Phantom Limb (14 page)

The room fell silent as we all turned once again to the image on the screen. Fire hoses shooting arcs of water into the maw of flames. Blackened sections of the building collapsing, folding in on themselves. Gray-blue smoke billowing, outlined against the dull haze of the morning sun.

“Well,” Wilson said at last, turning from the screen to look at Biegler. “We'll know more when your CSU team examines the scene. The Bureau can supplement your techs if you think it might speed things up, Lieutenant. I can also offer you the use of our forensics labs.”

“Thanks.” Biegler's eyes were wary. “But my gut says we're not gonna find much. Place looks totally trashed.”

For once, I found myself agreeing with Biegler. If Wilson was right—and I believed he was—Sykes had used explosives to create a quick, ravenous fireball. A blast that would scour the premises, like bones stripped clean.

Agent Wilson let out a low, reflective sigh, then went to stand behind his desk. His features looking suddenly pallid, weary. Which he tried to conceal by drawing himself to his full height as he faced Gloria Reese and Agent Riggs.

“Okay. Agent Reese, you have an hour to go home, get cleaned up, and get back down here. I'll want you to go over everything that's happened since you were first assigned to the Harland residence. A sequence-of-events time line. Then I want you to brief the next shift when they arrive at eight. We need to be available to Pittsburgh PD if and when Chief Logan and Lieutenant Biegler request our assistance.”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice a whisper, threaded with fatigue.

Wilson then turned to the younger agent.

“And you, Riggs, coordinate all the intel between the Harland residence, Pittsburgh PD techs on scene at the fire, and whatever current evidence Lieutenant Biegler's people have with regard to the kidnapping itself. That okay with you, Stu?”

Biegler seemed a bit taken aback at being called by his first name, but he managed one of his patented officious nods. Then, as if to reassert his authority, he turned to me.

“As for
you
, Rinaldi. Stay available. In case Sykes—or Julian, or whatever the hell he calls himself—makes contact. It's possible he'll still want you to deliver the new ransom.”

“Right. Unless, after tonight, he knows we know who he is, and is willing to settle for the money he's already got. A guy can go a long way on five million dollars.”

Wilson grew thoughtful. “I'm inclined to agree with you, Doctor. Even with the full resources of the FBI and Pittsburgh PD on his tail, he could be hard to catch. God knows he's been able to evade federal prosecution for years, despite the fact we've long known about his criminal activities. Like you say, he's a smart guy. If he does decide to disappear, I suspect he'll be damned good at it.”

“In other words,” Gloria said, “he could be out of the state in a couple of hours. Or out of the country. And there's no way he'd take Lisa with him.”

“That's for damn sure.” Biegler idly scratched his chin. “Which means she's probably dead.”

Chapter Nineteen

It was mid-morning by the time I got home.

I'd exchanged brief good-bye nods with Gloria Reese, who was clearly glad that Wilson had told her to go clean up and change before returning to work. After which, I was subjected to another round of questions from both the FBI agent and Biegler, until each was satisfied I'd told them all I knew. Then Wilson assigned another rookie G-man the task of driving me down to Noah's Ark, where my Mustang was parked.

Though the sunlit air was still cool, the wind had finally subsided, and it felt good to be behind the wheel. The only stop I made on my way across town was to get a new battery and memory card for my cell. Then I drove through sparse Sunday morning traffic to the Liberty Bridge, and up to Mt. Washington.

As soon as I entered my house, I pulled open the living room curtains, ignoring the dust motes swirling in the sun's pallid rays. Instead, my eyes were drawn to the answering machine on the rolltop desk. Message light blinking.

Thankfully, none of the messages were important. Angie Villanova inviting me to dinner next Sunday. Johnny Mannella, my cousin and accountant, calling again with questions about my tax return. And Noah, with the news that he was reconsidering the merits of our friendship.
Right
, I thought.

Next I checked my office voicemail. Nothing crucial there, either. A patient wanting to re-schedule an appointment. And an invitation to speak at an upcoming clinical conference.

I let out a sigh of relief, then went down the hall to the bathroom. Like Gloria, I was grateful for the chance to shower and change. I also craved some real coffee. So, hair still damp, dressed in a Pitt t-shirt and sweats, I padded into the kitchen to make some.

Finally, steaming mug in hand, I went into the living room, collapsed on the leather sofa, and clicked on the TV news.

As I'd expected, the printing factory fire was still the lead story. Apparently the blaze had been put down, and firefighters were already moving through the structure's smoking remains, looking for survivors. Or bodies. So far, according to the anchorman reporting, neither had been found.

I swallowed a mouthful of coffee, savoring the pungent flavor. The responders on scene weren't going to find any bodies. Nor much else, other than mounds of hot ash and a scattering of blackened debris. Sykes was long gone, taking knowledge of Lisa Campbell's whereabouts—and fate—with him.

I sat up on the sofa, suddenly restless, finished my coffee in a single gulp, staring down into the empty mug. Where the hell
was
Lisa, anyway? And why hadn't her kidnappers called with the second ransom demand?

I was still mulling this when the anchorman turned to a story about Donna Swanson's ongoing murder investigation, with breaking news about a related aspect to the case. A spokesman for Pittsburgh Memorial had just confirmed rumors that Charles Harland had been admitted the night before. He remained in ICU, recovering from an apparent stroke. There was speculation that the murder of Ms. Swanson, his longtime personal nurse, might have triggered the crippling event. The famous industrialist, married to former starlet and local celebrity Lisa Campbell, had been known to be in poor health for some time.

Here they cut to old footage of the well-known couple in happier times, hosting a gala charity ball in town. Though by now confined to a wheelchair, Harland seemed vigorous and ebullient as he joined his glamorous wife in greeting their guests. Switching back to the studio, the news anchor said it was assumed that Lisa was at her husband's bedside, though family spokesman Arthur Drake was unavailable for comment.

I clicked off the TV. So Harland's hospitalization had finally leaked, which made me wonder how long Lisa's disappearance could be kept under wraps. Not much longer, I suspected.

Exhausted, yet too wired to sleep, I thought about pulling on the training gloves and taking my frustration out on the heavy bag. I had a sort of makeshift gym in my basement, a low-ceilinged room cluttered with boxes and old tools, as well as some ancient workout equipment. The hanging bag, barbells, a weathered weight bench.

But the moment I envisioned heading for the basement stairs, I was aware of the lingering numbness in my arms, the dull ache in my ribs. Not to mention the goose egg decorating my skull. As the EMT had predicted, though some of the swelling had gone down, it still hurt like hell.

Great
, I thought.
Inaction wedded to self-pity
. So much for that “hero complex” everybody always tagged me with. Especially Eleanor Lowrey. Christ, if she could see me now…

Without thinking, I got to my feet and went over to the landline phone and dialed her cell. Heard her outgoing message. So I tried her home number. Another outgoing message.

After all this time, I wasn't sure what exactly I wanted to say to her. Especially since I'd just be leaving a message on her machine. A short, one-way conversation, spoken into empty air. At a loss, I said only that I'd been thinking about her, and that I hoped she was okay. Then I hung up.

The moment I did so, I was sure my message had merely come across as foolish, or needy, or presumptuous. If not all three.

I knew she was on leave, dealing with some family issues. Her brother's addiction. Helping her mother tend to his kids.

But she'd made it clear that she was also on leave from me. From us. As for how long the break would last, I didn't know. Neither did she. Especially since she'd confessed when we ended that she still had feelings for her former lover, a woman she'd been with years before.

But I still had to know how she was doing. If she needed anything. Help, support. If she needed
me
…

So I decided to ask the one person who might know. That is, assuming he'd even tell me.

***

“This is Sergeant Polk.”

“Harry? Dan Rinaldi. You still at the residence?”

“Where the hell else would I be? In the library. Me and Raj, the FBI tech. Million laughs, that guy.”

I could just make out another voice, nearby. Then Polk's hasty reply. “Jesus, Raj. I was fuckin' with ya.”

Back to me: “Everybody's so goddamn sensitive nowadays.”

I let that pass.

“What about the others, Harry?”

“The gang's all here.”

A deliberate pause. Then I heard the slow trudge of his footsteps as Polk carried his cell somewhere. Probably out to the hallway or into a side room, away from the others.

In moments, he spoke again. “I was gettin' the stink-eye from Arthur Drake, so I figured I better go someplace private.”

“How's he holding up?”

“Nervous as hell, but keepin' it together. Can't say the same thing for Harland's son James. He came back from the hospital with Payton and headed right for the bar. Guy's blotto. Like he's ready to pass out, lucky bastard. I wish to Christ
I
could. I'm sick o' these rich pricks.”

“I feel your pain. Listen, I called to ask you something.”

“About the case? Forget it, Doc. Besides, didn't Biegler tell you to take a hike?”

“Yes and no. I'm still on call in case the kidnappers want me to deliver the ransom.”

“Ya mean, 'cause it worked out so good last time?”

“Look, Harry, I wanted to know about Eleanor. How she is.”

“Lowrey? How the fuck should I know?”

“C'mon, you've been partners a long time. There's no way you two haven't talked. Even with her on leave.”

“Once or twice, yeah. Not that it's any o' your goddamn business. But she sounds fine. Got her hands full with her no-good brother's kids, plus her mother's health is gettin' worse. But she's handlin' it.”

“Is that just your opinion, or did she say so?”

“Lowrey's got more balls than either of us. If she says she's okay, she's okay.” A sour grunt. “All I know is, her leave can't end too soon. That kid, Jerry Banks, just got released from the hospital. Which means I gotta keep workin' with that mook till Lowrey gets back.”

Suddenly, there was a metallic click on his end. Another call coming in.

“Probably Biegler,” Polk said. “Gotta go.”

He hung up before I could say another word.

***

My next call was to Noah. It was too early for the bar to be open, but I figured he'd probably be cleaning up from the night before. Restocking the booze before the lunch-time drinkers trickled in.

I was right. Though he didn't pick up the bar's landline till the tenth ring. Being Noah's friend requires patience.

“Noah, it's Danny. How are you?”

“I'm feelin' all kinds o' weird, is how I am. Maybe I oughta talk to Dr. Mendors about upping my meds. Again.”

“Maybe. You sounded upset on your message.”

“No shit? I'm pretty pissed at you right now, Danny. I mean, first you stand me and Charlene up the other night. If I was the suspicious type, I'd think it was so you could bail on your third of Doc Nancy's wedding gift. Then
last
night you leave without even sayin' good-bye.”

“You're right, man. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry, my ass. If this is the kinda friend you're gonna be, I'll have to ask you to take care of your bar tab. Ya know, I read in
Psychology Today
that money issues can really screw up a relationship. I should send you the link to the article.”

I was glad he couldn't see my smile of relief. I'd heard enough jocular lucidity in his voice to know he was maintaining. Though I made a mental note to get in touch with Nancy Mendors and make sure he was still on the right medication cocktail.

“On the positive side,” he went on, “Charlene's brother Skip really liked you. Guess there's no accounting for taste. Anyway, he asked us to give him your number. So you guys could hang out. I figured, why not?”

“Okay with me.”

Then Noah said he had to go. Making sure I heard the aggrieved tone in his voice.

“Glad you and Skip hit it off. But I'm still mad at you.”

“But you'll get over it, right?”

“'Course I'll get over it. What the hell's
wrong
with you?”

He slammed down the phone.

Like I said. Patience.

***

I checked all the news channels one more time, but there were just follow-up stories to the Hill District fire and the Swanson murder investigation. Though the Fire Department spokeswoman did announce that, thankfully, there had been no bodies discovered in the print factory's ruins, and that the cause of the blast was still being determined.

Tossing the remote onto the couch, I climbed wearily to my feet and stretched. It was frustrating. I was clearly in need of sleep, but couldn't stop the buzzing in my mind. I knew that if I went to bed, I'd simply lie there, looking up at the ceiling.

I was still debating this with myself when my phone rang. It was Charlene's brother, Skip Hines.

“Hey, Skip. Noah told me you might call—”

He interrupted me, voice choked by agitation. “I'm in trouble, Doc. I mean, Danny…”

“What kind of trouble?”

“You gotta help me, man. Or else I'm screwed. You gotta get here right away.”

“Okay, okay. Try to stay calm. Where are you?”