Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow. Тилли Бэгшоу

      ‘Not without a warrant, we couldn’t,’ said Goodman. ‘Doctor–patient information’s privileged.’

      Johnson snorted derisively. ‘She’s not a doctor! She’s a frikkin quack. That lady has about as much medical training as the tarot card readers on Venice Beach.’

      ‘That’s simply not true, Mick,’ Goodman replied. ‘I don’t understand why you hate her so much.’

      ‘You wouldn’t,’ the fat man grumbled.

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Goodman asked.

      ‘She’s attractive,’ Johnson said simply. ‘You like attractive women.’

      ‘And you don’t?’

      Goodman pushed aside his cold coffee. He thought everything about Denny’s was disgusting. He couldn’t understand why so many of his colleagues seemed to love the place. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘it doesn’t matter whether she’s attractive or not. The point is, she has nothing to do with this. She’s a distraction, a sideshow. We need to focus on speaking to the Badens and we need to find Brandon Grolsch.’

      Johnson grunted noncommittally. His ringing phone interrupted the sullen silence. ‘Yello?’

      Goodman watched him slowly put down his fork and stop eating. He was listening intently to whatever was being said on the other end of the line. After what seemed like an age he said an abrupt, ‘OK. We’re on our way now,’ and hung up.

      ‘What was that about?’ asked Goodman.

      ‘Remember Treyvon Raymond?’ said Johnson, pushing back his chair. ‘The snotty little black kid from Doc Roberts’ office.’

      ‘The receptionist? Sure,’ said Goodman. ‘What about him?’

      ‘Someone found him dumped less than half a mile from where the killer left Lisa Flannagan. Naked. Multiple stab wounds, including one to the heart.’

      ‘Shit.’ Goodman exhaled slowly. ‘So we’ve got a serial.’

      ‘Not yet we don’t.’ Johnson stood up and lumbered towards the door.

      ‘What do you mean?’ Goodman asked.

      ‘Treyvon Raymond’s still alive.’

       CHAPTER TEN

      In the heart of West Hollywood, Cedars-Sinai Hospital has always been synonymous with celebrity and glamour. Frank Sinatra and River Phoenix died there, Michael Jackson’s kids were born there and Britney Spears was admitted to the psychiatric wing there after her head-shaving breakdown.

      However Cedars was also a bustling, inner-city hospital and home to LA’s busiest ER. Every day, ordinary Angelinos poured through its doors after car crashes or overdoses, ambulances offloading every type of human pain and misery from burns to gunshot wounds to victims of rape and domestic battery. Some of the city’s top surgeons and specialists could be found here too. One of them, a slight, softly spoken Iranian by the name of Dr Robert Rhamatian had just finished surgery on Trey Raymond – what was left of him – when Goodman and Johnson arrived.

      ‘When can we talk to him?’ Goodman asked the surgeon anxiously. ‘It’s vital we hear what he knows.’

      Dr Rhamatian sighed heavily. He was exhausted after six grueling hours in theater and not in the mood for two pushy cops and their demands.

      ‘I don’t think you understand, Detective,’ he said, with a patience he didn’t feel. ‘Mr Raymond is very gravely ill. He’s heavily sedated right now, which is why he looks so peaceful. The operation was successful, as far as it went, but the damage to his left ventricle is extensive.’

      Goodman looked blank.

      ‘He was stabbed in the heart,’ the surgeon clarified. ‘We’ve done the best we can for him, but I’m by no means certain he’ll survive.’

      ‘All the more reason we need to talk to him,’ Johnson said gruffly. ‘Can you wake him up?’

      ‘No.’ The surgeon looked at the sweating cop in the syrup-stained shirt with distaste. ‘I can’t.’

      ‘Did he say anything before he went into surgery?’ Goodman asked, hoping to get something useful out of the doctor before Johnson alienated him completely. ‘Was he conscious at any time? I’m sorry to press you, Dr Rhamatian. But we think whoever did this to Treyvon Raymond may have murdered a young woman a few days ago. If Treyvon saw his attacker, or can remember anything at all, it’s vital that you tell us.’

      ‘I understand,’ said the surgeon. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know what happened before his surgery. You need to speak to the paramedics who brought him in. I’ll get the names for you. Hey!’ Turning around he glared at Johnson, who was trying to open the door to the recovery room. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t go in there.’

      ‘Oh, I think you’ll find I can,’ Johnson said rudely. ‘I’m gonna ask that boy some questions while he’s still alive to be asked ’em, whether you like it or not.’

      ‘I told you, he’s sedated. He won’t be able to hear you.’

      ‘Then I won’t be bothering him, will I?’ said Johnson. ‘Look, Doc, you did your job already. Now it’s time for us to do ours.’

      Dr Rhamatian looked at Goodman as if to say, Can’t you do something?

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Goodman muttered. But he did nothing to restrain his partner as Johnson pulled open the door and walked in.

      ‘So am I,’ said the surgeon angrily. ‘For the boy’s sake. This is an outrage.’

      He stormed off, presumably in search of reinforcements. Goodman hurriedly followed Johnson into the recovery suite.

      ‘Do you have to be such a dick?’ he asked Johnson. ‘The man was helping us.’

      ‘No he wasn’t.’ Johnson didn’t look up from the bed, where Trey Raymond was lying prone and still, his bandaged chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, with the help of a machine that looked like a cross between a prop from a 1960s sci-fi movie and a pool cleaner, complete with long, corrugated tubing. His arms, neck and cheeks were covered in shallow knife wounds, exactly as Lisa’s had been, and his face was bruised beyond recognition. No wonder the killer had left him for dead.

      ‘The kid’s dying, Lou,’ said Johnson. ‘Even you can see that. It’s now or never.’

      ‘I know,’ Goodman said somberly. ‘But—’

      He was interrupted by Johnson’s loud clapping, his fat hands crashing together inches above Trey’s unresponsive face.

      ‘Wake up!’ he shouted. ‘Tell us who did this to you. TREY!’

      ‘Mick, come on—’

      ‘I said, WAKE UP, DIPSHIT!’ Johnson bellowed. ‘Open your GODDAMN EYES!’

      ‘Jesus Christ.’ Grabbing him by the shoulders, Goodman pulled Johnson back. ‘Stop it. Leave him alone. What the hell is wrong with you?’

      Johnson turned, and for a moment looked as if he were about to punch his partner in the face. But before he had a chance, Trey suddenly opened his eyes and let out a panicked scream.

      ‘I don’t know!’ he yelled, his arms twitching manically. ‘Please! Oh God! I DON’T KNOW!’ His head was tossing from side to side. He screamed again and then an awful gurgling sound began from somewhere deep in his throat. Even Johnson looked alarmed. One of the machines started beeping and a stream of nurses and medics ran into the room, as Trey slumped back, unresponsive, onto the bed.

      ‘Who