Hey, you gonna eat that?” Allen the bodybuilder was eyeing his companion’s plate.
“What? My donut? Hell, yeah, I’m gonna eat it.” To prove it, he took a big bite of the chocolate-covered pastry, then licked the brown drizzle from his lips. “If you want one, go through the damned line and get your own.”
“Nah, don’t need it. Too many calories—all carbs, sugar. Trans fats.”
“Whatever.”
Allen finished his drink in one long swallow, then crushed the can in one meaty fist just as his cell phone jangled. Glancing at the screen, he scowled. “Hey, we gotta go,” he said, his voice lowered.
“Why?” His partner shoved the donut into his mouth.
“Not really sure. But something was caught on camera.”
“That idiot fan club, I’ll bet. I’m telling you, those females who think McIntyre is, like, the Second Coming or something? They’re nuts. And rabid.”
“Don’t know, but it didn’t sound like a mob. Anyway, the lieutenant wants us to meet up. Check it out.”
“Shit.”
Tate’s insides clenched and he kept his back to them as they scrambled away, kicking out their chairs, leaving their trays and striding to the main door. Maybe the call was about someone else, but maybe not. He couldn’t take a chance. Didn’t want to blow his cover. Nerves strung tight, he waited, precious seconds ticking by. He didn’t have much time. Not only had he already been discovered, but there were the cameras filming the area. If Lester Allen was as much as a McIntyre Massacre devotee as he claimed, he might recognize Wesley as Edmund Tate’s son. Right now, Tate didn’t want to take a chance on blowing his cover.
Scooping up his phone, he headed toward a side door and, keeping his face averted from cameras or anyone he came across, found his way to a stairway and climbed to the second floor. Adrenaline fired his blood and he kept a lookout as he slipped into the corridor—empty except for a janitor’s push cart left near a closet. He moved quickly and wondered if even now Allen and his partner were watching from a secure location as they eyed over a dozen screens with camera views of the hallways.
Rounding the corner, he nearly ran into an orderly pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair at the elevators. Pretending to be talking on his phone, his head down, he walked quickly past and with a glance over his shoulder saw them disappear into a waiting elevator car. Thankfully no one stepped out.
He found the door marked 234, paused to listen for voices and, hearing none, quietly pushed the door open and stepped inside.
CHAPTER 19
Kara expected the doctor.
Or the damned police.
But who was it she got? Wesley Frickin’ Tate. Dressed in scrubs, for God’s sake. Like, oh, sure, he was a hospital employee. “I should’ve known,” she said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Me? Why? You can’t be in here.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s definitely not okay!”
He held up a hand as if he expected her to scream.
“What do you want? Oh, wait, let me guess. An interview.” She let out a huff of exasperation. “I can’t believe this!”
He didn’t deny it. “How are you doing?”
“How do I look like I’m doing?” she threw back at him as if he were dense. “I’m in the frickin’ hospital! And you didn’t come here in a damned disguise to ask about my health. For the love of God, Tate, I’m not an idiot.”
“Never thought that.”
“Good. And since you asked, I’ll live.” Some of her anger dissipated as she caught a glimpse of what appeared real concern on his face. She didn’t believe it for an instant, of course. And she didn’t have time for small talk. Sooner or later a real medical person, nurse or doctor, would slip into her room and she needed information and possibly even help.
“Look,” he said. “I know I’m being pushy.”
“Well beyond pushy.”
“Okay, but you’re not the only one who lost family members that night. My dad didn’t make it either.”
She felt that old, familiar jab of regret. but vowed not to let it slow her down. “So now what? You’re going to try and guilt-trip me into helping you?” Before he could answer, she set her jaw. “No way. I’m sorry for your loss, for your dad dying trying to rescue me,” she said, fighting against a storm of emotions when she thought too long or hard about Edmund Tate and how she’d run from him, how she’d fallen through the ice, how the cop whom she’d thought was a monster had sacrificed himself for her and saved her life. She swallowed against a sudden hard lump filling her throat.