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Lionel Whitney had just reached the most gripping part of his mystery novel when there was a knock at the door of his detective agency. Two, to be precise—two sharp raps.
Up until now, it’d been a nice quiet Tuesday morning. A little too quiet, maybe. No new cases, no urgent phone calls. But with his associate, E.L. Turner, at the DMV for an unavoidable appointment, Lionel had taken advantage of having the office to himself. And now, just as his literary hero, Mark Savage, was facing his moment of greatest peril, someone was at the door.
Lionel sighed and put the book on his desk, hoping the interruption would be a short one. He needed to find out what happened next, before E.L. returned and made some sarcastic remark about his "obsession." Plus, he'd heard a disturbing rumor that Savage might not live to see another book; that the author was getting tired of the series. He couldn’t quite bring himself to take a peek at the ending. But at least he’d find out if the rumor was true, even if he didn’t finish reading in time, because the author was making an appearance at Book Soup that weekend.
“Uh, who is it?” he asked, his mind still on the story.
“Delivery,” a gruff voice replied.
Had E.L. ordered something? Without telling him, of course. Lionel opened the door.
The two black men standing in the hallway weren’t dressed like delivery guys, he noted, but one of them was holding a box.
“You have a delivery?” Lionel asked.
“Yeah, for E.L. Turner,” the gruff-sounding man said. He was wearing a blue fedora, which seemed like an odd fashion choice. But then, E.L. did know some odd people.
“Well, he’s not here right now,” Lionel explained, “but—”
“We know.” The other guy opened the box. Pulled out what looked like a very long handgun. No, that was a silencer on the end of it, Lionel realized—just as the man squeezed the trigger.
Lionel gasped in pain and surprise, clutching his chest. He staggered back against the door, then his knees buckled under him, and he went down in a heap.
He lay on the floor, helpless, afraid to move. If they wanted to kill him, there was nothing he could do to stop them.
“Let’s go,” the gruff guy said.
When he heard their footsteps fading, Lionel raised his head. His white button-down shirt was already turning red. He needed to slow the bleeding.
With what?
His tie. He didn’t know why he’d put it on this morning when he could’ve dressed more casually, but he was grateful for it now.
He loosened the knot and pulled it off, grimacing as a searing pain shot through his chest. He rolled the tie up into a ball, opened the top half of his shirt and tucked the wad inside, against the wound.
Now, to his desk. He crawled, trying to steady his breathing and ignore the burning in his chest. He had to get help before he passed out.
From the floor, the top of his desk looked as far away as the summit of Everest. Slowly, grabbing a chair for support, he got to his feet. He had to wait a moment as another wave of pain threatened to knock him over.
Finally, he was sitting at his desk again, reaching for the phone. He could call 911, but there might be a more personal route. He flipped through his Rolodex until he found Officer Mike Donovan’s number.
Mike had become a good friend to him and E.L. in the past few months. They'd helped him out a few times, and now Lionel hoped he could return the favor.
His fingers shook as he dialed Mike’s number. Please, be there . . . Please—
“LAPD, Officer Donovan speaking.”
Lionel felt weak with relief. “Mike,” he gasped, “it’s Lionel.”
“Lionel? What’s up?” Mike’s tone was guarded, like he could tell something was wrong.
“I’ve been . . . shot,” he said, struggling to get the words out. “Need help.”
“You were shot?” Mike exclaimed. “Where are you?”
“My . . . office.”
“You’re there alone?”
“Yes.” Lionel tried to speak louder. “Please, hurry.”
“I’ll be right there. I’m calling an ambulance. Just hang on, okay? Lionel?”
“Okay.”
“I’m on my way,” Mike promised him, then hung up.
Lionel put the receiver back down in case E.L. tried to call. He struggled to stay calm, to not lose consciousness before Mike arrived. His head felt light, and he didn’t know how much longer he could stay awake.
The sirens were the second most welcome sound he’d heard today, after Mike’s voice. A few minutes later his voice boomed again, from the hallway.
“His office is right here.” Mike dashed inside, but stopped short when he saw him. “Oh, my God—Lionel!”
Lionel tried to greet his friend, but it was too much effort. The paramedics brought a gurney over to his desk and, with Mike’s help, moved him onto it.
“Easy . . . easy,” Mike told him.
There was nothing easy about it, though. It hurt. A lot.
The medics applied a gauze dressing to his wound, then started checking his vital signs.
“Lionel, what happened?” Mike asked, hovering over him.
“Two guys . . . knocked. One . . . fired.”
“You mean, you just opened the door and they shot you?” Mike looked shocked.
Lionel nodded.
“Did you recognize them?”
“No.” He was going to pass out soon, he could tell. Darkness was creeping in from both sides.
“Can you give me a description?” Mike asked. “Anything.”
“Both . . . black. Big guy . . . had a . . . blue fedora.”
“Fedora?” Mike looked surprised. “That’s a hat, right?”
Lionel nodded. “Gunman . . . wore . . . gold chain. Medallion.” He remembered the light in the hallway glinting off it. “Dollar sign.”
“Got it, thanks.” Mike jotted the information down in a small notebook. “We’re gonna find these guys, okay? Don’t worry.”
Lionel remembered something else. What they’d said about knowing E.L. wasn’t there. "Mike, tell E.L. . .”
Before he could finish talking, the darkness engulfed him, like a storm cloud blotting out the stars in the night sky.
****
E.L. wasn’t too surprised to see an ambulance, fire truck and police cars parked outside his office building, lights flashing. Something was always happening in the city, at all hours of the day and night. It was exciting, most of the time, all the hubbub and activity. But days like today, he wouldn’t mind a little peace and quiet.
Waiting his turn at the DMV, the legal way for once—as himself, no fake persona or foreign accent to entertain himself with—while surrounded by crying babies and whiny kids and grumpy adults . . . what a hassle. And he knew what Lionel would say if he dared to complain: he’d told him so. His partner never put anything off till the last minute. He was probably having a fine time in there by himself right now, reading one of those tough-guy mysteries he was so obsessed with. Even more obsessed since the author was coming to town that weekend.
As he walked down the hallway, E.L. heard loud, urgent male voices coming from one of the offices on his floor. No—from his office. The door was open, and something was going on inside.
Maybe a client had a heart attack or something. If they’d actually managed to get a client. That'd be just their luck, all right.
The first thing E.L. saw when he walked into the office was blood. A small puddle just inside the door, which he almost stepped in. Then a trail of red drops leading to . . . Oh, no.
Lionel’s desk.
E.L. caught a glimpse of his partner, lying on a gurney, eyes closed. His face, under an oxygen mask, was white as a sheet. The paramedics were getting ready to take him out to the ambulance.
Mike was there too, the officer’s normally ruddy face almost as pale as Lionel’s. E.L. never would’ve believed it was possible, but white people could look even whiter. Chalky.
He started to go over to Mike, to ask him what was going on, how he of all officers just happened to be there, but his knees wobbled. His knees had never gone weak before, whether he was standing in front of a mob boss, a corpse, or a live, gorgeous woman. But he needed to sit down now, fast, before he fell on his face.
Must be the blood, he thought. His best friend’s blood.
“Mike,” he called from the couch, “what the hell happened?”
The officer came over and sat next to him. “He told me two guys were at the door. Right after he opened it, one of them shot him.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said, glancing at Lionel. “He didn’t recognize them. Somehow, thank God, he managed to get to his desk and call for help. He gave me a brief description, and then he asked me to tell you something, but he went into shock.”
Guilt hit E.L. like a punch in the gut. “Of all the times for me to be gone.”
“I’m going to find out if anyone else in the building saw anything,” Mike said, getting up. "I’ll meet you at the hospital, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks, man.”
The officer looked at him. “You’re okay to drive, right?”
Huh? How did he know? “Yeah,” E.L. said, “I just got back from the DMV.” Mike looked confused. Oh, he meant okay to drive . . . “I mean, yeah, I’ll be careful.”
Mike nodded. “Good. Oh, and . . . do you know if Lionel keeps any personal information around here? Copies of medical insurance cards, list of people to contact?”
Of course he did. Lionel was the most organized person E.L. had ever met. He’d insisted on getting E.L.’s information, too—as much as he was willing to share—to put with his own in his wall safe. Just in case.
“Yeah, I know where it is,” he told Mike. “I’ll go get it.”
****
Good thing Mike had reminded him about the documents. The lady at the admitting desk finally dropped her “relatives only” spiel when she learned E.L. could fill out all the hospital’s paperwork. She even cracked a smile as she handed him the clipboard. E.L. smiled back, hoping she’d be the one who had to contact Lionel’s parents. Neither of them approved of their son’s career change, and this was only going to make it worse.
But hard as they’d tried, they hadn’t been able to talk him out of it. Sure, Lionel knew the job was dangerous. He’d even been shot once before; a minor wound. He was willing to take the risk, though, because he liked solving cases and helping people. And he was surprisingly good at it.
E.L. sighed, settling down with the clipboard. Once again, he was stuck in reality; no way to escape from this nightmare. Too many details: numbers, personal questions. It reminded him of his school days, writing until his fingers cramped.
He was almost finished when Mike found him. “Hey, I just got an update on Lionel.”
E.L. looked up. “Yeah? What’d they say?”
“They’re prepping him for surgery.” Mike sat across from him. “They say it’s gonna be a while. The bullet’s lodged near his heart.”
“Damn. I knew it looked bad, but . . . ”
What if he didn’t make it? E.L. couldn’t even imagine working with someone else. Where would he find another partner like Lionel, anyway? He was probably the only person on the planet who was willing to put up with him, no matter how much trouble he caused.
“Hey, he’s gonna be all right,” Mike insisted, as if he could read his mind. “He’s a fighter. He had to be, to make it this far.”
E.L. nodded. “Very stubborn.”
“That can be a good thing. The doctors here are tops, too.”
“Did you find any other witnesses?” E.L. asked, changing the subject.
“A couple.” Mike looked at his notebook. “One person saw the men leaving. The other got a partial license plate number as they were taking off.”
“Good. So what do these guys look like, anyway?”
Mike read the descriptions. The word black made E.L. cringe a bit. Now everyone would expect him to know them, because of course he knew every black guy in the state, right?
But it was two other words, blue fedora, that really got his attention. Unfortunately, that did sound familiar. “Oh, no.”
“You know the guy?” Mike sounded a little too eager. No surprise there.
“Yeah. I can’t think of his name, but a hat like that . . . that’s pretty specific.” E.L. got up, clipboard in hand. “I have to turn this in. You mind if I go back to the station with you and look at some mug shots?”
“Good idea.” Mike followed him to the desk.
****
“There.” After about fifteen minutes of searching, E.L. pointed to a picture in the book. "That’s him.”
Mike looked over his shoulder. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Byron Simms, AKA Fedora Man. Drug dealer.”
“How do you know him?” Mike asked, writing the information down.
“Prison,” E.L. said. “Then I helped bust him a couple of times, once as a detective.”
“Really? Twice?”
“That’s nothing, considering how many times he’s been in the slammer.” E.L. sat back and stretched. “It’s like they’ve got a revolving door over there. I’ll bet that’s where he met his accomplice.”
Mike looked thoughtful. “So he’s probably mad at you, huh?”
“Not just for the busts. He thinks I turned traitor now that I’m working for the other side.”
A thought occurred to him, but Mike spoke up first. “Do you think he’s mad at Lionel, too?”
“Well, he knows we work together. You don’t think . . .”
“What?”
E.L. hated to say it. “What if Simms did this to get back at me?”
“You mean, ambushed your partner?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, like, his sick way of getting revenge. Going after someone I care about.” Another, even worse thought crossed his mind. "They wanted him to die."
Mike stared at him. “What?”
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they struck while I was gone,” E.L. explained. “They waited till Lionel was alone, so there wouldn’t be anybody around to help. They probably hoped I’d be the one to . . . you know, find him.”
“That is sick,” Mike agreed. “But you don’t know if it’s true.”
“It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? I mean, they attacked my partner in broad daylight.” E.L. sighed. “But if it is true, I just hope he can forgive me.”
****
“C’mon, E.L. You have to talk to him sometime,” Mike said.
The last time they’d seen Lionel was in ICU, the day after his surgery. He’d been in a heavily-medicated fog, and they’d barely had time to say hi before the nurses were shooing them back out of the room. Now that he was stable, they’d transferred him to a private room, which was great news, but E.L. wasn’t ready to go in yet.
“What if it’s not a good time?” he suggested. “He might be sleeping.”
“There’s one way to find out.” Mike started toward the door.
“Wait. What if his parents are in there?”
“You’ve got a police escort. What can they do to you?”
“Very funny.” There was a security guard posted outside the door, too. Lionel didn’t know about that yet. E.L. hated that it was even necessary.
Mike sighed. “Look, I get it. You’re nervous. But if you don’t come in, he’ll think something’s wrong.”
“I do want to see him,” E.L. insisted. “It’s just . . . he’s gonna start asking questions about the case. You know how he is. They could only keep him sedated for so long.”
“You worry too much.” Mike opened the door a crack and peeked in. “No parents. Let’s go.”
E.L. followed him into the room. Lionel was awake, staring at a TV mounted in the corner. He did look glad to see them.
“Hey,” Mike said, cheerful as ever, “how you feeling?”
“Better,” Lionel replied. His color was back to normal now. He was still hooked up to a monitor and an IV, but not as many tubes and wires as before.
“Yeah, you look a lot better than the last time I saw you.” Mike turned to E.L., waiting for him to say something.
“I can imagine.” Lionel smiled. “Sorry if I scared you.”
Mike chuckled. “That’s okay. Just don’t let it happen again.”
“I’ll try my best.” Lionel looked at E.L. “You’re awfully quiet. I didn’t think that was possible.”
Mike laughed again. “He’s really got you pegged, Turner.”
Of course he did. “Well, you know, I don’t want to rile up the nurses. They practically kicked us out last time.”
“That was because of the time limit,” Mike pointed out, not letting him off the hook.
“Yeah. So, anyway,” E.L. said, sitting beside the bed, “you’re feeling better now, huh?”
Lionel nodded. “A little sore and tired, but not too bad, considering. How’ve you been?”
“Okay. You know.” E.L. looked at the TV. “Anything good on?”
“No, not really.” Lionel pointed the remote and turned it off. “So how’s the investigation going? Any leads?”
E.L. gave Mike an I told you so look.
“Well, we had a couple of witnesses at the building, and E.L. was able to ID one of the suspects,” Mike told him.
“Which one?”
“The fedora guy,” E.L. said. “Drug pusher named Simms. We helped bust him a while back, remember?”
“I’d forgotten about that,” Lionel admitted. “But I figured you might know them.”
Oh, no. The black thing again? “Why?”
“I was trying to tell Mike about it when I passed out. The guy with the hat said they had a delivery for you. When I told them you weren’t there, the other one said, ‘We know.’”
E.L.’s heart sank. So it was true. They did go after Lionel because of him. “I’m sorry, buddy.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Mike spoke up. “E.L. thinks those guys may’ve targeted you to get back at him. And he feels guilty about not being there that morning.”
“But that wasn’t your fault,” Lionel told him. “You had to get your license renewed.”
“It’s my fault those two went to the office,” E.L. explained. “Because they knew I was gone.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to have to tell you about this right now. It’s too soon, man. You need to just focus on getting better.”
“Well, I'll feel better if you stop blaming yourself,” Lionel said. “Just remember, you're not responsible for the actions of others.”
E.L. smiled. "Okay. Thanks, partner.”
“Anyway, we’ve got the entire force out there searching for those suspects,” Mike assured Lionel. “And there’s a guard posted outside your door, as a precaution. So you don’t have to worry about anything. Except getting better, like E.L. said, so you can get out of here.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Lionel told him. He looked tired. “For all your help.”
“No problem. I guess we’d better let you get some rest now. If you need anything, just let us know.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess you want that Mark Savage book you were reading, huh?” E.L. remembered. He’d seen it on Lionel’s desk, the one he hadn’t had a chance to finish on Tuesday.
“No,” Lionel said, not looking at him. “I mean, not right now.”
“Okay.” That author event was happening this weekend, E.L. remembered; the one Lionel had been looking forward to. Was that what was bothering him? “Maybe later, then.”
****
Lionel was just starting to doze off when a noise woke him. Voices, outside his door. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, so he closed his eyes again and tried to go back to sleep. Then the door swung open, and he heard footsteps approaching.
A black orderly pulled the curtain around the side of the bed. He had a syringe in his shirt pocket.
“Time for your shot, Mr. Whitney.”
Lionel pushed himself back against his pillow, fully awake now at the gruff sound of the man’s voice. How did he get in here? Where was the guard?
He grabbed the call button for the nurse and pressed it. Pressed it again, harder.
“This won’t take long.” The man paused to put on some latex gloves.
As fast as he could, Lionel started removing the wires and probes attached to him. His pulse rate was probably skyrocketing, but he didn’t know if that alone would be enough. Finally, an alarm on the monitor began beeping.
The man had just pulled the cover off the needle. He looked up, startled by the noise. “What the—?”
Lionel was already breathing rapidly, so he took it up a notch, adding loud gasps and a few agonized moans.
“What’s the matter with you?” The man sounded nervous. The alarm continued to beep as he started backing away from Lionel, toward the door.
****
“He was probably just tired,” Mike said. He and E.L. had stopped by the nurse’s station, where a friend of Mike’s was on duty, for a cup of coffee.
“I know, but he’s crazy about those books, man,” E.L. pointed out. “And, sure, he’s disappointed about having to miss that book signing. But now he doesn’t even want to read it?”
“Could be post-operative depression,” Mike’s nurse friend said. “That’s not uncommon.”
“So it’s just temporary, right?” E.L. asked, hopeful.
“Usually. We have a psychiatrist on staff who visits the patients, and—” She looked at a monitor behind her, which had started beeping. “Hmm. That’s strange.”
“What is it?” Mike asked. A few other nurses gathered around.
“The monitor in 404. The sensors aren’t receiving any information.”
“It could be a false alarm,” another nurse told her.
“That’s Lionel’s room,” E.L. said, his heart pounding.
He and Mike took off running down the hallway. A red light above the door to Lionel’s room was blinking.
"He pushed the call button,” Mike’s friend explained, right behind them. “But it might just be a false alarm.”
That wasn’t what E.L.’s gut was telling him. For one thing, the guard was nowhere in sight.
“Where the hell is security?” Mike exclaimed, grabbing his radio.
As the nurses hurried into the room, a black male orderly tried to run out, colliding with E.L. The big man tripped and fell near the doorway, then hollered, apparently in great pain.
“Sorry, man, I—”
“Fedora Guy!” Lionel told E.L., pointing. His monitor was still beeping, and the nurses were trying, without success, to calm him down.
“Simms?” E.L. looked at the man writhing on the floor. He grabbed E.L.’s leg.
“Turner . . . help me . . .”
“Are you outta your mi—” E.L. saw a syringe in the man’s hand. “What did you do?”
“Stuck my . . . damn self.”
E.L. waved to the nurses. “Hey, the suspect here needs help.”
He stepped back as they knelt beside Simms and asked what he'd put in the syringe.
“He was about to give me that shot,” Lionel explained, while one of the other nurses reattached his wires and probes.
“What?” E.L. exclaimed. No wonder he was so upset. “You okay, buddy?”
“I am now. But what happened to the—”
“Code Blue!” one of the nurses yelled. “We need a crash cart, stat!”
Another, louder alarm sounded. E.L. moved next to the bed before they could shoo him out again. He pulled the curtain around him to shield them from Simms.
“Where’s Mike?” Lionel asked.
“Looking for the guard, I think,” E.L. said. “You sure you’re okay?”
Lionel nodded. “He didn’t touch me. I set off the alarm, then pretended I couldn’t breathe. Scared him away.”
“And then he fell on his sword. Poetic justice.” E.L. shook his head in disbelief.
They listened to the commotion: the cart rolling in, shouts from medical personnel, then the distinctive thump of a defibrillator, which made them both flinch.
“Again!” someone ordered, and they braced themselves.
“That could’ve been me,” Lionel said, still shaken.
“But you were too smart for him,” E.L. reassured him. “I can’t believe I left you alone with that guy again. Twice in one week!”
“You didn’t know he’d get past the guard and—”
“Flatline!” The sounds of urgent activity continued for a few more minutes, but eventually things quieted down.
“Is he . . . ?” Lionel asked.
E.L. peeked around the curtain. “Yeah. It’s over now.”
“What happened?” Mike had returned at last. After another officer explained the situation to him, he hurried over. “Lionel! I heard that code blue, and . . . You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“It was a false alarm. Sort of,” E.L. added. “Did you find the guard?”
“Yeah.” Mike let out a deep breath. “Simms’s pal, the gunman, got someone to distract him. Made up some story to get him away from his post while Simms snuck into the room. We caught the two of them trying to slip outside, so they’re in custody. And the guard’s been fired.”
“All in a day’s work, huh?” E.L. remarked.
Mike laughed. “Feels more like a month. And it’s not over yet.”
A nurse came over. “Excuse me, gentlemen. You’ll have to leave now. Mr. Whitney needs to rest.”
“And you think we’re more of a distraction than all this?” E.L. gestured toward the doorway.
“C’mon, E.L.,” Mike said. “You can fill me in on the rest of the story.”
“Hope you’ve got a while.” E.L. glanced at the monitor, which was back in business, the numbers on the screen reassuring. “I’ll see you later, partner. Looks like the adrenaline’s finally wearing off, huh?”
Lionel nodded, closing his eyes. “Thanks to you two.”
****
“So what did Lionel’s parents say to you?” Mike asked a few days later, as he and E.L. made the all-too-familiar trip down the hospital hallway.
“Not much.” He’d known he wouldn’t be able to avoid them forever, and they’d finally run into each other outside Lionel’s room one night. “Believe it or not, they actually thanked me for filling out all the paperwork, and for stopping Simms.”
“Sounds like they’re warming up to you,” Mike teased him.
“I guess it’s like having in-laws,” E.L. said. “Eventually, you realize you’re gonna be stuck with each other, like it or not.”
Mike laughed. He knocked, then went into Lionel’s room. “Hey, lunchtime, huh?”
They already knew the schedule, of course, and had timed their visit accordingly. It was Mike’s day off, and they had not one, but two surprises planned.
“Hi.” Lionel was doing a lot better now; able to get out of bed and eat regular meals. But he didn’t look too impressed with whatever was on his tray.
“What is that?” E.L. peered at his plate, then glanced at Mike, who smiled, hiding the white paper bag behind his back. E.L. hoped the aroma of onions wouldn’t give them away.
“Uh, something with chicken, I think.” Lionel poked at it with his fork. “If you guys want anything, help yourselves.”
“No, thanks, man. I’m full,” E.L. said, trying to keep a straight face. “We just had some burgers from Rondo’s.”
Rondo’s World Famous Burgers and Pastrami, a local legend. Their entire menu was incredible.
“Oh.” A fleeting look of envy crossed Lionel’s face. “I thought I smelled something good.”
E.L. looked down at his shirt. “Must be the sauce. It’s too bad you couldn’t go with us.”
“Yes, well.” Lionel pushed his tray aside. “The doctor said I’ll be going home soon. Then I can have real food again.”
“Hey, yeah, we heard,” E.L. said. “We should celebrate, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.” Mike waited for E.L. to move the plate, then set the bag down on the tray.
Lionel stared at it. “Is that . . . ?”
“Surprise!” E.L. and Mike chorused.
Lionel opened the bag and inhaled. “You guys . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Careful.” Mike grinned. “Don’t get all sappy on us.”
“Had you going there for a minute, didn’t I?” E.L. said, pleased with his performance.
“You were brutal,” Lionel agreed, taking a big bite of his burger, then sipping his chocolate shake.
“Only thing better would’ve been if I’d walked in here with my burger. But since you’ve got that black belt in karate, I decided I’d better not.”
Lionel nodded, his mouth full.
“Oh, I brought you something else, too.” E.L. set the latest Mark Savage novel, bookmark still in place, on the bedside table. “Figured you must be having withdrawl symptoms by now. It's been a little weird, not seeing one in your hands for a while."
Lionel didn’t say anything, just kept eating.
“But now I think I get why you didn’t want to finish it,” E.L. told him. “It’s because Savage gets shot, right?”
Lionel looked surprised. “How’d you know?”
“I read the jacket flap. While I was waiting in line to get the book signed.”
“What? You went to the bookstore event? Why didn’t you tell me?” Lionel wiped his hands with a napkin, then picked up the book and flipped past a few pages to read the inscription.
“That’s surprise number two,” Mike explained. “We both went. I really liked that Savage novel you loaned me, remember? And E.L. . . well, he just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
“So you both met the author?” There was no mistaking the jealousy in Lionel’s tone. “What was he like? Was there a big crowd there?”
“Yeah,” E.L. said. “I was surprised.”
“He gave a good talk,” Mike added. “Answered a lot of questions.”
“And did he say if—there was a rumor that he might—that Savage might not . . .” Lionel could hardly get the words out.
There was a knock at the door. Mike went to open it.
“Well, we could tell you,” E.L. said, “but I know you’d rather hear it from the source.”
A very familiar-looking man with a mustache and goatee walked into the room. Lionel’s jaw dropped.
“That’s . . . that’s him,” he said, shocked. “That’s Stephen J. Cannell.”
“Yeah, I know. Seems like a nice guy.” E.L. smiled. “I told him his number one fan was in the hospital, and he said he’d like to meet you.”
“Hello, Mr. Whitney.” The author shook his hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Uh . . . much better now. But please, Mr. Cannell, call me Lionel.”
“Okay. And you can call me Steve.” He sat in the chair beside the bed. “Your friends tell me you’re a big fan of my work.”
“Oh, well, that’s an understatement,” Lionel gushed.
“Here we go,” E.L. mumbled to Mike.
“The Mark Savage books are what made me want to become a private detective. I’ve learned so much from them. Your writing has . . . it’s literally transformed my life.”
“Wow, thank you, Lionel. That’s very flattering. I’m sorry you weren’t able to make it to my book event the other night.”
"So was I.” He didn’t look quite so disappointed anymore, though, E.L. noticed.
“But from what I hear, you’re lucky to be alive,” Steve continued. “I’ll bet you could tell me some stories.”
“Like the one about the monitor alarm,” Mike suggested. “Maybe Steve could use that in one of his books.”
“You never know,” the author agreed. “Sometimes reality is more amazing than fiction.”
Lionel nodded. “Mr. Can—Steve, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
“What’s that?”
“About the rumor . . . you know, the one about Savage?”
“Have you had a chance to finish the book?” the author asked.
“Uh, not yet,” Lionel said. “But I'm going to.”
E.L. looked at Mike, and they smiled.
“You sure you want me to spoil it, then?”
He nodded, leaning forward in anticipation.
“Well, let’s just say—I’m not too worried about losing you as a fan.”
Lionel’s eyes widened. “You mean, you’re not going to . . . ?”
Steve smiled. “I’d have to be nuts to kill off my hero, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Lionel agreed, relieved. “Yes, you would.”
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