Kemper sighed and shot a glance at his partner. Kurtz also looked at her and watched her look back at him. She obviously recognized him. She must have recognized his name before they started this interview. Is that why she wasn't speaking? She was, Kurtz was startled to realize through the pain in his head, as beautiful as ever. More beautiful.

"Did you see the assailant or assailants?" asked Kemper.

"I don't remember."

"Did you enter the garage as part of a conspiracy to shoot and kill Officer O'Toole?"

Kurtz just looked at him. He knew that he was stupid with pain and concussion at the moment, but nobody was that stupid.

Dr. Singh filled the silence. "Detectives, a concussion of this severity is often accompanied by memory loss of the accident that created it."

"Uh-huh," said Kemper, closing his notebook. "This was no accident. Doctor. And this guy remembers everything he wants to remember."

"Paul," said the female detective, "leave him alone. We have the tapes. Let Kurtz get some painkiller and sleep and we'll talk to him in the morning."

"He'll be all lawyered up in the morning," said Kemper.

The woman shook her head. "No he won't."

It'd been twenty years since Kurtz had last seen Rigby King—what was her married name? Something Arabic, he thought—but she still looked like the Rigby he'd known at Father Baker's and again in Thailand. Brown eyes, full figure, short dark hair, and a smile as quick and radiant as the gymnast she'd been named for.

Kemper left the room and Rigby came to the side of the bed and raised a hand as if she was going to squeeze Kurtz's shoulder. Instead she gripped the metal railing of the hospital bed and shook it slightly, making Kurtz's handcuffed wrist and arm sway.

"Get some sleep, Joe."

"Yeah."

When they were both gone, Singh called in a nurse and they injected something into the IV port.