“Great to hear. I was at the scene.”

“Were you?”

“Yes, and he was complaining about a head injury, right after the incident. That’s what was worrying me. Vince and I go way back, you see.”

That seemed to mildly amuse the doctor. “Well, you must go back a ways, if you call him ‘Vince.’”

“Oh?”

“He made it clear to me, in no uncertain terms, that he prefers to be called Vincent.”

I grinned. “Yeah, I don’t let him get away with that crap. When I knew him, we called him a lot worse than ‘Vince.’ So is it a concussion, or…?”

“Mr. Colby has all the common symptoms of a concussion, yes—headache, dizziness, coordination problems, he’s had some nausea and vomiting, blurred vision, sensitivity to light, sensitivity to noise, and so on.”

“How serious is it?”

He flipped a hand. “Oh, we’ll be releasing him later today. The effects of concussion are usually temporary, recovery complete. I’m only concerned about…well, nothing.”

“Doctor. Please. Maybe I can help.”

He thought about that, then surprised me by putting a supportive hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know Mr. Colby. He was not my patient before today. But you should be aware—so that you’re not alarmed or react in a way that would disturb him—that your friend may be suffering from one of the less frequent effects of concussion.”

“What’s that?”

“Behavior or personality changes.”

“Really.”

“Can you tell me…what is your name?”

“Hammer.”

“Can you tell me, Mr. Hammer—is Mr. Colby usually known to…fly easily off the handle, let’s say?”

“No. He’s known to be quite self-composed.” At least that was my understanding.

One eyebrow rose above the wireframes. “Well, right now he’s showing some definite ill temper. Not that ‘ill temper’ is a common diagnosis of mine. But it’s evidenced here. His father came by earlier—his mother is deceased, I understand—and I informed the older Mr. Colby of this. But he’d already witnessed as much, and obviously seemed disturbed by it…” He sighed, lifted both eyebrows this time, then said, “You can see him now.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cornell.”

He went off and I went in.

The room was private, not surprisingly, and spacious. Some flowers, quite a few really, had already made their way here, lining a windowsill and finding room on a nightstand. Vincent Colby wasn’t hooked up to any hanging bottles with tubes stuck in him or anything, and he was propped up, casually watching CNN on the high-mounted TV.

“Yes?” he said, squinting at me as I stood at the half-open door.

“Mike Hammer, Mr. Colby. We met last night at Pete’s. I was just checking to see how you’re doing. I saw that red hot rod try to make a speed bump out of you.”

He smiled, gave me a curled-fingered gesture. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you—vision’s a little fouled up…it’s like I’m looking through dirty glasses. Come in, Mike. And Mr. Colby is my father—I’m Vincent.”

I walked to his bedside. He looked much the same, tan and fit, though the curly hair was a dry dark tangle now. He had a reddish-blue hematoma on his forehead, over his left eye.