“Maybe. But I couldn’t help noticing he seemed more than just casually interested in you.”

Her mouth smiled but her forehead frowned. “You are a snoop, aren’t you?”

“Definitely. Has Colby ever asked you out?”

“No! We’re just friends. Friendly.”

“Yet you’re here visiting him at the hospital, first thing in the morning.”

She leaned toward me, as if speaking to a backward child. “Mr. Hammer, I know him from the restaurant. He got hit by a car outside that restaurant! I was just being…polite. Nice.”

“Did your boss ask you to stop by on the restaurant’s behalf?”

“No. I just thought it was…you know, the right thing to do.” She stood. “Mr. Hammer, I have a hair stylist appointment to get to, if you don’t mind.”

I stopped her, gently, with a hand at her elbow. “Ms. Ryan… Sheila. Was Colby responsible for that black eye you’re trying, not very well, to hide?”

The green eyes flashed down at me. “No! Really, Mr. Hammer. You’re out of line now. I told you, we are not…how did you so quaintly put it? An ‘item.’ Anyway, I’m…never mind.”

“You’re what?”

“I’m already in a relationship.”

I got to my feet and now I was looking down at her and her puffy eye. “With somebody else who gave you that mouse, you mean? What, that bartender? You promised me last night you were breaking it off with your abusive boy friend, I just figured it might be Colby.”

Her teeth were clenched; they were small and white and pretty. “You were right the first time.”

“I was?”

“This is none of your fucking business!”

She marched off quickly to the elevator and stood there, steaming a little, while she waited for the car.

I sat back down and frowned and tried to figure out why the back of my neck was tingling. This really was none of my business, fucking or otherwise. I had no dog in this fight. No client, no money riding.

When had that ever stopped me?

The girl was gone, but a doctor was exiting a room just down the hall, pausing to make some clipboard notes. I got up and made it down there in time to confirm that he’d emerged from the room whose number identified it as Colby’s, the door to which was closed.

“Excuse me, doctor,” I said, when he’d finished his notations and was about to resume his duties, and noticed my presence for the first time. His name badge said DR. MARTIN CORNELL. He was about forty with short dark hair, a trim matching beard and alert but distant brown eyes behind wireframe glasses.

“Yes?” he said, with as much patience as could be expected from a man as busy as he no doubt was.

“I’m a friend of Mr. Colby’s,” I asked. “Would I be out of line asking how he’s doing?”

He thought about that for a moment, then apparently decided sharing his patient’s condition would do no harm. “He suffered some bruises. Considering the circumstances, he’s a lucky man indeed.”