Dead Wrong (43 page)

T
EN MINUTES LATER he saw Sarah emerge from of the stairwell coming straight for the car, the Ralph Lauren bag full and hanging from her hand.

As soon as he popped the door lock she was inside, handing him a set of sky blue scrubs. “Here.” Then she pulled out another set.

After a quick check to make sure they were alone, he was out of the car, stripping down to his shorts. She changed quickly in the front passenger seat of the car, then climbed out and handed him a white coat. “Typical Saturday evening. It’s a zoo. Couple of surgical residents recognized me and said hi. Like I never left. I swear to God you totally lose your perspective of time on the trauma service.”

He slid the crowbar down his leg and snagged the hooked end over the waistband, then dropped the scrub shirt over it, took Washington’s gun from the glove box, checked to make sure the clip was full, dropped the extra clip into the pocket of his white coat, and stuffed the gun under the waistband before making sure all the ties were snug.

She eyed him. “Think that’s necessary?”

“Certainly hope not.” He stood naturally, arms to his side. “How do I look?”

“Like a surgeon.”

They breezed in through the automatic doors to the emergency room without a second glance from the guard.

County hospitals reminded McCarthy of third-world countries. Wailing babies, babbling voices, shouts, a cop or two milling around the ambulance bay, worn linoleum, body odor. Bedlam.

McCarthy followed Sarah past the overcrowded waiting room into the restricted area, walking like they belonged and getting away with it. They passed the trauma bays and exam rooms into a main hall that ran the length of the building. Mc-Carthy found a directory, located Wyse’s name next to the number 1401, and assumed that would be the fourteenth floor of the office building.

They rode the elevator in silence, Sarah’s face grim and determined. He said, “Maybe you should go back to the car.”

She shook her head. “No need.”

They exited into a deserted, dim reception area for an outpatient clinic. To the right was a hall with exam rooms on either side. To the left, toward the office building, were two closed fire doors with an overhead sign that read, N
EUROSURGERY
O
FFICES
. McCarthy couldn’t see alarms on the doors. “Think they’re locked?”

“Usually. They lock all entrances to the office building at six.”

Tom figured what the hell and pushed the horizontal bar. To his surprise the door opened. He raised a finger to his lips and flashed Sarah a questioning look. The area was eerily silent.

They stepped into a long carpeted hall. The windows on the east wall framed a magnificent city view whereas the west side contained closed doors to what he suspected to be small offices. The far end opened into a plush reception area. Mc-Carthy leaned close to Sarah and whispered in her ear, “This isn’t right. The door shouldn’t be unlocked. Stay here. I’ll take a look.”

She nodded and slipped into a shadow between the windows. He removed the crowbar and set it on the carpet where it wouldn’t be noticed, then crept the hall toward the reception area.

Only weak city light came through the windows at the end of the hall but it was enough to allow him to make out a sleek glass reception desk behind which the hall T-boned. The left hall was in total darkness. At the end of the right hall was a glowing rectangle of light from an open office door. McCarthy crept toward it until he could see Bertram Wyse behind at a large desk, his body turned toward a picture window. Wyse’s reflection showed marked changes from the med school days: bald now with a closely cropped crescent of black hair, more lines of course, deeper than expected. More than the physical chronicle of age, his face was lined with sadness and worry. A face, McCarthy believed, that was perpetually hidden from the public.

M
CCARTHY WHISPERED TO Sarah, “He’s in there,” with a nod toward the reception area.

“Wyse?”

“Yeah. Just sitting there, gazing at the view.” He knelt, retrieved the crowbar, and slipped it under his scrubs again.

“On a Saturday evening?”

He gave her right shoulder a gentle tug, leading her back to the doors to the hospital. Without a sound, he opened the right one far enough to slip through and then reset it. They moved to the outpatient area where they could keep an eye on the doors. McCarthy whispered, “We need to get him out of there long enough that I can look at his files.”

Sarah nodded and pursed her lips. “How’s he dressed? Scrubs?”

“No, why?”

“Just thought he could be waiting for a case to start. Saturday night on a holiday weekend … there’s got to be a reason he’s here.”

Because he knows I’m coming
. “You bring your cell?”

She opened her purse, held it up in the dim light. “I did.”

“Good. You know if he has reserved parking spot in the garage?”

She nodded. “He should. All chairmen do.”

“Where is it?”

“Their area is out back, the doctors lot, under the helipad.”

“How many ways can you get there from here?”

She thought about that a moment. “Two I can think of right off the top of my head. From outside, you take the stairs on this side of the helipad. But the most direct way is to use the tunnel.”

McCarthy liked the tunnel option because it seemed like the most reasonable route at this time of night. “Can you think of a good place to watch the tunnel without being conspicuous?”

“There’s a vending machine area he’d have to pass if he goes that way. Yeah, that should work.”

“Okay, here’s how we do it. Soon as you get there call me to tell me you’re in position. Then I’ll call Wyse and make some excuse to lure him out of the building. The moment you see him walk into the tunnel, call me. Got my cell number?”

She nodded. “What if he takes the outside route?”

“Then it won’t work. But it’s a bad neighborhood and dark out, so chances are he’ll use the tunnel.” McCarthy noted the time on his watch. “If he hasn’t shown in fifteen minutes, call me. If he’s left and you didn’t see him pass, then check his parking spot. Okay?”

“Got it.”

McCarthy made sure his cell was set to vibrate, then watched the elevator doors as he waited for her call. Two minutes later Sarah called to say she was in position. He dialed Wyse.

W
YSE JUMPED, STARTLED by the ring of the phone. He looked at it just as it rang again. Who’d call this time of night? Sikes? Cunningham? No caller ID. Answer? Hmmm. Who could it be? “Wyse here.”

“Hello, Bert.”

He recognized McCarthy’s voice. “Well, hello, Tom,” he answered.
Whatever you do, don’t show emotion. Be cool, in control
.

“Here’s the deal. You know I know you’re doing memory transplants. That would be sort of cool if it weren’t for the fact that it’s a felony. It’s also unconscionable.”

Fuck you
. Wyse said, “The hell are you talking about?”

McCarthy said, “Okay, got it. You’re worried the phone is tapped. This isn’t intended to be entrapment, it’s supposed to be détente. So what do you say, can we discuss this issue in person? Maybe work out a deal?”

Hell no! Let the cops find him
. They will. Eventually. Then what? What happens if they don’t kill him in the take down? What if he survives and goes to trial? Any reasonable defense would bring Russell and Young into the story. Baker? Well, she’s dead from the overdose. Although, on second thought, her death hadn’t been confirmed with a death certificate. Meaning McCarthy had to be dealt with tonight. Preferably by Sikes. Wyse asked, “Where would you suggest we meet?”

“How about Gas Works Park. The playfield over by the old buildings?”

Wyse smiled. Perfect. “When?”

“Soon as you can get here.”

W
YSE CALLED SIKES with the news then headed for the elevator.

M
CCARTHY WATCHED WYSE enter the elevator and waited until the floor number hit one before taking off down the hall, crowbar in hand.

S
ARAH SAT IN a molded plastic chair at a chipped Formica table nursing a cup of bad vending machine coffee as Wyse marched past. She turned her head away and punched speed dial.

B
ERTRAM WYSE CAUGHT movement out of the corner of his eye, cocked his head, and slowed. The woman in the vending area turned away from him and put a cell to her ear. Something familiar about her … He entered the parking garage tunnel, stopped, thought,
Yeah sure, the psychiatrist
. Last night he’d studied her ID photo. So why should she be here at this moment? Being here on rotation would be too coincidental. Was she working with McCarthy? Was she part of the plan to get into his office?

Fuck yes, she’s spotting for him
.

With the tunnel a cellular dead zone, his BlackBerry registered no signal strength, so he started jogging toward the parking lot.
If I go back the same way she’ll know I’m on to her
.

“J
UST STAY PUT,” Sikes said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Shit, staying put was the last thing Wyse wanted to do. Or could do. He wanted to be there to see Sikes put a bullet through McCarthy’s egotistical, self-centered brain. “You know where my office is?” he asked, thinking that, as a guide, he could tag along.