to drop to his knees.
A woman carrying a baby stepped through the sliding doors on her way to the parking lot. She smiled at him and held the door open. “Are you going in?”
He nodded and hurried forward to hold the door for her so that she could grab hold of a toddler while she juggled the baby in her arms. “Thanks.”
Dragging in a deep breath, he stepped inside the cool interior of the hospital and marched toward the information desk.
An older woman sat behind the desk, peering over the top of her glasses. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Savvy Jones’s room.”
The woman touched her finger to a keyboard, one letter at a time.
Dawson bit his tongue to keep from groaning. That ubiquitous hospital scent of disinfectant filled his lungs and made him feel nauseous.
The woman smiled up at him. “Are you a relative?”
Dawson forced the words past his constricted throat. “I’m her … fiancé.”
The woman directed him to the fourth floor, giving him a room number and pointing out the elevator.
After he stepped into the elevator and selected the floor, Dawson’s fingers curled into tight fists. He watched the numbers change above the keypad. The elevator stopped on the third floor, a young nurse stepped in, her eyes widened and her gaze swept over him. “Hi.” She smiled and tucked a strand of long blond hair over her shoulder. “Visiting?”
He barely cut her a glance. “Yeah, my fiancé.”
Her shoulders slumped and she sighed. “The hunks are always taken.” She flashed another smile and held out her hand. “I’m Dani. Call me if things don’t work out.”
“Things will work out.” If he had anything to do with it, they would. He’d perform his protective duties until a suitable replacement could be found, then he’d be on his way back to San Antonio and his next assignment. He nodded toward the door opening on the fourth floor. “Getting off here?”
She shook her head. “I wish, but no.”
Dawson stepped out into a hallway, read the signs on the wall and followed the one toward Savvy’s room. At the nurses’ station he stopped. Audrey had said that the district attorney who’d contracted for a bodyguard would meet him there.
A man stood with his back to Dawson, a cell phone pressed to his ear. His voice was barely a murmur. Tall, with sandyblond hair and wearing a tailored business suit, the guy had to be the district attorney.
He turned, spied Dawson and nodded. “Check on it, will you?” he said into the phone. “If she is who this guy thinks she is, we have to handle things carefully. Call me later with what you find out.” He disconnected and faced Dawson with his hand held out. “You must be Dawson Gray. Ms. Nye told me all about you.”
“Not much to tell.” Dawson accepted the man’s hand. His grip was firm, if somewhat cool.
“Frank Young, Webb County district attorney.” He dropped Dawson’s hand and nodded toward a corner. “Ms. Jones’s room is down that hallway. The nurse says the sedative should be wearing off soon.”
“Ms. Nye said you’d fill me in on the case.”
Young nodded. “Last night Ms. Jones was found in the alley behind the Waterin’ Hole Bar and Grill, where she works, with what appeared to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound to her left temple. Fortunately for her the injury was only a flesh wound. The unfortunate part is that the gun found beside her and that she supposedly used to shoot herself happens to be the same gun used to kill Tomas Rodriguez.”
Dawson gritted his teeth. “Are you telling me she killed Mr. Rodriguez?”
“I can’t tell you anything. When she woke up this morning she was so doped up the nurses couldn’t get anything coherent out of her. When they asked her questions, she swore she couldn’t remember anything.”
“About the shooting?”
Young shook his head. “Anything, as in even her name.”
Dawson glanced toward the hallway. “Amnesia?”
“That’s what the doctors are saying. It could be temporary, or it could be permanent. Only time will tell.” Young crossed his arms over his chest.
“Are you sure it’s not just a convenient stall? She can’t testify in a trial if she can’t remember.”
The D.A. nodded. “That’s very true.”
“What about her other mental faculties? Can she talk?”
“Yes, she asked the nurses for water and told them that she was cold and wanted a blanket. No slurred speech or problems following simple directions.”
“Why hire a bodyguard? Why not post a policeman on her?”
“With all the trouble from across the border, the police force is shorthanded. And I’m not so sure I can completely trust the force to handle this matter as delicately as is needed.”
“Why?”
“Why?” The D.A. stared at Dawson as though he expected more from him. “Do you know who Tomas Rodriguez is?”
Dawson shook his head. “Name sounds familiar.”
“I suppose the border troubles don’t always make national news. Make no mistake, though, people around here know the name.” The D.A. looked left then right before going on. “Tomas Rodriguez was the son of Humberto Rodriguez, one of the most powerful leaders of Nuevo Laredo’s drug cartel.”
Dawson stared at the closed door. “Which paints a bright red bull’s-eye on Ms. Jones.” Great, he was in for a rough time of protecting a potential murder suspect from being killed by an avenging father with an army of mercenaries.
“Exactly. Once word gets out that Tomas is dead, which it probably has by now, Rodriguez will be gunning for her and I’m not so sure the police force will stand in the way.”
“Are they that corrupt?”
“No, it’s just that they have families to worry about. Some of them have family on both sides of the border. If they want their loved ones to remain alive, they have to stay out of it. Anyone standing in the way of Rodriguez’s desire for vengeance on the person responsible for killing his only offspring will suffer consequences.”
The woman had her death warrant signed before Dawson had even shown up for work. “If she killed Tomas, why don’t you lock her up?”
“Another fact I just learned a few minutes ago when I talked to one of the nurses has me worried, something I haven’t shared with the press or anyone else.”
“I thought you said Ms. Jones doesn’t remember anything.”
Frank Young gave a mirthless laugh. “She doesn’t. But some things you don’t forget even when you forget your name.”
Dawson crossed his arms over his chest, impatient with the other man’s dramatic pause. “Enlighten me.”
“The prints on the weapon match the prints from her left hand. Since she shot herself after she supposedly shot Tomas, she had to have used her left hand.”
“Your point?” Dawson snapped, the smell of disinfectant making him eager to get to the crux of the matter so that he could get the hell out of the hospital.
“She used her right hand to eat breakfast this morning. Ms. Jones is right-handed.” As if sensing the importance of the D.A.'s words, the busy hallway stilled. No nurse pushed through a door, no patient ventured out. Silence filled the space after Young’s announcement.
“She’s right-handed?” Dawson’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the district attorney, the full impact of those words sinking in.