From a distance, it looked like a firefly out for a night’s stroll. When I got closer, I could make out the scintillating round of flame and ash at the end of a cigarette. And in the hand of a nurse. You’d think a health professional would know better than to flirt with death.

My little gray cells had barely produced that gem of judgment when the sky dumped on me as though I were target practice. I ran for the entrance, cursing Dillway for getting me out in this weather and at this hour — and not even telling me why.

“Weather for ducks,” the guard said, picking up a roll of paper towels.

“Sure isn’t for dimwits who leave umbrellas at home,” I replied.

He tore off several sheets and handed them to me, his smile empathetic and tired. “Saw you drive up; nice set of wheels.”

I glanced toward the parking lot as I squeegeed my thinning mane. The downpour had dialed back to a drizzle. “Been wanting a car like that all my life,” I said. “Finally managed it.”

“Been dreaming longer than you, and I’m still waiting.” He brushed at some crumbs caught on his gray goatee. I patted down my t-shirt and jeans and tossed the wet paper wad into a container by the door.

The guard held out a plastic tray. I emptied my pockets and stepped through the security door. Reclaiming my keys and coins, I watched a wall clock click off another minute to make it an even four a.m.

Sleepy eyed people turned my way as I entered the waiting room. To some, my appearance seemed as welcome as moonshine to a redneck. Distraction turned drug of choice to the distraught. I scanned the room looking for Dillway. Lots of older folk. A few blue-collars. One man with his face buried in a newspaper. Wasn’t Dillway — unless he’d trimmed way down and dyed his hair red. I wondered if freckles went with the hair.

“May I help you?” asked a middle-aged woman at the reception desk, trying her best to smile. Behind her was a picture of the recently added roof helipad of Willow Falls Memorial Hospital. The blades of the chopper in the picture fit her head like flattened horns.

“Detective Dillway,” I said, aware that an elderly woman had come up behind me.

The clerk straightened as though called to attention. “Yes, Detective, what can I do for you?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m looking for Detective Dillway.”

“Was he admitted to the emergency room?”

Clueless, and for the sake of expediency, I said yes. She reached under the counter. The large double doors to my right opened in a labored yawn. I headed down the sterile hall, wishing Dillway’s sleep-busting phone call had delivered a little more than a plea and a meeting place.

A smattering of staff sat hunched over keyboards and charts at a circular workstation. They didn’t look up, and I didn’t stop.

Cruising around, I glanced into draped cubicles and checked the gurneys in the hall, amusing myself with the image of Dillway’s short squat form spread out in a flimsy gown. Saw lots of occupied beds and a few long-suffering souls who’d come to keep watch with the sick. But no Dillway.

A nurse wearing green scrubs stepped out of one of the rooms and blocked my path. She was petite, in her late forties and barely made it up to my chin. Which provided me a glimpse of coarse blond hair with dark roots. She put her hands on her hips and stared up into my face.

“I’m looking for Detective Dillway,” I said, to dampen her apparent mistrust of this oversized intruder.

That triggered a twinkling in her eyes that was a little too jovial. “Mr. Tapp?” she asked.

“That’s me,” I answered, wondering if Dillway had entertained her at my expense.

She took in my wetness and whiskers. “You’re the private investigator?”

“Yes. Why, don’t I look like one?”

She smiled, motioned me to follow and walked over to a cubicle with its curtain completely closed. She pulled open a section.

Reminding myself that wisecracks needed censoring in a sickroom, I trailed her in, expecting to find Dillway on his backside.

Instead, a woman lay on the bed, her eyes closed; and she was alone. Thingamabobs hugged the bed, their clicks and ticks like robotic Morse code. An all-is-relatively-well in machine speak, I assumed. A bandage covered the woman’s right temple. Below the bandage a purple bruise spread across an eye and down the cheek like an ink spill.

I looked at the nurse and waited for some sort of explanation. When none came, I signaled with a full frown and a palms-up shrug.

“Detective Dillway asked that you wait here for him,” said the nurse.

“Here?” I asked.

“That’s what he said.”

Nodding toward the woman in the bed, I whispered, “I don’t know her.”

“Neither do I.” The nurse exited and snapped the curtain closed.

Debating whether to stay or leave, I faced the bed. Its occupant was maybe in her early twenties and except for the slight rise and fall of her flat chest, lay as motionless as a mannequin. Wondering who she was and where Dillway had gone, I looked around for the usual bag of personal stuff. There was nothing, not even a pair of shoes. Probably bundled off to forensics, which meant the lady in bed had been at the receiving end of an assault.

I stepped closer. Except for the bruise, she was ghost-white. And really rather nondescript, but then most people are without the eyes flashing a bit of soul. Her hands lay on top of the covers. Young hands, untouched by either time or excessive attention. I leaned sideways, noticed more bruising along the arm and on the outside of the little finger and wrist. Looked like she had defended herself and maybe got in a few good whacks with the side of a fist.

The hands, like the face, were pale enough to suggest her usual routine didn’t include much outdoor time. At least not during daylight hours. Nails were medium length, except for the three middle fingers on the right hand that had been cut to the quick. No rings or ring lines, no polish.

Something else. I leaned closer for a better look. There was a line of red around the left side of her neck that faded to nothing just shy of her chin. Wasn’t a knife mark and it didn’t appear to have been made by a rope. Probably from a piece of jewelry ripped from her person.

Scanning the bed end to end I estimated the occupant to be on the short side. Five-three, if that. She also didn’t appear to occupy much of the total surface, putting her in the minority of the slim and trim.

Nice shade of hair—auburn leaning toward red, and all the way to the roots. Not much of a style to the short cut. Could have done it herself. Bowl on the head, snip-snip. Bits of debris clung to the hair on one side; looked like dirt. Her hair also looked slightly damp and I wondered if she’d been caught in an earlier downpour.

I turned back toward the curtain. Dillway. Gets me here and disappears. Would serve him right if I took off. I paced the length of the cubicle. On my second pass, I managed to kick the stand of one of the machines. The contraption did an imitation burp. I froze. The woman didn’t budge, nor did the curtain. The machine resumed its soft clicks. I sighed in relief and ordered myself to sit.

Just as I was yielding to the urge to close my eyes, the curtain parted and a hairy hand wrapped around a giant coffee carry-out slithered through followed by Dillway’s bulk. His beard looked recently trimmed and he was wearing a suit as well as cologne.

I waited for him to say something. Instead he walked over to the bed and stood there like a hunched, overweight teddy bear. I studied his bearded profile, noting a slight twitching at the corner of the mouth. He scratched his forehead with his free hand.

“Has she moved?” Dillway asked.

“Not that I saw.”

“Made any sounds?”

“Didn’t say hello, if that’s what you mean.”

He turned my way. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thank me after you explain why I’m here.”

Dillway moved to the foot of the bed, turned to face me and leaned against the frame. I waited for the bed to crash into the wall. It didn’t. Guess the wheels were locked.

As down in the mouth as Dillway looked, I considered relinquishing my seat on the only chair. To my surprise he reached over and offered me the container of coffee.

I took it. “Is this supposed to make up for lost sleep?”

“I need you to investigate a matter.”

“Me?”

He nodded.

I glanced over at the lady. On an impish whim, I said, “Hey, I think she just moved.”

Dillway whipped around, his face alive with expectation. A picture was beginning to form in my mind, and it made me smile.

When Dillway turned back, his eyes were heavy with moisture.

I said, “What’s her name?”

“Veronica. Although she goes by Vee.”

“What happened to her?”

“She was attacked.”

“Your buddies in blue aren’t looking for the culprit?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just stared down at his feet.

A woman’s voice shouted for the crash cart. The curtain rippled as staff rushed past pushing something on wheels.

I stood. “Can we go someplace else to talk about this?”

He didn’t answer.

“Detective, it’s four a.m., and my bed’s getting cold. So unless you agree to treat me to something a little more pacifying than a quart of coffee and the bells and whistles of an emergency room, I’m gone.”

Without looking my way, he parted the curtain and stepped into the aisle. I followed and waited as he closed the curtain back up. Seemed a lot of effort was being made to keep Veronica out of sight, especially since, as far as I could see, no other cubicle had its curtain fully closed.

“Give me a second.” Dillway trudged to the workstation and spoke to the little blond lady who, earlier, had blocked my path. He handed her something that looked like a business card.

When he returned, I said, “Nice to know a nurse.”

“We went to school together.”

“That all you did together?”

Dillway started toward the exit, not even bothering to reply, chew me out, counter with his own dig. The man was definitely not himself.

“So when are you going to tell me who this mysterious woman is?” I asked, exiting the hospital.