Page 70 of Concerted Chaos

twenty-two

Littleknownfact:Many hospitals have fancy luxury suites for the wealthy. Some of them, including a certain well-known Los Angeles facility, have clandestine tunnels by which celebrities can enter. That’s where the ambulance takes us, to the hidden private entrance, where a team of medical professionals is gathered in wait.

Powell is whisked away quickly. As they’re wheeling him off, a police car pulls into the secret garage and Mike leaps out before it comes to a complete stop. He chases after Powell’s stretcher.

I’m left behind with the paramedics and one nurse. Way to treat me like a second-class citizen.

“Are you ...” the nurse asks hesitantly.

I don’t want to sound like a spoiled brat, but I’ve just been beaten rather badly, I can’t see out of one eye, my entire body aches, my brother might be dying, and I want to be cared for and coddled and injected with a lot of pain killers.

“I’m Powell Corbitt’s sister, and I expect the same degree of treatment he receives. I’ll be paying with my black card.”

Those are the magic words. I’m in an exam room immediately, surrounded by experts. I also get bumped to the front of the line for the CT machine. I’d feel bad about cutting, but I know that if one of the patients ahead of me was dying, the hospital wouldn’t squeeze me in. Money buys convenience, but not at the cost of lives.

Even with my priority rush treatment, it still takes a couple of hours before I am brought from the radiology department to my luxury suite. The suite is already occupied by Agents Benítez and Johnson. I knew they were supposed to fly out here this morning to help wrap up the case, but I didn’t expect to encounter them in the hospital. Can’t they give me a break?

“Cassidy?” Agent Johnson eyes me cautiously. “Is that really you?” I know I look bad, but I didn’t realize I was unrecognizable.

“It’s me.” My voice is quiet because the swelling prevents me from opening my mouth very far. The entire left half of my face is swollen. It’s not painful though, thanks to the morphine.

Benítez pulls a chair next to my bedside. She’s positioned herself on my right, by my functioning eye, so I can see her. “We watched the security footage.”

“From the condo?” Our cameras are state of the art. They have sound, a fact that Powell sometimes exploits by songwriting loudly in the living room.

“Yes. Cassidy, you were brave. You saved your brother’s life.”

“He saved mine.” It’s hard to talk. All I want to do is to check on Powell, and go to sleep. In that order. And preferably in the next thirty seconds.

“Whitney confessed to everything. She gave her brother access to your computer system and he got into all your accounts and moved the money around. He built the bombs and paid the mechanic to place the one on the helicopter. Silas personally attached the bomb to the car.”

“The mechanic?” I ask. I vaguely remember something about him being killed. “Did Silas murder him?”

“We haven’t proven it yet, but there was DNA taken at the scene. I’m confident it’s going to come back a match.”

Agent Johnson peers over her partner’s shoulder, with an expression that suggests she’s trying to be reassuring but is actually horrified to look at me. “Don’t worry, Cassidy. We heard everything they said. You aren’t going to be charged with anything. Neither is Powell. It was all clearly self-defense.”

“Okay.” It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be in trouble, or that this could be anything other than a straightforward case of self-defense. They entered the condo under false pretenses, attacked me, and tried to kill both me and my brother. Even in California, we’re allowed to defend ourselves.

“Enough.” My personal nurse cuts Johnson off when she starts to speak again. “Everybody out. My patient needs to rest now.” That’s another perk of the luxury suite: private medical staff dedicated exclusively to my well-being.

“Wait,” I try to grab at Benítez’s sleeve, but miss. There’s one more urgent concern that needs to be addressed. “Tanner?”

“The photographer? He’s still being questioned, but it looks like he might not have been an accomplice. He’ll be out soon. We think...”

“I said that’s enough,” my nurse has a sharp voice that commands obedience. “Get out, now.” This is her domain. She outranks the FBI within these walls, and they obey without question. Honestly, the nurse is so intimidating I’m surprised the agents don’t salute or bow to her as they hurry out of the room.

“Thank you,” I whisper when she closes the door firmly behind them.

“No more talking, sweetheart. Your body needs rest.” She uses a kinder, more sympathetic tone with me. “Your brother is going to be fine. He’s right next door, and he’s asleep. We’ve dosed him heavily with antihistamines, and he’s breathing on his own again. You can visit him tomorrow.”

That was all I needed to know. Concern about Powell was the last thing keeping me awake. Now I can relax and let the morphine carry me away.

When I wake up the next morning, a very skilled—and expensive—plastic surgeon is brought in for a consultation. He examined the x-rays and scans of my shattered cheekbone in advance and he optimistically promises to make me look “just as beautiful as before.” It’s just going to require some tiny incisions and a titanium plate. My surgery is already scheduled, and they want to start prepping me.

But I’m a cranky and demanding patient. Before I’m willing to go under the knife, I insist on visiting my brother. My nurse has assured me he’s alive, but I’d like to see that with my own two eyes. Well, one eye, right now.

“You look terrible, Deedee,” Powell says when they wheel me into his room. So does he. He’s reclining in his bed, hooked up to several IVs. There’s a monitor for his heart and breathing. His face is discolored, probably from the swelling yesterday.

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