"He's been stabilized, but he has a serious left coronary arterial blockage. We'll be admitting him as soon as his paperwork's done. I've spoken to his cardiologist in Santa Teresa and he's suggested a cardiac surgeon he knows in Palm Springs. Dr. Bechler's on his way now. As soon as he's seen the patient and reviewed the EKG, the two of them will talk. I'm guessing they'll insert a stent. The choice is Lieutenant Dolan's, but that's what I'd do if I were in his shoes."

I made a face. "They'll open his chest?"

The doctor shook her head. "They'll run a catheter through a small incision in his left inguinal area and go up through the vein."

"How long will he be in?"

"That depends on his progress. Not as long as you'd think. Two days."

"Can I see him?"

"Of course. I've plugged him full of morphine so he's feeling no pain. The effect is about the same as a four-martini lunch."

"Not unusual for him."

"So I gathered. We had a little chat about that. I told him the smoking and heavy drinking would have to stop. He has to clean up his act around food as well. If you eat like he does, you should do the same yourself. QP's with Cheese?"

"He ratted me out?"

She smiled. "Make sure we know how to reach you. He's listed you as next of kin, which means you're cleared for visits if you keep it brief. You want to follow me?"

I tagged after her as she pushed through the door and padded down the highly polished corridor. When we reached Dolan's cubical, she pulled aside the curtain on its overhead track. "I have a visitor for you."

Dolan mumbled a reply. Dr. Flannery held up five fingers, signaling a five-minute visit. I indicated I understood and she withdrew. I looked down at Dolan. "How're you feeling?"

His eyes were closed and he had a goofy smile on his face. His color had improved. He was stretched out on the table, his upper body draped with a cotton coverlet. His shoes were off and the toe of one sock was pulled up to form a little cap, which made him look like a kid. He was still on oxygen; attached to a bank of machines that monitored his vital signs. He had an IV line in each arm. A bag of clear liquid had been hung on one pole and I counted fifteen drips. He began to snore.

I took his hand, wagging it. "How're you doing?"

He opened his eyes. "I'm good."

"You were in big trouble, you dork. You should have called for help."

"Heard you knock. Couldn't move. Glad you got in." He spoke carefully, as though his lips had been injected with novocaine.

"Me and my little key picks. Don't tell."

His eyes closed again and he put a finger to his lips.