Deadly Errors (18 page)

T
HE MAN TURNED toward a car and acted as if he was having difficulty with the door lock as Tyler Mathews stepped down from the apartment courtyard onto the sidewalk. He’d seen Mathews and the woman kiss and had read their body language well enough to back away just before Mathews had turned and started his way.

He let Mathews walk away. The woman was of interest now. Who was she? He stepped up into the courtyard and into the shrubs. He’d wait, watch for a window to light up.

F
LAT ON HIS back, arms at his sides, Tyler stared into his bedroom ceiling as parallel lines of light from car headlights passing on the street below periodically streaked across gray shadows. He had yet to fall asleep. And it didn’t feel like he would any time soon. Hard as he tried, his muscles seemed incapable of relaxing. Or if they did, it was for only as long as he concentrated on them.

His mind ruminated obsessively on Michelle. Was her death quick or had she suffered? Was it connected to the Med-InDx cover up? Ferguson implied as much, but without much more than an apparent hunch.
That’s the kind of implication that can make you even more paranoid, pal, if you dwell on it.
But, Tyler realized, there was no way he couldn’t dwell on it.

Once again he ran a mental list of things to do tomorrow. Contact Robin Beck and Gail Walker. Find out their stories.
Does Ferguson know about them? Should I even tell him?

Take an Ambien.

No way. Not now that there’s a chance of getting Nancy back.

Go ahead. It’s been a rough day. You deserve it. Practice abstinence tomorrow night.

But why should tomorrow night be any different?

Face it, pal. You’re not going to get to sleep in this FUBAR state. Sooner or later you’re gonna have to take that pill if you have any hopes of relaxing. Besides, there’re only five more pills in that prescription before the jig’s up. Special Agent Gary Ferguson saw to that, now didn’t he!

What to do about Ferguson was the big question. Spy for the FBI? What were the chances of getting caught? Especially with Khan in the way. To spy he’d have to use the computer. And if Khan—or anybody else in the organization with hooks into IT—suspected him, it would be a chip shot to track every one of his keystrokes. Which made the sixty-four thousand dollars question: did
they
—whoever “they” were—suspect him?

For Christ’s sake, pal, what do you mean, does anybody suspect you? Khan knows damn well you suspect a hacker diddled the field. Not only that, but with Michelle dead …

Sure, but that’s the only thing Khan knows. What if I simply make it look like I let it drop? Then what? Will Khan believe I dropped it?

He doesn’t have to believe anything. All he has to do is insert a routine to monitor for your login ID and then record anything you do. Spy and sooner or later he’s going to know it.

The apartment’s air conditioning flicked on. Tyler listened to the soft hum, welcoming the distraction.

O
N HIS LEFT side, Tyler stared at the glowing digits and reconsidered half an Ambien. Maybe just a half. That way he could stretch the remaining few out.

He thought of Nancy. What was he going to do if she spent the night?

Hide one, stupid. Where you can sneak it. If you needed it, that is.

T
YLER STOOD IN the bathroom, amber plastic prescription bottle in hand, thinking it over. If he took a half tablet, he would be that much closer to running out of the damned drug. Once that happened there was nothing more he could do. So, considering it from that angle, he owed it to himself to take it.

Tyler opened the bottle, broke a pill in half, and chewed it to a paste he spread along his gums with the tip of his tongue.On the way back to bed he vowed to not take the other half tomorrow.

Tomorrow… . Among other things, he’d look up Beck.

C
ONFUSED, THE MAN stood in front of the apartment registry. The woman he’d seen in the restaurant was Asian. None of the names listed seemed Asian. Then again, maybe she was married. He smiled at the thought. Mathews … dipping the wick with another man’s wife. Perfect.

He turned to leave the building lobby but he wasn’t satisfied. He’d be back, he decided, opening the door and stepping into the night, and next time he’d follow her in and find out which apartment she lived in.

“I’
M SORRY, DOCTOR, Doctor Beck doesn’t work here anymore,” the young pimply-faced ward clerk answered in a singsong voice.

Tyler stood in front of the Emergency Department work desk, the expansive main hall to the exam rooms and trauma bays stretching out to either side of him. His peripheral vision caught a flash of blue as a nurse in scrubs hurried by. From behind the desk the squelch broke on a fire department scanner.
Tuned to the paramedic’s frequency
, he figured. Even at this hour the department churned with activity, some non-emergent patients being treated after signing in during early morning hours.

Tyler asked, “Really?” trying out his best friendly smile. “When did she leave?”
Funny, I’m not surprised.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, we’re not allowed to give out any personal information about our staff.”

“Then I suppose her home phone number is out of the question,” unable to hide a note of frustration.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, yes it is.”

Tyler nodded, “Thanks,” and walked away wondering if he’d just carried on a conversation with a robot.

One flight of stairs up and a block long hallway brought him to the physicians’ lounge. He punched in the access code, opened the door, and hung a right. Two of the three small computer cubicles were occupied. This time of morning the internists were printing out patient lists, most surgeons having already passed through the lounge an hour or so ago before starting rounds or heading to the operating rooms.

After settling into the unoccupied cubical, he picked up the telephone, punched 0. When the operator responded, he said, “This is Doctor Mathews. I need to reach Doctor Robin Beck. Can you could put me through to her home number?” No way would she give him the number, he knew.

After a brief pause, “Sorry Doctor, she’s no longer listed as being on staff.”

Tyler thanked her and hung up. Seeing no telephone book, he pulled over the computer keyboard and opened an Internet browser and requested QwestDex. A moment later he dialed Robin Beck’s telephone number.

The phone was answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Doctor Beck?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know if you remember me,” he lied, having never met her—that he could remember. “I’m Tyler Mathews, a neurosurgeon at Maynard. I was wondering if I might be able to meet with you later today?”

A pause. “About?” sounding mildly suspicious.

“About the complication you had a while back. I had a serious one the other day and I think it may have some similarities to yours.”

“This some sort of sick joke?”

“No, no, please …” he scrambled to find the words to subdue her anger. “I’m serious. A patient of mine died because of an overdose of radiation to his brain. I think the computer may be responsible.”

After several seconds, “Doctor Beck, you still there?”

“Your name again?”

“Tyler Mathews. I’m a neurosurgeon—”

“Yeah yeah, you already said all that.” A pause. “Where do you want to meet?”

“Wherever would be best for you.”

“You can come here.” She gave him her address. “What time?”

He calculated how long it’d take to drive to that part of town, figured in the few other things he needed to do and checked his watch. “How ’bout around 10:30.”

“See you then.”

T
YLER ENTERED THE ICU nurses, station and glanced around. At one of the charting computers sat a male nurse he recognized. When he approached, the young man glanced up. “Something I can do for you, Dr. Mathews?”

He decided to use the plausible story concocted during the eight-floor elevator ride. “Here’s the deal,” he glanced at the nurse’s ID tag dangling from a neck lanyard, “Paul. I’m writing up a case report to submit to
Neurosurgery.
In going over the chart I discovered a nurse, name of Gail Walker, took care of the patient. She works on this floor doesn’t she? She working today?”

Paul scratched his cheek, seemed to think about it. “Walker? Yeah, I seem to remember her. She left Maynard several months ago, I believe.”

“Think you could find out where she went?”

“No problem.”

Paul used the telephone to call the nursing office. After a brief conversation he hung up, turned to Tyler. “Story is she didn’t show up for work a couple months ago. No one’s heard of her since.”

B
ACK IN THE physicians’ lounge Tyler logged into Qwest-Dex again. It listed two G. Walkers but neither phone answered after twenty rings. The G. Walker he was searching for could be married and listed under her husband’s name. Or, she might live in one of the numerous suburbs of Seattle, leaving too many possibilities to search.

From his wallet he pulled a business card—a King County detective in his basketball league at the Seattle Athletic Club. He dialed Jim Laing’s number with little hope of actually catching him, figuring he’d leave a voice mail. To his surprise, Jim answered.

“Jim, Tyler Mathews … yeah, I know, I missed the last game … look, this isn’t about hoops. I need a favor …” He asked the detective to run Gail Walker’s name through the DMV computer. A moment later he had an address.

S
PECIAL AGENT IN Charge Nina Stanford made no attempt to hide a yawn as she picked up a black Braun coffee carafe on the credenza behind her oak desk.