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this?”
    Shelley didn’t answer.
    Whatever the message was, there was no nuance to it.

CHAPTER 11
     
    “I’M INVOKING THE DWI rule,” I said as Kylie and I walked back to the parking lot.
    A faint smile crept across her face. When she gets riled up, Kylie drives like a NASCAR champion, so we have an agreement: no Driving While Infuriated.
    “Come on, Zach,” she said. “I haven’t wrecked a car since way back in …”
    “January,” I said. “You’re almost ready to get your three-month chip.”
    The smile turned into a grin, and she tossed me the keys.
    It was only a fifteen-minute drive from the studio to Lynn Lyon’s apartment on West End Avenue, and Kylie talked non-stop. The topics ranged from the Elena Travers case to the hospital robberies, and finally to how my new living arrangement with Cheryl was working out. The only thing Kylie didn’t talk about was the elephant in the car: her drug addict husband.
    But I’m sure that was what she was thinking about. By now she had dismissed the advice she had gotten from the counselor at the rehab. Kylie was an action junkie, and, while Spence may not have hit rock bottom yet, after seeing the destruction he’d left at Silvercup, she was no longer capable of doing nothing.
    We pulled into a parking lot at Lincoln Towers—eight high-end buildings spread across twenty landscaped acres in the middle of Manhattan’s trendy Upper West Side. Not exactly where I’d expect to find someone selling stolen medical equipment on the black market.
    The head shot Hutchings showed us of Lynn Lyon hadn’t done her justice. She opened the door wearing jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a sauce-spattered apron. Even with no makeup and her hair caught up in a blue bandanna, I got that rush men get when they’re suddenly face-to-face with a naturally beautiful woman.
    We ID’d ourselves and told her we had some questions to ask her.
    “I’m right in the middle of something,” she said. “Can you come back later?”
    “No, ma’am,” Kylie said. “It can’t wait.”
    “Neither can my risotto,” she said. “We’ll have to talk in the kitchen.”
    She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m a food blogger, and I’m working on my next post,” she said, leading us into a cluttered kitchen, where I picked up the earthy smell of mushrooms.
    “My take on porcini-asparagus risotto,” she said, picking up a wooden spoon and stirring a shallow pot. “What’s this about?”
    “There’s been a robbery at Mercy Hospital,” I said.
    “Well, that’s hardly a big surprise,” she said. “I warned them.” With all the poise of a TV chef, she turned to the oven and took out a loaf of fresh-baked bread, set it on the counter, and picked up a camera.
    “What do you mean you warned them?” I said.
    “Some of these volunteers will leave the gift shop and run off to grab a cup of coffee,” she said, clicking off a few photos of the bread. “Instead of locking the place up, they hang a sign that says ‘Back in five minutes.’ They’re too trusting. It was bound to happen.”
    “It wasn’t the gift shop, Ms. Lyon,” Kylie said. “They stole six new dialysis machines.”
    “Six … I don’t understand,” she said, ladling broth from a stockpot onto the risotto. “I work in the gift shop, but … Oh my God—I was in with the new dialysis machines last week.”
    “Taking pictures,” Kylie said, gesturing at the camera.
    Most people—guilty or innocent—would respond with indignation:
“Are you calling me a thief?”
Not Lyon. She put the hand that wasn’t stirring the risotto to her mouth. Her eyes watered up, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “This is so embarrassing,” she said.
    “What were you doing in a restricted area?” Kylie asked, all bad-cop body language and tone of voice.
    “It didn’t say Restricted, and the door wasn’t locked. I have a friend who is a dialysis nurse upstate. I was telling her about this new equipment Mercy bought, and she