Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter

by Lee Goldberg

  He was startled out of his thoughts by hearing his name over the loudspeaker. He was being paged to pick up the phone and dial a particular extension. He did. Steve was on the line.

  "I'm driving up to Kingman tonight with Owen Penmore, one of Burnside's prosecutors, to sort things out with Stryker and the local authorities," Steve said. "I'll bring you some fresh clothes and toiletries."

  "Thanks," Mark said.

  "Burnside talked with the sheriff up there," Steve said. "You aren't going to be treated as a suspect anymore."

  "That's good to know," Mark said. "Because if the insurance company doesn't cover the loss of my car, I don't think I can afford a good lawyer."

  "There's always Pamela Swann," Steve said.

  "Have you notified her that her client is alive?"

  "That's not my responsibility," Steve said. "If Stryker wants to tell her, that's his choice. Is there anything else you need me to bring?"

  "The information on who Pelz called would be nice," Mark said.

  "I'm working on it," Steve said. "See you in the morning."

  Mark hung up and decided to give the case some more thought. He was asleep within five minutes.

  It felt like he'd closed his eyes for only an instant when the nurse shook him out of a light sleep at four a.m. She told him that Stryker was in recovery, awake and stable and asking to see him.

  Mark splashed some water on his face in a futile attempt to wash away his grogginess and followed the nurse to the recovery room.

  Stryker was lying in bed, his leg in a cast, his wounds dressed, wires and tubes running from his body to the machines and IV stands around him.

  "You're lucky to be alive," Mark said.

  "I may end up wishing I wasn't," Stryker said, his voice scratchy and weak. "What did you do with that box I sent you?"

  "I turned it over to Steve," Mark said. "He's on his way up here with an assistant district attorney."

  "Oh goodie," Stryker said. "I wish you weren't so damn conscientious."

  "If I wasn't, you might not be here," Mark said.

  "True," Stryker said, squeezing the trigger of his morphine drip. "I have my faults, but you've got to admit I'm a good judge of character."

  "It's a shame you don't have any of your own."

  "How many arrests has Steve made thanks to the files I sent you?"

  "Quite a few," Mark said.

  "That should go a ways towards rehabilitating my character," Stryker said. "It will certainly help my attorney cut a deal with the DA on any charges he wants to bring against me. After all, the worse Burnside makes me look, the less valuable I'll be to him on the stand."

  "I see you've given this a lot of thought."

  "I didn't have much else to do for the last couple of days," Stryker said.

  Mark found a chair, pulled it up close to the bed, and sat down so Stryker wouldn't have to strain what little voice he had. "You didn't repent and promise God you'd become an honest man if you were rescued?"

  "God knows me too well," Stryker said.

  "You've brought misery into a lot of people's lives with the rest of those files you sent out."

  "A husband cheats on his wife, he's the one who causes the misery, not me. I'm simply an observer."

  "And a profit participant," Mark said.

  Stryker grinned. "I like you, Mark."

  "I don't like you."

  "Still, you found me."

  "Yes, I did," Mark said. "I'm going to find Jimmy Cale, too."

  "You figured out he's alive," Stryker said. "How did you do that?"

  "I figured out that you thought he was," Mark said. "What I don't get is why you jumped to that conclusion instead of assuming that either Yankton killed him or some one else did."

  Stryker nodded towards the bedside table and a Styrofoam cup of water with a straw in it. Mark picked up the cup and held it to Stryker's lips. Stryker sucked some water through the straw, then settled back into his pillows.

  "I thought Yankton did it, just like everybody else," Stryker said. "I took the case to see if I could find out where Jimmy stashed his ill-gotten gains."

  "And take Yankton for his last dollar he had left in the process."

  "I like to be compensated for my work."

  "But then you stumbled onto the fact that someone was quietly buying up the same pieces that were in Cale's currency collection," Mark said. "It's interesting, but not enough for you to have assumed Jimmy Cale is alive. You must have known something else."

  "I put him in a tight spot," Stryker said. "I caught him sleeping with his best friend's wife and showed him the pictures. I offered him a way out. He could pay me not to share what I knew with my client."

  "You blackmailed him."

  "Call it what you will, but he declined my offer," Stryker said. "So I told Yankton what was going on."

  "Cale declined because you inadvertently gave him a better way out," Mark said. Everything made sense to him now. "You didn't know that Cale was embezzling millions from his clients. It was only a matter of time before he got caught, and he knew it. But then you walked in the door and told him you were going to tell Yankton about his affair. It was great news. Cale wanted you to tell Yankton."

  "I handed Jimmy the makings of a perfect frame," Stryker said. "I gave Yankton a motive to kill him."

  "You gave Cale the opportunity to get away with all the money he stole and never have to worry about getting caught," Mark said. "But to do it he had to make a snap decision to sacrifice his family, his possessions, and his identity."

  "Not to mention a pint of blood and a toe," Stryker said.

  "It was all worth it to him," Mark said. "Because nobody is going to look for a dead man."

  "You looked for me," Stryker said.

  "You asked me to, remember?"

  The rest of the story wasn't difficult to guess. Jimmy Cale went somewhere, had extensive plastic surgery, and created a new identity for himself. For the last five years, he'd been living nicely off the interest from the millions he stole, content in the knowledge that he was completely safe.

  But Cale still loved money and couldn't resist using his wealth to restore his beloved collection. There were probably other pursuits he couldn't resist either, like cigars and gambling, and that would be helpful in tracking him down.

  "What's the story with Sanford Pelz?" Mark asked.

  "He was the middleman for Jimmy, his front at auctions and in private transactions with dealers and collectors," Stryker said, his exhaustion showing. His words were coming slower now and his eyelids were growing heavy. "I would have asked him about all that, but when I got to his place, he was dead. I got the hell out of there and, my damn luck, blew a tire. You know the rest."

  "You think Cale killed him?"

  "No. He's a swindler, not a killer. He doesn't get his hands dirty, unless it's counting money. I know the type."

  "You are the type."

  "So trust me, it wasn't him, but he's behind it." Stryker was fighting to keep his eyes open. Mark wouldn't keep him much longer. "He must have heard rumblings that I was asking around about his purchases and hired someone to clean up his trail. I'm sure whoever worked on his face and made his new passport is no longer among the living, either."

  "Do you have any idea where Cale is?"

  Stryker shook his head. Mark had some ideas, though. Something Cale's ex-wife said was coming back to him. He didn't share his thoughts with Stryker.

  "What would you have done if you found him?" Mark asked.

  Stryker smiled thinly and closed his eyes. "What do you think?"

  "You would have taken Cale's money, kept quiet, and let an innocent man remain on death row?"

  "I didn't put Yankton there," Stryker said, his voice trailing off into a whisper as he gave in to sleep. "Your son did that."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The deputy posted outside the recovery room door notified Sam DeWitt that Stryker was out of surgery and conscious, but by the time DeWitt arrive
d, Stryker was asleep and the doctors wouldn't let their patient be disturbed. So DeWitt hunted down Mark Sloan instead.

  DeWitt found him in the doctors' lounge, where he was trying to grab another hour or two of sleep before Steve arrived. The deputy had no qualms about disturbing Mark's rest.

  "I hear you talked with Stryker," DeWitt said, pulling up a chair beside the couch that Mark was lying on.

  "Yeah." Mark mumbled, not bothering to open his eyes.

  "What did he tell you?"

  "Pelz was dead when he got there." Mark said. "Stryker was heading back when he blew a tire, lost control of his car, and went over the cliff. End of story. Good night."

  "He didn't blow a tire."

  Mark opened an eye. "He didn't?"

  DeWitt shook his head. "You tell me what you've got and I'll tell you what I've got."

  "Some quid pro quo." Mark said.

  DeWitt shrugged. He obviously had no idea what Mark was talking about.

  Mark sat up with a groan and recounted what Stryker had told him, deftly omitting the blackmail aspects of the story. He would leave it to Steve and the DA to decide if they wanted to share those details with the Mohave County Sheriff's Department.

  "Your turn," Mark said.

  "We found the bullet that killed Pelz," DeWitt said. "It went through him, through the wall, through the wall of the next trailer, through the refrigerator, and into a bowl of leftover spaghetti. The inside of that refrigerator is a mess."

  "How could the bullet travel so far?"

  "Pelz was shot at close range with a .308 Remington sniper rifle," DeWitt said.

  Which meant that Stryker's accident was most likely attempted murder. "Have you found a matching bullet in Stryker's tire?" Mark asked.

  "It won't be in the tire, but now that we know what to look for, we'll find it in the ravine somewhere," DeWitt said. "It will just take some time, that's all."

  "What about those wire transfers into Pelz's bank account? Any luck there?"

  "The bank doesn't open until ten," DeWitt said, "so I haven't had a chance to ask. I didn't see any point in rousting people out of bed for something that can wait."

  "You're right, of course," Mark said.

  He couldn't blame DeWitt for not feeling any urgency. There wasn't any, really. But Mark felt it anyway. He felt it for Bert Yankton, who he was now certain was innocent. Everyday Yankton spent in prison, living in hell, deprived of his freedom, was another day of his life that was being robbed from him.

  "There's more to this case than you're telling me," DeWitt said.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Because the district attorney of Los Angeles called the sheriff and claimed Stryker is a key witness in a major LAPD and Justice Department investigation," DeWitt said. "Funny, you didn't mention anything about that."

  "I'm a doctor," Mark said, "not a police officer."

  "The way I hear it, that's a point you're often confused about, except when it suits you." DeWitt rose from his seat. "I'll leave you to get some sleep."

  "Thanks," Mark said.

  The deputy strode out, closing the door softly behind him. Mark lay down, closed his eyes, and slowly let out a deep breath.

  He knew where he'd have to go to find Jimmy Cale; the rest he still had to work on. How would he find Cale out of millions of people? And then what? Ask the suspects to show him their bare feet?

  Those were a few of the problems he was still going over in his mind when Steve walked into the lounge an hour later.

  Steve was carrying a gym bag, which he set on a table. "Hey, sorry to wake you."

  "I wish I could say I was asleep," Mark said, sitting up and glancing at the wall clock. It was six a.m. "You made good time."

  "We used the siren," Steve said.

  "You're joking, right?" Mark said.

  "I wish I was," Steve said. "Penmore insisted. I've got a hell of a headache."

  "Where is your friend?"

  "Talking to Stryker," Steve said. "Or at least trying to. He's also got some diplomacy work to do with the Mohave County Sheriff's Department."

  "What's your job?"

  "I'm the driver, the muscle, and the deliveryman." Steve motioned to the gym bag. "There's a change of clothes for you in there. You can come back to LA with us today."

  "Thanks, but I'm not going back to Los Angeles yet," Mark said.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Las Vegas."

  "I don't suppose it's because you're in the area and feel like losing some money on the slots," Steve said. "I got Pelz's phone records. He was calling Vegas a lot lately, but you've already guessed that."

  "Was he calling anyone in particular?"

  "He was calling pay phones up and down the Strip," Steve said. "Whoever Pelz was talking to must have worked out a prearranged calling time with him and supplied the number. You think it's Jimmy Cale."

  "I can't prove it," Mark said. "Not yet anyway."

  "How did you guess he'd be in Vegas?" Steve said. "You'd think Cale would have left the country."

  "You can change your face, but you can't change who you are," Mark said.

  "So you keep saying."

  "Betsy Cale told me her ex-husband felt uncomfortable, to the point of crippling paranoia, in places he couldn't speak the language," Mark said. "So that ruled out Europe or Mexico. But he enjoyed gambling and loved Las Vegas."

  "So if he's alive, and if he's living in Las Vegas, how are you going to flush him out?"

  "By calling in some favors," Mark said.

  The Las Vegas Strip was like a high-priced Hollywood hooker—seductive and seedy, frequently renovated, and bedeviled by high traffic.

  Only a few years ago, legendary hotel magnate Roger Standiford's T-Rex casino was the biggest attraction on the Strip, with its giant animatronic dinosaurs, erupting volcanoes, and massive hotel towers seemingly carved out of solid rock.

  But then the London resort casino opened a block away, offering tourists the chance to visit re-creations of Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus, and even the Underground, a subway that shuttled guests from one end of the massive hotel to the other. The Tube stops were authentic right down to the smell, fabricated at a cost of eleven million dollars by fragrance experts poached from Chanel.

  Now London had been trumped by Standiford's newest mega-resort, the Côte d'Azur, a lavish hotel and gambling palace that evoked a bygone era of elegance, class, and exclusivity. The shimmering golden towers beckoned everyone but accepted only a privileged few. Côte d'Azur wasn't for the all-you-can-eat-buffet tourists or for the retirees who liked to play nickel slots. They were politely turned away before they even reached the lobby doors.

  Standiford was interested only in wealthy vacationers looking for a decadent retreat and high rollers seeking the ultimate gambling experience. But most of all, Côte d'Azur courted the whales, gamblers who thought nothing of wagering a million dollars or more a night.

  To create the right atmosphere, and actively discourage the less well-heeled, black tie attire was required at all times in the Côte d'Azur's casino, restaurants, nightclubs, and bars. Men wore tuxedos and women wore evening gowns. Guests interested in casual dining could eat in the privacy of their sumptuously appointed staterooms or find it elsewhere in the city.

  For those who didn't bring the right clothes, a stop at one of the hotel's many fine merchants was recommended. The designer shops included Louis Vuitton, Cartier, Christian Dior, Hermes, Oscar de la Renta, Gucci, and Manolo Blahnik. Any man who showed up at the casino in a rented tux would be politely escorted to the nearest exit by hotel security. The only places the dress code was relaxed were in the lobby, the pool, and the spa.

  All the other necessities of life could be found at the Côte d'Azur. It even included a private medical facility that rivaled many of the nation's finest hospitals. Why recuperate from surgery in a drab hospital room when you could rest instead in a luxurious suite with a breathtaking view of the Las Vegas Strip?
Why eat hospital food when you could dine on gourmet creations from the world's finest chefs? The hospital specialized in orthopedic, cardiovascular, and plastic surgery, though it dealt as well with the assorted ailments, accidents, and health emergencies of the resort's wealthy, privacy-minded guests.

  As posh and elegant as Côte d'Azur was, there was one area where Standiford pandered to superficial, mass-market appeal. Throughout the hallways, garages, and elevators of the hotel, John Barry's brassy music from the first seven James Bond films played on a constant loop. It was tacky, but it worked. Standiford knew that every man, no matter how rich and powerful, wanted to think he was as smooth, capable, and dangerous as James Bond and every woman wanted to be the femme fatale who was his undoing.

  If anybody who stayed at the Côte d'Azur thought the 007 music was silly or monotonous, they never said so. It became an almost subliminal part of the Côte d'Azur experience.

  The exclusivity even extended to the parking lot, a showcase of the finest automobiles from around the world. Taxis and airport vans were not allowed on the property. Limousines were welcome, as long as they were luxury cars, unadorned with advertising, and gleaming.

  When Dr. Mark Sloan drove up in his rented Ford Five Hundred sedan, the valet and the security guard both looked as if he'd arrived in a manure delivery truck.

  "We don't accept vehicles of this nature on our property, sir," the valet said. He was only in his twenties, but already he was a master of smug superiority.

  "I'm sure you can find a place to hide it," Mark said cheerfully, handing his keys to the valet. "Perhaps in employee parking? Or do you drive a Lamborghini to work?"

  Mark turned his attention to the security guard, who was dressed in a suit and tie, a wire running from inside his jacket to his earpiece. "I'd like to see Roger Standiford, please."

  "I'd like to see Jessica Simpson naked," the man said, "but that's not going to happen either. You can get back in your car, make a U-turn. Circus Circus is right up the street. Have a pleasant stay in Las Vegas."

  "Tell Mr. Standiford that Dr. Mark Sloan is here."

  "Don't make me insist, sir," the man said. "You wouldn't like me when I insist."