Free Bleeding Out by Baxter Clare Page A

She wasn’t sure where the husband worked, but he was home a lot. Jennifer called him the grease monkey and didn’t care much for him.
    Noah thanked the woman, then flagged Frank back to the car. At Brotman, a meticulously dressed man in personnel confirmed there was a Delia Wyche, R.N., on staff. Frank asked him to page Wyche’s supervisor, and he balked that it wasn’t his job. Noah grinned as Frank leaned within inches of the fey young man and asked, “Have you ever had a nine-millimeter revolver shoved up your ass?”
    Maybe because he saw Noah grinning, maybe because he was suicidal, maybe because he was more ballsy than smart, he swallowed hard and retorted, “No, but I think I’d like it.”
    That was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Before the clerk could even flinch Frank had his perfect Windsor knot clenched in her bad hand and twisted tight under his Adam’s apple. Noah’s smile had faded, and suddenly the clerk didn’t feel so brave.
    He tried to squeak “police brutality,” but Frank tightened her grip, her blazing eyes still only inches from his. Blood started oozing through her bandage.
    “Okay, funny boy. Are you going to call Mrs. Wyche’s supervisor or do I charge you with refusing to cooperate with a peace officer and obstructing justice?”
    He weakly shook his head.
    “You going to help me?”
    He nodded.
    “Good boy.”
    Frank let go and the man wheeled his chair farther from Frank’s grasp. Noah pulled a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it into the clerk’s lap.
    “That’s for later. After you call Mrs. Wyche’s supervisor you can call LAPD and register a formal complaint about her. But you’ll have to be patient. There’s a lot of people in line ahead of you.”
    Frank turned her back and glanced at the fresh blood on her gauzed hand. Noah’s gaze followed, and he asked what she’d done.
    “Cut it,” she said flatly and stepped out into the hallway. When Noah followed, he said softly, “You shouldn’t have roughed him up like that.”
    Frank’s head jerked toward Noah. Her eyes were bottomless blue chasms that a man could fall into and never be heard from again.
    “Don’t even start with me.”
    He flashed his palms in a peaceful gesture.
    “Alright. I’m just saying if something’s bugging you—”
    “Nothing’s bugging me.”
    “Alright. Okay.”
    Frank had unconsciously turned to face her partner in a fighter’s stance, and Noah bowed his head, backing off. The LAPD’s reputation for unnecessary aggression was well-founded, but Frank’s presence was usually intimidating enough to get what she wanted out of a wit or a suspect. She rarely engaged someone physically, especially just a cluck-headed desk boy, and she was embarrassed that she’d lost her temper.
    The nurse supervisor arrived, and Noah explained without detail about Delia Wyche’s daughter. The supervisor went back down the hall to retrieve her employee as Frank asked the clerk for Mrs. Wyche’s next of kin. She was promptly, silently handed a slip of paper with a name and number on it. The clerk eyed Frank warily, making sure he was well away from her reach. It occurred to her to apologize to the little bastard, but she didn’t.
    Frank glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering where the hell Wyche was. Noah’d been done with his shift hours ago. Frank felt a flicker of remorse for her behavior, but that reminded her of the dream and she quickly focused on the square yellow paper in her hand. She joined Noah, who was still waiting in the hallway. He was leaning against the wall, chewing on a nail. His suit was wrinkled and a tad short at the ankles and wrists.
    “Anybody have a game today?”
    “Naw. Just practice.”
    “You should call Tracey.”
    “She won’t be home ‘til later. I’ll call after we do Wyche.”
    “You don’t have to go the morgue. I’ll take care of it.”
    Noah absently flapped one of his boney hands.
    “It ain’t no thing. Besides,” he tried to joke,