Midnight Angel

by Lisa Marie Rice

  Though Bud was pale beneath his tan and had deep grooves running down his cheeks, he looked alert, which was good. Kowalski needed info from Bud and he needed it yesterday.

  “Hello, Senior Chief, and I’m doing just fine, thanks so much for asking. It’s nice to know that people care.” Bud’s voice was weak and scratchy but he managed to inject sarcasm into it.

  Kowalski waved his hand impatiently. Bud was alive. That was all he needed. “Talk, man. Did you hear what happened this afternoon? Allegra heard Corey Sanderson’s voice. And she heard him yesterday, too.” He frowned. “Personally, I think she’s having flashbacks, but I need to be sure Sanderson is under lock and key, so talk. What do you know about where he is?”

  Bud coughed, a deep hacking cough that had him wincing with pain. He’d probably just had the tube removed from his esophagus. Bud leaned his head back, visibly exhausted. “God, Kowalski, take my advice and never get shot.”

  Too late. Kowalski had been shot four times.

  Kowalski edged the chair closer, making sure he kept it away from the IV tree. “Sanderson,” he prodded.

  Bud’s eyes focused sharply. “This is about Allegra, right?”

  Kowalski nodded. “I need to know if that son of a bitch is out. She’s heard his voice twice in two days. Where the fuck is he?”

  Bud sighed. “Listen, when Claire told me her story, I had the guy checked out. I was as mad as you that he got away with murder and the brutal assault on Allegra. It was her bad luck she wasn’t in a condition to testify. Believe me, if I’d been investigating it, I wouldn’t have given up so easily. But I only found out about it a couple of weeks ago.” He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, his gaze alert and fierce. “Trust me on this one. I really, really hate it when the bad guys win.”

  Kowalski’s feeling exactly, not to mention the fact that Sanderson had assaulted Allegra. That was motive enough for hanging—and drawing and quartering—as far as he was concerned.

  “Yeah.” His jaws clenched. “So where is the fucker now?”

  “Sanderson? He’s—” Bud choked and coughed spasmodically, then groaned. His stitches were probably pulling.

  “Here.” There was a glass of water with a straw on the bedside table. Kowalski held it steady for Bud with one hand while holding Bud’s head up off the pillow with the other. Bud drank half the glass, then eased his head back. Kowalski sat patiently on the chair, eyes glued to Bud’s face. “Whenever you’re ready to talk,” he prodded.

  Bud nodded. “Okay, okay. So what’s the story? Allegra’s heard Sanderson’s voice?”

  “Twice in two days. I need to know whether she actually heard his voice—she says he was talking to her and was close enough to touch her—or whether she’s having flashbacks.”

  Bud was still. “Flashbacks.” He nodded slowly. “Her memory’s starting to come back, then. She’s starting to remember the fucker killing her father and beating her up. That’s not good news for Sanderson, even though he can’t be tried twice—double jeopardy—more’s the pity. He got really good lawyering. I can’t believe what a light sentence he got away with. Basically, he was given a minimum sentence for manslaughter, three years. And his lawyer argued that he suffered from ‘impulse control,’ so he’s now in some Club Fed for rich assholes who think they can get away with murder, instead of in a maximum security jail with a three-hundred-pound biker who wants him for a girlfriend. So the shithead got away with murder and will never get the needle because Allegra couldn’t testify.”

  “Not even now, if her memory’s coming back? She’s an eyewitness, after all—” Kowalski stopped abruptly.

  “A blind eyewitness,” Bud said, his voice dry. “Who’s suffered amnesia. Any decent lawyer would eat her up in cross-examination and Sanderson had the best lawyers money can buy. The DA made a decision to go for manslaughter and not murder one because Allegra couldn’t testify and even if she could have, it wouldn’t be considered valid enough testimony to convict a man for murder. So there you have it—no matter what happens with Allegra, even if she gets her memory and her sight back, Sanderson’s been tried for that crime and can’t be tried again.”

  “Double jeopardy.” Kowalski’s fists clenched.

  “You got it, big guy.”

  “So she’s not a threat to him anymore. He wouldn’t have a motive for coming after her.”

  Bud was silent a moment, his face looking even more drawn as he thought it through, cheekbones standing out in harsh relief.

  “Well,” he said finally, “that’s not quite true. If Allegra wants to, and has time and money to spare, she can sue Sanderson in civil court for wrongful death. Try him for damages. Oh yeah, she could do that.” Bud was visibly warming to the idea. “A jury in civil court wouldn’t be bound by the rules of procedure and discovery that apply in criminal court. Pretty young talented singer deprived of her father and her sight and her career, man—they’d convict the fucker in a heartbeat, make him pay damages up the wazoo. Serve the bastard right. Strip him of his millions, if nothing else. It won’t bring her father or her sight back but by God, he’d be hurting.” He smiled happily at the thought. “But coming back to Allegra—she can’t have heard Sanderson’s voice. He’s in a psychiatric institution for felons that’s vetted yearly on its security arrangements. No one’s getting out of there. Sanderson sure hasn’t. My partner just stopped by an hour ago to bring me up to speed. He would have told me if Sanderson’s escaped. He knows I’m interested in the case. So Sanderson’s still there.”

  Kowalski wasn’t too sure. There were few buildings on Earth he or Midnight or any other SEAL couldn’t get out of. It was also true that, generally speaking, music producers didn’t go through SEAL training. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Where is this place? What’s the name?”

  “The Spring Harbor Psychiatric Institute and Correctional Facility. They get big grants for research. It’s about thirty-five miles out of town, toward Mt. Hood.”

  Kowalski calculated. With the traffic, it would take him about an hour to get there, and back, calculate another hour while there. Whatever it took, though, he wasn’t going back to Allegra without some solid answers. Jacko would stay and guard her for however long it took. “Okay, I’m going now to check it out and see if Sanderson could leave long enough to terrorize Allegra and sneak back in.” Bud was shaking his head. “What?”

  “I guess you didn’t hear me the first time around.” Bud brought his left hand with the IV needle taped to the back up to tick off the points. “First—he’s in a psychiatric institution. They don’t ‘let’ guys waltz in and out of there, otherwise they’ll lose their contract with the government and would be hauled before the Prison Board. Second—whatever’s going on out there, they’re not going to tell you, a civilian, squat. You’d need a warrant, or at least you’d need to go with a cop and I’m not going anywhere at the moment. Three—what the fuck are you doing?”

  Bud’s weak voice registered shock as Kowalski calmly reached into the top drawer of the hospital bedside table and pulled out Bud’s badge. He hung the badge over his belt as Bud struggled to sit up. “Listen, don’t even think of it,” Bud said, breathing heavily as he made it to a semi-sitting position, wincing as he leaned on one elbow.

  The two of them locked gazes like two old moose locking antlers. But Bud’s antlers had been clipped. He gave up. “Ah, shit.” His head hit the pillow again. “Don’t kill anyone while flashing my badge.”

  “Try not to.” Kowalski headed for the door.

  Bud raised his voice. “And I want that badge back tomorrow, you hear!”

  Kowalski closed the door quietly behind him and headed for the stairs, moving fast.

  It was a place for the rich. The crazy rich, Kowalski thought, as he walked the perimeter of Spring Harbor Institute. His SUV was parked a mile down the road at a roadside dive. He’d smeared some mud on the fenders and sidewalls to make his vehicle fit in. No one was going to notice his vehicle a
mong the thirty others parked there outside the shabby building with loud music leaking from every joint.

  Kowalski had fast-walked to the Institute, staying just off the two-lane blacktop, about ten feet into the old-growth forest, ready to leap away at the first hint of a car, but there had been no cars along the way. Just the fading day, the tall, ancient trees looking ever more ghostly in the twilight, and silence.

  He hit the walled perimeter about two hundred feet from the gates, visible—along with the road—to his left. Instead of moving there, he walked around the entire wall counterclockwise, checking security arrangements.

  They weren’t top-of-the-line, but they weren’t bad. He and Midnight might actually have a little trouble getting in and out. Not much, but some. There were unobtrusive security cameras on stanchions rising every twenty feet from the stone wall. Every five minutes, the cameras made a full revolution. Kowalski recognized the make, and they had a deep security flaw—they only had a narrow angle of vision, which meant that if you timed it right, you could waltz right by through the dead zones. He didn’t even have to time it right because the cameras weren’t equipped with infra-red detectors, so all he had to do was stay in the gloom of the trees and observe.

  He finally came full circle to the gates, observing them through his spotting scope. Very discreet brass plaque with the words Spring Harbor Psychiatric Institute and Correctional Facility engraved in fancy script. The security cameras trained on the entrance were heavy-duty and very visible. The gate was big and thick, the lock ten inches high. A steel plate running the width of the road would, at the push of a button, rise and present spikes to any incoming or outgoing vehicle. All in all, a very impressive-looking security system, and perfectly useless. It obviously hadn’t occurred to the administration that anyone seeking illegal entry or looking to escape wasn’t going to use the front gates.

  It would, however, impress visiting physicians and politicians.

  The perimeter walls had a twenty-foot clearing so the cameras could observe anyone attempting to climb them. Doubtless there was another twenty-foot clearing on the other side. That was asinine. If Kowalski were to design a secure site, there would be no vegetation of any sort for at least a thousand yards around the perimeter, only raked earth designed to show any footprints, not grass.

  Kowalski climbed a nearby tree and found a perfect perching spot. Through the scope he saw a large, three-story, turn of the century mansion that had been retrofitted for the 21st century. Bars on the lovely corniced windows, which had been fitted with bulletproof glass. A security door, which had replaced what had doubtless been a carved wooden front door on the big white porch. Clear lawn with no shrubs or trees. Security cameras mounted under the eaves.

  He collapsed the scope. He’d seen all he needed to see.

  Half an hour later, he drove up to that big security gate and pressed the brass button.

  “Yes?” a disembodied voice said.

  “I’d like to speak to the Director.” Window down, glaring up at the camera.

  “May I ask what this concerns?”

  “You may.” He held Bud’s badge up.

  Silence, then a loud click! And the big gates slowly started to part.

  Kowalski drove through, up the large graveled drive. Yep, his first impression was right. This was for rich crazy fucks. No way would some poor redneck who’d offed someone’s dad and beat a woman land up here, with its manicured lawns, discreet bars on the windows and—he heard as he walked up the white marble steps—Mozart playing on the loudspeakers. The “Sonata No. 4 in E-flat major.” Good choice.

  No, your average schmo with “impulse control” problems would definitely not be here. But Corey Sanderson had money to burn and no eyewitnesses.

  Kowalski looked up impassively at the two security cameras just under the torchére lights and waited. A squat man in pristine whites opened the door. Kowalski pegged him for an orderly. Without a word, the man accompanied Kowalski down a long corridor with a gleaming hardwood floor and into an office that looked as if it could belong to a multinational. It was pristine white—white couch, white carpet, white walls, white laminated bookshelves, platinum blonde secretary in a tight white suit typing on a white computer keyboard.

  She looked up. “Yes?” No smile, no frown, just polite disinterest.

  “Who’s the director here?”

  “That would be Dr. Childers.”

  “I need to talk to him. Now.”

  “Her.” The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. “And I am sorry, but I’m afraid you can’t speak with Dr. Childers at the moment. She’s busy.” Ms. Frigid Receptionist pretended to leaf through a white leather agenda. “Dr. Childers will be free next Tuesday at 10:00 a.m. if you’d like to make an appointment.”

  “Dr. Childers better get unbusy real fast.” Kowalski opened his jacket enough to show the badge and the shoulder holster. He knew how to look threatening, and baring his teeth in what was a technical smile only added to the menace.

  Pink-tipped fingers reached under the desk and two minutes later another cool blonde in a white coat stepped into the room, looking annoyed. Dr. Childers, he presumed. “Amanda, I thought I told you to use that bell only in emergencies.”

  Amanda’s eyes slid over to Kowalski. He bared his teeth, his badge and his gun all over again.

  The cool blonde’s lips tightened. “Follow me.”

  She led him into a big, airy room just off the lobby. White, cool and orderly. She sat down behind her elegant oak desk and folded her hands. “How may I help you, Mr.—” her voice dropped off delicately.

  “Lieutenant,” Kowalski said. “Lieutenant Tyler Morrison of Portland PD. Homicide.”

  Her eyes opened slightly, but she kept her cool. “Yes, Lieutenant. How may I help you?”

  “You’ve got a prisoner here, a Corey Sanderson. Beat a man to death, mutilated a young girl.”

  Dr. Childers’ lips primmed. “We have a patient here by that name, yes. Mr. Sanderson. He is responding very well to treatment. He is a very cultivated man, very knowledgeable about music. A gifted piano player. He played for a visiting delegation just the other evening.” A faint smile creased her face. “Mozart and Schuman. Lovely.”

  Fucker knew how to play more than just the piano, Kowalski thought. He played Dr. Childers very well.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “We’re wondering whether besides playing the piano, he can walk through walls.”

  She stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We have a reliable eyewitness who put Corey Sanderson in Lawrence Square yesterday around 4:00 p.m.,” Kowalski lied without compunction. “And today just outside The Garden, a restaurant on Stillwell. Around 1:30 p.m.”

  Dr. Childers stared blankly, then gathered herself together. “I’m afraid your eyewitness is quite mistaken, Lieutenant. Mr. Sanderson has not left these premises in three months. Since his trial, as a matter of fact.”

  “And conviction.” Kowalski nodded, just to see that slight flush rise over her pale, severe features. “That may well be, Doctor, but I’d like to see Mr. Sanderson for myself.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the good doctor replied, not without satisfaction. “There are rules. You’d need a warrant.”

  He lifted his cell phone. “Yes, Doctor, that’s no problem at all. I have the judge right here on speed dial.” Kowalski looked her straight in the eye. He was capable of reducing the toughest recruit to tears through eye contact alone. She wouldn’t be able to stand more than ten seconds of it, he’d wager. One, two, three…

  “Oh, all right.” Irritated, Dr. Childers rose, meticulously straightening her white coat. “Follow me. You’ll see for yourself how impossible it would be for Mr. Sanderson to leave the premises.”

  The security was better than he’d imagined. Not great, not impossible to get through, but still definitely not a cakewalk. Dr. Childers’ sharp, annoyed voice echoed in the large corridor. “Though it seems excessive t
o me, in my professional opinion, Mr. Sanderson has been confined to Wing C. The patients in Wing C are kept in lockdown. That’s—”

  “I am aware of the concept of lockdown, Doctor. I just need to know how good your lockdown is.” She shot him a look of pure venom as they came to the end of the corridor. Once, the door must have been an elegant wood-paneled door like the others in the corridor, but it had been replaced by a white steel slab. Dr. Childers held her forefinger up to a green screen and waited as it counted ridges in a flash of green light, comparing the ridges with the fingerprints of cleared personnel in the database.

  They had biometric security. Biometric security was a bitch to get through. Doable, but a bitch. You’d probably have to cut someone’s finger off to get through.

  The door slid open soundlessly and they walked in. The soundproofing was stronger here. There was no noise whatsoever in this section, though there were nurses and orderlies coming and going, pushing crash carts and IV trees, transferring inmates in wheelchairs.

  Kowalski looked around curiously. The décor was spare but elegant, the security discreet. He would bet anything that the food was tasty and nutritious. It was much more like a cross between a private clinic and a posh hotel than a prison. Nothing but the best for the man who’d murdered Allegra’s father and beaten her up, put her in a coma and blinded her.

  The doctor stopped at the third door down, glancing through the mesh wire window set in the upper part of the door. The door had an alphanumeric keypad on the wall next to it.

  Dr. Childers signaled to a passing nurse, quietly asked for the chart for the patient in room three and stepped aside so Kowalski could get a look inside.

  The room was nicely appointed, with a high hospital bed, a couch, a designer wooden table with two chairs, a bookcase full of books, a small state-of-the-art hi-fi set—a very expensive Swedish make—and an extensive collection of CDs. On the left hand wall was a door, which he presumed led into the bathroom. No mirrors, no pictures.