Dead Wrong (15 page)

She wrinkled her forehead in a confused expression, the dark skin glistening with perspiration. “Security? Ain’t nobody said nothing about security. My orders are to take you back to your office. Magnuson Pavilion, ninth floor.”

Shit, Sikes controlled security already.

What’d you expect? Probably had them in his hip pocket before he walked in the office
.

She stopped, startled by something in his eyes, maybe sensing his fear. Her eyes flashed doubt, then suspicion. She pulled the radio from her belt, triggering an alarm in his head. She recognized the doubt in his eyes, held up her free hand, said, “Now don’t you be getting all upset. I just be checking with my boss, see if I got things right.” Slowly she raised the radio to her mouth, squeezed the transmit button, and blurted, “This here’s Charlene. I need backup right now.”

“Give me that.” Before she could react, he grabbed the radio and shouldered her against the wall.

Fighting for balance, she let go of the radio and screamed, “Help!”

Tom pushed past her bulk, threw open the door, bolted into the stairwell, then stopped. Which way to go? His first reaction was down, so he started up, blew past one floor, and stopped at the next. Suddenly he heard the clatter of boots on the stairs below.

He opened the door and, as calmly as possible, stepped into a hall and melded into a group of passing residents. From the PA system came, “Code Black, Code Black.”

Hospitals loved to color code emergencies. Pink for newborns disappearances. Red for fire. Orange for toxic spills. Black—as in police uniforms—for security. Surely he was the reason for the announcement. Great. As of now every computer in the hospital had an announcement and everyone from the CEO to the laundry detail would be keeping an eye out for him. Increasing his pace, he quickly covered the length of the hall to another exit door, ducked back into another stairwell, raised the radio to his mouth, and thumbed the transmit button. He asked, “Anybody read me?”

A woman answered. “Ten four. Who’s this?”

“Who am I speaking to?”

A pause, followed by, “This isn’t Doctor McCarthy, is it?”

The seconds were flashing by, time running out. “Yes, but before you say another word, listen: Send paramedics to my office right now.”

“That not necessary, Doctor. Captain Hansen, head of security, is already there.”

Well, that settled that. Maria was being looked after. On the other hand, it was definitely bad news for him because cops stick together. And Sikes, in a way, was law enforcement. He figured by now Sikes had sold his tale of how the evil McCarthy wrestled the gun from Washington and shot him.

“I need to talk with him. Tell him my side of what happened.”

“Isn’t Charlene supposed to be escorting you there?”

He detected suspicion in her word. “Change of plans. I’m not going anywhere until I can speak to someone with authority.”

There was a pause, followed by, “Uh, okay. See those little numbers on your rig, like a cell phone?”

Tom looked at the radio and saw them. “Got it.”

“Dial in 44.5 as the last three digits. That puts you on his frequency. Give me a few seconds to clear any calls and give him a heads-up.”

“Thanks.”

“Jeez, you don’t sound like some kind of whacked-out killer to me. Oh well, here goes.”

Killer? The word stabbed his gut. “What did you just say?” Had Sikes’s story traveled that fast? But she was gone, the radio silent.

“T
HE FUCK?” DELEON Franklin didn’t shout in front of Frank Hansen or Warren Sikes because that would imply lack of control. And if anything, he intended to impress them with absolute control of his SWAT team.

The officer said, “He slipped past us.”

Franklin thought about the deployment of officers. The only way McCarthy might have been able to avoid being caught was if he went
up
instead of down toward the first floor. “Start a floor by floor search from two on upward. You read me?”

“Affirmative.”

T
OM SWITCHED THE radio’s frequency before slowly counting off ten seconds. Just to be sure, he allowed a few more seconds before pressing transmit. “This is Tom McCarthy, you read me?” He already forgot the guy’s name.

A man responded. “Loud and clear.”

“Who am I talking to?”

“Frank Hansen, head of security. McCarthy?”

“Yes.”

“What can I do for you?” Hansen sounded cool and professional. But McCarthy knew all too well that cool and professional didn’t necessarily mean objective.

McCarthy wondered if the radio in his hand, like some cell phones, had GPS capability, making its location easily identified. If so, what was its accuracy? Should he be moving? Where? Too damn many things to worry about.

“You in my office now?”

“Roger that.”

“Maria, my receptionist … is she, ah, dead?”

“Afraid so.”

Both legs turned rubbery. He slumped against a cinderblock wall and took a deep breath to ease his dizziness. Afraid of falling over, he slid down the wall and sat on the floor. Memories of Maria flashed by. Small, insignificant things like the suckling pig her family barbecued at her daughter’s wedding, the stupid Internet jokes she forwarded, the outrageous costume jewelry she could wear and get away with. Had he thanked her enough?

“You still there, McCarthy?”

With a throat so tight he could barely speak, he said, “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but you need to hear my side of the story.”

“I couldn’t agree more. That being said, why don’t you come back to your office so you can tell me in your own words?”

Just like that? Hansen sounded way too agreeable and easy. But did he have another choice? The sooner he sat down and explained his side of the story, the sooner he could stop running for his life. The obvious question was could he trust Hansen?

“Is Sikes there?”

“Why do you ask?”

Meaning Sikes was there. McCarthy wanted to drop the radio and start running for the exit, but knew doing so would make him look guilty. All his professional life he’d been able to rationally negotiate solutions to problems. Why should this be any different? Instead he said, “I don’t trust him. He tried to kill me. That’s why.”

“Yes, sir, I understand that’s your perception. But here’s the situation. There are always two sides to a story. We’ve heard Lieutenant Sikes’s side and now I want to hear yours so we can sort them out. The only way we can to do that is if you surrender to us. Understand what I’m saying?”

“Can’t do it if Sikes is there.”

D
ELEON FRANKLIN WAVED Hansen to come closer. He, Sikes, and Hansen huddled in the hall outside of McCarthy’s office, waiting for the SPD homicide detectives assigned to the case as well as the crime scene team to show up.

Hansen mouthed, “What?”

Sikes said, “Offer him anything so we can get to him. Doesn’t matter what.” Then Sikes asked Franklin, “Any way to get a fix on where that radio is?”

Franklin shook his head. “Nope.”

H
ANSEN’S VOICE CAME back over McCarthy’s radio. “Okay, whatever you say. You want it to be just you and me?”

McCarthy wanted to believe Hansen, but why should he? There had been nothing to establish the trust Hansen was asking for. And the more he thought about it, how did he even who was on the other end of the radio? Could be one of Sikes’s team for all he knew.

The radio crackled. “You still there, McCarthy?”

He pressed the transmit button for a second as a reply. He flat out didn’t trust Hansen.

“If you don’t want to come here,” Hansen said, “where would be acceptable? What we need to do is cool things down before this situation gets out of hand. Make sense?”

McCarthy felt trapped, the noose closing tighter around his neck. Sooner or later they’d have him. Would it be to his advantage to be on record as surrendering? “No way will I surrender unless Sikes is completely out of the building and I have Seattle Police protection.”

“There we go. I can arrange that. Let’s get started with a de-escalation process. I understand you have Agent Washington’s weapon. Is that true?”

McCarthy became acutely aware of the object pressing the small of his back and saw where this was heading. An asset turned liability.

“No. That’s another lie.”

“Yes, sir, but his weapon isn’t on his body and isn’t in the immediate area. If we want a peaceful surrender, we need to know you’re unarmed. So maybe, as I talk through this, the best thing is for me to come to you alone. How does that sound?”

Sounded like bullshit. McCarthy decided it’d be best to find a way to get out of the building and contact his lawyer and have him negotiate a surrender. Where was the closest exit?

“McCarthy, listen to me. The situation’s not good. And it’s growing worse each second you remain on the loose. The Seattle police are here. Their SWAT team has sealed the building and is searching floor by floor for you. Once they find you—and they
will
find you—well, all I can say is things are out of my control. Bad things can happen. And you know why? Because a man is lying up here in your office dead and his weapon is missing. Right or wrong, the police believe you’re in possession of that weapon. See where this is heading? Unless you lay down that gun and surrender now, this isn’t going to end well.”

How could this happen? What had he done to deserve this? Was this some sort of karmic retaliation for a long-forgotten transgression? He looked from the radio in his hand to the stairwell, thought about his location in the building, the closest exits, the risks of making a run for it. His life had been spent being logical and dealing with logical people. But this situation …

The squelch broke on the radio. “McCarthy, last chance. Let me come talk with you. What’s it going to be?”

M
CCARTHY FIGURED IF the police were searching the building, it’d probably be with the help of hospital security. Worse, with the damn code black, every hospital employee would be on the lookout for him. Realistically though, the cops had limited time and resources. If they didn’t find him within a couple hours, they’d have other issues cropping up to deal with. Meaning if he could find a safe hiding place to wait for maybe four to five hours he’d have a better shot at escape. The trick would be finding a good place.