TailSpin (33 page)

They wouldn’t find the man, Sherlock thought, and she hated that she was so certain. This was well planned, he knew how to get in and out. But maybe—“What about video?”

Chief Hayward said, “I called down to set it up.”

Sherlock leaned down and whispered next to MacLean’s ear, “All in all, none of us can complain.”

“Poor Agent Tomlin can,” MacLean said.

Ten minutes later, Savich and Sherlock went inside the small hospital security room near the front entrance. There were twelve video screens, ten of them running live feeds from cameras at locations inside the hospital.

Chief Hayward said, “We’ve got a camera at the entrance to the hospital, one camera on each floor. I asked Fritz to pull up two tapes of where the assailant would have had to walk to get to Dr. MacLean’s room.”

Fritz said, “I couldn’t locate the assailant coming into the hospital. I will have to look earlier. This tape is from Dr. MacLean’s floor.”

They all watched the screen. Chief Hayward said, “Stop. Look, that must be him, the guy in surgical scrubs, a mask over his face, and a cap on his head. If it was during the day, someone would have wondered who the hell he was since no one wears a mask in the hallway. There’s no reason for that. He’s also wearing surgical gloves, so no fingerprints. Sorry about the quality of the film, but we should be able to make him out okay.”

They watched the man walk toward the camera. He turned a corner just past the nurses’ station and disappeared.

“Okay,” Chief Hayward said. “Fast-forward, Fritz.”

“Stop, there he is,” Savich said a couple of seconds later.

Fritz froze the screen.

Sherlock said, “Okay, three minutes have elapsed and here he comes. And she thought,
It took so little time.
In three minutes Timothy could have been killed. She said, “He’s walking really fast, and he’s holding his arm. There’s blood seeping through his fingers. He’s got his head down. About all I can say so far is he isn’t fat.”

“He’s still got the mask and cap on,” Fritz said. “Bummer.”

They watched him until he disappeared.

Chief Hayward said, “Okay, let’s see if he leaves through the front. Roll the other tape, Fritz.” The film sped up, then slowly, Fritz brought it back to real time.

Chief Hayward said, “Stop, Fritz, you got him. I think that’s him—the timing’s about right, five minutes have passed. He looks about the same size, same build, and the loose clothes.”

The man on the film was wearing a watch cap pulled low on his forehead, touching the rims of dark sunglasses. He was wearing loose blue jeans, a large pale blue shirt that hung outside his pants, a baggy off-white linen jacket, and moccasins. For an instant, they were looking directly at his face, only they couldn’t see him clearly.

Chief Hayward said, “He’s still walking slowly and you can tell he’s favoring his arm. It’s gotta hurt like a bear. One of my men found a couple drops of blood on the floor of Dr. MacLean’s corridor and marked the spot for you. It doesn’t necessarily have to be our guy, but it’s likely.”

Savich said, “His blood will nail him when we catch him. He took a big chance, walking right up to Agent Tomlin, shoving that needle in his neck, knowing the nurses’ station wasn’t more than thirty feet away. I’d say he’s really motivated, determined, maybe really angry.”

They watched him walk out of the front entrance of the hospital. Chief Hayward said, “We didn’t catch the guy coming into the hospital. He must have scoped out the camera locations, learned the hospital layout, all the particulars. He’s not stupid. He came late, the optimum time. Sorry, but we don’t have any outdoor cameras.”

“It’s something,” Sherlock said. “Thank you, Chief. I’d say someone is more than motivated, more than just angry. I’d say they’re obsessed.”

Savich said, “We’ll get you some photos of all the players we know of so your people can show them around. We might get lucky.”

Chief Hayward nodded, but he didn’t look hopeful. “This guy is careful. But maybe someone saw him near the OR. All I can say with any certainty is that he’s about average height, average build, and wears really loose clothes.”

Sherlock nodded. “Fritz, can you rewind it again?”

When he did, she said, “Okay, now watch. I’m thinking he looks young, too. Watch him walk, the way he moves.”

“Freeze that frame, Fritz,” Chief Hayward said. “Look, he’s sort of slouching, bent over. Sure, he’s hurting, his arm must feel like it’s burning off, but I’m not as sure as you are.”

“If he is a young man,” Savich said, “he’s probably hired.”

Sherlock was shaking her head. “That doesn’t sound right. From what Timothy said, it sounded like it was up close and personal to me, not like an impersonal hired gun.”

“You’re right,” Savich said, and plowed his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. “My brain’s on default mode.” He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. It was nearly three A.M.

Savich looked at Sherlock and said, “Let’s check on Agent Tomlin, then go home.”

FORTY-FOUR

 

 

 

 

 

 

P
ierre Barbeau answered the front door, eyed them with resignation, and stepped back. “Tommy called me from downstairs. What is it you want now?”

“We’d like to speak to you and your wife, Mr. Barbeau,” Savich said, his eyes on Pierre’s right arm. He was wearing a ratty old blue velvet bathrobe, with thick, loose sleeves that could easily cover a bandage. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. He looked tired, defensive—shattered, and just maybe—afraid. But to Savich’s eye, taking all of him in, he simply didn’t look like he’d been shot in the arm.

Pierre said, “I don’t know why. Listen, Estelle and I, we’re—we’re only trying to cope. We’ve told you everything. My wife won’t want to speak to you, either of you. I can tell you that, and believe me, she usually gets what she wants.”

Sherlock wanted to tell him that she usually got what she wanted, as well, but she merely smiled at him as Dillon said, “We checked with your night doorman. He said both of you were out from about ten o’clock until two A.M. Where did you go?”

“Why? Who cares?” He got two hard-as-nails looks and dead silence, and backed up a step. Then he gave them the French cop-out, a shrug that said nothing and everything. “Oh, I see, something else has happened, hasn’t it? You think we’re behind it, whatever it is, and it happened last night. Is that it?”

“Please tell us where you were, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said.

“Very well. I don’t suppose it matters. My wife and I couldn’t stand looking at each other’s pain, and so we went out walking. It was nice, last night, the moon was nearly full, and so we walked in High Banks Park. Maybe an hour, give or take. We went into a gallery that was having a special showing and was open late. We stayed there until nearly midnight, then we stopped at a bar. We drank too much, but it didn’t help. We came back here. I didn’t check the time. We went to bed. I woke up when Tommy rang up a few minutes ago.”

“The name of the gallery, Mr. Barbeau?” Sherlock asked, her pen poised above her small black notebook.

“The Penyon Gallery on Wisconsin.”

“What was the special showing?”

“American artists, modern stuff, you know, all squiggles and blobs of thick paint, something Jean David did with great enthusiasm when he was three, only he didn’t use paints.” He gave a brief ghastly smile, his voice hitching on his son’s name. He raised his left arm to press his fingers briefly to his forehead. No bullet wound in that arm, for sure.

Sherlock waited a beat, then asked, “The name of the bar?”

“Who remembers the name of a bar? I certainly don’t. We’d never been there before. I remember it wasn’t very far from the gallery.”

Sherlock leaned in close. “What did you and your wife talk about, Mr. Barbeau?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing important. We are both too miserable to do anything but exist right now. However, to be honest here, because we can’t seem to help ourselves, we occasionally speak about our son, and we did talk about Jean David while we walked in the park last night. We spoke about how much we loved him, how this shouldn’t have happened, how unfair it all is, how because of the threats from people like you, our son is dead.”

Savich’s eyebrow shot up. “Threats?”

Another shrug. “It would have come to threats if the authorities had gotten their hands on Jean David before he died. They would have threatened to deport us, freeze all our bank accounts, and send him to prison if he refused to sign a confession admitting to everything they could think of, even things he knew nothing about.”

“You have quite an imagination, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said easily. “But the fact is, none of that happened. Your son’s misdeeds died with him. I doubt the CIA will ever discover exactly what and how much your son passed on to the terrorists.”

“He didn’t help the terrorists! Maybe some of it got to them, but the point is, he didn’t realize . . . It was all that woman’s fault. She seduced him, twisted him up.” He stopped, shook his head. “Jean David was so young, so innocent until she got hold of him.”

Jean David Barbeau was twenty-six when he drowned. Savich and Sherlock remained quiet.

Pierre said, “At least it wasn’t raining last night. Dreadful weather here, simply dreadful.”

“Your English is excellent, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said.

“It should be. My father was always traveling here to the States with me and my mother in tow. He consulted with Amtrak, you know, and we lived here for long stretches of time. I attended American private schools, attended Harvard for two years before going back to France to finish my education.”

“And your wife?”

“She, too, traveled widely with her family. She is one of those few people who can pick up a language like that.” He snapped his fingers and looked sour. “She speaks five languages.
Five
. I’ve always believed three languages quite enough, but five? It’s a bit over the top, I think.”

Savich, who spoke only English, said, “So that’s why Jean David was born in New Jersey. You are travelers like your parents.”

“If you must know, we were visiting friends at their beach house in Cape May. Jean David came three weeks early and so he is an American citizen, something we never intended or wanted.”

At that meaty insult, Sherlock said, “As it turned out, it might have been better for everyone if Jean David wasn’t born here. The CIA would have been pleased if he’d joined his father at the French National Police, as well, Mr. Barbeau.”

His breathing sped up. He looked at Sherlock like he wanted to hit her. Just as suddenly, the anger died in his eyes. No, Savich thought it was more like his eyes themselves died. He pictured Sean’s beloved face, and couldn’t begin to imagine the pain of losing his son.

Savich said, “We would like to speak to your wife.”

He started to protest, then simply turned and yelled, “Estelle!”

Mrs. Barbeau, covered from neck to mid-calf in a thick white robe, her hair wrapped up in a white towel, appeared at the end of the hall. She’d known they were there, naturally, but she’d been staying back. “Go away,” she called out. “I am not dressed. It is Saturday morning. Leave us alone. We have nothing more to say to you.”

Sherlock called out, “I understand you and your husband visited the Penyon Gallery last evening. What did you think of the special exhibit?”

“It was pitiful. We saw nothing to interest us. I am not feeling well. I will not come any closer, I do not wish for you to become as ill as I am.”

“Your illness, it came on very quickly,” Sherlock said. “Since you were all about town last night.”

“Yes, it came on quickly. Go away.”

Savich stepped closer to Pierre, clamped a hand around his right arm, to check once and for all that he was not the one Nurse Louise had shot. He felt thick material, but no bandage. Pierre didn’t jerk away, he very slowly pulled away. Had he flinched at all? Savich knew he’d tightened, he’d felt his muscles tense. Perhaps a very minor wound, Savich thought again, if Pierre was the man Nurse Louise shot.

Why couldn’t anything be easy?

Sherlock called out, “So you didn’t like the artists?”

“Not particularly,” Estelle said. “It was all what I call commercial oatmeal—nothing of interest or import. Go away. Leave us alone. I am ill.”

Savich said pleasantly, “If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Barbeau, why don’t you join us in the living room. We will be brief and we promise to stay three feet from you so you won’t have to worry about being arrested for infecting an agent.”

Estelle made no pretense of civility. She came to stand in the living room doorway, but no closer. It was true, she didn’t look at all well. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was very pale. And, Sherlock thought, that bathrobe was very thick for June. Could it have been a woman on those hospital tapes?

Estelle repeated what her husband had told them, probably because she’d listened to their conversation, Sherlock thought cynically.

Finally, Pierre threw up his hands. “Will you tell us what has happened?”

Savich said, looking Pierre right in the eyes, “A man pretending to be a physician tried to kill Dr. MacLean last night around midnight.”

A moment of silence, then Estelle shrugged. “It is a pity, and a pity he failed.

“Oh, I see. You believe my husband is the one who tried to kill that miserable excuse for a doctor? For a
friend
? I will tell you, he did not. We were together—all night. I want you to leave.”

Sherlock eyed Estelle’s right arm. There could easily be a bandage beneath her robe. No, surely it was a man on the tapes—the walk, the posture, surely, but he wore loose clothing. Estelle was nearly as tall as her husband.