKED INTO THE LADIES' ROOM. There were three cubicles, all of them empty.
He turned to leave, then stopped. Walking into the middle cubicle, he ran his finger across the top of the toilet seat. The dust was as thick as sugar icing. Mitch traced a letter G and looked up. Could a human being fit in there?
Back in the corridor, he yelled into his radio.
"I need to see plans of the ventilation system. Blueprints. Where do those tunnels go?"
The chief resident stepped out of the elevator and pointed at Mitch. "There! In the blue shirt." Three burly security guards rushed toward him. Seconds later Mitch found himself being manhandled toward the emergency stairs while the resident looked on, arms folded, smiling with satisfaction. Talk about a ballbuster.
"For God's sake! I'm a police officer. Do you realize what I could do to you guys for this? Let me go."