Page 37 of Chasing Creed

“FBI.”

“Oh.” Except the word came out more like “Ooohf,” interrupted and snuffed off at the end.

“You might want to call your director,” Maggie instructed her. She slipped the badge back into her pocket and folded her arms over her chest as if she had all afternoon to wait.

“Today’s her day off.” The woman’s eyes darted to a door behind Maggie. “She doesn’t like us calling on her days off.”

“No problem. I just need to ask Mrs. Dunn a few questions.”

“Oh well, that’s not possible. You must not be aware. She’s really not coherent enough, you know, to even understand. If you come back tomorrow, you could probably talk to the director.” She fumbled at the reception desk and opened what looked like an appointment book.

“Just tell me what room she’s in, and I’ll take my chances.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“What did you say your name was?”

She looked up from the book, eyes wide again. Piercings twitching. “It’s Stephi. With an ‘i’.” She said it automatically, a reflex even when spelling wasn’t required.

“Stephi? As in Stephanie?”

“No, just Stephi.”

“And your last name?”

“Why do you need my last name?” The panic made her voice an octave higher.

“Stephi, do you know what the penalty is for impeding an FBI agent’s request? You really don’t want to be in trouble with the FBI, do you?”

No matter what Pakula pretended, Maggie wasn’t good at playing the good cop. She wasn’t even good at playing by the rules. And social charms? She usually failed at basic manners.

Clearly, no one else was around at this time of day. All Maggie wanted to do was talk to the old woman. See her. Watch her responses or her non-responses.

When Stephi didn’t answer, Maggie pushed, “What room is Mrs. Dunn in?”

“There’s no one available right now to take you back.”

“That’s okay. I can find it on my own. Down that hallway?” Maggie pointed and started across the lobby.

“You can’t go back there without someone with you.”

Maggie slowed as if waiting for her. “Would you like to come along?”

A phone began to ring, and the woman looked torn.

“Stephi, I just need the room number.”

A long pause while she looked at the phone and back at Maggie. Finally, she threw up her hands and went to answer the phone. Over her shoulder, she said, “It’s Room 23.”

Most of the doors were closed. It was so quiet Maggie found herself practically tiptoeing. Quickly, she discovered odd numbers were on the left side. The last two doors were open. One gaping. The other, only by inches. Still, she could see inside Room 23, and she stopped herself.

A nurse or attendant stood by a counter, her back to Maggie, so she couldn’t see what she was doing. But Maggie had a clear view of the small, elderly woman lying in the bed. Her thick gray hair was smoothed down with an unrelenting colic sticking up on the left side. She stared up at the television.

As Maggie raised her hand to knock, the old woman did too. Maggie stopped, fist inches from the door. She watched the woman sweep her index finger into her mouth. In one swift motion she pulled something out and tucked her hand beneath the covers.

Maggie stepped back. Out of sight. Did she just see the woman take pills out of her mouth and hide them? She checked her watch. Glanced down the hallway. Waited at least thirty seconds. Then she knocked on the door while opening it.

“Hello, Eleanor,” she addressed the woman in the bed as though they were longtime friends, while only nodding at the attendant.