Fever Dream (10 page)

“Nowhere.” Polk rubbed his neck. “Canvas turned up shit. He could be anywhere. Even outta town by now.”

We all fell silent for a long moment. Though as far as I was concerned, Polk’s news had merely prompted more questions than answers.

“But how did he make the switch?” I said at last. “I mean, the killer. What exactly happened in the bank?”

Polk stirred. “I’ve been wonderin’ the same thing. I spent the whole time drivin’ over here thinkin’ it over. ’Course, we’ll know more when all the forensics come back. Not just the autopsies. Blood splatter patterns, locations of the spent shells. The whole story. Hell, these lab geeks are so good now, they can tell the order of who got shot when, and from what angle. Everything.”

He climbed to his feet. “But ya want my guess? For whatever reasons, our guy starts shootin’ hostages. Maybe he just freaked out, or panicked ’cause his partner split on him. Who knows? Anyway, he pops the two tellers and the assistant manager. Single shots, execution-style. Which is when
we
start mobilizin’. Plus the SWAT sniper across the street, shooting through the bank’s windows. The prick knows he’s fucked. Then he gets a brainstorm.”

“Vickers, the security guard,” Eleanor said evenly. “The one hostage left alive.”

“Right. We’re still moving into position outside the bank, so the guy figures he’s got maybe a minute. He takes off his mask, makes Vickers change clothes with him, then puts the mask on Vickers and shoots him in the head. At close range, a .357’s gonna do the same kinda damage as a long-range hollow point. So it’ll look like Vickers is the perp, shot by the SWAT sniper.” Polk gave a dry whistle. “Our guy’s got brass balls, I’ll give him that.”

“But you think the sniper
did
actually get a piece of him?” I asked.

“Probably. Unless he shot himself in the arm, which I kinda doubt. Not at such close range. Not with a .357 Magnum. If he’d put the gun barrel against his own arm and fired, he would’ve shot the whole damned thing off. Thing is, I don’t know whether the sniper got him before or after he killed Vickers. Either way, by the time we get in there, all we find are three dead hostages, what looks like the bank robber dead on the floor, and a wounded security guard.”

“In a way,” I said, “getting shot by the sniper helped our guy out. Added credibility to his story.”

Eleanor clasped her hands under her chin. “And he was smart enough to leave the .357 behind. So we could find it next to Vickers’ outstretched hand.”

She looked up at her partner. “Too much to hope that they found any prints on the gun?”

“Wiped clean.” Polk shook a cigarette out of a packet of Camel unfiltereds.

Eleanor managed a short laugh. “Jesus, Harry, you can’t light up in here.”

“Who said anything about lighting up?” He put the unlit cigarette between his lips. It bobbed energetically as he spoke. “I just need the oral fix.”

The sergeant and I exchanged looks.

“See, I’m even pickin’ up your lingo now, Doc.” He gave me a doleful smile. “I’m beginnin’ to think you’re a bad influence on me.”

But my mind was elsewhere. I’d just realized why the security guard’s uniform had looked so tight on the killer. I’d thought it was vanity on Vickers’ part. Actually, the killer was a bigger man than Vickers, so that when they changed clothes, the smaller-sized uniform would appear tight-fitting, especially across the chest.

Polk took his unlit cigarette from his mouth and used it as a pointer. “I’m assumin’ you two ain’t had time to talk to the Williams woman yet?”

Eleanor answered. “No. She’s still sedated. I guess we’ll come back in a couple hours.”

“Before or after our conference call with Sinclair?”

“Damn, I forgot about that.”

I hadn’t. And this latest news wasn’t going to make the District Attorney—
and
candidate for governor—very happy. Letting the criminal responsible for the deaths of four innocent people slip past the police dressed as a security guard? Who then kills an EMT driver, assaults the lone surviving bank employee, and escapes into a residential area? And was still at large?

No question, today’s events would lead the local news. Maybe even make the networks, CNN, Fox. Not to mention the Internet. All the crime buffs’ websites, every law-and-order fanatic’s personal blog. The whole viral circus.

Polk put his unlit Camel in his breast pocket and squinted at Eleanor.

“Okay. You know Biegler will want a statement from Treva Williams. So if you gotta wait for it, wait for it. I’ll get back to the precinct so at least one of us is on the phone when Sinclair calls.” A wry smile. “But don’t worry, I’ll take notes.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Eleanor said. “I guess you’ll need this.” She tossed his notebook back to him.

He absently flipped it closed, then shoved it in his back pocket. Then he looked at me.

“Listen, since you got a couple hours to kill, maybe you could feed my partner. She don’t eat regular, she gets cranky as hell.”

Eleanor flushed. “Dammit, Harry…”

Polk just laughed. Then he gave each of us a good-bye nod and shuffled away. As we watched him go, I turned to Eleanor.

“You know, that wasn’t a bad idea. I’m pretty hungry myself. And I know just the place.”

***

As we drove down toward Second Avenue and the river, traffic grew even thicker. Office workers heading for home, clogging the Point and the on-ramps to the bridges. Trucks coming out of the produce yards and warehouses, crossing town to get to the turnpike. Buses chugging along unused streetcar routes, before the long parkway journey to the suburbs.

The work day ending. Though the sun was still high, and the heat unbroken. I had the Mustang’s air conditioning on full, its steady hum warring with Ornette Coleman’s moody tenor sax from the CD speakers.

Eleanor Lowrey sat in silence next to me, apparently lost in thought. As Polk had said, it hadn’t exactly been a banner day for law enforcement. And though one of the pair of violent suspects was seriously wounded, they were both still in the wind.

As I turned south toward the Monongahela River, my gaze was caught by a huge campaign billboard towering over the intersection. Leland Sinclair’s cool, smiling face suddenly loomed over me. Beneath it was his now familiar slogan: “Smart. Strong. And on your side.”

Jesus
. There was something surrealistic about seeing the face of a man you’d been talking to just an hour before, now filling most of a twenty-by-forty-foot billboard. Casting a shadow half the size of a football field on the side of the apartment building opposite.

Then again, I thought, why shouldn’t it seem strange? Unreal? The whole series of events of this day felt that way to me. The botched robbery, the deadly gun-battle, the ambulance crash. The more I reflected on it, the more everything just seemed…
off…
somehow.

It reminded me of the feeling I’d sometimes have in session with a patient, when my every instinct told me that I was missing something. Some important detail in the patient’s story, a crucial secret hiding behind some gesture or turn of phrase. Behind some tell-tale sign.

As Eleanor Lowrey and I drove without speaking through the late afternoon’s relentless heat, I realized I was having that same feeling now. That I was missing something. Something important.

But what?

Chapter Fifteen

Noah Frye was having a good day.

When Eleanor and I walked into Noah’s Ark, a floating saloon moored at a bank below Second Avenue, we found him chatting amiably with the lone early drinker at the bar. Built like a bear, and with a similar loose-limbed ease with his size, Noah busily wiped the counter top with a damp cloth while sharing his tipsy customer’s complaints about the Pirates’ ongoing woes.

As Eleanor and I found stools at the far end of the bar, I gave Noah my customary half-friend, half-clinical appraisal. No involuntary twitches or wild-eyed, suspicious glares. No requests to be taken outside and crucified. No references to voices from the Unholy Realm.

Which meant that he was regularly taking his antipsychotic meds. Or, at least, that his girlfriend Charlene—who was waiting on customers at the dining tables while Noah worked the bar—was making sure he was taking them. Big-haired, big-waisted, and a paragon of common sense, Charlene was more than just what the doctor ordered when it came to Noah; she was exactly what a paranoid schizophrenic needed.

Eleanor nudged me as she swept the funky riverfront bar with her eyes. I could sense she was having a hard time reconciling its polished brass fixtures and rack of glasses poised high over the beveled counter top with the black tar paper hanging raggedly from the ceiling. Not to mention the acrid smell of oil-soaked water.

“What the hell
is
this place?” she said.

“Just what it looks like. A converted coal barge.”

“That explains the port-holes.”

“And the fishy aroma wafting in from the Monongahela. Noah wanted the place to still look as much like a barge as possible. What he calls its nautical motif.”

I explained that I’d met Noah years before, when he was a patient at a private psychiatric clinic called Ten Oaks and I had just come on as a clinical intern. Sometime later, after being involuntarily released when his insurance ran out, Noah had to take to the streets. Though he was a gifted musician, he drifted between odd jobs and bouts of delusional terror until I happened to come upon him early one morning. Digging in a trash dumpster.

“My God. What happened?”

“The short version? A bunch of us from the clinic took him under our wing. One of the staff shrinks, Nancy Mendors, took charge of prescribing his meds. We even found him a job at this newly converted bar, whose owner took such a liking to Noah that he named the place after him. Now he and Charlene run the place together.”

I pointed out the large-framed ex-hippie moving adroitly between the tightly-spaced tables. At the same moment, Charlene caught my eye and waved cheerfully, before disappearing behind the kitchen’s double-hinged doors.

“That’s Charlene. Trust me, she’s done more good for Noah than a herd of shrinks.”

Just then, a sharp, discordant chord sounded from the upright piano in the far corner. I swiveled in my seat in time to spot a fat calico cat leap from the keyboard and disappear behind a well-used trap drum set. An unplugged Fender bass guitar leaned against a grungy floor amp.

“Dammit, Thelonius!” It was Noah, hustling down the length of the bar in our direction. “Stay away from my piano! I’m gonna—”

When he reached where Eleanor and I sat, Noah wadded his cleaning cloth into a ball and threw it in the direction of the instruments. It opened in mid-flight and fluttered to the floor in front of the snare drum.

“You have a cat?” I said.

Noah made a big show of seeming aggravated.

“Not for long,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “The fat bastard just shows up one day and figures he’d sponge off me for a while. I keep tellin’ Charlene, either Thelonius starts earnin’ his keep around here or I’m throwin’ him overboard.”

“Like you’d really do that.”

“I mean it. Yesterday I’m bringin’ in crates of fryin’ potatoes, sweatin’ my balls off, and where is he? Plopped down behind the cash register, sleepin’ off a nap. Worthless, that feline. If he wasn’t so goddam cute—”

Noah stopped abruptly and smiled at Eleanor, as though just noticing her for the first time. Which was entirely possible.

“Hey, Danny, where’re your manners? Who’s this beautiful lady?”

“I was waiting for you to catch your breath so I could make introductions. This is Detective Eleanor Lowrey. Eleanor, Noah Frye. Part-time piano player and full-time saloon-keeper.”

Noah bowed slightly and extended his beefy hand for Eleanor’s. Something about his open, unassuming expression brought a rare warmth to her face. At least, it had been pretty rare today.

“Happy to meet you, Noah. And call me Eleanor.”

Noah scratched his thatch of unruly hair. “Uh, this ain’t a bust or nothin’, right, Eleanor? ’Cause our liquor license is up to date and the Health Department just gave the kitchen an A-minus. Though, truth be told, I’m still bitter about the ‘minus.’ Which I also blame on Thelonius. Since I have to do most of the rodent-catchin’ around here, too.”

I indicated the instruments standing in the shallow corner behind us. “You got a trio playing here now?”

Noah bobbed his head. “Yeah, me and two wing-nuts from Philly. Brothers or cousins or some shit. Total coke-heads but with great chops. We call ourselves Flat Affect.”

“Love the name.”

“I mean it, man, we kick serious syncopated ass. I’m thinkin’ o’ makin’ a demo.”

We exchanged a few more pleasantries before getting down to business and ordering some burgers and beers. After which, Eleanor excused herself and headed for the rest rooms. Noah went back along the bar to disappear into the kitchen, presumably to give Charlene the food order, and then returned to draw us our drafts—one Iron City, one Rolling Rock—from a couple of huge kegs.