He wasn’t able to find Billy Matthews, either, as the latter wasn’t at the gym today. Lyle tried to get an address or a number, but couldn’t charm it out of anyone. It’s a good thing, really, as it’s for the client’s protection; it just makes our task of hunting down Matthews a bit more difficult. I think about how I’m going to find him, but I can’t come up with a better plan than to go to the gym again in the morning—or have Lyle do it—and repeat until we get our man. Too bad I’m not V.I. Warshawski with her plethora of cunning ideas. I put it firmly out of my mind because it’s just giving me a headache to think about the case. I deserve a break after all the hard work I’ve been doing. I reach for my sandwich again, suddenly famished. We all gobble sandwiches as fast as we can.
After polishing off two sandwiches, I finally ask how Paris is. I thought they would have brought it up by now, but they haven’t. To be fair, they’ve been eating just as heartily as I have. My mother tells me he’s great, that he actually spoke in sentences today. Short ones, to be sure, but sentences, nonetheless. I ask if he remembers anything, my pulse racing. This could be the break we’re looking for. Please, let him have seen who hit him. To my disappointment, he didn’t. He doesn’t remember anything about his accident and has to be told repeatedly that he’s in a hospital. The cops haven’t been able to question him, either, which I’m sure is driving them crazy. I don’t care, however, as nothing is as important as Paris’s recovery.
I’m eager to see Paris, so I stand up and stretch. It seems like my life has been work, detecting, and the hospital. My mother and Lyle want to go, too, of course, so we clean up and leave. I ride with my mom to the hospital. Neither of us speaks until we are halfway there, then my mother warns me that the Jensons are seriously considering bringing Paris back to Memphis, at least until he recovers. I didn’t know they could do that without his consent. My mother says they’ve been working on him. She keeps reassuring the Jensons that Paris will be better off here with his friends, but they refuse to listen. They’ve gotten it into their heads that this would never have happened if only Paris didn’t live in Sin City, which is ludicrous. Even if they don’t know the background of the case, it’s silly to think that crime doesn’t happen outside the Bay Area. They’ll take him over my dead body—there is no way I’m letting Paris go without a fight.
We are silent for a minute as I watch the scenery whiz by. I remember the email Libby sent me and relay it to my mother. My mother is pleased, but surprised that Libby emailed me about something so serious. I tell her it surprised the hell out of me, too, that Little Miss Perfect is having second thoughts about being a trophy wife. My mother sends me a withering look which immediately makes me contrite for my flippant statement. I quickly amend my statement, saying I’m impressed that Libby has the guts to think about stopping the wedding, let alone write about it to me. It must be killing her to admit she has doubts, especially at this late date.