ColdScheme (25 page)

I was taking the beer out of the fridge when the doorbell
rang. Jazz rushed to answer it.

My father said he decided to drop by—for a pizza. Suddenly I
had a party in my house.

I couldn’t remember the last time my house had been filled
with so many friends and family. It felt good.

* * * * *

When I saw Bourke, he looked exhausted. His cheeks were
sunken. He seemed to have aged ten years in these last few days.

“Yeah, it was a setup,” he said when he finished reading our
report. “Any idea who’s behind it?”

“All the victims were tied, one way or another, to
Mongrove,” I said. “The night watchman who died in surgery at Hopkins used to
patrol the Hellenic Plaza for three years before he retired. It ties him to the
Creeslow limo service, like all the rest of the victims.”

“Do you know what frightens me, Meg?” Bourke asked. I shook
my head and he continued, “That all the victims have lived with a bomb in their
chest for years and never knew it. Whoever’s the mastermind, he’s damn good.”

I agreed but I also worried about it differently. “Whoever’s
behind it, sir, has set it up years ago and then carried out this far-reaching
scheme, carefully and systematically.”

“Yeah, that would take incredible patience and focus.”

“It’s the planning and the level of detail that worries me,
sir. If you were a part of this scheme would you know that two years down the
road you would need a night watchman or a tradesman or a waiter?”

“You don’t think he implanted these people with an explosive
device randomly, whoever he could get?” Bourke’s brows shot up.

“Opportunity must have played a part, sir but I think he’s a
careful planner who visualizes success and achieves it.”

“Do you think it’s the doctor at Mongrove?” he asked.

“Agent Mattis is still checking Patterson’s credentials,”
Field said. “He’ll have more information in a day or two.”

“Well, I’m off to another meeting. Keep me posted,” Bourke
said and dismissed us.

Ken went to pick up Brenda and Field left to meet with Agent
Gould.

I did something extraordinary too. I went to lunch with my
father.

* * * * *

“You’re still in Baltimore,” I remarked when the waiter left
with our orders.

“It’s me, Eli…Meg…I’m sitting here,” he murmured with
abstraction.

“Thanks for staying over, with Jazz,” I didn’t know where to
rest my eyes and kept looking around.

“We made friends. She’s like you but she’s also like her
father. I don’t think you have much to worry about.”

“I don’t know how to tell her, or how much.” I said what I’d
been fighting to acknowledge.

“I find that a simple approach works the best.”

“You like a direct approach—with a hammer,” I grumbled.

“I’ve never used a hammer on you,” he deadpanned.

Finally, I laughed.

“Did she ask you anything?”

He nodded. “I told her I was an old family friend.”

I groaned and he continued, “I said that I knew her
grandmother then told her about your mother and her family.”

“Great,” I moaned.

“Your mother was not a Tavistock.”

“She was a Hanley, of the Rhode Island shipbuilding empire.”

“I omitted empires.”

I laughed again. “How did she take it?”

He lifted his head and stared into space. “When I finished,
she was drawing her grandmother. I think it looked a little like your next-door
neighbor. She popped in, a busybody. She saw the limo and wanted to know who
died. It’s a start. You can do the rest. I promised her that I would keep in
touch. Will you let me?”

It was a strange lunch. Then again, it was the first of a
kind. He told me that the Washington FBI had discreetly and very cautiously
started to probe into Blank’s background and cloaked activities.

“His personal physician is also under investigation,” he
said, “but your approach is probably what will work to retire Mr. R. Bishop
Blank. I’ll see how far the Justice Department dares to move against him but
I’ve already given orders to start implementing your solution. Discreetly, of
course.”

“Why is the FBI investigating Blank’s doctor?”

“They believe that he may have worked for the IMF.”

“Dr. Martin,” I said then told him where he fitted into the
scheme of things.

“Blank must have a lot of people involved in this scheme,
hidden under assumed identities. I’ve heard what happened at Hopkins,” he said.

“The doctor who was shot wasn’t a part of it. He was set up.
Our prime suspect now is the Chief Resident doctor at Mongrove. We’ll have to
pay him a visit soon.”

“Be careful,” he frowned.

“I’m a homicide detective,” I groaned.

“Yes I know,” he said snappily. “And I didn’t worry so much
when you were working historical cases. Research is your forte. But this is
live.”

“You’ve kept track of me? Where I was? What I was doing?”

He sat back, stiff-necked. “Well, of course. You’re my
daughter. What did you think?”

I told him—at length. He kept sipping his coffee, listening
with a bemused expression. Now and then he shook his head and chuckled.

* * * * *

Ken and Field brought our dinner—a Chinese takeout. Jazz
asked whether she could take her plate to the living room and watch TV. Since
we would probably discuss business over dinner, I gave her permission.

Ken was watching the coffee maker, ready to shut it off,
because he didn’t like strong coffee. Field spread the paperwork on the table
then went to check my email in the living room. We were waiting for Agent
Mattis to either call or email information that would give us a legal right to
bring Dr. Patterson in for questioning.

My cell phone chimed. I smiled, thinking that Agent Mattis
was bold to call me directly and circumvent his boss and flipped it open.

“Yes?”

“Release the frozen accounts or the pediatric nurse is
history.” I heard an electronic voice haltingly deliver the message.

“Who is this?” I demanded.

“Release the frozen accounts or you’ll be picking up pieces
of the pediatric nurse all over town,” the voice said. Its electronic warble
wasn’t strong enough to affect the message.

“Who is—” I started but the line went dead.

I stared at the phone. “Ken, where is Brenda?” I asked,
without looking at him.

He put down the pot on the table then looked up. “What?”

“Is Brenda working tonight?”

“No, she went out with a friend.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t say.” He frowned.

I dialed Joe’s cell.

“Yeah.” He sounded hoarse.

“Where are you?”

“In bed. Where the hell do you think I am at ten o’clock
after spending sixteen hours on my feet? What’s up?”

“Have you seen Brenda today?”

“In the morning, when she clocked off her shift.”

“Did she say what she was going to do the rest of the day?”

“She clocked off a shift. What the hell do you think she’d
be doing? Sleeping.”

“All right, thanks.” I was about to hang up when I heard him
again.

“Hold on. Yeah, I think she said something about going to
see Valerie later on, or someone.”

“Where?”

“Mongrove. I think she’s a friend, a nurse.”

“Thanks,” I hung up and looked at Ken. “Call Sven.” I
slashed my hand to stop his questions. “A SWAT team might be a good idea.
Covert approach. Extreme caution. We’re going in.”

“Where?” He stared at me but took out his cell phone.

“Mongrove,” Field’s quiet voice came from the hallway. He
was holding a sheet of paper. “Mattis sent the email. I
printed it out. The proximity of four victims to Mongrove makes it a logical
target. Morris filed a report at Hopkins about his suspicions when he treated
Patricia. Mattis got a hold of it. It implicates Patterson. Patricia was
overmedicated and physically abused. Hopkins administrators never followed up
but Morris kept trying. A month ago, he approached the Hopkins’ administration.
He asked Francis to take action. Patterson must have learned about it. It might
be the reason why Patricia suddenly met with an accident. He could have also
set up Morris. And you were right.” He nodded at me. “Patterson did work for
Lamar-Forest but he left there, at age thirty-nine, to join Doctors without
Borders.”

“Where did he go?” I asked.

“Lima, Peru. He’s also buried there, died of parasitic
disease six months after his arrival.”

“He came back from the dead and is a Chief Resident at
Mongrove,” I said, tightening my lips. It was of no comfort to me that I was
right about Patterson all along. I worried about Brenda.

“A ruthless man saw an opportunity and came back as
Patterson. Brick must have been targeted when he worked in Peru. He might have
left because he felt unsafe. They saw that his talent had potential to cause
them problems. Mongrove was a perfect place to carry out their pacemaker
experiments, especially on the patients without family. Agent Gould is still
tracking down escort services. What did they ask for?” He stared at me, grim
and uncompromising.

For Ken’s sake, I didn’t want to repeat the whole message.

“They want the frozen funds released.”

He snorted. “Of course. What’s the threat if we don’t
comply?”

“They’ll execute another victim,” I said, avoiding his eyes.

“Brenda?”

I hissed softly.

“What?” Ken’s hand with the phone dropped. “Brenda’s in
Mongrove?”

“Let’s go.” I waved him on.

“Where’s Jazz?” Field asked, heading for the door, his cell
phone held against his ear.

“Mrs. Tavalho took her along, to help set up the church
bazaar.”

“Leave her a message. We might be all night,” Field said
over his shoulder.

Chapter Fifteen

Mongrove was a fortress that could be approached from
outside but to get inside quietly through all the screens wasn’t possible.

It was after ten o’clock. The last light of the beautiful
June evening had faded but the hospital guards monitoring the outside cameras
would still be able to see dark shapes, darting around and positioning
themselves for an unfriendly entry. Field was on the same thought-wavelength
because he ordered the SWAT squad leader to hold position. He pointed at Sven
Olsen and said, “I saw a pizza place a couple of blocks away. Have one of your
men pick up an order. We’ll go the ‘delivery’ route.” He turned back to the
squad leader, handing him something. “Pick a man to handle the pizza delivery.
Have him stick this into the lock when he enters. It’ll take thirty seconds to
burn through, then we go in. Coordinate your squad’s approach. Two-by-two, once
inside sweep and secure the main floor. Put staff into rooms and lock them.”

I leaned over to Field and asked in a low-carrying voice,
“Does Brenda have all this time it’ll take to get the pizza here? And what if
Patterson’s not inside?”

He shook his head. “He’ll be in his office.”

“He can be holding her hostage anywhere in this place.” I worried
about Brenda and at the same time felt as if I was going to participate only in
a field exercise, not an actual hostage situation. Something felt wrong but I
couldn’t define what it was since I was never before a part of this kind of
situation.

“Patterson wants the funds released. He needs a computer
connection. He’ll be waiting with a laptop ready to transfer the money into
offshore accounts,” Field said.

I pulled him away from the squad commander. “Field—” I
started.

He cut me off. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, my voice ringing with frustration.
“That’s the problem. I feel—”

“Feelings are not part of the FBI or police protocol in
hostage situations, Sergeant,” he said. “Did you or didn’t you receive a phone
call, demanding those funds be released?”

I snorted. “Yes, I did but it sounded contrived. It came
conveniently. I felt even as I listened that it wasn’t real.”

“A criminal’s holding a hostage and he made demands,
Sergeant. What’s unreal about that?”

I raised my hand to show him I was capitulating and he left
to confer with the squad leader. He was right. Feelings had no place in police
protocol in hostage situations. But I started analyzing the situation as we
headed for Mongrove. It’s what I did best. That’s why I chose to be assigned to
Cold Case Unit because the job required detailed analysis of historical data
and information. As a cold case homicide detective, I’d read hundreds of
transcripts, hundreds of police reports taken down by just as many police
officers taking statements from victims’ relatives, friends or witnesses. After
reading half a page of someone’s deposition I already knew the deposed’s speech
patterns and could even visualize the person’s mannerisms. By studying details
and analyzing information I’d learned to reconstruct old crime scenes until I
could visualize them with clarity as if they were scarcely a few days old. Ken
and I practiced “reading” pedestrians every chance we got. Often we would stop
the citizen we’d both just “read” to have a friendly chat with him—and to
confirm that I was much better at “reading” people than my partner.

The electronic voice on the phone said to release the frozen
funds or the pediatric nurse would die. The caller repeated the message and
hung up. No further instructions, no directions. The caller left a lot to Fate.
What if we hadn’t been able to find out where Brenda was? What if I hadn’t
called Joe? What if Brenda had changed her mind about visiting Valerie and
happened to be somewhere other than Mongrove?

Patterson liked to project an image of a “bright boy”. He
dazzled us with patients’ histories in detail. He could have been improvising
or lying outright but he was still glib, witty and droll. I could see the
reason for the caller to electronically disguise his voice but the message was
so terse that the caller had little to worry about the police tracing his call.
And I wouldn’t have recognized Patterson’s voice from that sentence alone.
During our first visit to Mongrove we left Patterson our business cards. Why
would he choose to call me when Brenda’s life was at stake? Why not call Ken?
He was the senior partner. Well, maybe Patterson didn’t know about Ken and
Brenda’s relationship. Then again, there was that glib recital of patient’s
history that found such an easy mark in Ken. It could be just coincidence that
the Mongrove patient who resembled Brenda had suffered breakup consequences of
a relationship that mirrored Ken and Brenda’s. But what if it wasn’t? Why not
call the FBI, since his demand dealt with the funds’ release? How could
Patterson possibly know that the Tavistock banker was my father and I was the
key person who would be able to get him to do it?

Was I overanalyzing because that was the true nature of my
job ever since I’d joined the BPD? Field’s sudden appearance in my life had
already eroded my emotional stability. What if it had also affected my
analytical skills to a degree where I could no longer trust my judgment? Was my
instinct such a reliable tool that it should become my professional yardstick
for making logical deductions?

To me, the call sounded more like a tip-off by an informant
who wanted the police to clean up for him. I wanted to be right but I also
feared being wrong.

There were many things here that didn’t make sense to me but
Field was right about one thing—this was neither the place nor time for
feelings, no matter how much they were steeped in analytical thinking.

“What did the Chairman say about releasing those funds?” I
heard Field’s voice behind me and abandoned my reflections.

I took out a sheet of paper and wordlessly handed it to him.
I’d called my father as we headed for Brooklyn. It shocked me that he hardly
asked any questions. He inquired whether I had paper and a pen ready and
dictated the numbers of frozen accounts. The original three hundred had been
grouped into a block of twenty-one. My father said the bank would do as we
asked. I thanked him and hung up but not before I heard him say, “Be careful.
Take care.”

* * * * *

Field’s “pizza delivery” plan worked. However, even as I
moved inside the waiting area, my back to the wall, the feeling of something
being wrong washed over me again. I stopped and listened until I figured out
what bothered me.

SWAT teams aren’t expected to wear athletic footwear but
they could have used it tonight. The hard clatter of boots echoed like a
drumroll through the stone edifice. Suddenly I felt as contrary and cynical as
Joe. Why bother with pizza delivery charades? Hell, we might as well have rung
the bell and asked to see Patterson.

Gun drawn and ready, I moved along the wall. I lost track of
Ken and Field but I saw Sven and three more colleagues herding those few staff
members who’d rushed in, into offices and rooms, locking the doors. The SWAT
members took positions and secured each corridor section, before moving ahead.
They must have finally realized that softer footsteps were necessary and ran on
tiptoes. By the time we were within sight of Patterson’s office, everyone moved
quietly, cautiously.

Guns held ready, two SWAT members faced the office door. Field
stood to a side, also ready. I didn’t see Ken and worried about him. He hadn’t
said a word all through the ride.

Since I was part of the SWAT briefing, I knew the strategy.
Two officers would cover Field when he burst through the door. I moved closer
because I wanted to see inside, even though “passive observation” wasn’t part
of the plan. The SWAT team leader called this a Seize and Rescue operation.

Field slashed down his hand, a sign he was going in.

He was quick and efficient. The SWAT members were right
behind him but I managed to glimpse what I felt I might see all along.

Patterson sat behind his desk, holding a cup of coffee. He
was raising it to take a sip. Brenda sat in one of the antiquated wooden
swivel-arm chairs, also drinking coffee. They weren’t expecting visitors—and
definitely not the police. A strange sensation washed over me, a mix of relief
and apprehension. I was right. Or more precisely, my instinct didn’t let me
down. The phone message was a tip-off and this was a setup.

Even as such thoughts flashed through my head, the peaceful
scenario in the office cracked as if someone shattered it with a hammer.
Patterson jumped up and ran to take cover between the rows of gray filing
cabinets. Black-clad bodies rushed inside, momentarily obscuring my view of
Brenda’s upturned shocked face. Someone ran into me and shoved me aside. Ken
ran past me, gun held ready. By the time I shed my observer’s cobwebs and ran
after him, two SWAT team members had Brenda between them, dragging her out. Ken
turned, hands gripping his gun outstretched, protecting their departure. I
heard a whirring noise and a row of filing cabinets beside me started to
rotate. Before I could jump out of the way the lights went out. The SWAT
members had night-vision goggles. Since I didn’t, I backed out of the office,
away from the whirring noise. Part of my mind sought relief in the fact that
not a single shot had been fired.

An hour later, when it was over, I knew it was a setup,
though Patterson was the right target.

“For once Joe will get a bullet-riddled body, as opposed to
an exploded one,” I said to Field when we stood outside again, watching all the
activity winding down.

“It was easy,” he murmured.

“For the FBI, maybe. But for the BPD and SWAT an hour of
chasing the suspect all over a stone fortress, is a hard night’s work.”

“Brenda said she wasn’t threatened,” he said.

She was taken away in an ambulance, even though she
protested that it wasn’t necessary. I saw that Ken wanted to go with her and
told him it was all right. We could finish up without him.

“Patterson was part of it,” he sounded again when I made no
comment.

“Yes, he was a major player but not the key player. I think
there are other parts,” I said.

“His partners set him up,” he said, raising his brows at me.

Once he remote-shut off the lights, Patterson used all the
automation at his fingertips to thwart the SWAT team and escape. By then, the
BPD sent reinforcements because Mongrove was a huge facility and a thousand
patients couldn’t go unattended for long, even at night. Patterson must have
seen the outside swarming with police vehicles. The search lights they’d set up
all along the perimeter would have told him that it was a bad idea to try gain
freedom via the ground floor. With SWAT and the rest of the police officers
conducting corridor searches, Patterson made his way quietly to the roof. He
knew how to avoid the monitoring cameras. No one caught him heading for the
rooftop staircase. He correctly assumed the police would be watching all the
exits and windows. The rooftop was six stories above the ground and the
hospital didn’t adjoin any other building.

Each time we visited Mongrove, Patterson strove to make a
point about the underfunded state of his facility. No one expected the hospital
to have a helicopter pad, never mind a helicopter on the roof.

In a sense, my curious and analytical nature was responsible
for Patterson’s death. Even as Ken climbed into the ambulance and sat down next
to Brenda, I reached over and tapped her knee.

“Why were you in Patterson’s office?” I asked. “Joe told me
you went to visit your friend, Valerie.”

Brenda pushed away a paramedic’s hand, restraining her from
leaning out and said, “I was waiting for her in the foyer. Patterson came out
to tell me that though she finished her shift, she was helping to settle down
two post-op patients they’d just brought back by a helicopter from Hopkins. The
chopper ride upset the patients and one of them became agitated enough to break
his stitches. Patterson invited me for a coffee in his office. I saw no reason
to refuse. He was charming and witty. He said if Valerie took much longer, we’d
order in and have her join us for late night dinner.”

When I overheard Field giving instructions over a radio to
one of the SWAT team members to cover exits, no matter how well screened or
steel-barred, I remembered Brenda’s words—and the chopper on the roof.

Sven Olsen shouted once at the doctor to get out of the
charging chopper then shot Patterson through the cockpit glass just as the
blade started to whirl around.

“Meg,” Field moved a hand in front of my face. When I
smiled, he continued, “It’s almost four o’clock. Do you think there’s a coffee
shop open somewhere?”

“I know a café in Washington that stays open late,” I said,
shaking off the reflections.

“In Washington, I wouldn’t have asked you.”

“Is your memory that good?”

He put his hand around my shoulders. “Do you want to find
out?”

I leaned against him. “We ought to get some sleep. I’d like
to come back tomorrow and take a look around Patterson’s office. He had to keep
records of the operation. Creeslow has moved but they’re still
operating—somewhere. I’m pretty sure they would have set up in Washington—as
another business, not the same but a similar business that uses limos.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” he drew me closer. “Now let’s
get some sleep.”

We walked over to his Concorde and climbed inside. He
reached to start the car and paused, staring ahead. “Is Mrs. Tavalho staying
with Jazz tonight?”

“She’ll stay as long as needed.” I talked to my housekeeper,
even as the SWAT team searched the hospital corridors.

“I have a room at the Harbor Court,” he said.

“Really? Room service too?”

He flashed me a grin. “If memory serves…”