She clung to my arm while Dietz brought up the rear. The double doors slid open automatically as we approached. We passed into the reception area, which was deserted as far as I could tell. I was struck by the silence. Somehow I'd expected activity, urgency, some sense of the medical drama that plays out in every ER: patients with broken bones, puncture wounds, cuts, insect bites, allergic reactions, and superficial burns. Here, the rooms felt empty and there was no indication of acute care of any sort. Perhaps it was the hour, perhaps an unpredictable lull in the ordinary course of events.

Irene and I waited at the curved front counter, a C-shape enclosing a desk papered with forms. To our immediate right were two patient registration windows, shuttered at this hour. On our left, there was a room divider with two pay phones on the near side and a waiting area beyond. I could see a color television set, turned to a news show, the sound too low to register. Everything was done in muted blues and grays. All was in order, tidy and quiet. Through an open doorway, I caught a glimpse of the nurses' station, ringed by examining rooms. There was no sign of the police officer or hospital personnel.

Dietz was restless, snapping his fingers against the palm of his hand. He ambled over to the interior door and peered in, checking the layout, automatically eye-balling avenues of escape in case Messinger showed up again. The receptionist must have spotted him because she emerged from the rear moments later, smiling at us politely. "Sorry to keep you waiting. How may I help you?"

"We're here to see Agnes Grey," I said.

She was a woman in her forties, wearing ordinary street clothes: polyester pants, cotton sweater, rubber-soled shoes. A stethoscope, like a pendant, dangled from her neck. Her eyes were a rich chocolate brown, lending warmth to her face. She checked some papers on her desk and then looked up at Irene. "Are you Mrs. Gersh?"

"That's right," Irene said.

The woman's tone was pleasant, but I could see her smile falter. Her attitude suggested the carefully controlled neutrality you'd merit if the actual test results were not what you'd been led to expect. "Why don't you come on back and have a seat in the office," she said. "The doctor will be right with you."

Irene blinked at her fearfully, her voice close to a whisper. "I'd like to see Mother. Is she all right?"

"Dr. Stackhouse would prefer to talk to you first," she said. "Would you like to follow me, please?"

I didn't like it. Her manner was entirely too kindly and benign. She could have made any one of a number of responses. Maybe she'd been advised not to discuss medical matters. Maybe she'd been chastised for offering her opinion before the doctor could offer his. Maybe hospital policy forbade her to editorialize about the patient's condition for complicated reasons of liability. Or maybe Agnes Grey was dead. The woman glanced at me. "Your daughter's welcome to come with you…"

"You want me to come?" I asked.

"Yes, please," Irene said to me. Then to the receptionist, "My husband's parking the car. Will you tell him where we are?"

Dietz spoke up. "I'll let him know. You two go on back. We'll be right there."

Irene murmured a thank-you. Dietz and I exchanged a look.

The receptionist stood by the open door while we passed through. She led the way while we followed along a corridor with high-gloss white flooring. She showed us into an office evidently used by any doctor on duty. "It won't be long. Can I get you anything? Coffee? A cup of tea?"

Irene shook her head. "This is fine."

We sat down in blue tweed chairs with upholstered seats. There were no exterior windows. The Formica shelf-desk was bare. There was a gray leather couch showing doctor-size indentations in the cushions. As an impromptu daybed, it was slightly too short and I could see where his shoes had scraped against the arm at one end. A white Formica bookcase was filled with standard medical texts. The potted plant was fake, a Swedish ivy made of paper with curling vines as stiff as florist's wire. The only pictures on the wall looked like reproductions from Gray's Anatomy. Personally, I can do without all the skinless arms and legs. The saphenous vein and its branches looked like an overview of the Los Angeles freeway system.

Irene shrugged her coat off and smoothed the lap of her skirt. "I can't believe there weren't any papers to fill out. They must have admitted her."

"You know hospitals. They have their own way of doing things."

"Clyde has the insurance information in his wallet. Blue Cross, I think, though I'm not sure she's covered."