The Bishop pbf-4

by Steven James

  Location and timing.

  Why then?

  Why there?

  What does the choice of this location tell us about the killer’s familiarity with the region, about his travel patterns? About his perception of the area and his relationship with the victims?

  Timing: last night.

  Location: the primate research place.

  The cable news last night had said that the place was studying cognition in higher primates.

  She knew a little about primate cognition, but maybe…

  The Internet was a possibility, but she had a better idea.

  She went online and, using her freshly acquired reader’s card verification number, logged onto the Library of Congress’s archives, the world’s largest collection of scientific journals, and then typed in “Gunderson Foundation Primate Research.”

  A nurse checked my blood pressure and pulse and then put a bandage on my seeping IV needle mark, and after she left the exam room, I spent ten minutes filling in the hospital’s paperwork while I waited for the doctor to arrive.

  But at last I set the forms aside, borrowed some paper from a receptionist, and began analyzing the details of the hotel chase, the shooting, the locations related to the crimes, jotting notes as I did.

  After a while I realized that it’d been an hour since I’d spoken with Tessa or checked in on the case, and I still hadn’t gotten back with Director Rodale, who’d left me a message earlier for me to call him.

  I phoned Tessa first, and she assured me she was fine. “Detective Warren is here.” She lowered her voice. “I didn’t need a babysitter.”

  “That’s not why I asked her to stop by. You know that.”

  A slight pause. “I guess so.”

  “What are you two doing?”

  “Talking about boys.”

  “No, we’re not,” Cheyenne called from the background.

  “Boys?”

  “She thinks you should let me date older guys.”

  “No, I don’t,” Cheyenne said.

  “Whatever.”

  Despite Tessa’s reluctance to have someone check in on her, she sounded much more relaxed than when we’d spoken earlier, and I was relieved. “Anyway,” she said, “we’re playing chess. She’s a lot better than you are.”

  “Well, that’s not too hard.”

  “True.”

  I tapped a finger against the chair. Since I was still waiting for a doctor, my chances of getting home in time were growing slimmer, but I said, “I’m still hoping to make it by 7:00.”

  I heard Cheyenne again: “Check.”

  “All right, I’ll see you.” Tessa sounded distracted, and I pictured her studying the board.

  She hung up, I called Doehring.

  We talked for a few minutes about the case-still no sign of Mollie Fischer, but they were checking the hotel room by room. “Farraday found the wheelchair in room 809.”

  “Whose name was the room reserved under?”

  “The manager’s. It’s a comp room he keeps reserved for foreign dignitaries visiting Washington.”

  Unbelievable.

  “Fourteen sets of prints on the chair-so far mostly partials, DNA from Mollie, two maids, some still unidentified. No matches to anyone in the system, though. And the alley? Well, somehow these guys hacked in and looped the video feed. That’s why we didn’t see the woman enter. Marianne’s furious she didn’t catch it.”

  So the question remained-where was Mollie?

  I remembered reading about a case from the 1990s in which a Belgian couple abducted young children and kept them in a specially designed dungeon. The police searched the house twice and heard children crying each time, but assumed the sounds came from kids playing outside somewhere. Two girls starved to death while the husband was serving time and his wife, who was an elementary school teacher, stayed in the house and ignored the girls’ cries for weeks until the two children finally died.

  “Take the room apart,” I said. “Check under the bed frame, move the furniture, assume nothing.”

  “It’s done.”

  “A maid’s cart? Could they have put her in a laundry cart?”

  “We checked. Listen, how is your-”

  “I’m fine. The freezers at the hotel? The roof? What about the elevators? Check on top of them-” And then, thinking of the hotel’s state-of-the-art security and ultramodern renovations, I had a grisly thought. “Any document shredding machines at the hotel? Large ones, I mean industrial-sized?”

  “Don’t worry. My men are thorough.”

  At last, as we were finishing the call, I asked him if he could send an officer to pick me up when I was finished here, take me back to my car.

  “You were shot, Pat. I’ll have Anderson take you all the way home.”

  “No, I just need to get to my car. I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave the hospital.”

  We hung up.

  Finally, under the pretext of returning the call he’d made to my cell earlier in the afternoon-but primarily hoping to find out if he was the one who’d told Fischer to keep the information about Mollie from the press-I punched in Director Rodale’s number.

  His secretary told me he’d just gone home for the day. “He wants to speak to you too,” she said.

  That was no surprise.

  We set up a meeting at his office tomorrow at noon, between my classes.

  Then I went back to my notes, and a few minutes later the doctor arrived.

  39

  After unwrapping the bandages that the paramedics had snugged around the arm, Dr. Stearn washed out the QuikClot, carefully inspected the entrance and exit holes, then ordered an X-ray to make sure there were no bone or bullet fragments in my arm.

  Which only ate up more time.

  Afterward, I convinced him to take me to a patient’s room rather than the exam room so I could watch the news on the in-room television. He irrigated the wound and said, “Prepare yourself.” He was getting a scalpel out to debride the area-a process that involves cutting away the dead tissue surrounding the injured area.

  I tried to focus on the news.

  Chelsea Traye, Channel 11’s on-site reporter, announced that they were expecting a statement “at any moment” from the FBI concerning “an alleged shooting in the basement of the historic Lincoln Towers Hotel.”

  “Alleged, huh?” Dr. Stearn said.

  A deep needle prick as he numbed the area.

  “Until it goes through the Bureau’s public affairs department, I’m not officially wounded.”

  “How nice.”

  As I watched the news, Dr. Stearn finished the debridement and as tenderly as possible put a non-occlusive dressing on the wound. WXTN’s news team was explaining that according to their sources, the authorities were looking for a man and a woman as possibly being responsible for Mollie Fischer’s disappearance and the death of Twana Summie.

  An orderly holding a doctor’s scrub top for me appeared at the door-something to wear, since my shirt had been stained with blood and scissored to pieces by Parvaneh. “Compliments of Mercy Medical,” he said.

  “Pink?” I said. “I thought scrubs were supposed to be green?”

  “Discourages people from stealing them.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” I pointed at the chair in the corner of the room. “Just set it over there.”

  As soon as he was gone, I called for a nurse and handed her a twenty dollar bill. “Can you stop by the hospital gift shop and pick up a T-shirt for me? I’m a federal agent and I’d consider this a great service to your country.”

  She smiled. “Sure.”

  The doctor had a sling out and was adjusting it to fit my arm. I told him I wouldn’t need it; he told me I would.

  The news program cut to the press conference, and Margaret appeared on the screen. I turned up the volume. Even though she was only giving a perfunctory explanation, I had to admit that her statement was much more carefully worded than mine had been earlier in the day.


  She finished by announcing that one of the Bureau’s “finest agents” had sustained “minor injuries from adversarial action at a shooting in the basement of the Lincoln Towers.”

  A few hours ago I was silly looking, now I was one of the FBI’s finest agents.

  Maybe Margaret was just plain warming up to me.

  “Minor injuries?” Dr. Stearn said dubiously, and I realized that so far he had only communicated to me in two-word sentences.

  “Hurts though,” I said.

  In the end, Margaret didn’t say anything that I didn’t already know, then the news program shifted to an “expert’s analysis” of the incident.

  The doc finished with my arm and told me to come back and have it checked on Monday for infection. Finally he gave me some pain meds and antibiotics. “No narcotics,” I said. He reluctantly agreed, switched the meds, then said, “Twice daily.” He pointed to one of the bottles of pills and then tipped out two. “Swallow these.”

  “For pain,” I said.

  He nodded and then stunned me with three complete sentences in a row. “Take another two before going to bed. The next couple days are going to be rough. I’ll give you a prescription.”

  I thanked him and was standing up to go when the nurse returned with a hot pink “DC Rules!” tourist T-shirt.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said.

  “The only extra large they had left.” She handed me the shirt and my change. “Don’t worry, pink is the new black.”

  “Oh. Is that it.”

  Dr. Stearn was scribbling his signature on a sheet of paper clamped to his clipboard.

  “No driving,” he said.

  Okay, back to two-word sentences.

  “I understand,” I replied.

  The two of them helped me put on the shirt and position my arm in the sling, I grabbed the notes I’d jotted down, and then went outside, eased off the sling, and called Doehring to ask if Anderson was available to take me to my car.

  40

  Tessa was getting frustrated.

  Cheyenne had actually beaten her at chess.

  Twice.

  “Where’d you learn to play?” Tessa asked her.

  “My dad. You know I grew up on a ranch? Well, he wasn’t too thrilled about us watching TV, so in the evenings we’d play games-mostly chess. He was nationally ranked in college. Over the years he taught me a couple strategies.”

  A couple.

  Yeah, right.

  Tessa focused in, scrutinized the board. And made her move.

  6:57 p.m.

  Using an undercover car, which he proudly notified me was his typical vehicle, Officer Lee Anderson had dropped me off at my car about thirty minutes ago. The meds hadn’t really kicked in yet, and every time I moved my arm or shifted my weight it felt like someone was driving a giant needle through my arm and wrenching it back and forth.

  Needles again.

  Man, I just couldn’t get them off my mind.

  To make matters worse, traffic had stalled. Maybe there was an accident up ahead.

  I shifted my weight.

  Needles.

  Think about something else.

  Okay. Ralph’s news: Basque and Professor Lebreau’s disappearance. Unbelievable.

  For a flickering moment, I considered the possibility that Basque might somehow be involved in the crimes here in DC, this week. A quick calculation told me the drive time from Michigan would have been tight but workable.

  But even as I considered that, I realized the scenario didn’t work. The build of the unidentified man pushing the wheelchair into the Lincoln wasn’t right: Basque was nearly my height and stocky; that man was shorter and had a medium build.

  So…

  What could I do from here to help find him?

  At first I couldn’t think of anything, but then Ah yes.

  Not me.

  Angela Knight, my friend in the cybercrime division. She and her computer she’d named Lacey could find just about anyone.

  Traffic was at a standstill, so I pulled up a few jpegs from Basque’s case files on my cell and then called Angela and started by telling her about the IPR-OMI license plate. She told me she’d gotten word that the NSA guys were on it. “I’m backed up here like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Considering how busy she was, I wondered if I should even tell her the main reason I’d called, but since I really didn’t have anything to lose, I just went ahead. “One more thing-”

  “Pat, I know what you’re going to ask, but I haven’t had any more time to work on your Patricia E. cipher.” She sounded exhausted.

  “This is about something else.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “Let me guess: you need confidential information, you need it now, and you don’t want to fill out any paperwork.”

  “You’re amazing. You read my mind.”

  “What can I say, I’m psychic.”

  “I had my suspicions.” I took the phone from my ear and tapped the screen to email her the jpegs while I edged the car forward a few feet, holding the steering wheel in position with my knees.

  A small sigh. “What do you need?”

  “I need you to find Richard Devin Basque. I don’t care how you do it-credit card use, driver’s license, his cell phone’s GPS. Hack into his lawyer’s computer. Her name is Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman. I can get her address for-”

  “Hold on. What’s this about?”

  I told her about Dr. Lebreau’s possible abduction and the all-too-conveniently timed disappearance of Basque.

  “Who’s the agent in charge?”

  “Kreger’s on Lebreau. Ralph’s flying up there right now to help look for Basque.”

  Traffic moved forward slightly, then stopped again.

  “Then why isn’t he the one calling me?”

  “He’s playing this close to the chest,” I said evasively.

  “Oh. I see. Richard Basque is a free man and not-let me see, how shall I phrase this?” A slight sting in her words. “‘A person of interest in the case,’ so placing an official locate on him could be considered harassment.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

  “How about like this: Ralph is going about this within the bounds of the law.”

  I heard a ping. The email with the attached photos I’d just sent her had arrived.

  She noticed it. “What’s that?”

  “Pictures of his victims. To help convince you to help me.”

  “I’m deleting them.”

  “No.”

  “I can’t do this, Pat. He’s a free man.”

  “This woman who went missing yesterday, she’s the one who uncovered the DNA evidence that helped free him. It’s very likely he’s involved somehow. Her life is in danger.”

  “If this locate doesn’t come from Ralph, I’m going to need authorization from Assistant Director Wellington.”

  “Open the jpegs,” I said. “Look at what he did to his victims.”

  “He was declared not guilty.”

  “The jury made a mistake.”

  A small pause. I wondered if she was looking at the photographs. She said, “This missing woman, that’s not the only reason that you want to find him, is it?”

  “Finding her, making sure she’s okay, that’s our primary concern.”

  “But not the only one. Not for you.”

  I felt an uncomfortable itch on the back of my neck. “Okay, yes. I need to talk with Mr. Basque.”

  “Talk.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it? Just talk?”

  “Angela, you and I have worked together for five years.” It wasn’t an answer to her question. “Trust me on this.”

  “I know how long we’ve worked together, that’s why I’m asking you the question. I’m concerned you might do something reckless.”

  “Have I ever done anything reckless?”

  “Are you being serious?”

  “Okay, but I mean, apart from those times-whichever ones
you’re thinking of.”

  I heard a small snort-laugh.

  Ah, good.

  A chink in her armor.

  “Help me out here, Angela. If anyone can find Basque, you and Lacey can.”

  Angela treated her computer as if it were a real person. She claimed Lacey had emotions, good days and bad days, and was self-aware. I’d seen them work together enough to wonder if Angela might actually be right.

  A pause. “We could get in trouble for this, you know that.” I wondered if “we” referred to me and her, or her and Lacey. “I could lose my job.”

  “Your skills are very transferable. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

  A small sigh. “Remind me again why I’m friends with you?”

  “My scintillating personality.”

  “Really.”

  “Probably, that or my striking good looks.” I guided the car down the Garrisonville exit. “As soon as I hang up, I’ll send you everything I have on Basque.”

  “Pat, if I find him, you have to promise you won’t hurt him, that you won’t do anything that would make me regret helping you.”

  “Angela-”

  “Promise, or I’ll wait to hear from Margaret, and we both know that’s something that’s not going to happen. Give me your word and I’ll trust you.”

  I weighed my options.

  “Pat?”

  “I promise I won’t hurt him,” I said.

  “Then I’ll find him.”

  I thanked her and then the conversation was over. I sent her the information and then spent the rest of the drive home wondering how I would keep both my promise to her and my promise to Grant Sikora.

  And I couldn’t think of any way to honor them both.

  41

  At the house I found Tessa and Cheyenne in the living room, seated across from each other at a chessboard.

  “Check,” Tessa said, moving her knight to h7. When she looked at me, her gaze went immediately to the bandages on my arm. “What happened?”

  “I got a little scrape. How are you doing?”

  “A scrape?”

  Cheyenne gave me a look of concern. “Is your arm all right?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A scrape?” Tessa repeated.