Fever Dream (13 page)
She grinned. “I figured I could.”
Thirty seconds later, her grin had faded.
Because her cell had rung. She’d answered, listened intently and then clicked off. Stood frozen. Shut her eyes for a long moment, breathing slow and hard.
When she turned back to me, her look was a mix of incomprehension and anger.
“That was Robertson at the hospital. He said Treva’s doctor just informed him that she’s awake and alert. And that she’s able to answer questions.”
“That’s good. We’re only ten minutes from where I’m parked.”
“Not so good. For me. Treva told the doc she’ll only talk to you. And that if there has to be a cop in the room, that’s okay, too. As long as it’s not me.”
I just stared at her. Watched the light in her eyes go dim and fade.
“Treva said she doesn’t want to talk to me. That she won’t tell us anything if I’m there. That she never wants to see me again.”
We drove in my Mustang back to police headquarters in a thickening dusk that still held most of the day’s heat. Though the silence in my car was even thicker.
Eleanor had said only that since she couldn’t take part in Treva’s questioning, she might as well join Harry for the scheduled conference call with DA Sinclair. Then she’d settled back against the unforgiving bucket seats and closed her eyes. On me. On the traffic. On the world.
We hit gridlock as we neared the Liberty Bridge on-ramp. I turned on the all-news station, only to catch the last few seconds of a new campaign ad by Councilman John Garrity.
“I know how things work up in the state capitol. How to get things done. My opponent only knows how to preside over a rising crime rate and a disorganized police department. Do we really want an amateur negotiating tax codes with new businesses? With potential employers—and the jobs they bring—that this state sorely needs?”
Then Garrity’s own version of stirring music, while a polished announcer intoned: “John Garrity. Experience we can count on.”
“Sorry,” I said to Eleanor, clicking it off before Garrity’s thin voice could return, proclaiming that he approved this message.
She spoke her first words in ten minutes.
“Fuck Garrity. We’re not disorganized. We’re underfunded. Undermanned.”
“So Sinclair has your vote?”
She didn’t turn her head. “Another ambitious prick. Just a lot smarter, I guess. Some choice, eh?”
I didn’t reply. My own view was that Garrity was mistaken in mocking Sinclair’s lack of political experience. For one thing, voters this election season thought that having political veterans in office was the reason the state was in such trouble in the first place.
Moreover, Leland Sinclair was as canny a political animal as I’d ever seen. He’d sure as hell run the DA’s office all these years with at least one eye on the prevailing winds of public sentiment. Every high-profile case he and his team prosecuted just another stepping stone on the road to higher office.
On the other hand, Garrity’s much-vaunted political experience was local, as a city councilman. And before that, as a successful CEO of an interstate trucking firm. Though not as telegenic as Sinclair—John Garrity was short, overweight, and double-chinned—he nonetheless appeared the embodiment of business savvy and cool-headedness. In fact, what he mostly possessed was lots of private money and family connections.
Now, after months of hard-fought campaigning, he and Sinclair were still neck-and-neck in the polls. Which either said something about them, the voters, or the state of American politics. I just didn’t know which.
***
In another minute or two, the traffic eased and we were moving once more, now in sight of the precinct.
I didn’t look for another radio station, or slip in a CD. Apparently, Eleanor appreciated the silence. She turned once to give me a sad smile, then swiveled back to stare out the window. Thinking, no doubt, about Treva.
Suddenly, Eleanor’s cell rang again. I listened as she murmured a few times, nodding as though whomever was on the other end of the call could see. Then a short, wry chuckle, then more nodding. Then she clicked off.
“Feel like sharing?” I said.
“That was Harry. CSU was able to lift some prints from inside the ambulance. We finally got an ID on our guy. He got sloppy and left two clear prints on the inside driver’s side door handle.”
I considered this. “After the crash, he must’ve crawled over the driver’s body and gone out that door. Which probably means the impact pushed in the passenger side in the front. He couldn’t get out that way.”
“Yeah. Harry said CSU came up with the same theory. Must’ve been one helluva big tree that ambulance hit. Crushed the whole right side in like tin foil.”
“So, who’s our guy?”
“You’re gonna love this. Back at the bank, he told Harry the truth. He
is
an ex-cop. Chicago PD. Then he worked for Blackwater in Iraq. Private security for what passes for government officials over there.”
“Worked? Past tense?”
“Blackwater threw him out. Psych problems. Excessive force. Insubordination.”
“He was too much for
them
?”
“Told you you were gonna love it.”
“What’s this model citizen’s name?”
“Roarke, Wheeler H. We got his date of birth and last known residence—Terre Haute, Indiana. Biegler has the local cops there checking it out, but odds are Roarke’s not heading back home anytime soon.” She rubbed her eyes. “They said it’d take at least twenty-four hours for a full work-up on Roarke. And that’s only if Blackwater and Chicago PD cooperate. Which isn’t likely. He’s not a guy either one of ’em wants to brag about, if you know what I mean.”
“Any news about his whereabouts?”
She shook her head. “Harry’s just leaving the crash scene now. Gonna meet me and Biegler for Sinclair’s call. But he said we still have teams searching the area around Crawford Street. Plus the ongoing alerts at area hospitals, doctors’ offices. Harry even reached out to some fancy private diet clinic nearby.”
“Smart move. They might have a nurse on hand. Maybe even a physician. In case Roarke figures he could get some medical help that way. He’s got to be getting desperate.”
“Desperate and lethal. Bad combo.”
***
I dropped Eleanor Lowrey at the precinct and turned around in the parking lot. Then I angled myself again into slow-moving traffic heading back to Pittsburgh Memorial.
I tightened my grip on the wheel as the traffic light five cars ahead turned from green to yellow. The guy in the Chevy truck in front of me sped up to beat the red, then abruptly changed his mind. Lurched to a sudden stop, forcing me to stomp on the brakes.
I was still cursing this Nascar reject under my breath when my cell rang. It was Noah.
“Not for nothin’, man, but you left the bar without sayin’ good-bye. We schizos got feelin’s, too, ya know.”
“Sorry, Noah. Kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“No sweat. I know a thing or two about Happy Hour booty calls myself.”
“You’re way off base, man. Eleanor’s—”
“I know, just a friend. Whatever. But it must be nice, her havin’ her own regulation handcuffs and everything.”
“It’s good to know you can still entertain yourself, Noah.”
“It’s a gift. All those nights in lock-ups and padded cells really paid off. You oughtta see my card tricks.”
“Is there some real reason you called, other than to bust my balls?”
“Well, usually, that’s reason enough. But I got actual intel. Seein’ how bummed out you were about Andy the Android finally deactivating himself, I called around and found out where the funeral is tomorrow.”
“Really? Thanks, Noah.”
“
No problemo.
There’s a private thing at Bernstein’s Funeral Home—just family—then they’re buryin’ the poor bastard at Rosewood Cemetery. You know it?”
“Been there a few times.” It was where my father and mother were both buried. “What time?”
“Looks like they start diggin’ at noon. Oughtta be nice and hot by then. Perfect for wearin’ black. You mourners are gonna sweat buckets.”
“I take it you’re not going?”
“I can’t, Danny. You know. That thing I said, about the willies. But I…I mean, a guy can mourn in private, right? By himself? In his own head?”
“People do it all the time, Noah. Don’t worry about it. I know how you felt about Andy. More importantly,
he
knew.”
“Yeah? Then why the fuck did he do it? Eh, man?”
I was surprised at the spike of anguish in his voice.
Then I took a guess.
“You’re
not
Andy, Noah.”
“No, I’m just a different kind o’ crazy. But we’re in the same fraternity, bro. Delta Sigma Psycho.”
I paused, gathering my thoughts. So that’s why Andy’s death had spooked him so much.
And, in a sense, Noah was right. He and Andy
were
part of a select group. A special fraternity of people who’d attempted suicide.
Only Andy had pulled it off.
“Maybe we should get together and talk,” I said at last.
But Noah had already clicked off.
Finally, night. Crowding out the last faint rays of a stubborn summer sun. Though a stale heat still lingered, fringed the air. Made the darkness heavy, oppressive.
I pulled into the parking lot at Pittsburgh Memorial, under the glowing UPMC sign. Only a few cars dotted the line of spaces, their roofs shining like new coins off the glare of the parking lot light posts.
I went into the hospital through a side entrance, by-passing the main reception area, and took the elevator up to the ICU—
Where, to my surprise, the doors opened onto a deserted corridor. Silent. Empty.
I paused a moment, then stepped out of the elevator. Heard the doors close with a whispered rumble behind me.
The corridor wasn’t just deserted. It was dark. Long shadows painted the dull walls, making gray the familiar hospital white.
I looked up, saw that the overhead fluorescents were out. Tubes of flat black that ran the length of the high ceiling, disappearing at the end of the hall.
I took another step and glanced toward the nurse’s station. It was empty. The wheeled chair behind the semi-circular desk was pushed back against the corner, as though shoved there.
As though somebody had bolted out of it in a hurry.
I swallowed, mouth suddenly dry as dust. Felt my heart revving up in my chest.
Something was definitely wrong.
Steeling myself, I started down the corridor toward the last room. Treva’s room.
The first two rooms I passed were empty. Silent. Unlike earlier today. No sounds of machinery pumping. No beeps, blinking lights, pneumatic wheezes.
And no patients. Again, unlike earlier today. I remembered that there’d been one in each of these rooms. Now the rooms were dim as caves, lit only by a rising moon’s faint glow through the windows slats. The beds were stripped. Sheets gone.
I’d been around ICUs enough to know what that meant. Or what it usually meant. The patients had died.
But where was the night nurse? More importantly, where was Treva’s guard, Detective Robertson?
That thought made me swivel where I stood. Nerves wound tight, vibrating. Fight or flight.
Nothing. And no one.
Then I looked again toward the end of the long, shadowed corridor. Saw for the first time a soft, pale light that bloomed faintly up ahead, coming from the last room. Somehow more ominous for being the sole illumination in the darkness of the silent ICU.
I squinted in concentration as I drew closer to that light emanating from Treva’s room. Gripped by a sudden, visceral sense of foreboding. Of dread.
The light grew brighter. A few feet more and—
Something caught my foot. Big, soft, heavy. I stumbled, clawing the air. Righting myself at last by grabbing the doorframe at the threshold to the room.
I peered down in the darkness. A body lay on the floor at my feet. A large-bellied man, jacket thrown open.
I got to my haunches, made out his features in the light from Treva’s room.
Robertson.
Quickly, I checked his vitals. He was unconscious, but alive. A smear of blood tattooed the vinyl flooring beneath his head. I spread his jacket, checked for more blood. Other wounds. Nothing.
I knew I had to get him help, but not before checking on Treva. I got to my feet again and bolted into her room. The light I’d seen had come from two small table lamps, one on each side of her bed. The overheads were out.
The shaded lamps made the room seem incongruously cozy. Safe. The pillows were pushed up against the headboard, as though perhaps she’d decided to read by lamp-light. Had in fact asked that the overheads be turned off.