Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant (15 page)

"Did you know any of the kidnappers?"

"Sure, I knew Stuart," she said. "He was Standiford's flunky at the T-Rex. We'd see him around. But I never heard of the other two. Diane had this whole secret life. The woman I knew was just a lie. The only thing about her I know was true was the stuff about her parents. I gave the things Diane left behind to her mom. You know, like the stereo, her clothes, a TV. Her mom was just devastated by the whole thing."

Mark looked at the perfectly arranged, neatly segregated portions of her untouched combination plate. The conversation had ruined her appetite but not her sense of order. She was probably a great cashier.

"Did Diane ever talk to you about her dreams?"

"How do you mean?" she asked.

"I'm looking for something that might point me toward where she is today and who she might be," Mark said. "If she could reinvent herself as somebody, who would it be?"

"She loved to ski, water or snow, didn't matter," Karen said. "So I suppose she'd find some way to make a living off it. Maybe she's in Tahiti or the Alps. She dreamed about going to both those places someday."

Mark asked Karen a few more questions, and learned that Diane had a scar from a dog bite on her left hand, and wore glasses for nearsightedness.

He left the Lost Trails Hotel & Casino feeling no closer to finding Diane Love than he'd been before he got there.

Karen Cooper was wrong. Diane Love did send her mother some money. Every year on her mother's birthday, Diane sent $5,000 in cash in a manila envelope. Wyatt knew this because every year he intercepted the parcel before it was delivered and kept the money.

Actually, he intercepted all of her mother's mail before it was delivered, passing it on only after he'd screened it for any clues to Diane's whereabouts. So far, he hadn't found anything that might help him locate the fugitive.

The money was sent from a different major American city each year. Seattle. San Francisco. Phoenix. Boston. New York. Wyatt doubted Diane was moving that frequently. He assumed she traveled to those cities simply to mail the parcel from a spot as far away from her actual location as possible.

Wyatt had scoured airline, train, and bus manifests covering the two or three days of arrivals to each city in advance of each postmarked parcel, looking for any names that recurred among the thousands on the lists, Of course, she also could have driven to each of the cities, but there was no way he could think of to track that.

He found a few recurring names on the airline and train manifests and spent a few weeks searching those people out. He followed the women and sifted through every detail of their personal lives until he was absolutely certain none of them was Diane Love.

During the time Mark talked with Karen Cooper, Wyatt was sitting a few tables away, his back to them, eating a slice of pizza and eavesdropping on their conversation through an earpiece that received transmissions from the listening de vice in Mark's cell phone. He'd kept his eyes on the gamblers, never turning to look at the man he was following.

Wyatt had known, of course, that Standiford's security system would detect the devices he'd put in Mark's cell phone. He also knew that they wouldn't tell the doctor anything about it. The discovery would only underscore to them that Wyatt was on the job and earning every cent that he was being paid.

Although Wyatt didn't hear what Standiford told Mark, he knew everything that the grieving father could possibly say. The only thing Wyatt didn't know was whether or not Standiford would reveal that he'd hired someone to do what the FBI had failed to accomplish.

It didn't make a difference to Wyatt one way or another. Mark Sloan already knew somebody was out there and who was paying for it or the doctor wouldn't have arranged the meeting. And Standiford didn't know who Wyatt was, where he came from, or what motivated him to pursue his line of work. There was nothing Standiford could say that could harm him.

So far, Mark hadn't learned anything Wyatt didn't already know. Wyatt was deeply disappointed. His expectations of Mark Sloan, especially after the doctor's performance in Kauai, had been high. Unfortunately, since Mark returned to the mainland, he'd been bumbling around aimlessly, learning nothing even remotely useful.

Wyatt was beginning to wonder whether his surveillance of Mark Sloan was a valuable use of his time, if he might get closer to Diane Love, Jason Brennan, and William Gregson using his tried-and-true methods.

Then again, as far as those three targets were concerned, Wyatt's methods hadn't produced any results.

He decided he had nothing to lose by sticking with Mark Sloan for a few more weeks.

Wyatt was a patient man. It was just a matter of time be fore justice would be done.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

United Furniture occupied a busy corner on a street it shared with Garrett's Furniture, Thomasville Furniture, Ethan Allen, Kales' Furniture, Levitz Furniture Showroom, and Ron's Bar Stools & Dinettes.

If there was a furniture war in Nevada, this was the front line.

Mark parked in front of United Furniture and walked into the store, where he was assaulted by blasts of cool air and elevator music so intense he wanted to run back to his car. But he bravely soldiered on, down the long row of recliners, to a huddle of salesmen who looked like they'd bought their suits a Wal-Mart. One of the salesmen, a pudgy, slightly balding man in his forties, peeled off from the rest and approached Mark, his arm outstretched, an impossibly large, joyous smile on his face. It was as if Mark had walked in with the cure for cancer in one hand and a signed agreement for world peace in the other.

"Good afternoon, sir," the man said, taking Mark's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "Welcome to United Furniture Company. How can I help you today?"

You can start by shutting off the music and turning down the air conditioner, Mark thought. But he said, "I'm looking for Victor Gregson."

The man's smile widened even more, a feat Mark wouldn't have thought was physically possible. Mark got an unwanted look at all the salesman's gleaming capped teeth.

"It's Vic to my friends, amigo," he said. "Let me know which satisfied customer referred you, and I'll send him a gift certificate worth ten percent off any item in the store."

"Roger Standiford," Mark said.

Vic Gregson's smile diminished in size to something that would no longer interest the Guinness Book of World Records. "Who are you?"

"I'm Mark Sloan. I'm helping the FBI and Roger Standiford find your brother."

It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. Mark neglected to mention he was a doctor because he didn't feel like explaining or justifying why the chief of internal medicine at a Los Angeles hospital was hunting down wanted fugitives. He did enough of that at home. Thankfully, Vic Gregson didn't press him on it.

"Why the sudden interest?" Vic asked.

"Someone wants to kill him," Mark said. "We'd like to catch your brother before the killer does."

Vic nodded and wandered over to the widest, tallest, most garish recliner Mark had ever seen. It was about the size of a golf cart, its bloated cushions upholstered in black leather with burled walnut trim along the overpadded armrests.

"We call this the Captain's Chair," Vic said. "It's the recliner for the new millennium."

"I'm not really interested in a recliner," Mark said.

"I'm not really interested in my brother," Vic replied. "This is a sales floor, Mark. You're taking me away from incalculable potential business."

Mark glanced around the store at row after row of recliners. He didn't see a single customer.

"I'll make a deal with you, Mark. I'll answer your questions about Bill if you'll let me tell you about this amazing step forward in recliner technology, styling, and comfort."

"Okay," Mark said.

Vic motioned to the chair. "Sit down, Mark. Experience the opulence and serenity of the Captain's Chair."

Mark sat down in the chair and sank deep into its plush pillows. He was enveloped in warmth, the chair wrapping itself around him like a hug. The recliner felt like his bed first thing in the morning after a nice, long, peaceful sleep. How could something so ugly feel so comfortable?

The salesman beamed, as if reading his mind. "That's comfort-tech engineering, Mark."

"Really?" Mark said, leaning back, the footrest popping up to support his legs. "Tell me about your family."

"We grew up in Kelso, Washington, where my dad had a furniture store. My uncle had this store, and was doing gangbuster business, and invited my dad to join him, so we moved out here," Vic said. "Business was great. Of course, the big boys in furniture noticed and decided to squeeze us out. We went from being the only furniture store in the area to competing with a dozen national chains and major discounters. So we developed a niche, and you're sitting in it. Recliners."

What he'd shared with Mark was the history of United Furniture Company, not the story of the Gregson family. But the more Mark thought about it, perhaps Victor had told him a lot about the Gregsons. The family was all about the furniture business.

"Where did Bill fit in to that?" Mark asked.

"He didn't," Vic said. "He didn't have an affinity for furniture. You're either born with it or you're not."

"I wasn't aware of that," Mark said.

"Frankly, Mark, he didn't have a flair for sales or my natural people skills, either. He'd sit around in the back room, playing with the computer. I had to fire him."

"And that's when he went to work for Standiford Construction?"

"I figured after a few months earning a living doing physical labor, he'd finally appreciate the furniture trade and return to the store, eager to work," Vic said. "Instead, he kidnapped Standiford's daughter."

Something dark passed over Vic's face. Whether it was sadness, pain, or fury, Mark wasn't sure. Whatever emotion it was, Vic quickly pushed it aside with a gargantuan smile and a burst of renewed sales vigor.

"You know why we call this the Captain's Chair?" Vic asked. "Because it puts you in total command of your relaxation."

"Aren't I anyway?"

"You only think you are, Mark." Vic flicked an armrest switch and a thousand "fingers" beneath the supple leather began kneading Mark's muscles. "With this chair, the dream becomes reality."

Mark's tense muscles, from his head to his toes, were loosening up, which was pretty amazing to him because until the massage started, he had no idea his muscles were tense.

"Did Bill have any unusual physical characteristics or behaviors?"

"He started going bald in his twenties," Vic said, "and had the annoying habit of picking his nose in public."

Now all Mark had to do was find a bald millionaire with a finger up his nose. How hard could that be?

"Did you ever meet Stuart Appleby, Diane Love, or Jason Brennan?" Mark said.

"I heard their names for the first time when news broke about the kidnapping," Vic said.

"Kidnapping and murder," Mark corrected.

"Whatever," Vic said, the dark look passing over his face again. He forced a smile. "This recliner is also a multimedia, multitasking experience. You've got a universal remote, a built-in CD player with surround-sound speakers, and a full range of ports and jacks for your Game Boy, headphones, cell phone, and laptop computer."

"Do you ever hear from your brother?" Mark asked.

"The only reason he'd ever call is to ask for money, and he has plenty of that now, so what would be the point? I'd hang up on him, anyway. He's dead to me," Vic said, then motioned to the other armrest. "Did you notice the cup holders, Mark?"

No, he hadn't. In fact, Mark was having trouble noticing anything anymore. It was taking all his willpower just to stay awake.

"Did Bill have any aspirations?"

"Making money without having to work for it," Vic said. "What happens if you run out of beer or chips while sitting in the chair?"

"It gets them for you?"

"Almost, Mark. You press this button here," Vic said, and suddenly his voice was amplified throughout the store. "And you activate the hidden loudspeaker. No matter how far away the kitchen is, they'll hear you when you call."

Vic hit the switch again, turning off the loudspeaker. "You want to know my favorite feature of this remarkable piece of furniture?"

"There's more?" Mark asked.

"You almost never have to leave its soothing embrace," Vic said. "Touch that knob and see for yourself."

Mark touched a knob on the console with his index finger and the chair moved forward with a soft, electric hum. He pushed the knob to the right, and the chair moved in that direction. The recliner wasn't just the size of a golf cart, it traveled like one, too. Mark felt a smile on his face.

He glanced up at Vie. "How much is it?"

Mark left Las Vegas, feeling frustrated and angry with him self, on the 8:00 P.M. flight to L. A. He'd learned more about the recliner than he had about Diane Love, Jason Brennan, or William Gregson.

Rationally, he knew he shouldn't be too hard on himself. What did he expect he'd accomplish in so short a time? The FBI had been on the case for five years; did he really think he'd stumble on a huge revelation in just eight hours? Did he actually believe he was that much smarter than everyone else?

No, he didn't.

But like everyone who goes to Vegas, he went thinking he'd get lucky. Instead of drawing the winning poker hand or landing the winning spin on a slot machine, he'd hoped he'd ask the right question and yield the perfect clue.

That didn't happen.

What did he learn? Patsy Durkin told him her ex-boyfriend Jason Brennan went to the bathroom all the time and never put the seat down. Karen Cooper told him her former best friend Diane Love dreamed of skiing the Alps. And Vic Gregson revealed his brother, William, liked to pick his nose.

The information, if he could even call it that, was hardly worth the time or airfare.

He had to face reality. The chances that he'd find the three fugitives before Standiford's hit man did were slim. For one thing, the hit man had a five-year head start on him. Mark hadn't made any progress, while his resourceful adversary could already be closing in on one, or all, of his prey.