The Blonde

4:52 a.m.

Pennsylvania Hospital

The security guard was giving him shit. Actually giving him m shit. “This card says I’m a member of the Department of Defense,” the Operator said. “I know you probably had limited educational opportunities. You were probably dealing in high school, am I right or am I right? But even you have to know, somewhere in your feeble-ass mind, that the words De-part-ment of De-fense means something important, right? And that with one fucking phone call, I could have you sitting in a welfare office by the end of the day? Now open up these fucking doors and give me access to a hospital computer or I’m going to make sure you receive extended lessons on how the government really works.”

Yeah, he was laying it on thick. All the heavy-lidded, jaundiced-looking guy asked was, “What kind of ID is that?” Probably out of curiosity more than anything else.

The guard opened the doors, and the Operator gave him another once-over, thought about taking the poor guy’s ID badge, snapping it right off his leather guard belt and everything, but he had shit to do.

Down the off-white corridor, which needed a paint job, stat. Around the welcome desk kiosk. Moved the mouse, got the patient-search program up.

Probably looking for Jane Does, right? Unless she was using that stupid Kelly White alias up until the end.

Ah, she was. Nice, Vanessa. Real nice.

Room 803.