Private Dublin

Chapter 4

Dr. Gurdasani ushered me out of Justine’s room after a few minutes. I’d wasted our time together by protesting about her request, telling her I needed to stay by her side and be with her throughout her recovery. Justine had smiled faintly, which I’d found encouraging because it took strength to express gentle derision. She’d told me she didn’t want me lurking around, that being cooped up in hospital with her would drive me crazy. She was angry at the man who’d put her in that bed and wanted justice if not revenge.

I knew when I was beaten and followed the doctor out with a last “I love you” spoken over my shoulder to Justine. She looked so vulnerable lying there, relying on machines to keep her alive, and I felt the heat of anger flush through me. She was right: the man who’d done this must answer for his crimes. I needed to find him — not just for her, but for the people he’d killed and the others he’d wounded.

I sent messages to Mo-bot and Sci, letting them know what Justine had said, and asking them to come to the hospital to keep vigil with her in my absence. They were more than colleagues to us both, they were good friends, if not our surrogate family.

Twenty-five minutes later, I met Mo-bot in the corridor outside of Justine’s room.

“How is she?” Mo-bot asked.

“The doctor says she’s going to recover, but she looks so weak,” I replied.

“She’s not weak though,” Mo-bot said sternly. “We know that. You want to wrap her up in cotton wool and protect her, but she’s not a doll. She’s a strong woman and she’s resilient. If she’s asked you to find this guy, it’s because she doesn’t want you moping around feeling sorry for her. She wants you to do what you do best.”

I nodded slowly. “Moping around?” I asked with a faint smile.

“Moping,” Mo-bot replied with a nod. “Or pining. Take your pick. Either way, you won’t be helping her. You’ll just be sitting out here, desperate to be useful, and I can stay with her while being useful.” She patted the laptop bag slung over her shoulder. “Go do what she asked. Find this guy. I’ve arranged for Sci to come visit this afternoon. We’ll make sure there’s always someone here in case she needs anything.”

I hesitated, and Mo-bot looked at me severely. Being the company mom wasn’t all hugs and reassurance. Sometimes she used that persona to be stern and intimidating.

“Okay,” I responded. “Call me if there’s any news or you need anything.”

“Of course,” she said. “Now get.”

I gave a last lingering look at the door to Justine’s room before I said, “I’ll call you later.”

Mo-bot nodded, took a seat in an armchair, and watched me leave.

I made my way through the hospital and stepped out into bright June sunshine, feeling a little disorientated and bewildered. A couple of passersby eyed me quizzically and I realized I must look a sight, still dressed in a tuxedo, my black bowtie hanging loose around my unbuttoned collar.

It took me a moment to compose my thoughts, but I quickly figured out where I needed to go. A short cab ride later, I was back on Wilshire Boulevard near the Academy. A police cordon had been established around the building, and the street was peppered with news crews recording pieces or milling around, waiting for updates. It was a little after 10:30 a.m., and tourists and local gawkers were gathered near the perimeter line, taking photos of the crime scene and avoiding the cops instructing spectators to move on.

I could see crime-scene investigators in white coveralls working the lobby, meticulously photographing and cataloging evidence from the scene of the shootings.

I took out my cell and called Mo-bot.

“That was quick,” she said when she answered.

“I need to know who runs security at the Academy,” I replied.

“Not wasting any time,” she remarked. I heard her tapping her keyboard. “Jenny Powell. Ex-FBI.”

“Thanks,” I said, before hanging up.

I walked over to the cordon and approached a young officer with a friendly demeanor, who sized me up and took in my tux.

“A little late for the screening,” she said.

“I was here last night,” I replied, and her playful smile fell.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I have an appointment with Jenny Powell,” I lied. “Jack Morgan. I run Private, the detective agency.”

“Just a moment, sir,” she said, stepping away to confer with someone on her radio. A minute later, she returned. “You can go through, Mr. Morgan.” She indicated a gap in the cordon. “Use the staff entrance on the side of the building.”

“Thanks.”

I passed between two bollards that broke the police tape line.

The area around the Academy felt like a battlefield the day after a gunfight: subdued, quiet, touched by horror. Los Angeles bustled in the background, but here in this small corner of the city, people were coping with the aftermath of a traumatic event.

Inside was no different, and when I went through the staff entrance, I found a woman with short blonde hair waiting for me in the lobby. She wore a long black evening gown but no makeup. Her exhaustion was plain to see. Shadowed, red-rimmed eyes stood out against her pale face.

“Mr. Morgan,” she said. “I’m Jenny Powell. I see you’ve also been up all night.”

“I’ve been at the hospital. My girlfriend was injured in the attack,” I replied.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I recognized your name from the guest list, and I know Private by reputation. How can I help?”

“Well, I’m here to offer you my help actually,” I replied. “I have a personal interest in finding the man who did this.”

She hesitated before saying, “I can understand that. I can’t do anything that might interfere with the police investigation.” I was about to protest, when she added, “But I’d be happy to introduce you to the detective in charge, and if he okays it, then we’ll see what we can do. Follow me.”