Phantom Limb (22 page)

Flipping through my keys, I found the exterior one and let myself into the darkened lobby. Then I took the elevator up to the fifth floor, stepping out into a similarly dimly lit corridor. Padding down the carpeted hallway, I felt familiar prickles on my skin. Spooked, as I often was, by the unnerving silence of an empty, after-hours office building.

When I reached my door, I took out the key that opened my suite. I was about to slide it into the lock…

At the touch of the key, the door sighed open.

It was already unlocked.

Which meant somebody had been inside my office. Or might still be there now. Waiting…

The breath caught in my throat, as I stood, unmoving. I tried to think. I knew I hadn't forgotten to lock it at day's end on Friday. Despite the stress of recent events. I even remembered making a point of doing so.

Pocketing my keys, I told myself that the smart thing to do was to back away from the doorway as quietly as possible and call the police.

I wish I had.

But, instead, I felt inexorably drawn by that half-opened door. Maybe by curiosity, or righteous anger. Maybe by something I couldn't explain. All I knew was that I had to find out who—or what—was on the other side of that door. Inside my office.

I quietly pushed the door all the way open and stepped into the suite's waiting room, empty but for the deep onyx shades of night. Even so, I could tell it was just as it had been when I last left the office. Not a thing out of place.

Then, one measured step at a time, I went through the connecting door into my consulting room. Barely able to breathe, I squinted into a darkness threaded only by faint moon glow.

Again, everything seemed the same. My desk, the walls—

Then I saw it. Saw
him
.

Shrouded in shadow. Sitting in the leather chair that my patients use. The one opposite my own.

I was facing the back of the chair, so at first all I saw was the top of his head, above the seat back.

Heart banging in my chest, I slowly moved in an arc around the two chairs. Until I came to stand before him.

He reminded me of a shy, reluctant patient. Feet crossed at the ankles. Hands folded on his lap.

The only difference was his head. Tilted up, eyes wide and bright, leaning against the chair's cushioned back.

It was then that I recognized him, even in the room's feeble light. It was his hair. Coarse, straggly, parted in the middle and hanging on either side of his head.

He was the perp identified by his fingerprints at the mining office as Tommy Ames. The long-haired guy who'd watched over Gloria Reese and me at the printing factory.

Now watching me again, in my office. Staring, really, with white, lifeless eyes.

Even as I stared back. At the neat, blood-encrusted bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

Chapter Thirty

For the second time in less than a week, my office door was crisscrossed with crime scene tape. It wasn't yet dawn, but with every light in the suite on, including the seldom-used overheads, the rooms were as bright as if bathed in noon sunshine.

I'd spent the last hour sitting in my waiting room, nursing a Styrofoam cup of black coffee that a thoughtful uniform had brought me. Since finding the body and calling it in, I'd been barred from my consulting office, which was soon crowded with uniforms, CSU techs, the ME, and, inevitably, Lieutenant Biegler. Less than twenty minutes later, he was joined by Harry Polk, summoned on his cell from the Spent Cartridge, with his temporary partner, Jerry Banks, who'd been summoned from his bed.

Nobody, it seemed, had so far alerted the FBI.

I'd just drained the last drop of coffee from the cup when the medical examiner—a slim Asian woman to whom I was never introduced—strode out of my office, through the waiting room, and out the hall door. In her wake, a CSU tech pushed a wheeled cart bearing Tommy Ames' remains, zipped into a body bag.

Moments later, Biegler, Polk, and Banks came out of the office, the latter two stripping latex gloves from their hands. The lieutenant had his own manicured hands in his pockets, which was where they'd been when he first entered the room. By my reckoning, that still left two CSU techs in my office, going over every inch of the crime scene.

“Well?” I slowly climbed to my feet.

“Not that it's any of your concern,” Biegler said archly, “but the ME says death was instantaneous. A single bullet to the brain. No powder burns, so the shooter was a decent distance away from Ames.”

“Must've been a good shot. Probably Max Griffin.” I took a step toward Biegler. “And what do you mean, not my concern? I just found a dead guy sitting in my office. Deliberately positioned like a patient might be. Almost a parody of a
new
patient, in fact. Hands folded. Feet crossed at the ankles.”

Harry Polk sniffed. “You figure Griffin did that to fuck with you?”

“Who knows? Probably. Though I bet Sykes gave the orders. Griffin doesn't have the imagination.”

Biegler frowned. “But why would Sykes do that?”

“My read? Based on meeting him, and the way he's behaved since this whole mess began, I'd say he's a textbook narcissist. Likes to think he's smarter than everyone around him—which he probably is. I could tell from how he questioned me when Reese and I were his captives that he wanted me to be impressed.”

Jerry Banks spoke up. “Now it looks like he wants you to be intimidated.”

“Well, he sure as hell succeeded.”

The kid actually grinned. “One other thing. ME says that there's been blood loss, but none found on the body or anywhere near. She says she'll know for certain after she gets the corpse on her table, but that Ames was probably killed somewhere else and then brought here. Maybe in some kind of bag or rolled-up blanket. Which the perps took with them.”

“Even so,” Biegler added, “there oughta be forensics in the room. Prints, DNA. Stuff we can use to tie Sykes or Griffin or both to the murder.”

Polk let himself collapse onto the waiting room sofa.

“Look, boys and girls, I can understand why they whacked Tommy Ames. Now that they have the ransom money, he was just a loose end. Like Fred Gilroy. I'll even buy the idea that Sykes wanted to mess with Rinaldi's head. Make some kinda half-assed statement about what an evil fuckin' genius he is. But the ME puts the time o' death at about midnight. Only five hours ago.”

“So?” Biegler glowered down at him. “What's your point?”

“My point is, why the hell are Sykes and Griffin still here in town? Why aren't they three states away by now?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I wasn't the only one that Sykes felt he had unfinished business with. He does have a big operation here. Covers the tri-state area, according to Agent Reese.”

Biegler turned to me. “So you're saying it could be that he needs to settle some accounts. Maybe give some final orders to his men. Get things squared away before he can take off?”

“Then he's takin' a helluva risk,” Polk said. “He's got ten million bucks. What else does the bastard need?”

“Control.” I gazed at the three police officers. “Look at the kidnapping. Planned with military precision. With Sykes determined to call the shots at every step. All of which blew up in his face when his identity as the kidnapper was revealed. Undoing his feeling of control. Forcing him to improvise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember, his original plan was to collect the ransom and then kill Lisa Campbell. With no one having the slightest idea who he was. Which meant there'd be no reason to abandon his regular operation. The drugs, the human trafficking. Even his little side business, arranging sex parties for the rich and powerful. Why should he? After all, while the FBI knew about these activities, they had no evidence to use against him. For Ray Sykes, once Lisa was dead and the ransom in hand, it would be back to business as usual. With a nice ten million-dollar pension plan he could count on for a rainy day.”

Biegler grunted. “Okay, Rinaldi, let's say you're right. But if this Sykes is as smart as you say he is, he still won't hang around here long.
Nobody's
that conceited.”

“For once, Lieutenant, I agree with you. Agent Reese told me that the Bureau's already planning to keep tabs on Sykes' known associates. Wire-taps, hacking their emails. The problem is, I'm sure Sykes has assumed that already.”

“Right. So if I were him, I'd grab as much face-time with my people as I could, get all my ducks in a row, and then skip town. Probably what he's spent this whole night doing.”

I nodded. “That's the way I see it. He leaves me Tommy Ames' dead body as a parting gift, gives his people their marching orders—at least for the short term, until the heat dies down—and then takes off.”

“But how?” Jerry Banks frowned. “The Feds are watching the airports, bus terminals, the cab companies…I mean, how the hell do Sykes and Griffin get through the net?”

Polk rubbed his thick neck. “Plenty o' ways, kid. I bet Sykes already got people on the pad in some o' those places. Even if he don't, he's got the cash to bribe anyone he needs to. Like they say, money talks, bullshit walks.”

An awkward silence filled the room.

“I still have a question.” I walked over to the suite's hall door. The one I'd found already ajar.

Bending, I peered at the lock. And saw some telltale scratches adjacent to the keyhole.

“Yeah, they picked the lock.” It was Polk, calling over from his seat on the sofa. “Not the prettiest work I ever seen, but it got the job done.”

I straightened, just as the remaining two CSU techs came out of my office. One held a number of small evidence bags. The other carried a fingerprint kit under his arm.

“Didn't get much, Lieutenant,” said the first guy. “Mostly prints, some of which I figure will match Max Griffin or Ray Sykes, or both. The rest will probably turn out to belong to the Doc and his patients. Plus a few hairs and fibers. Maybe stuff the cleaning crew missed on Friday evening.”

“Okay, thanks,” said Biegler. He waved the two men away.

Jerry Banks peered at his two senior officers.

“Excuse me, sirs…But shouldn't we reach out to the FBI? Since we're working together. I mean, they've got to be informed about Tommy Ames. That's what my uncle would want. Right?”

Biegler and Polk exchanged unreadable looks, though I could guess what they were thinking. Like it or not, Banks was right. He was also the assistant chief's nephew. It was probably a toss-up as to which fact the two men found more irritating.

Finally, Biegler nodded and reached for his cell.

***

The lieutenant soon left to report personally to Chief Logan, though it was clear from the way he and Polk acted that the murder of Tommy Ames wasn't going to cause anyone to lose sleep. Like Fred Gilroy, Ames was a bit player whose death merely added another name to the list of Max Griffin's victims. If the Pittsburgh Police—and the FBI—were going to utilize their resources to find Sykes and Griffin, it would be for the political payoff of bringing to justice the men who'd kidnapped Lisa Campbell and killed Arthur Drake. As well as Donna Swanson, Charles Harland's longtime personal nurse.

Visibly relieved at Biegler's departure, Harry leaned back against the sofa, hands clasped behind his head. Gave me one of his flat, sardonic looks.

“Better cancel your patients for at least another couple days, Doc. Your office will stay a crime scene till CSU can run all the prints they found. I mean, those that don't belong to you, Sykes, or Griffin. Who knows? Maybe one of your whiny head cases has a record.”

I met his gaze. “I doubt it, Harry. Most of my patients are themselves crime victims, as you well know. Unless you plan on hassling already-traumatized people over traffic tickets and unpaid parking fines.”

He snorted, but didn't answer. Instead, he turned his attention to Jerry Banks, who was biting a thumbnail. Bored.

“Jerry, grab some uniforms and start canvassing the area. Talk to anyone who might've seen suspicious activity on the streets outside around midnight. Maybe somebody saw two guys luggin' a heavy bag or rolled-up carpet into the building. Even if all anyone saw was a car parked out front, or in that alley in the back. Since Ames was killed elsewhere, Sykes and Griffin hadda get his dead ass here in
some
kinda vehicle.”

Jerry Banks didn't look particularly motivated by this assignment, but he nodded and ambled out of the room. Polk looked pretty happy to see
him
exit the scene, too.

Meanwhile, I'd already decided to go along with Harry's suggestion about cancelling my patients for another few days, if for no other reason than to give me time to buy and have a new chair delivered. Frankly, I didn't have the stomach to work with patients who'd be sitting in the same chair in which I'd found Ames' body.

I also planned to have both rooms in the suite thoroughly cleaned and sanitized. Again, for its psychological benefit. To erase, symbolically as well as physically, the lingering traces of what had happened here.

With an exaggerated sigh, Harry Polk levered himself out of the sofa. Then he closed the hallway door, beyond which stood two uniforms, charged with guarding the crime scene.

“Okay, listen up, Rinaldi. I'm gonna take a run at this Julian Hines mook. Like I said, I'm gonna work solo, at least for now. But as soon as Biegler yanks my leash, I'm done playin' the Lone Ranger. You got me?”

I nodded, then gave him the address of a motel in East Liberty where Skip was staying. Charlene had told me that it was only until he got a job and could afford his own apartment. Apparently, she'd offered to let him stay with Noah and her in their living quarters behind the bar, but Skip had declined the offer. The place was too small for all three of them, he'd said, and he didn't want to impose.

After writing down the address, Polk took off, leaving me alone in the waiting room. I smiled at the two uniforms, then gently closed the door again.

Taking Polk's seat on the sofa, I used my cell to check my voicemail. Two patient calls, both relatively urgent. I returned the first and got her answering machine, but was able to speak in person to the second patient. He'd been the recent victim of a mugging, and now suffered frequent panic attacks. Though his anxiety lessened initially, he became alarmed when I told him I had to cancel his upcoming session on Wednesday. Given his level of agitation, I made an appointment to meet with him at his usual time, only at a Starbucks just off-campus.

After hanging up, I called a colleague and asked if he could cover my practice for the next few days. Luckily, he was available. Then I left messages for the remaining patients I was slated to see during the next two days, cancelling the sessions, and leaving my colleague's number in case of emergency.

The last call I made was to Lisa, at the hospital. She answered her cell after two rings.

“I was hoping that was you, Danny.”

“How are you doing? Driving the nurses crazy?”

“More like they're driving
me
crazy. Luckily, young Doctor Gorgeous signed off on me getting outta here.”

“Have you seen Charles?”

“I'm just going up there now. You won't believe it, but the old bastard made them bring in a couple phones. He's already sitting up and conference-calling with the board of directors. Trying to figure out how to spin his stroke.”

“Probably because the investors are nervous.”

“Fuck 'em. He's made most of them rich.”

That sounded like a dollop of sympathy for Charles. Or at least an appreciation for what he'd accomplished over the years. But then she laughed. “And no, I'm not going soft in the head all of a sudden. My hubby's a prick, no matter how many strokes he has. I just hate to see the goddamn vultures circling. Reminds me of the movie business. Sharks always biting your ass when you're on top, vultures waiting to eat your innards when you're down.”

It was good to hear her spirits returning. I said so.

“Yeah, yeah. Meanwhile, that video's still out there. In James' hands. Like a ticking time bomb.”

“I've been thinking about that. There's got to be a way to get it back from him. To find out where he's hidden it.”

“Forget it, Danny. I'm screwed and you know it. Shit, I got a good mind to go up to Charles' room right now, shove a pillow in his face, and send him to that Great Boardroom in the Sky. Then I'll raid the nurses' station for all the pills they got and follow the old man right off this mortal coil.”

“Great plan, Lisa. Except for the murder-suicide part.”

“C'mon, Danny, I'm kidding.”