“No. He’s out in Palm Springs—with one of his associates.”
Terry was Ridge’s investigator. Although he worked mainly for Ridge, he ran his own shop with two junior investigators.
“Then can you pick me up at Redondo Memorial Hospital? I’m getting released around 2 p.m.”
“Hospital? Why are you in the hospital?”
“I’ll tell you when you pick me up.” Ridge didn’t want to explain about the Hulk and the Harbor Patrol rescue just yet. Instead, all he said was, “Someone wants us to drop one of our cases and tried to use a little physical persuasion to get his point across. I ended up with two black eyes.”
“Gonna do it?”
“What?”
“Drop the case.”
“Of course not. We’ve always stood for equal access. Blind justice. For everyone. Every time.”
“Just checking. Now, about your eyes, that’s why God made sunglasses and next time, try ducking.”
Ridge grimaced, then smiled. “I’ll remember that. But can ya pick me?”
“Sure.”
“And please, don’t forget my shades. Upper left drawer of my desk.”
“You know how people say you look like a younger version of that actor, Tom Selleck? But without the mustache. Now, I guess, it’ll be Lone Ranger, without the mask.”
“Funny ha ha, Kate. Sunglasses please.”
“Roger that, mon capitaine.”
As Ridge hung up, his surgeon entered the room with another doctor in tow. “Mr. Ridge meet our staff psychiatrist. Because of your head trauma he wants to run a standard head-injury protocol.”
“Good morning.” Ridge stuck his hand out for a shake and instead was handed a pen and a clipboard.
“I’m sure you’d like to get out of here as soon as possible, so if you’re ready, let’s begin. Just follow the instructions at the top of each page. I’ll return in about an hour.” The pysch turned and bolted out the door. Ridge loved his bedside manner. Abrupt, but pointed. He pulled over the bedside table, rearranged his pillows, and went to work filling out forms, answering questions, checking boxes, and responding as quickly as possible to essay questions. Then, the ink blots. Right side up. Upside down. Sideways. Ridge described what he saw as efficiently as he could. He was wrapping up when the shrink barreled back into his room.
“Ready, Doc, but got to tell you—most of the ink blots looked like spiders or blood blotches. Do that on purpose?”
“No, Mr. Ridge. Just luck of the draw. Actually, eye of the beholder. A blood blotch to one can be a soda spill to another or a sparkling sun. Look, you seem fine, but the protocol requires an interview based on your written responses. I’m jammed today. Rather than make you wait to get out of here, I’d like to refer you to a colleague outside the hospital. You can call her later and make an appointment anytime over the next two weeks. She’ll be expecting you.”
Seeing an escape route, Ridge said, “Roger that, Doc. Will do.”
After the psych left, Ridge studied the black and white business card he had given him: Marilyn Peters, M.D., Ph.D., Associate Professor UCLA, 2020 20th Street, Suite 600, Santa Monica. Nice name, thought Ridge, and a whole bunch of letters behind it. But just the same…not looking forward to this. Not at all.
Ridge rolled out of bed like a soldier on his last day in a combat zone. Cautious but raring to go. He slipped off the pillowcase gown, got on his clothes, and put the card in his wallet. Finished with paper hospital slippers, he swapped them for the leather sandals Patty had retrieved from the boat for him, along with his phone, and sat in the chair by his bed, checking text messages and waiting for Kate. Getting antsier by the minute, he almost jumped when his phone rang.
“Eric, good news,” Patty said. “But first, how are you?”
“You found the bastard who did this?”
“Not that good. We’re checking with everyone on the docks, the marina office, the parking lots. Nothing yet. So far, your Mr. Hulk came and went like a ghost. But seriously, how do you feel?”
“Nothing broken. You were right about the twelve stitches. But tell me the good news. I could use some.”
“A question first. Did you have a dinghy on board?”
Ridge raised his eyebrows into a stiff forehead. “Yeah, a four-person inflatable Zodiac, about seven feet long.”
“Tell me more.”
“We keep it at the back of the boat on the swim step—the transom. On its side, nearly vertical, using a davit system—two metal latches and two metal rods. Has a wooden bench. Wooden roll-up floor. We use it to get to shore when anchored off Catalina Island. Has a green canvas cover. Go look at it if you want.”
“No can do. Gone. Only the metal latches remain, and the rods—dangling from the rear wall of the boat.”
“Burned up?”
“Yeah. Did you keep a gas container on board for the Zodiac’s engine?”
“Yeah. A red plastic one tied down with nylon ropes. On the swim step. But we used most of the gas on our last trip.”
“Well, the container’s gone too.”
Ridge stared at the phone. “Shit.”
“Right. Mr. Hulk set the Zodiac and gas container on fire.”
Ridge shut his eyes. “Don’t tell me. With the candle from the deck table.”
