Fever Dream (6 page)

When I reached the stretch of sidewalk where I’d helped Karp carry Treva into the ambulance, I found only the pony-tailed coroner’s assistant. She was leaning sullenly against a trash can, wiping her brow with her sleeve. The heat poured down in waves, like invisible lava.

“Where’s the ambulance?” I asked her.

“You just missed ’em,” Pony-Tail said. She was noisily chewing gum. “Doc Bergmann said to get the security guard on his way ASAP. So I put him in the back with the girl and Karp drove like hell outta here. Pittsburgh Memorial.”

“So Treva Williams was with them?”

Pony-Tail stopped chewing long enough to give me a surly look. “You’re Dr. Rinaldi, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Was Treva awake and alert?”

“Alert enough to ask me where the hell
you
were. She said you were supposed to ride with her in the ambulance.”

“I was. At least, I told her I would.”

“Yeah. She said you
promised
her.” Pony-Tail smiled unpleasantly. “You’re some kind of shrink, right? Shouldn’t guys like you keep your promises?”

I took a moment before answering. I wasn’t really in the mood for this. “She say anything else?”

Pony-Tail looked off. “Let me see. Oh, yeah. She said, ‘Well, it isn’t the first time I’ve been fucked over by a man. Won’t be the last.’ Somethin’ like that.”

“I bet it was
exactly
like that.”

She popped her gum. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Suddenly, I heard Eleanor Lowrey’s voice behind me, calling out.

“Dan!”

I turned and saw her trotting between the angled black-and-whites at the intersection, heading my way. Even from this distance, I could tell something was up.

Pony-Tail spat her gum onto the grass. “I gotta go. Some of us
work
for a living.”

She made her way over to where a young uniformed officer was arguing across a length of crime scene tape with a heavy-set man hoisting a shoulder-cam. Pony-Tail gave the uniform a sly smile, which he returned with a broader one. I guess they knew each other.

I wondered for a moment what Pony-Tail’s problem with me was. Father issues? Bad experience with a therapist?

She’d certainly bonded instantly with Treva Williams. Maybe saw herself as a similar kind of victim. Of men, of life.

Or else none of the above, and I was just dealing with the horror of what I’d seen in the bank by indulging my clinical curiosity. The classic therapist’s defense mechanism. A way to keep the image of all that blood and carnage, all that gruesome death, at bay.

My reverie was interrupted by Lowrey’s arrival. Her eyes were bright, charged with feeling. Her sunglasses hung from the deep V in her t-shirt, glinting in the sun. “Good thing I caught up with you.”

“Make it fast, detective. I’ve got a five-block walk to where my car’s parked.”

“Where are you going?”

“Pittsburgh Memorial. That’s where the EMT ambulance is taking Vickers and Treva Williams. I promised her I’d ride down with her, and…well…I didn’t get back here in time.”

“She’ll be all right.”

“We don’t know that. Treva’s in a traumatized state. Since her release from the bank, I’m the only civilian she’s been in contact with. The first one she’s told about what happened in there. What she saw.”

Lowrey considered this. “Well, I know she trusts you. Made some kind of connection with you. I saw it.”

“That’s why I’ve got to get to the hospital. I’ve already violated that trust by breaking my promise. I’ve got to do what I can to repair that. For
her
sake.” I paused. “The truth is, as of now she’s my clinical responsibility.”

“Sometimes you act like
everyone’s
your clinical responsibility. Remember what you went through last year?”

“I’m not likely to forget it. But the fact remains, whatever happens to Treva from now on—at least psychologically—it happened on my watch…”

Lowrey paused, put on her sunglasses. “Look, I think I understand. And I wish I could let you go. But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have orders from Lt. Biegler to bring you with me. There’s an emergency debriefing that’s taking place in ten minutes, and they want to see you. Both of us.”

I didn’t understand this. Unless they wanted some kind of statement from me. I’d been the one brought in to treat the sole hostage the gunmen released. The only person who’d survived the shoot-out in the bank. Maybe Vickers’ threat of a lawsuit had made everybody nervous.

“Look, Detective,” I said quickly, “if this is the usual departmental bullshit, tell them to send me all the forms they want and I’ll fill ’em out. In triplicate. But Treva’s the one who needs me now.”

Lowrey shook her head. “No can do. He specifically wants to see
you
.”

“Who, Biegler?”

“No. District Attorney Sinclair.”

I stared at her. “Sinclair wants to see
me
? Why?”

She managed a brief smile. “Don’t ask me, I just work here. Now come on.”

She took my arm, exerting just enough muscle to signal that she wasn’t kidding around. I raised my free hand in mock-surrender and went with her.

“Where
is
this meeting, anyway?” I gently pulled my arm free.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said. “And for Christ’s sake, stop calling me ‘Detective.’”

Chapter Ten

We walked three blocks south of the First Allegheny Bank, and then into a red-bricked, two-story converted appliance store. Instead of banners announcing ceiling fans and dishwashers on sale, the broad picture windows were plastered with bright blue campaign signs.

I gave Lowrey a stunned look. Another surprise on a day full of them. This was the downtown office of Leland Sinclair’s gubernatorial campaign.

“You’re kidding,” I said, as we crossed the main floor. The former appliance showroom now displayed a dozen nondescript rented desks piled high with papers, stacks of banners, dirty coffee mugs, and crumpled cans of Red Bull. Each desk also had a computer, fax machine, and printer crowding its surface, and a ridiculously young, caffeine-fueled volunteer sitting behind it.

None of whom even glanced up as we maneuvered through the room toward the back, where an old, wood-banistered staircase led to the second floor.

“Why are we meeting here?” I looked at Lowrey.

“Apparently, Sinclair’s on a tight schedule, and he happened to be here anyway. So his people figured it’d be easier to do it here than for Sinclair to detour down to his office.”

“But why does Sinclair even want to get involved, especially at this early stage of the investigation?”

She paused with her hand on the stairway bannister. “Hey, he’s still the DA.”

I gave this some thought. “Good point. The last thing he needs while campaigning as a tough law-and-order guy is a blood-bath in the heart of town.”

“That’s for sure. Sorta like what you were talking about with Treva. This bank mess isn’t the kind of thing Sinclair wants to have happened on
his
watch.”

“Yeah. Dead hostages make for lousy campaign ads.”

Before we went up, I glanced around me once more at the swirling activity on the floor. Phones were ringing constantly, faxes curling out of their holding bays. Images from various cable news stations flickered from the four wide TV monitors positioned strategically around the room.

And throughout all of this hustle and noise, a few slightly older, obviously veteran political types were moving purposefully among the maze of desks, like bees going from flower to flower. Your standard campaign soldiers. Ties askew, shirt sleeves rolled up. Sweating profusely despite the shiny new window AC units. Cell phones and Blackberries in hand, they either leaned down to squint unhappily at computer screens, or up to stare unhappily at one of the TV monitors.

At the top of the stairs, Lowrey and I found a series of office doors. Again, a nostalgic tableaux of dark-stained wood and frosted window-glass. Above each door there was even the proverbial transom. It was like stepping back in time to the urban Pittsburgh of the early Fifties, when black soot coated the buildings, electric trolley cars rumbled down cobblestone streets, and everybody wore a hat.

Lowrey knocked at the first door we came to.

I smiled. “What’s this, the last actual smoke-filled room?”

She wisely ignored me and we waited in silence. But only for a few moments. Then we heard Harry Polk’s gruff voice calling through the door.

“If that’s you, Lowrey, come on in. And bring the doc with ya.”

***

Leland Sinclair sat behind a small, cherrywood desk, elbows on the blotter as he listened to the murmured voices of the men arrayed in chairs around him. This room also had a newly-installed window air conditioner, whose steady drone provided an almost lulling white noise.

I did a quick head count. Lt. Biegler. Harry Polk. And a squat, powerfully-built man I remembered from one awful night during the Wingfield investigation. The SWAT commander, Sgt. Chester—I’d never gotten a first name—was still wearing his Kevlar from the crime scene. His narrow-eyed appraisal of me as Lowrey and I came in was a carbon copy of the one Biegler was giving me.

The only face I didn’t know belonged to a tall, sharp-featured man in his late thirties. He gave me a look that tried very hard to be cursory, but didn’t quite succeed. Instead, I got the impression of a hawk-like intelligence that didn’t miss much. Dark hair, trimmed mustache. Silk tie, Windsor knot, long sleeved white shirt with gold cuffs. No jacket.

“I’m Brian Fletcher,” he said with a tight smile, rising to shake hands. “Lee’s campaign manager. Welcome to the madhouse.”

Hardly an apt description. Leland Sinclair’s campaign office was as spare and orderly as the main floor below was cluttered and chaotic. I wasn’t surprised. I remembered his office in the district attorney’s suite from my several visits there last year. Pristine, elegant furnishings. Appropriately-placed wall hangings, lighting fixtures, decorative items. Family photos on the desk, also appropriately placed.

This office, though much smaller and more spartan, reflected similar qualities of judicious thought, banked emotions. The studied attempt at control.

As did the man himself.

“Dan Rinaldi. Nice to see you again.”

Sinclair rose from behind his desk to grip my hand. Handsome, patrician face. Silver hair trimmed a bit shorter than I remembered. Tailored Armani suit. Manicured hands that belied the strength of his handshake, which he held firmly, and a beat too long.

Reminded me of my opponents in my Golden Gloves days. Trying to intimidate you in the first round.

“Congratulations, Lee. I hear you’re still three points ahead in the polls.”

His smile was theatrically pained. “Never trust the polls, Danny. Just ask my pollster.”

Brian Fletcher laughed shortly, as did Biegler. The campaign manager looked at him.

“I’m on the payroll, Lieutenant. I
have
to laugh at his jokes. What’s
your
excuse?”

Biegler reddened, and glanced over at Sinclair, as though for moral support. Apparently, the DA wasn’t in a giving mood. He retook his seat behind the desk and gestured at me.

“Now that you and Detective Lowrey are here, we can get down to business. But make it fast. I have to give a speech on the North Side in less than an hour.”

Lowrey and I found chairs and sat. As we did, Fletcher began scooping up some papers from the desk.

“You want me to step outside, Lee? Since this is police business?”

“Hell, stay if you want. Besides, don’t you have this room bugged, anyway?”

The two men shared a knowing smile, excluding the rest of us in the room. They had that easy banter, the cool familiarity, of the select. The entitled. The best and the brightest, in Halberstam’s famous words.

“Now, then.” Sinclair massaged his knuckles. “Before we begin, let me get everyone’s jurisdictional concerns out of the way. I think you’ll be happy to hear, Lieutenant, that the Assistant Chief is going to run interference for us with Neal Alcott.”

“Who?” I asked.

“FBI.” Biegler’s tone was flat. “Bank jobs are federal crimes. Though usually they leave us alone, unless we ask for assistance.”

“But not this time,” Sinclair said. “Not with a hostage situation that led to multiple casualties. Luckily, Alcott’s a desk jockey who’d rather brown-nose his way to a promotion than get his fingernails dirty. As long as we keep him in the loop, we’ll probably get to run this investigation ourselves.”

“Until the manhunt goes nationwide,” Polk pointed out. “Then it’s the Bureau’s ballgame.”

“All the more reason to get on top of this fast.” Sinclair turned to Biegler. “So, Lieutenant, what the hell happened out there today? What do we know?”