No Show of Remorse (14 page)

Why the hell would she think I
needed
the Lady, for chrissake?

*   *   *

T
HE VILLAGE OF
L
AKE
B
LUFF
was right where its name said it should be, on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. At its north end it looked like a thousand other tired towns that have dug in and hung on for their lives to the flanks of military bases—in this case the Great Lakes Naval Training Center—but were now being weaned away, and gradually finding themselves the better for it.

Much of the rest of Lake Bluff, though, had the feel of Lake Forest, its woodsy and decidedly affluent neighbor to the south, and that's where I found Inverness Lane. The sign said it was private and had no outlet. It was the road to Inverness Clinic, once the estate of some clan who centuries ago owned half of Scotland or something, and it wound its way through what seemed to be—but wasn't, of course—a deep forest. I pulled over once and found tall chainlink fences, hidden from the road behind the trees and undergrowth, topped with barbed wire. There were paths behind them where guards, and maybe dogs, could patrol.

I drove on and pretty soon came to an ancient stone gatehouse. Twenty yards short of that the road split into two narrow lanes, one passing on each side of the little building. Low stone walls lined the pavement, to keep cars on the road. As I pulled up to the red-and-white-striped crossing gate in the right lane, two men in uniform stepped forward, one on either side of my car. They looked awfully official and not awfully friendly, although they'd obviously been trained to keep smiling. They were armed.

I lowered my window and looked up at the one staring down at me on my side of the car. The brass tag on his shirt said
B. Mackey.
He was young and cocky, and he irritated me without saying a word.

“Yo,” I said, seeking the contemporary touch. “Nice fort. Expecting an attack?”

“No, sir.” Still smiling, but a shift of mood in the eyes. “Identification?”

I held out my driver's license and Mackey took it with him into the gatehouse. He returned almost immediately and handed me a small square envelope, sealed. He didn't say anything, just waved me through with a sort of snappy, military-type gesture.

The gate went up as he did that, but I didn't drive forward. I put the shift lever in
Park
and carefully slid my finger under the flap of the envelope and opened it. Inside was a note-card, gray, to match the envelope. The writing on the card was in the same male script as my name on the front of the envelope. It said, “The patient is in Room 207. Please show this card.” It was signed, “Robert Tyne, M.D.”

A car pulled up behind me and sat there while I studied the card on both sides, then returned it to the envelope and put it in my shirt pocket. Then I took it out again and—

“Excuse me,” Mackey said. “You goin' in, or not?”

I looked up. “Not until I get my license back.”

His smile vanished. “You get that back on your way out.”

“Oh,” I said, “I don't think so.”

By now there were two cars behind me. To get in, they'd have had to back up quite a distance and then use the exit lane, which had one of those spike things to puncture the tires of people who went the wrong way.

The other guard tapped on my passenger window, but I ignored him and he came around to my side. His tag said
G. Costigan
and his smile was still in place. “Except for our regular visitors, sir,” he said, “that's the rule.”

“Why not call Dr. Tyne,” I said, “and verify that I'm the exception?” I hit the door lock button, raised the window, and switched off the ignition.

The driver behind me tapped a short, polite
beep
on his horn. Mackey walked back to talk to him. Costigan smiled and glared at me at the same time, a nifty trick, but finally turned away and spoke into his cell phone. Then, saying nothing further to me, he walked into the gatehouse and came back with my license.

I passed through, with the cars behind me following, and we made a little parade: past more trees, around a bend, and then a straight shot toward a brick drive that circled a fountain in front of Inverness Clinic.

It was a large, castle-like building of gray stone, in some places three stories and in others four, with turrets and ells and wings seemingly stuck on here and there at whim. A bit overdone, in my opinion, but surrounded by well-tended lawns with curving walks and flowerbeds, shrubbery and scattered oak and maple trees. There were stone benches and lawn chairs and little round tables with umbrellas that hadn't yet been opened for the day.

It was the sort of place people with money, and a desire to shun publicity, could go to try to recuperate from … well … whatever. Booze, dope, women, men, depression, plastic surgery. Maybe all of the above. Maybe even old age, although that might be tough to recuperate from.

It was ten o'clock on a sunny, cool Sunday morning and there were no people in sight—other than the guy in a White Sox cap and a black windbreaker sitting at one of the round tables and turning the pages of a newspaper. Him I figured to be there on Breaker's nickel.

The members of my little parade all parked in a lot off the circular drive and I let the people from the other two cars go up the wide concrete steps and inside ahead of me.

*   *   *

I
DON'T KNOW WHY
I expected Robert Tyne, M.D., to be a pain in the ass, but I did—and he wasn't. He said he was glad he was there to meet me. He'd just completed his rounds and had been about to leave. Tall and thin, with wavy brown hair going gray, he was distinguished-looking rather than handsome, along the lines of Prince Charles.

We met in what looked like the living room of a large, comfortable home, complete with stone fireplace and stuffed furniture and large leaded windows letting in lots of morning light. I showed Tyne the card with his note, and he introduced himself as the medical director of Inverness Clinic. I wondered who owned the place, and what sort of connection the owners might have with someone like Breaker Hanafan.

“How's he doing?” I asked.

“You mean Johnathan Doherty,” Tyne said. “That's the name we're using, since we don't know his given name.”

“He can't tell you his name?”

“I think he could, frankly, but he hasn't. He came out of his coma late Friday night, before his transfer here, but hasn't done much talking at all. He did say he loves the name Johnathan Doherty. Recognized it at once as ‘long for John Doe.' He calls me ‘Doctor Bob.'”

“So he's thinking all right.”

“I'd say so. Seems quite happy, too. He's in good condition for being beaten as badly as he was, but he's not out of the woods yet. We'll be running more tests tomorrow and…” He looked at his watch. “Why don't I just take you to him?”

We walked side-by-side up a wide curving stairway. “So,” I said, “this place is what? Like a nursing home?”

“We're licensed as a hospital. Unique, really. Equipped to handle a maximum of thirty patients; but we've got, or can quickly get hold of, most everything any metropolitan medical facility can offer.”

On the second floor we turned right and went from the lushly carpeted landing into a hallway where our heels clicked on a floor that looked like oak, but was probably some synthetic.

We passed a couple of closed doors and I asked, “These are patient rooms?”

“Exactly. Six on this floor; three of them occupied right now. We keep the doors closed, whether the rooms are occupied or not. Our clients—we call them clients—value their privacy.”

“Is there a nursing station somewhere?”

“In a sort of alcove at the far end of the hall.” He pointed. “Actually, staff all come and go through an entrance at that end. Visitors generally come this way. Feel free to look around a bit, but right now … here's his room.” He stopped at a closed door, then turned to face me. “I want you to feel assured that, whatever else happens, your friend is getting the finest medical care available.”

“Thanks,” I said, but not certain what he meant. “Let's go in.”

Tyne knocked on the door and pushed it open a crack. “You have a visitor,” he called. Then to me, “I have to go now. I'm sure you can find your own way out.”

“Thanks.” I went inside and Tyne pulled the door closed behind me.

It looked like another one of way too many hospital rooms I'd spent time in, with its highly polished floor and pastel painted walls. The TV set high up on the wall was turned off; soft sunlight filtered in through gauzy drapes drawn across the large window. The bed was surrounded by stainless-steel IV hangers and other poles, and a mile or so of plastic tubes and lines hooking Yogi up to various machines with little read-out screens and blinking lights.

There was just the one bed, but there were three visitors' chairs—and there were visitors sitting in two of them.

CHAPTER

22

B
OTH VISITORS WERE MEN
, and both rose from their chairs as I entered. I could have turned around right then and left in a hurry. I stayed, though, because Yogi was there. He was asleep in the bed, flat on his back and breathing in soft, peaceful snores, his mouth wide open. He didn't seem to be expecting anyone.

One of the men was Theodosian, the detective who'd made me think Yogi was dead, and he and his friend obviously
were
expecting someone—me. “Got delayed at the fortress gate,” I said. “Have I inconvenienced anyone?”

It was Theodosian who answered. “Not today,” he said, “at least not yet. We—”

“Forget it,” the other man interrupted. He had the same intense look and the same wire-rimmed glasses he'd worn a few days ago, when I told him he couldn't use his cell phone in the underground train station. “No need to apologize.”

“Good,” I said, “because I didn't.”

“Anyway,” Theodosian said, “we need to talk.” He nodded toward the man to his left. “This is Detective … uh … Smith. State of Illinois Corrupt Official Practices Task Force. Called ICOP.”

“Delighted,” I said, but neither of us made a move to shake hands. “Never heard the name ‘Uh Smith' before. Is that Uh
hyphen
Smith? Or—”

“We're here on business,” he said.

“Right. ICOP business. You dream that up yourself, Detective Uh-Smith?

He sat down and crossed one leg over the other, but he was red in the face and not as relaxed as he pretended. “
You
talk to this guy, will ya, Theo?” he said. “I don't have time to waste on assholes.”

“Have a seat, Foley,” Theodosian said.

I stayed standing. “I have the same time management problem as your partner here,” I said. “Besides, you lied to me.”

“You jumped to the conclusion that he was dead.” He nodded in Yogi's direction. “I didn't correct you.”

“Like I say, you lied to me.”

“At the time I thought you might have stomped a guy half your size through the cracks in the concrete on Lower Wacker Drive. Now I don't think so.” He shrugged. “I'm on temporary assignment to ICOP. Have a seat and see why we're here.”

I sat. Theodosian angled his chair to face me, while Uh-Smith pulled a little black notebook out of his shirt pocket and studied the pages. Yogi snored on.

“So,” Theodosian started, “we have a—”

“One more thing,” I said. “Doctor Tyne. He knew you were in here?”

“He didn't like it, of course. Not at all. But … well, when we found out your friend Breaker Hanafan had—”

“He's not my friend.”

“You've had dealings in the past.”

“He's not my friend.”

“Fine. Anyway, somehow Hanafan got the patient tranferred here, so we spoke to Doctor Tyne … about possible visitors.”

“And he told you I'd be here today. So much for confidentiality.”

“Inverness Clinic has an excellent reputation,” Theodosian said. “Of course, it has to meet about a zillion state licensing requirements, you know, so…” He nodded toward Uh-Smith, who gave a little chuckle. “Anyway,” Theodosian went on, “we thought a chat might be useful, for us and for you.”

I was planning to stay until Yogi woke up on his own, anyway, so I sat there.

“First,” Theodosian said, “this is off the record. None of it goes beyond this room. Okay?” He waited, but I didn't answer. “Do we have your word on that?”

“I'm listening.”

“Jesus.” Uh-Smith shook his head. “Do you
practice
being an—”

“I guess your partner forgot he doesn't have time to talk to me,” I said, keeping my eyes on Theodosian. “Anyway, giving my word is what got me into this in the first place. I don't take it lightly.”

“Put it this way, then,” Theodosian said. “We'd like you to keep this to yourself.”

“Fine. I understand your preference. Go ahead.”

“I think you and I share a common interest.” He said. “You want your law license back, and—”

“And you want to help,” I said. “That's nice.”

“I couldn't care less.” He let my sarcasm go. “What I care about is what went down that night at Lonnie Bright's place.”

“You were there,” I said. “As I recall, there's even a report signed by you.”

“Call like that comes in, ‘Shots fired … police officer down,'
everyone
responds. I was a sergeant. My job turned out to be keeping cops out of there. Calm them down and send them on their way. Keep guys from fucking tripping all over each other and contaminating the scene.” He seemed to be reliving the incident as he spoke. “Three or four cops shot; at least one dead. It was a goddamn nightmare. Guys running around, looking for someone to— Well, let's just say … emotions were running high.”