Diabolical (17 page)

She crawled onto the mattress with a feline motion, padding on hands and knees.

“I want to make you feel better,” she said, looking back at him over her shoulder. “If you're up for it.”

He moved to the bed, climbed on one knee at a time. She rolled onto her back and he leaned over her, felt her ankles creep over his hips, slide down his legs.

“You nuns,” he said, staring down into her eyes, “have the funniest way of putting things.”

 

 

HATCHER SLEPT FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF, THEN SHOWERED and left Vivian in her room. She protested meekly, half asleep, but let her head settle back down into the pillow with a dreamy hint of a smile on her face as he gave her a kiss. He was fidgety, juiced with the knowledge things needed to be done and that lying in a hotel room wasn't getting him closer to doing them. The compulsion to move around made it difficult to think.

He didn't know what to make of Vivian's sudden change of heart. She was holding back a lot of things, that much was obvious. But it was hard to get a good read on her because she was clearly in love with him. Love had no respect for rules. Made people do strange things, act in strange ways.

Like throw a cop off a roof.

He pushed the thought out of his mind, looked down at the keys in his hand. He didn't have time to think about any of those things. There were too many more pressing questions that needed immediate answers.

It occurred to him that there was one place he might find some, so he got in Vivian's car and drove. As he pulled out onto the street, he realized he'd been heading to the parking garage before he'd even thought about where he was going.

The Pacific peeked out from between hotels, an expanse of darkness to the west, a hint of a glow from where it swallowed the sun. Its waves crested white in the distance, a nonstop churning. Just as restless as he was.

Nora Henruss. Nothing more than a cipher to him, but one somehow connected to his nephew. But what kind of a connection was it? Did Bartlett know about her? And why would Bartlett kidnap the boy, and possibly his mother, in the first place and still let himself be talked into letting Hatcher get involved. It didn't make sense. Someone was playing him, no doubt about it. Nothing new there.

The question was, why? Even if he could stop this Highway to Hell from opening, assuming there even was such a thing, how was he supposed to find it? And who was that skinny prick who approached him earlier? What was his game? And was that thing with the cop something arranged? Or had someone dialed 911 right before he made contact, told them an assault was in progress? What the hell was that all about?

His head started to hurt, a sign he needed to stop beating it against a wall of thoughts. The way to overcome your limitations, he knew, was to recognize them. He wasn't an investigator, didn't know the first thing about analyzing forensics or piecing together clues. He had limited access to law enforcement data through Amy, but who knew how much and for how long, and even that required more to go on than he had. What he needed was more information. He found the thought semi-comforting. When it came to obtaining information, he wasn't without skills.

Vivian didn't want him to confront Bartlett. Obvious, that. The more he thought about it, the more he couldn't blame her. She was right. It would probably not be pleasant. It was just as well, because before he did anything like that, he wanted to have a better handle on things. If he was going to make the followup worth the hassle, he needed to figure out how much there was he didn't know.

And there was only one source of information for that he could think of.

He headed over to Venice, parked on a side street off Pacific, one of those ubiquitous alley drives between the backs of homes and duplexes. Tiny parking alcoves and garage doors lining a narrow lane. More than a driveway, less than a street. Good place to tuck a rental for a little while.

Three blocks south sat what looked like a former drugstore, made over into a clinic. The marquee-like sign over the entrance read MEDI-GREEN, with the words WALK-IN CLINIC in smaller letters beneath.

The number of medical marijuana dispensaries in the region had exploded a few years earlier, taking advantage of a permitting loophole, only to be shut down when local lawmakers realized how many had popped up. But there were still plenty around, and it was only natural that a pay-as-you-go, no-hassle medical clinic here and there would figure out they could pad their revenue by providing easy prescriptions, and a few did. These were places used to dealing with people who didn't feel comfortable with a lot of questions. People who liked to pay in cash. People who needed a doctor, and wanted something nearby, convenient, quick.

People like Sherman.

Even for a relatively short fall like the one he took, Sherman would have needed medical attention. The math wasn't that hard, especially since Hatcher had been forced to memorize it. Basic rappelling, instructors drilling into your head the physical dangers of not controlling your descent. A one-story fall was assumed to be twelve feet, producing a velocity of about twentyeight feet per second. Two stories was shorthanded as twenty-four feet, velocity around thirty-nine feet per second. He guessed the effective distance of Sherman's fall was about fifteen to twenty feet. A one-story building, but some extra distance due to the parapet and the fact it was from a roof, not a window. That put the height somewhere in between. A one-story fall created an impact of around forty-eight g's; a two-story fall, around ninety-five g's. So Sherman had probably sustained a sixty to eighty g crash. Headfirst, solid concrete landing. Probably twisted in flight, so his back absorbed some of the blow, avoiding a melon splatter of brains. But even so, instant deceleration. Nothing hits quite as hard as the ground.

And that meant serious pain when he finally regained consciousness, possibly severe injuries, even for a freak like Sherman. He'd need treatment, drugs at a minimum, probably stitches for his scalp in addition to a number of them for the rip up his arm. But he'd want to avoid a hospital. Too tied in to the bureaucracy. Too cozy with law enforcement. Too reliant on things that require ID. Too likely to result in outstanding warrants popping up on some screen when they processed his paperwork.

He'd want a clinic like this. No frills, just a doc earning a buck. Four blocks from the scene. Open until two a.m. The only place like it nearby. Denny mentioned it often. Claimed four doctors owned both it and the medical pot dispensary across the street. According to him, they were the ones who paid for the banner ad along the side wall outside the Liar's Den.

The doors opened pneumatically with just a nudge, and a blast of air-conditioning hit him. The reception area was a collection of cold, smooth surfaces designed to look antiseptic but, under the harshness of the fluorescence and the absence of natural light, seemed naked instead, as if the illumination was part of a video-taped crime-scene display, intended to expose the subtle trails of grime and smeared handprints. Layers that had been cleaned and repeated in ritual perpetuity but never quite erased.

A black guy with long dreads and a tight beard stood in the corner. He was a good two-eighty with an aggressive stare, dressed in gray cotton pants and a blue long-sleeved shirt. Dark sunglasses curving around his eyeband. Hired muscle written all over him.

A young woman in a white coat sat behind a counter. She looked up with a perfunctory smile through the open square of a partition window.

“Yes?”

“My cousin was in here last night. Early this morning, actually. I'm sure you'd remember him. Big guy, huge. Bald. Squeaky voice.”

“Oh,” she said. “Him.”

Bingo.

“Yeah, him. Did he give you a hard time?”

She arched an eyebrow and mashed her lips together, shrugged as her gaze drifted down.

Hatcher constructed a mental image of Sherman, pictured the condition he would have been in. Concussion, possible skull fracture. Severe laceration along his forearm, not to mention contusions and possibly a broken collarbone or dislocated shoulder. At least a cracked rib or two. Angry, impatient, unable to think straight. Having to sit still, head pounding, while some doctor, most likely Indian or Chinese with a pronounced accent, stitched him up out of a sense of professional obligation, being told over and over again that he needed to go to a hospital and be admitted. Getting more pissed off by the minute as the ibuprofen or acetaminophen they'd given him started to dull the ache in his skull just enough for him to think, listening to rote explanations of why he couldn't be prescribed anything stronger without a more complete examination and medical history. Telling him they could give him a scrip for marijuana if were able to relate some chronic pain symptoms or other qualifying condition, but that he wasn't going to get any opiates, because they couldn't be seen as catering to drug seekers. Then being handed a bill.

“Knowing him, I'm thinking he stiffed you.”

The woman sucked in a terse breath. “I really can't say anything. The police called and told us not to talk about it.”

Police, Hatcher thought.

“Did he get rough?” Hatcher glanced over at the ebony Sphinx in the corner who was eyeballing him. “Maybe hospitalize your other security guy?”

“I'm sorry. I can't say anything. You can come back tomorrow when the manager is here.”

“How much does he owe?”

“I'm not allowed to discuss patient information.”

“That's a shame, since I'm just trying to make sure you get paid. He's got problems. Cleaning up after him is sort of a habit. How is it going to look if it comes out someone tried to pay his bill and was refused?”

The woman pursed her lips tightly. She tapped a few things on her keyboard, scrolled her eyes up and down her screen. “He doesn't owe anything.”

Hatcher took a moment to think that through. Sherman caused trouble but didn't owe anything.

“I just hope you understand, he's a troubled person. If you help me find him, it might stop him from killing himself.”

“He doesn't owe any money, and I can't give you any information. To you or any of his other friends.”

Hatcher nodded, took a breath. It was a good idea on paper, but good ideas were like battle plans. Few survived contact with the enemy.

He turned to leave, then stopped. “What friends?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said, ‘or any of his other friends.' What friends?”

“Please, just leave. Talking about patients could get me fired.”

“I'm just trying to understand. Did another person come in asking about him?”

“Go.”

Hatcher felt Mr. Dreadlocks stir from his perch.

“I need to know who it was, so I can . . . coordinate with them. They may not realize I'm looking for him, too.”

“It was just some guy, okay? He didn't give his name. Just paid the bill. I checked to make sure there was a zero balance.”

“What did he look like?”

She tilted her head and made a gesture directed past him. Hatcher felt a hand tap his shoulder.

A baritone voice said, “You need to leave.”

Hatcher threw up his hands, patted the air in surrender.

“Last question, I promise. I just want to know what the guy looked like.”

“Why don't you just take a picture . . .” She glanced over his shoulder, gave a thrust of her chin toward the entryway. “Or ask him yourself.”

Hatcher turned, looked through the glass. Saw him standing at the curb, leaning back against his motorcycle. A winning smile on his face, not a hair out of place.

Mr. E raised a hand, gave a little wave.

The pneumatic door hissing closed behind him, Hatcher stepped out into the night air, leaving Dreadlocks staring at the back of his head and making a comment about not showing his face again. Mr. E's smile contracted into a smirk as Hatcher got close. Cocky pose, Hatcher noted. One heel on the sidewalk, the other wedged against the side of the bike beneath his rear.

“I thought California had helmet laws.”

The man kept his gaze fixed on Hatcher for a moment, then reached down, pulled up the flap on a saddlebag. He scooped out a small black curve of fiberglass that glinted in the light from the clinic.

“Take it. I've got another. Then hop on and we'll go to your car. You can follow me.”

“I'll walk, thanks. Not that there's anything wrong with that.”

The man dipped his head, nodded with a hint of a laugh. Hatcher tried to remember what Bartlett had called him. Edgar, maybe. Yeah, that was it. Not very mysterious. He could think of better names for him. But those wouldn't be kind.

“Well, that's too bad,” Edgar said, some contempt showing in his eyes. “I was really hoping to tell all the guys about you riding bitch.”

“What do you want?”

“Right now, I just want you to get your car and follow me. There's something I need you to see.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“I don't care whether you trust me or not. As long as you follow me.”

Hatcher took a step forward, sliding to within an arm's length. “How about instead you explain to me why I shouldn't cause you an unbearable amount of pain until you tell me where my nephew is.”

“For one, because you know I'd probably kill you.”

Those last words hung out there for a moment, like a mist of breath on a cold night. Hatcher's eyes floated down to the curb, lingered over Edgar's boot. Edgar started to say something else, but before he could, Hatcher was on him. All one fluid motion, just the way his mental cues told him to do it. Lunge, grab, twist. His right foot shifting across as he spun his body. Simple physics. The tight arc of his torso around the axis of his spine leveraged his power, the large muscles of his chest, back, and abdomen doing all the work. He triggered himself to point his right shoulder to the ground, swim his right arm past it, feeling the smaller man rise, the fistfuls of shirt he had yanking the body in it forward, felt the man's weight lift, then tip over his hips. Edgar's breath escaped in an audible grunt as he landed on the sidewalk.