Fever Dream (8 page)

“Hell, Lee, I’m not sure I’m even gonna vote for you.”

Sinclair’s laugh was almost genuine.

But Brian Fletcher was unimpressed. “Let’s hope you’re right, Doc. But I’ve been around long enough to know only an idiot assumes how some unplanned event is gonna play out. Like, for example, what if this Vickers prick
does
decide to sue? Pending lawsuits during the final weeks of a campaign don’t do much for your poll numbers.”

“The man’s got a point,” Sinclair admitted. He tugged on his jacket sleeves and came around from behind his desk. “We’ll just have to see how it rolls in the next couple days. Track the emails, voter contributions. The usual suspects. Meanwhile, Lieutenant, anything on the second gunman? The one who ran off when the alarm sounded?”

Biegler shrugged. “Without an ID, it’s a stone-cold bitch. He had a mask on, too, remember. But I got a dozen uniforms canvassing a four-block area. Maybe somebody seen the guy running out of the rear of the bank. Or some guy jump in a car and take off in a hurry.”

“Probably a dead end,” Polk said. “All the guy’d have to do is take off the mask, slip the gun in his pocket, and stroll casually down Liberty Avenue. Just another mook on his lunch hour, workin’ on his tan.”

Lowrey spoke up suddenly. She’d been strangely quiet during the whole conversation.

“I think Harry’s right,” she said. “We’d have better luck working our informants. Picking up what we can from the street.”

“Yeah.” Polk nodded. “Big-ass score like this, you get a lotta chatter. Even if it all goes south.”

“I’m inclined to agree, Sergeant,” Biegler said. “Get whoever you need and get on that.” He handed his stack of files over to Polk. “And let’s get the new murder book started with these.”

Polk looked doubtfully at the files. “If the second guy’s not
already
in the wind…”

Sinclair clapped his hands together sharply.

“People, we’re going to need a much more positive, proactive attitude on this thing. I want the second guy found. I want the dead gunman ID’d. And I want the department’s media hacks on all the local TV news channels this evening. Same upbeat sound-bite: An outbreak of violence in the heart of our city quickly brought to a halt, thanks to the courage and professionalism of our police department. Am I clear?”

Biegler, Polk and Lowrey mumbled their assent. Chester just sat, face unreadable, his arms folded.

Meanwhile, I noticed Fletcher flipping through the sheaf of papers still clutched in his arms. Somehow, a pen had made its way to his mouth, clenched between two rows of expensive white caps.

Soon he found the paper he was looking for. He pulled the sheet from the stack, leaned over it on Sinclair’s desk, and started writing.

“Lee,” he said, without looking up from his work, “I’m adding a few lines to your North Side speech. Similar to what you just suggested for broadcast tonight on the news. Great stuff. We still have a few minutes, enough time for you to get familiar with it.”

“Good. I’ll read it in the car.”

The rest of us silently parted to give Sinclair room to cross to the door.

Pulling it open, he said, “Let’s get back in contact by phone in two hours. I’ll want a progress report, as well as a head’s-up on how IA’s planning to proceed. You never know with those tight-asses. Best way to keep control of this thing is to limit any unwanted surprises.”

“Yeah,” Biegler agreed importantly.

As we all started to file out, Sinclair put a hand on my arm to stop me.

“Could you stay for a moment, Dan?”

If Polk, Lowrey, or Chester had any reaction to this, they did a good job hiding it. Biegler, however, jerked his head around to glare suspiciously at me. As I remembered from my previous encounters with him, the lieutenant hated being out of the loop.

When it was just Sinclair, Fletcher, and me, the district attorney closed the door again.

“What’s wrong, Lee? Did I speak out of turn?”

“Not really. Or else I’m getting used to it.” He leaned against the doorframe. “Actually, I just wanted to ask a favor.”

I have to admit, this was a bit unexpected.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Look, I don’t know if I have your vote or not. But there’s a major fund-raising dinner tomorrow night at the Burgoyne Plaza, and I’d like you to attend.”

“Me? I don’t know if I can swing the $5,000-a-plate entrance fee.”

Fletcher looked up from his writing. A placid smile. “It’s only $1,000-a-plate. But don’t sweat it, you’re comped.”

“But why me?”

Sinclair’s gaze was direct. “Truth is, Dan, you’ve got a pretty high profile, thanks to your involvement in the Wingfield case. I think if you’re there with me, the mayor, the chief…Well, it’d be a nice photo op for me.”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“Do that.” He sighed. “Look, I know we’ve bumped heads a few times in the past, but there’s no reason we can’t let bygones be bygones.”

I was still weighing my response when Fletcher came over and handed his rewrite to his boss.

“Tell you the truth, Lee, I think this guy’s a loose cannon. As in, more trouble than he’s worth.” Fletcher gave me a cautious grin. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

Sinclair folded the speech and put it in his jacket pocket. Then he put his hand on the doorknob.

“Give it some thought, okay, Danny? I’m not asking for an endorsement. Just some public face time.”

He glanced at his watch, then past me at Fletcher. “Is the driver downstairs, Brian?”

“Waiting at the rear door. With the engine running, the AC blasting, and two Rolling Rocks in the cooler.”

“Great. Just make sure we ride with the shades down. Don’t want my future constituents getting the wrong idea. Now let’s get moving.”

Sinclair was about to turn the knob when the door suddenly burst open, knocking his hand away. He stepped back, startled.

It was Biegler, face white as a paper plate.

“Sorry to barge in.” He sucked in air. “But Lowrey just got a call from the hospital. The ambulance with Treva Williams and George Vickers never arrived there.”

“What?” Sinclair recovered quickly. “Then where the hell is it?”

“Polk checked with Highway Patrol, and they’d just filed a report on an ambulance found off to the side of Crawford Street. In a ditch, smashed against a tree.”

I stepped quickly in front of Sinclair. “What about Treva Williams?”

“Looks like she’s okay. They found her in the back, unconscious but alive. The driver wasn’t so lucky.”

“The EMT tech? Karp?”

“Yeah, that’s the name. Dead. From a broken neck.”

“What about Vickers, the security guard?” Sinclair’s face had hardened to stone. “Is
he
alive?”

Biegler looked miserable. “That’s just it, we don’t know. He wasn’t in the ambulance. Or anywhere nearby at the scene. He’s gone, sir.”

Chapter Twelve

Leland Sinclair stood in the doorway, eyes closed, slowly massaging his temples. Fletcher came up behind him, dark features pinched with worry.

Biegler, at a loss, plunged ahead.

“Highway Patrol filed the accident report less than fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “So at least we’re out in front of the media on this.”

“For now,” Fletcher said flatly.

“God knows, that won’t last.” Sinclair opened his eyes, pulled himself back to the business at hand. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I don’t make a habit of killing the messenger. What steps are we taking to find Vickers?”

As if in answer, Harry Polk’s heavy tread could be heard as he lumbered up the stairs behind us. Florid-faced, his breathing labored, he kept his grip on the banister when he’d reached the top. Eyes on Biegler.

“Just got word from the crash scene, Lieutenant. They put the Williams girl in a second ambulance and took her to Pittsburgh Memorial. Karp’s in a coroner’s wagon, on his way to Doc Bergmann at the morgue…”

Sinclair let out a breath. “Our distinguished M.E.’s having a busy day.”

Another set of footsteps drew our attention as Eleanor Lowrey trotted briskly up the stairs. In marked contrast to Polk, she was barely breathing hard.

She handed a single sheet of paper to Biegler. “Here’s the latest from CSU. Prints confirmed the identities of the deceased bank employees. Matches the descriptions and prints from the bank’s personnel files. Tina Unswari, Phyllis Hopper, Robert Marks.”

“Congratulations, Detective,” Biegler said coolly, giving her back the paper. “You got the Golden Ticket, so you get to notify the next of kin.”

Though I could tell she’d pretty much expected this, she still couldn’t hide her reluctance. She soberly folded the paper and put it in her jeans pocket.

Sinclair spoke. “What about the dead bank robber? Has he been ID’d yet?”

Lowrey shook her head. “Still running his prints through the database.”

Fletcher tapped Sinclair’s arm. “Lee, we don’t want to be late. And you know North Side traffic at this hour.”

“Yes, of course.” Sinclair flashed a tight smile to the rest of us. “If you’ll excuse me…”

He paused at the top of the stairs.

“Remember, everyone. Conference call in two hours. If nothing else, it’ll give me an excuse to get out of the Masonic Hall before they start serving the rubber chicken. Let’s go, Brian.”

With his campaign manager right behind, Sinclair went quickly down the stairs. I glanced over the banister as he and Fletcher disappeared into the main room, where a shift in the murmur of voices signaled his team’s excited awareness of the candidate’s appearance.

It’s good to be king
, I thought.

With the district attorney gone, Biegler’s tone grew more officious. “Now, Harry, what about finding Vickers?”

“Uniforms on-scene are just starting the search. You got some woods, back lots. Plus residential. We figure Vickers survived the crash, but was dazed and wandered away from the scene. He’s probably passed out behind some trash dumpster, bleeding to death.”

Lowrey groaned. “This just gets better and better.”

I got between Polk and his boss. “Look, I hate to interrupt all this cool cop stuff, but I’ve got to get down to the hospital. I want to see Treva Williams.”

“Like hell,” Biegler said.

“Listen, Lieutenant. If she’s gonna talk about what happened, she’ll talk to me. Besides, I’m a civilian therapist and she’s under my clinical care. Technically, I don’t even need to ask your permission.” I showed him some teeth. “But I was trying to show my props to the chain of command. Since I’m on the payroll.”

“A big mistake, if you want my opinion.”

“Never have, Lieutenant. Probably never will.”

His eyes darkened with malice. Finally, letting out an aggrieved sigh, he waved his hand.

“Sure, you want to go see her, go. It’ll be good to have you out of my hair. But we’re gonna need an official statement from her, anyway. Harry will go with you.”

Polk snorted. “C’mon, Lieutenant. I figured I’d get over to the crash site, run the search for Vickers. Let Detective Lowrey interview the girl.”

“Weren’t you listening, Sergeant? She’s doin’ next-of-kin.”

“Sir.” Lowrey turned her violet eyes on him. I wasn’t sure if it would have any effect. “Can’t you assign the notification to another detective? For one thing, I worked with the Williams girl. Right next to Dr. Rinaldi. She trusts me. Besides, I believe she’ll be more comfortable giving her statement to another woman.”

Polk agreed vigorously. “I’m tellin’ ya, Lieutenant. Detective Lowrey here takes a helluva statement. Especially from another broad. I mean, female.”

Biegler looked from one of them to the other.

“You two think I’m an idiot? I know tag-team bullshit when I hear it. On the other hand, I happen to agree about female detectives being better at getting statements from female witnesses.” He raised a warning finger at Lowrey. “Which is the
only
reason I’m letting you off the hook with the notification. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. I appreciate it, sir.”

“Yeah, whatever. Now you and Rinaldi go down to the hospital and get what you can from Treva Williams.”

***

Eleanor Lowrey sat in the passenger seat of my car, nervously flipping through my cache of CDs.

“Miles Davis. Sarah Vaughn. Brubeck. Parker.” She frowned. “Don’t you listen to anything but jazz?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s okay, but I’m more of an R&B girl myself. Grew up in the Hill listening to nothing but Motown.”

I took this in. “The Hill” was the Hill District, a poor, predominately black area of urban Pittsburgh. I realized then that I’d never heard her mention her background. Nor much of anything else about herself.

“Hey, you’ve got Diana Krall here.” She held up the elegant CD cover. “She’s not bad for a white chick.”