Dead Wrong (21 page)

“Proceed as initially directed. Watch and wait.”

Lewis keyed the mike twice, acknowledging the order. He scouted out a shadowy corner behind the bike rack where it allowed an unobstructed line of sight to the car’s rear bumper. With one ramp and one stairwell as the only access to this level, no one could reach the car without being seen. He unscrewed the lightbulb, then tucked down into the corner, back against the cement, and prayed McCarthy would be dumb enough to come down that ramp. Had a big score to settle with that motherfucker.

S
ARAH HEADED FROM the elevator to the cardiac ICU to check on Bobbie Baker. Ironically, two weeks ago, when called to evaluate Bobbie in the ER, she’d been sleeping in that same on-call room. That minor coincidence was just one more reason to believe that today’s madness was somehow linked to Baker. Too many little hints connected the relationship. She slowed, thinking back over them. What freaked her out the most were the doctor impersonator and the forged Valium prescription. Who was he? And why would someone want to cause Bobbie harm?

Entering the cardiac care unit, Sarah noticed Bobbie’s nurse in the next room on the right, so she stood at the glass door, waiting for her to finish. After a few seconds she caught the nurse’s eye and waved. The nurse came out massaging hand cleanser into her fingers. “Hi, Doctor Hamilton, here to see Bobbie again?”

“Yup. What can you tell me?”

The nurse wiped residual cleaner up her wrists. “Pulled her tube about a half hour ago. Gases look great and her lungs are clearing nicely.”

Sarah’s heart leapt. “She talking?”

“Hoarse as all get out, but yeah. Making sense, too. Tired, is all.”

B
OBBIE LAY ON her left side, pillows packed against her back for support, only one white sheet over her pale skin, her short hair matted haphazardly. Sarah hoped the nurse brushed it before letting Bobbie look in the mirror. Now that she was talking and out of immediate danger, a mirror might be one of the first things she requested—if not already.

“Hello, Bobbie.”

Baker’s eyes fluttered open to look at Sarah. For a moment she seemed to focus but then clamped both eyes shut and turned away. A tear slid down the side of her nose.

Sarah decided to skip any preliminary chitchat and just ask. “Bobbie, there’re a couple things I need to know. Very important things. Will you please talk to me?”

Bobbie ignored her.

Sarah gently shook her shoulder. “Bobbie, I know you’re in there. I need you to talk to me. It’s important. You know that.”

Again no answer.

“Bobbie, I imagine this isn’t pleasant for you. It’s certainly not pleasant for me. But the bottle of pills you swallowed has my name on it. You and I both know I didn’t prescribe it, so my question is who gave them to you?” She felt like crap for being so forceful in such a delicate situation and flashed the nurse an apologetic look.

The nurse diplomatically studied the cardiac monitor above the bed, which in itself showed tacit disapproval and only made Sarah angry. Bad enough for someone to make her look incompetent by giving Bobbie Valium, but why should Bobbie shield that person?

“Bobbie, speak to me!”

Bobbie turned toward Sarah but without opening her eyes weakly shook her head. After a pause, she said, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Sarah looked at the nurse before raising her voice further. “You may not want to, Bobbie, but I’m not leaving until you give me an answer. Actually, two answers. Why don’t you want to tell me? Don’t you realize that whoever gave you the Valium was trying to
kill
you? Why would you want to shelter that person?”

Bobbie shook her head again. “What if I want to be dead?”

“I don’t believe that’s what you really want. I know you hurt. I know how much pain you’re in. That’s why I’ve always tried to help you. But I also think you’re covering for someone and I want to know why. Especially when that person wants to harm you.”

Bobbie didn’t move.

“Okay, fine,” Sarah said with a note of finality. “Obviously you want to shield someone who wants you dead. I, on the other hand, have my career to worry about, so I plan on hounding you until you tell me.”

“Leave me alone.”

The nurse put a protective hand on Bobbie and flashed Sarah a nonverbal warning.

Sarah ignored the nurse. “I will
not
leave you alone. Know why? Because my name was on that bottle. It was the wrong drug for you under the circumstances, and it makes me look like a frigging idiot. I’m not going to let you get away with that.” Raising her voice, “Who gave it to you?”

Baker squeezed her eyes tighter, shook her head again.

Sarah felt terrible for yelling at a vulnerable patient but saw no other option. With a defiant glance at the nurse, she said, “Bobbie, stonewalling won’t work. If you don’t tell me now, I’ll give you drugs that
will
make you talk.” Bullshit, of course, but necessary bullshit. One way or the other, she was going to find out.

Still, Bobbie said nothing.

“Is this what you want? To have me force the answer out of you?” Then, to the nurse, “Okay, bring me the pentothal.”

Bobbie whispered, “Doctor Wyse.”

The words stunned Sarah. Then, a moment later, it almost made sense. Almost. Wyse had treated Bobbie’s head trauma. And after she developed PTSD he had enrolled her into a clinical trial to treat that too. But logic ended there.

Sarah glanced at the nurse beside her. “Did you hear what she just said?”

The nurse nodded. “Yes. Doctor Wyse.”

Sarah placed a gentle hand on Bobbie’s forehead. “Would you be willing to repeat this to a lawyer?”

Bobbie opened her eyes. “I’ll do anything you want if you just leave me the fuck alone.”

T
HE TRAFFIC LIGHT turned green, allowing Ernest Womack a right-hand turn onto the steep upward grade of Queen Anne Avenue North. One block past Lee Street, he turned right onto a street traversing the hill and curbed the Toyota rental long enough to recheck the address and confirm his location on his portable Garmin GPS. Fucking neighborhood had a confusing array of streets with dead ends that resumed blocks away. Three-story homes and apartments took every inch of impossibly small lots in competition for drop-dead views of downtown Seattle and, on clear days, majestic Mount Rainier. He didn’t want to imagine what these puppies sold for. Way beyond his pay grade, for sure.

Satisfied with his location, he proceeded east two blocks, took two more right turns, which brought him back to Lee Street. He slowed while passing McCarthy’s address for the first time, a three-story structure of taupe stucco no more than five years old. The front faced the street, the back faced the view. It was one of three contiguous townhouses, each with a steep drive down to a basement garage. Separate steps to the left of the driveways led up to the front doors.

He continued on to Queen Anne Avenue, then back to park on Lee, locked up, and sauntered away with the casualness of a neighbor enjoying the pleasant summer afternoon. While approaching McCarthy’s building he looked for law enforcement vehicles like a Crown Vic or a Caprice. Ford manufactured the Victoria as a police special so they stood out. The only people to be caught dead driving a fucking Caprice were cops or seventy-five-year-old ladies, making both models as inconspicuous as a nuclear blast. He also checked for a panel truck with tinted windows because police typically converted them to surveillance vehicles. If cops were around, he intended to introduce himself. It made no sense to ask for problems by being mistaken as a prowler. He saw no evidence of a police presence, so he walked a leisurely pace around the block, came back, and was up the three stairs to McCarthy’s front door to ring the bell.

No answer.

He rang it again. Still, no answer. Tried the door. Locked. No problem.

Then he was inside, standing on black marble yelling, “Yo, Tom, you home?” figuring he could gain the element of surprise by sounding friendly.

No answer.

No sounds of life either: no television, no music, no running water. Just stillness and the warm, stuffy air of a closed-up house baking in the sun. To his right was a small den with a reasonable sized LCD TV, laptop, desk, a bookcase with a sleek black Bang & Olufsen CD player, and a couple shelves of CDs.

He moved into the kitchen/dining area. Looked expensive even though he had no idea of the cost of the appliances and furniture. Contemporary. He suspected the decor might be considered tasteful by some, but wasn’t sure. And he didn’t give a shit because it probably cost more than his pay grade allowed. Granite counters, maple cabinets, stainless steel appliances. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a view of downtown.

He quickly checked every room upstairs, clearing the entire floor in less than sixty seconds. One thing for sure, Mc-Carthy wasn’t here. And the place felt like he hadn’t been here all day. He had two choices: Wait here or out in the car. He checked the fridge, saw only catsup, mustard, a jar of pickles, and a big jar of peanut butter (extra crunchy). Nothing worthwhile to eat, he decided. He eyed the TV again, but decided to play it safe and wait in the car. But not before stopping by the john to take a leak.

He left the same way he’d entered, not caring if McCarthy could tell that someone had been inside.

Across the street, he fished out a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo from his breast pocket and paused to admire the engraving. A going-away present from his Delta Unit CO five years ago when transferring to Cunningham’s command. He flipped it open and shut, listening to the distinctive
clunk
he loved. Only a real Zippo made that sound.

He glanced around for the best surveillance spot. The problem was a lack of parking. Every fucking driveway was occupied and there was no space along the curb. Ah, but wait, two houses down from McCarthy’s a woman was getting into a car. He took off for the rental and felt lucky that the vacated space remained unoccupied when he returned.

He checked his sandwiches, cigarettes, and bottled water. He’d use McCarthy’s place to take a leak. Satisfied, he settled down in the seat to wait. Only problem was the fucking rental didn’t have SIRIUS radio so couldn’t catch the Braves game.

M
CCARTHY’S NERVES BECAME increasingly twitchy as each second lurched to the next. Being cooped up in this cramped, overheated room made him a sitting duck. He tried to distract himself and not to worry, but every occasional sound from the hall—a voice, the rattle of a cart’s wheels, a door closing—made him face his situation. Sooner or later someone would come to check out this call room. And when he didn’t answer the door, that person would try the knob and find it locked. If he still didn’t answer, he or she know.

Where was Sarah? What was taking so long?

He stretched out on the bed and tried the relaxation exercises he’d learned last year at yoga class but he still couldn’t relax. Was this what it felt like to do hard time in solitary? He’d go crazy.

He picked up the wall phone and called Davidson.

“What’s taking so long?”

“We’re still deadlocked.”

“Tell me again why you can’t simply come escort me out of here? Have the press cover it so nothing bad can happen.”

Davidson said, “I can do that, but then what happens? Soon as we get out of the building we’d be forced to turn you over to Sikes.”

This was what didn’t make sense. “Why? Can’t the local police hold me until this gets sorted out?”

“No. Not with a Pentagon official declaring you a terrorist.”

He checked his watch. Where was Sarah? Should have been back by now.

The plain beige walls inched closer, the ceiling lower. He sat on the single bed, wiped his sweaty face, and thought, do something. Getting shot trying to escape seemed better than enduring another minute of this hell. Besides, if he made a break for it, there was a chance—albeit small—he might make it. Sikes and the cops couldn’t be everywhere.

Okay, but what about Sarah?

“Tom?” Davidson asked.

“Huh?”

“You okay?”

“Just thinking. Look, I know this is a stretch, but bear with me on this. I saw two patients, a woman named Baker and a guy named Russell, both with prior head injuries treated at Lakeview. I had both of them sign a release of records, but the records never came. I’m thinking this is somehow related to what’s happening.”