Page 71 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

“Ms. Marino,” the taller one says. “Could we have a minute?”

14

ELISA

“Ms. Marino, could we have a minute?”

The badges catch the fluorescent light and look brighter than they need to.

The charge nurse tips her chin toward the consult alcove.

I lead the agents there because it's public enough to be safe and close enough to triage that I can leave if a patient needs me.

The tall one keeps his hands visible.

The shorter one watches the room.

“We’re looking into organized crime activity that may be putting civilians at risk,” the tall one says.

Every word is polished before it leaves his mouth. “Two quick questions, off the record.”

“I’m on shift,” I say. “Hospital counsel handles inquiries. If you have paperwork, the front desk will route it.”

He slides a printout across the counter.

Night.

Grain.

A figure near the bakery’s service door, collar up, head turned.

The streetlamp flares and turns the face into white noise.

It could be Nico.

It could be anyone who knows how to keep a profile low in winter.

“Do you know this man?” the shorter one asks.

His voice is friendly.

His eyes are not.

I pick up the photo and tilt it as if an answer might fall out of the pixels.

“That corner catches half my neighborhood,” I say. “Delivery drivers who cut the alley. Cops who stop for coffee. My uncle’s friends talking baseball. I can’t help you with a blur.”

“We have reason to believe you’ve seen him recently,” the tall one says. “We’re asking for your safety.”

“My safety at work goes through administration,” I say. “My patients’ safety is covered by policy and law. HIPAA isn’t flexible.”

“We’re not asking about patients,” the shorter one says. “We’re asking about you.”

“Then I still need counsel in the room,” I answer. “You can schedule through the hospital.”

He produces a card with a raised seal and a direct line.

I slide it into my pocket, wash my hands because I always do after contact that isn’t care, and step back into the noise.