Night Shift (Book 1, the Night Shift series)

Chapter Forty-five

Their cab was stuck in traffic. The ride from the hotel to the hospital should have only taken fifteen minutes, but already Daniel's watch told him they were over half an hour late. Alice sighed heavily and crossed her legs. She drummed her fingers on the top of her carry-on bag, still upset.

"Just say it." He smirked.

"Say what?" She adjusted the brightly patterned silk scarf around her neck. "That you aren't old enough to be on your own, and next time instead of finding you in a hospital, I'll find you in a morgue. Is that what you think I should say?"

The cab driver sneaked a glance in the rearview mirror.

"You won't find me in the morgue," Daniel said. "Besides, I'll only have a cast for four weeks. I've had worse playing hockey."

"Hockey," she huffed. "You should be coming back with me. I can get you a job at the firm for a while." Alice paused and softened her voice, "I think that maybe it was too soon for you to go out on your own."

"Do I need your permission to stay here?"

"No, kid, you don't. But—"

"But," he interrupted, "it really means a lot knowing you're still going to be there, whenever I need you."

Alice looked defeated. "All right, I get it," she said. "You're all grown up."

"There are advantages," he said, flashing her one of his dimples, "to my staying in one place for a change."

"True," she said, looking out of the window now that the traffic had started again. "I don't have to hold my breath listening to the news when there's a plane crash or bus accident."

He knew he was winning this argument and it was exhilarating. "And I'm less than a three-hour plane trip away."

"Yes, that too."

"And you'll always know where I am."

"Hmm," she turned and studied him, "by the way, do you plan on living in the hotel?"

He lifted a shoulder, concentrating on stopping the blush. "There are some friends at the store I can crash with a few nights of the week."

Alice opened her mouth to protest.

"And I've already started looking for places," he added, quickly. The cab stopped in front of the hospital. Daniel gave her a one-armed hug as she patted his cheek roughly. "Thanks for coming down and taking care of me," he said.

"Don't be stupid, kid. A couple of days in a five-star hotel to give you pain medication was the least I could do." She made an obvious motion toward his sling. "I guess there's nothing else I can say to make you change your mind about coming home?"

He smiled. "I think I'm ready to make my own home."

"So independent," she clucked. "And you're sure about going back to that job? Do the doctors say it's all right?"

"We've already talked about this."

"I know...I know." She put up a hand.

Daniel leaned forward. "She's continuing on to JFK," he told the driver.

"Say hello to your boss for me," Alice said, giving him one last hug. He opened the door and stepped out of the cab. "And call in a few days," she ordered. "No more texts. I want to hear your voice to make sure you're not overdoing it at work."

After checking at the front desk, and getting added attention from two giggling nurses, Daniel found the right room. He hesitated at the doorway, wondering what sight would meet him. The last time he saw Mr. Oliver, he looked like a corpse.

"Step aside," a voice called from behind. "Lunch is coming, and I don't want to share my green Jello." Mr. Oliver was wearing a blue housecoat, and being pushed in a wheelchair. A young woman in casual slacks and a white top brought him into the room.

"All right now, Albert," she said, one hand under his arm. "Like we practiced all morning." Mr. Oliver stood and pivoted into the bed. Soon his legs were up on a set of pillows. "Same time tomorrow?" She grinned.

"You're the boss," he replied.

Daniel waited until she left the room. "So," he began. "How's the heart?" It seemed the most obvious and least tricky question to start with. Mr. Oliver no longer resembled the gray, raspy version he still had nightmares about. In fact, he looked more rested than Daniel had ever seen him.

"Two new stents," Mr. Oliver said, pointing to his chest, "and I'm as good as an eighteen-year-old. I should send Mr. Travis a thank you card. The surgeon said I was close to dropping on the spot if they hadn't intervened. Instead of having physical therapy with a pretty girl, I might be sitting in my apartment, stiff as a frozen trout, undiscovered for weeks until someone breaks down the door because of the smell."

"Nice."

He studied Daniel's face. "My flashlight did that?"

Daniel smoothed out the bandage above his right eye. "I'll have a thin scar."

On the window sill, a large bouquet of flowers was still in its plastic wrap. "They're from Mr. Hadley," Mr. Oliver said. He reached across and pulled a newspaper off the bedside table. "Have you been reading about Willard's biggest fan?" he asked, motioning to a mug shot of Mr. Travis.

Daniel's eyes flicked away from the image, a face he never wanted to see again.

"From the looks of the news footage," Mr. Oliver said, "you really did a number on him." Daniel stayed quiet, knowing it was Oscar who delivered the massive blows. "I guess he fooled everyone."

"Not everyone," he said. "You knew what he was."

Mr. Oliver squinted at the article. "Randolph Andrew Travis," he read. "Nice initials. Never trust anyone with three first names."

"Thanks, I'll remember that." Daniel tapped the end of the bed frame. He'd planned to apologize right away, but the conversation was taking another route.

"I visited you right after they set your arm. Your lawyer was at your bedside." He almost smiled. "She worries about you, being all alone in this big city."

Daniel looked uncertain. "How could you visit me? You had a heart attack!"

"I told you, I'm as good as a teenager now," he corrected. "Besides, the wheelchair does all the work."

"I don't remember you coming."

"Of course not," he said. "You were all drugged up. And I have to say, our conversations are much more interesting when you're asleep." Mr. Oliver returned his attention to the paper, trying to locate the crossword.

Daniel dropped his gaze and gripped the bed frame. "You know about them," he said, "don't you?"

There was a crinkle of newspaper. The air in the tiny room grew thicker. "Willard's has many secrets," Mr. Oliver said. "I have a few of my own. And maybe...even you. Do you know the best way to keep a secret, Daniel?"

"No," he said, staring at his white knuckles.

"Tell no one."

A whistling attendant whisked into the room and dropped off a lunch tray. It was like an intangible time limit had expired on his question. Mr. Oliver was keeping all his secrets—for now.

Mr. Oliver lifted the tray cover, and grimaced. "Not exactly The Matinee Room's culinary fare," he said, looking at his lumpy stew.

"At least there's Jello."

Mr. Oliver dropped a tea bag into the cup of hot water and dunked it a few times with his spoon. "Think you can keep things in order as Night Supervisor, until I return?"

"Supervisor?"

"You'll need to interview someone for night shift," he said. "The day guards keep calling in sick. Idiots," he grunted.

"I plan on returning tomorrow night," Daniel replied. "I'll go in early for the interview."

Mr. Oliver raised his chin, and they stared at one another. "Can I count on you?"

Without a doubt, Daniel thought.