Page 18 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

Everything happened in broken instants: the paramedics, the ambulance ride to Klikamuks General Hospital, Bobby on a gurney disappearing behind closed doors.

And then time locked down again, and it went on forever.

I’d been in the hospital before: the clean Scandi-style design, the pale wood and the chrome accents and the windows that let in the bright February day. But I’d never been here like this —helpless, and useless, and feeling like something feral was working its claws in my guts.

Was I Bobby’s emergency contact? Probably not, but I had no idea.

I didn’t have phone numbers for his dad or his brother.

I thought about texting Keme and Millie, but then I didn’t; Keme was already freaked out to the max by what was happening with Indira.

I didn’t want to add to that. Fox wasn’t an option either; they were at the sheriff’s station right now, doing their best to help Indira.

This childlike part of me wanted to call my parents, but that would have been worse than doing nothing—I had a powerful vision of having to discuss every potential poison that might have been used, with pros and cons.

Actually.

My mom answered on the second ring. “Did you hear back from an agent? Don’t give them more than fifteen percent.”

“Mom, I need your help.” It took me a moment to be able to say it again. “I think someone poisoned Bobby.”

Normal parents would have cried out in shock, or asked how I was doing, or heck, asked how Bobby was doing.

My mom said, “Your dad knows some that I don’t; give me a moment.” Sure enough, a moment later, the sound of the call changed, and my mom said, “We’re here on speaker.”

I gave them a brief version of what had happened at the restaurant.

“It might be cyanide,” my dad said. “The rapid breathing.”

“Were his lips unusually red?” my mom asked.

“No,” I said, “and I didn’t smell almonds.”

“What about ricin?” my mom said. “That can affect breathing.”

“Unh-uh,” my dad said. “Not unless he inhaled it, and it takes too long. Are you sure it was the food, son? It seems like a stretch that there would be enough of it still on her lips—”

“Tetrodotoxin,” my mom said. “It has to be. The sweating. And his face was numb.”

It happened all at once, like someone had cut the signal from my body. Because I knew what tetrodotoxin did—I mean, look who my parents were. Of course I knew. And I knew there wasn’t a cure.

“Oh God,” I said. “I’ve got to talk to the doctor.”

“He’s going to be all right, Dash,” my mom said.

“That’s right,” my dad said. “It’s going to be okay.”

I disconnected.

It’s a strange feeling when one of the kindest things your parents have ever done is lie to you.

I found a nurse. And I asked and insisted and demanded until I got a doctor. He was older, with a haircut like George Washington, but he listened. Then he hurried away, his curls flapping against the side of his head.

And then there was nothing to do but wait. Fifteen minutes stretched out into an hour. And then that hour ballooned into two. It was still, somehow, the same day. Mid-afternoon. I stood at one of the windows, the light dazzling, and closed my eyes.

I was shambling past a nurses’ station when it all became overwhelming: the antiseptic smell; the beeping; the cool, impersonal air. I had to get outside. I spun around.

Jethro stood behind me.

He was slouching along the hallway, shoulders down, dark hair hanging in his eyes.

Instead of the white shirt and slacks I’d seen him in the other night, he was wearing a striped pullover and jeans—it was actually pretty cute, and it made him look less like Dracula’s special little guy and more like, well, a normal twentysomething who still needed to find the right skincare product.

When he realized I’d spotted him, he froze.

He’d been following me.

He’d been watching me at Mizzenmast.

“Hey,” I said. “You!” A petite Black nurse looked up from her paperwork. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to—oh no you don’t!”

The last bit slipped out of me as Jethro scurried away down the hall.

I went after him.

He didn’t exactly run. And neither did I. This was a hospital, after all. But he was power-walking fast enough that his rear end was about to catch fire, and I did my best to keep up with him, stage-whispering, “Jethro! Jethro! I see you! Don’t make me call the sheriff!”

Somehow, he managed to make his shoulders slump even further, and he stopped. He slowly turned to face me. He shot his eyebrows and mumbled, “Um, hi, do I know you—”

“Yes, you know me. You’ve been following me since Mizzenmast.”

He swallowed. To his credit, he gave it another try. “You must have me confused with someone else. I’m visiting my friend—”

“Honky-tonk,” I said.

(Er—sort of.)

Jethro blanched. He shook his head, and more of the dark hair fell in his eyes.

“Why are you following me, Jethro?”

“I’m not—”

“Fine. I’m sure the sheriff would love to know about this. You’ll shoot right to the top of her list for killing Mal and Sparkie and poisoning Bobby.”

“No!”

His shout echoed down the hall. A balding patient care tech poked his head out of a room to look at us. I gave him my most charming wave, which for some reason only seemed to make him angrier.

“Then start talking,” I said in a low voice.

Jethro pushed at his dark hair; it fell back to hang over his forehead again, but at least it gave him something to do.

“Okay,” he said. “I was following you. But I didn’t do anything to anyone.

I just want to know what happened to Mal, and everyone says you’re this amazing detective, and I thought if I watched you, you’d eventually figure out who did this, and then I could, you know… help.”

It got a little weak and fumbly there at the end, and I had a hard time not rolling my eyes. “Who told you I was an amazing detective?”

He squirmed. “People, you know?”

“No. I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Uh, Larry?”

That was interesting, but I couldn’t spare time to consider what it meant. “So, why were you at Mizzenmast today?”

“To watch you. You know, like I said, you’re a detective—”

“No, Jethro. How did you know I was at Mizzenmast?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Five seconds passed.

Then ten.

He shut his mouth, and he looked like he was about to cry.

“For God’s sake, did you try to poison me?”

“What? No! I was—I was looking for clues! Because that’s where Mal got shot. And then you showed up, and I thought I could help.”

“Okay, well, that’s obviously a lie.”

Jethro shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at the floor.

“Fine,” I said. “You’re looking into Mal’s death. Do you want to tell me why?”

“He was murdered,” Jethro mumbled.

“Yeah, but that’s a lot of loyalty from somebody Mal treated like dirt.”

Jethro whipped his gaze up. “Mal didn’t treat me like dirt.”

“That’s what everybody told me.”

“He didn’t! He was great.”

“That’s interesting, because people seem to think you weren’t a very good assistant.

And from what I gather, Mal wasn’t a particularly kind person.

So, I find myself wondering why Mal’s not-very-good assistant got special treatment from his hard-nosed boss, and why that same assistant decided to stick around after his boss got murdered. ”

“Nobody told me I could leave.”

“That’s weak. What about this: were you and Mal sleeping together?”

Jethro’s face turned bright red. He stammered a few incoherent noises. And then he finally managed an outraged “No!”

“It makes sense. You’re not great at your job, so Mal must have been keeping you around for some reason. He’s not a particularly nice guy, but he seemed to treat you pretty well. I saw him at Mizzenmast, when he gave you his jacket to cover the stain on your shirt. And I saw him touch you.”

“We weren’t sleeping—we weren’t doing that.”

“I’m gay, Jethro. It doesn’t bother me.”

“We weren’t!” It was the first real sign of backbone from him in the whole conversation.

He barked a laugh. “God, we were not sleeping together. I know everybody hated Mal. I’m not an idiot.

” He ran a hand through his hair and added, “Even if it looks like I am. Mal was really good to me. I don’t know what to tell you.

I know how he could be, but he wasn’t like that with me. ”

It was a strange dead end to the conversation—almost as strange as Jethro’s mixed reactions. Finally, I said, “Where were you when Mal was killed?”

“I went out to the car.”

“Why?”

He seemed to shrink down inside his pullover. “To play on my phone.”

It took me a second to say, “What?”

“I needed a few minutes. Restaurants are always so busy; it’s too much. I can’t think, and there are so many people moving around, and then I do something stupid like spill something or bump into someone, and—sometimes it’s better if I’m not there.”

I don’t like to judge (okay, who am I kidding—I love to judge), but it was probably the worst alibi in the history of alibis.

“I’m sorry, just to be clear,” I said, “you were in your car, alone, playing on your phone, when your boss got killed? That’s your story?”

Tears welled in his eyes. “Why are you being like this? I thought you were supposed to find whoever hurt him.”

“Someone didn’t hurt Mal, Jethro. Someone killed him.” I didn’t say the next part out loud, but I couldn’t help thinking that whoever had killed Mal had done it in such a brazen fashion that it suggested either pathological self-confidence or desperation. “Who do you think did it?”

Jethro was wiping his cheeks. “Huh?”

“You were around Mal a lot. You were his assistant; you knew what was going on in his personal life and in his professional life, right? Did he have any legal troubles? Debts? Had he gotten into a fight with anyone recently? Did he ever tell you he was worried about his safety? Did anything major change in his life recently?” I was rattling off the questions, so when the change came to Jethro’s expression, I wasn’t sure which one had triggered it.

“What?” I asked. “What are you thinking?”