“Huh,” I add. This is a lot to process. And I’m having trouble putting together a complete sentence.
“Sounds like those meds are starting to kick in,” Covesays. He’s right. At this moment, the opioid has begun to do some pleasant little cartwheels in my brain.
“Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he says. “Right now, you need to heal.”
Yes. We have to talk more. I still don’t know the full story. But one thing is remarkably clear.
Ben may be nasty, arrogant, unfriendly, rude, mean to his wife, indifferent to his kids, and basically a dick to everyone who’s ever loved him.
But he’s also innocent.
CHAPTER 82
MY CELL PHONE RINGS and wakes me up. I’m lying in a hospital bed in a room painted the color of pea soup. Still half asleep, I answer and say hello. I bet it’s Cove, calling from the airport to say his plane just landed in New York and he’s rushing to be by my side because his marriage imploded years ago, and after all this time, he can’t wait to see me and he realizes I’mthe one—or, more specifically, the one who got away (although, as I intend to point out when he runs into my hospital room with roses and kisses,hewas the one who left, for Cleveland).
Nice fantasy, right? Courtesy of my pal Percocet.
The call was in fact from Spectrum. But that’s okay. My arm is hanging in traction over my head. So even if Covedid walk through the door, I couldn’t hug him. Not that he’d want to hug me, if he saw how I looked.
I check my reflection on the small TV screen hanging in front of my bed. I’ve got a nasal cannula sticking out of my nose to help me breathe. A catheter to help me urinate. An IV drip with an antibiotic to reduce infection, mixed with Percocet to keep me happy.
But wait,as they say on all those late-night TV commercials,there’s more. There’s also a surgical drain coming out of the bullet wound and blood on my sheets. Plus I haven’t bathed since—well, I don’t know how long it’s been. I have no idea what day it is.
The phone rings again. This time, it reallyisCove.
“How are you feeling?” he asks gently.
“Still in pain,” I say. “I’ve got so many tubes going in and out of me, I look like a traffic roundabout.”
He laughs. “Still the same old Elinor.”
Is he still the same old Cove? Still married? I have no idea.
“Are you well enough to hear the rest of the story?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. Actually I’m a little groggy. But I try to snap to attention.
“Alan Metcalf hasn’t worked for the FBI in years,” he says.
Wow! No wonder we had to meet in a diner and a parking lot. Well, so much for my under-the-radar assignment. “Do you know what happened?” I ask.
“Yes, and you’ll love this,” Cove tells me. “Rememberwhat Metcalf was like with his subordinates? Especially the women?”
“How could I forget? He was nasty, surly, demeaning, sarcastic, and inappropriate. But those traits seemed to serve him well,” I add. For the longest time, the FBI was a real boys’ club. J. Edgar Hoover was never a fan of women in anything. Not even bed.
“True,” Cove says. “But then along came #MeToo. Women suddenly felt empowered. A lot of them complained that Metcalf had harassed and propositioned them for years.”
“Good for them,” I say. I wonder if it’s too late for me to get in on that.
Cove continues his update. “Metcalf was arrogant. He wanted to fight the allegations, until he realized what it would cost him in time and legal fees. And the cases against him were strong. One day, he was gone. Nobody knew where. Ex-FBI folks are much in demand these days.”
“I bet. Especially on the dark side.”
“Right. But here’s the best part.”
“There’s more?”
“Yup. You asked how Amber knew Metcalf? They met when he was a guest lecturer and she was a grad student at NYU.”
