by Coyle, Matt;
“They moved her into a hospital room an hour ago. I just got home. I’ll get men up there.”
“Is she in the ICU?”
“No. She’s stabilized. They just put her in a normal room.”
“What number? I’m two minutes away.”
“Hold on. I wrote it down.” Clunk of the phone being set down on a table. Finally, “Room 432. I’ll have a couple men up there in twenty minutes.”
“Tell them what I look like. I don’t want them to see me in Miranda’s room and think I’m the bad guy and start shooting.”
“They know what you look like.” He hung up.
Rankin’s henchmen knowing what I looked like suddenly didn’t seem like such a good thing. He was already worried about me connecting him to Randall Eddington’s disappearance. Making me disappear would solve that problem. I took a hand off the steering wheel and slid it into my jacket and touched the handle of the Smith & Wesson in the shoulder holster. I knew it was there, but the feel of the gun was reassuring.
The lights of the red brick and concrete hospital shone in the left corner of my windshield. I turned into the parking lot and parked on the second floor of the parking structure behind the hospital. I called Brianne on my way down the stairs.
“Change of plans. I’m at the hospital guarding Miranda’s room until backup arrives. I’ll check in again in an hour if I don’t get relieved by then.”
“What? Why does she have to be guarded?” Hot sizzle of anxiety.
“She can ID the guy who put her in the hospital because she pulled off his ski mask.”
“The same man who tried to kill you? Maybe it’s time to call the police, Rick.”
She might have been right, but I doubted Alan Rankin would agree. Nor did I. If Miranda wanted to talk to the cops, fine. But until she did, I wasn’t going to volunteer.
“I’ll call you in an hour. Bye.”
I exited the parking structure and went into the hospital. The staircase had an emergency latch on it so I’d have to take the elevator. I pushed the button and looked down at the bulge in my jacket. I wish I still had the Ruger, which I could easily conceal in the pocket of my bomber jacket.
The elevator door opened, and no one stepped out. Empty. I got in and pushed the fourth-floor button. The doors opened with a ding into a small foyer. Empty. Two for two so far. I turned left out of the foyer into a main hall and wasn’t so lucky this time. A doctor or orderly in green scrubs and face mask walked down the hall in my direction. We avoided each other’s eyes. He passed and I saw a desk in a hallway to my left manned by a woman. I kept walking.
“Excuse me. May I help you?” She looked at the bulge in my coat.
I stopped and saw that the scrub-clad man I’d passed had done the same. With his head, nose, and mouth covered, all I could see were his eyes.
Dead. The eyes of a killer. Ski Mask.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SKI MASK BOLTED down the hall of the hospital. I chased after him.
“Hey!” The woman at the desk.
“Check on room 432!” I shouted over my shoulder as I ran. “Call the police.”
Fast and agile, Ski Mask flew down the hall and had me by five yards when he hit the latch on the door to the stairwell. It banged open. No alarm. The door slammed shut just as I got to it. I pulled out my gun and pushed low through the door to the stairwell.
Clear. Just footsteps hammering down stairs below me. I sped down the stairs, but he’d increased his lead on me, and I couldn’t see him. Just heard his feet peppering the stairs. I hit the second-floor landing and heard a door slam open against the wall and then slam shut. Down the next flight.
I jammed through the exit door low again. A piece of concrete exploded off the wall next to the door where my head had been if I hadn’t come out low. I dove behind a planter box and wood splintered above my head. My nerve synapses fired all at once and my breath pogoed. Someone out in the night with a high-powered rifle with a suppressor had me pinned down. It couldn’t have been Ski Mask. I’d only been five seconds behind him. There was someone else out there laying down cover so Ski Mask could escape.
The silent partner.
I stayed smeared to the ground behind the wooden planter. I had no other move. Playing hero would get me killed. The parking structure was about fifty yards away. The man with the rifle must have been up there somewhere waiting for Ski Mask to make it to their escape vehicle or for me to pop my head up.
Snap, snap, snap. Three more splinters of wood. Probably a last volley to make me stay put before they ran for their car and got away. Probably was too much of a gamble to risk my life. I could have raised up exposing myself and fired blindly into the parking structure and maybe gotten lucky. Or a doctor or nurse going to their cars after the late shift could have been unlucky and gotten hit by a stray. I stayed still and tried to listen past my rushing breath.
Thud, thud. Gentle rumble. Soft, but echoing from the parking garage. Two car doors slamming shut and the car driving away. Was there a third man driving? I pushed off the ground and sprinted around the planter toward the garage. Zigging and juking as if I were running with a football through a defense avoiding tacklers. Only this defense had a gun and bullets instead of tacklers. Fifty yards. Forty. Now thirty yards away from the garage and no invisible whistles streamed by me or pinged off the concrete around me.
Twenty yards from the garage, I saw the Range Rover emerge. I’d never be able to get to my car and follow it, but I might be able to get a look at the license plate. The backseat passenger window came down and I caught a glimpse of something round and steel about the size of a soda can.
A suppressor for a rifle.
I cut hard right and a sizzle whispered by my ear. I sprinted toward the back of the garage to block the shooter’s angle. Safe. For now. I hit the door to the staircase and kept running up to the second floor. Adrenaline pushed me. I’d never catch up to the Range Rover, and it would be safer not to. But I couldn’t stop. Anger pushed past fear. The people in the SUV had killed Jim Colton and tried to kill me. Twice.
That couldn’t stand.
The SUV had to be almost to the booth by now, almost out of the hospital parking lot.
The tollbooth.
They’d have to stop and stick their ticket into the machine and then stick in money or a credit card to lift the gate. I yanked my keys out of my pocket and hit the trunk button on the key fob. The trunk popped open just as I reached my car. I lifted the lid and saw the shotgun in the rack. Not now. That was for close quarters when killing was the only option. I grabbed the surveillance binoculars I kept in the trunk, slammed the lid, and jumped behind the wheel and gunned the Mustang out of the parking structure.
I didn’t want to get close enough for the rifle to come out of the Range Rover again. Just close enough to see the license plate through the binoculars. I sped around the soft curve in the road and caught a glimpse of the back of the Range Rover just as it approached the tollbooth. I snapped the binoculars up to my eyes. 6ZUB573. I repeated the numbers aloud, again and again.
I dropped the binoculars and saw that the SUV was already through the tollbooth gate. What was left of it. The wooden arm lay on the ground twenty feet from the booth off the left. The SUV’s taillights disappeared below a slight hill just as I reached the toll-booth. I sped through but lost sight of the SUV.
Down the hill to the stop sign that opened onto Genesee Ave., I looked left toward the freeway and right toward the Golden Triangle. No taillights in either direction. Then I heard it. The whir of a police siren coming from the direction of the freeway. I guess the hospital staff had heeded my directive. I hung a right and punched it up the hill and around the slight bend. The siren grew louder, and I made it around the bend without seeing the rainbow lights. And without the cops seeing me.
I hadn’t done anything wrong, but they were LJPD and I was me. Fire and ice. Unsworn enemies. Talking to them would just give Moretti one more look. One more angle. One mo
re avenue to put me away.
I got back to the hotel in a couple minutes. I parked in the garage and pulled out a pen and notepad from the center console and wrote down the license plate number of the black Range Rover. Then I pulled out my phone and called Rankin. No answer. I called again. The same. I left him a message to call me right away.
This time I took the elevator. Too tired for the stairs. All the adrenaline that had coursed through my body tonight had sucked out any energy I might have had in reserve and left a vacuum. If the elevator stopped and the doors opened up to enemies, I’d just shoot them in the face. I unzipped my jacket and unsnapped the leather strap that secured the Smith & Wesson in the holster. I put my hand on the handle, watched the elevator lights climb, and readied for an Old West showdown.
The doors opened on the seventh floor, and no one shouted draw. My phone rang before I made it to Brianne’s door. Rankin’s number.
“You called.”
“Are your men at the hospital yet? Is Miranda okay?”
“She’s okay. My guys got there about the same time the police did. What the hell happened up there?”
I told him all of it. “Are you sure she’s okay? These guys are big on needles.”
“Apparently, the thug hadn’t made it to her room yet. Seems you arrived just in time.”
“Thank God.”
“Don’t hold your breath waiting for a thank-you.”
“I just wanted to make sure Miranda was okay. The less I talk with you, the better.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Unfortunately, we do have to talk. Come by the house tomorrow. Damn. It’s already tomorrow. Get here at ten this morning.”
“We can talk on the phone, but not now.”
“Come by the house, Cahill. Too many phone calls.”
“I’ll think about it. In the meantime, if you put someone on my house again, I’ll shoot up their car. Just for starters.” Of course, if he hadn’t sent Miranda to watch my house we wouldn’t be talking right now. I’d be lying facedown in the sand in the shoreline of some beach as an accidental drowning victim.
Too bad. My days as a victim were over.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I WOKE UP not knowing where I was and barely knowing who I was. I felt Brianne’s shoulder under my chin and George’s back against my legs. Now I remembered. My new life.
I slipped out of bed without waking up Brianne. George followed me and plopped onto the floor.
“Wah?” Brianne, sleep groggy.
“Taking George out to poop,” I whispered. “Back to sleep.”
George heard his name, figured out the plan, and snuffled up against me. I got dressed, grabbed the plastic bag out of the complimentary ice bucket, and led George out of the room on his leash. We took the elevator down. Looking at George made me think of Midnight and I hoped my neighbor had gotten my text about feeding him. I wondered how Midnight would like having a new buddy to occasionally chase around. Like me, he was a loner. But even loners could use a friend to chase around sometimes.
I led George through the lobby outside, looking for something green that he could leave something brown on. We went across the street to a large mirrored office building that had a lush lawn around it. Perfect for deposits.
It was about seven forty-five, so the building’s parking lot had just a smattering of cars. George found a nice hedge to lift a leg against, then sniffed around for the perfect landing sight. He found one and left a package, which I wrapped up in the ice bucket plastic bag and tossed into a trash can. Dogs must think their poop is a valuable commodity as the people who follow them around on a leash are always there ready to wrap it up and deposit it in a special container. Maybe that’s why dogs seem to save them up. With urine, they’re more cavalier.
I was tired but figured George needed the exercise after being cooped up in a strange hotel room all night. Besides, I had work to do and I wanted to let Brianne sleep. We headed west toward Scripps Hospital and the highway. Fog sealed in the morning and the air was nippy enough for my coat, which made concealing the shoulder holster easy.
No more victim.
I pulled out my phone and called a number I couldn’t live without, but rarely used.
“Hello?” Loud and jolting like a pissed-off rooster beating the sunrise. But he was a she.
“Moira, it’s Rick.”
Moira McFarlane was a private investigator like me. Well, not quite like me. She had relationships with LJPD and the San Diego Police Department. I had a relationship with LJPD but wished I didn’t. The only cooperation I’d get from them was an open door to a six-by-eight-foot jail cell. SDPD wouldn’t let me near enough to share any information. When I needed something that only a cop could get, I called Moira.
“Who else would it be?” Staccato, like a machine gun.
“Sorry to wake you.”
“I didn’t say you woke me, Cahill.” Being asleep probably signified weakness in her mind. She’d never admit to it any time of day or night. “What part of your job do you want me to do for you today pro bono?”
“I need a plate run.”
“Of course you do. You always need something. Just once, I wish you’d call me without begging for something that makes your life easier and mine harder.”
“So we could just talk?”
A snort that would have made George proud rattled my ear. “God, no. You have a point. Give me the number.”
I read her the plate number of the Range Rover off my notepad. “I’d really appreciate it if you could hurry this one.”
“That’s a surprise. What have you got for me?”
“What do you need?”
“Steady work.”
“Sorry.”
“You suck. I’ll call you back.” She hung up.
George and I walked to the hospital, then up a few blocks going north. When we circled back toward the hotel, I took out my phone and checked the time: 8:22 a.m. Good. Time to take a flyer. I called the FBI.
“FBI, can I help you?” An officious female voice. Luckily not the one I’d talked to before when I’d called the FBI.
“Hi, this is Detective Broderick Macdonald out of San Diego.” Broderick was my given name and Macdonald, my middle. Easy to see why I went by Rick. “I need to talk to Special Agent Mallon.”
I didn’t expect to hear the voice I’d heard last night, but was pretty confident there was a real Special Agent Mallon. The person who called me yesterday would have figured I’d check to see if there really was an Agent Mallon. Better late than never.
“In regard to what matter?” Bingo. There was a real Special Agent Mallon.
“It’s about an investigation, but it’s for his ears only.”
A click and a long pause then someone picked up. “Special Agent Mallon.”
Not Ski Mask’s voice.
“We need to talk, Agent Mallon.”
“Isn’t that why you called, Detective Macdonald? I don’t have any open cases with San Diego PD, so this must be new.”
“Someone posing as you tried to kill me last night.”
“What? Is this a joke? You’re not with SDPD are you?” Irritated, like my almost dying was a nuisance. My calling was a mistake.
“No and you’re not a killer, are you, Agent Mallon?”
“Did you file a police report on this, ah, attempted murder?” He didn’t believe a word I’d said.
“No.”
“Well, I suggest you do that, then I’m sure the police will contact me and the FBI can become officially involved.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” A lot of air. Irritated.
“Because the police might be involved. I know you don’t believe me, Agent Mallon, so I’ll make you a deal. If you were in FBI Headquarters yesterday around one p.m., I’ll hang up now and never bother you again. If you were out of the office, let’s meet somewhere and talk.”
His silence told me I’d been right. That didn’t mean he’d agree to meet me, but
at least I was making headway.
I let the silence lie a couple seconds but didn’t wait for an answer. “The reason I know you were out of the office then was because that’s when someone posing as you called me to set up a meet last night where he and his partner tried to kill me.”
“If you really think the police were involved, come in and we’ll start an investigation.” No irritation now.
“I can’t do that either. At least, not now. Someone saw me in your office. That’s why they tried to kill me.”
“So now you’re saying someone from the Bureau teamed up with someone at SDPD to try to kill you?” The disbelief crept back in.
“Not SDPD, but it doesn’t matter. I know it sounds crazy. But only someone on the inside would know I’d been there yesterday morning. And only someone on the inside would know that you were out of the office at one so if I called I’d learn there really was an Agent Mallon, but I wouldn’t be able to talk to him. They only needed to fool me long enough to get me to meet them. After that, it wouldn’t matter because I’d be dead.”
More silence. Good.
Finally, “What is it you want from me, whatever your real name is?”
“I want to meet somewhere and talk about this. Try to figure it out. You’ll find out who I am when we meet.”
“Whoever you are, your life seems to be full of conspiracies. Why trust me?”
“Because you were out of the office yesterday around one.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “And there’s no one else to trust.”
I called my neighbor and asked if she’d mind having Midnight stay at her house for a day or two. She agreed to send her daughter over and pick him up. I didn’t know how long I’d be chasing shadows or running from them. I didn’t want Midnight to be home alone if my attackers tried a home invasion with guns blazing.
Moira McFarlane called me back just as George and I reached the Marriott driveway.
“You have to buy me dinner, Cahill.”
“Sure. Hopefully, I’ll be free in a week or so.”
“Oooh.” She sounded like a valley girl half her age. “Not with me. I had to agree to take a cop to dinner to get you your damn plate.”
