Damage Control

by Robert Dugoni

  “How did your husband find out?”

  “When it became apparent that Robert would seek the presidency, Boutaire became more prevalent. That was never a good thing. I suspected he had become suspicious. So I told James I couldn’t see him anymore. We agreed to meet one last time to say good-bye. I dressed up for him that evening and wore the earrings. We had a candlelight dinner near these windows and held each other. Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But you have to understand, there was nothing he or I could do. There’s nothing I can do now.”

  “So then why are you here now? Why did you ask to see me tonight?”

  Elizabeth looked as though she hadn’t considered the question, or the answer was obvious. “Because I thought you deserved an explanation. That’s why you came to the Fairmont, wasn’t it? Because you wanted to know what happened?”

  Dana shook her head. “I already knew what happened. I came to the hotel because I need your help.”

  Elizabeth looked genuinely puzzled. “My help?”

  “I want your husband to pay for killing my brother.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “You can’t get him. No one can. No one has ever been able to get him.”

  “You’re wrong. I can get him, and I will. But I need you to state that the earrings are yours, that the one I found in my brother’s house is yours, and that the two of you were having an affair. That gives Meyers the motivation to kill James. It ties him to Boutaire and to the deaths of the two men who killed James.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  Dana closed the space between them. “Yes, you can. You can do it for James, and you can do it for yourself. James was going to do it for you. The day he died, he called me and said he had a problem he wanted to talk to me about. He was going to find a way to save you. I don’t care how powerful your husband is. He killed James, and I want him. That’s my motivation. You have to motivate yourself.”

  “I can’t—”

  Dana’s voice rose. “Then he will continue to abuse—”

  “Dana, I’m pregnant”

  Dana took a step backward. “What?”

  Elizabeth turned to the window, silent for a moment. Then she turned back to Dana. “I’m pregnant. I didn’t think it was possible, but I am. I don’t care about myself anymore, but Robert would never let me take his child, and I won’t leave my son or daughter to that man. I won’t do it.”

  Dana sat down in the chair, utterly defeated. She felt the onset of a headache. “You think you’re doing your child a favor, but you’re not. I used to think the same thing. Raising your child in an abusive home, in an unhappy marriage, is not protecting your child. It’s…” She was struck by a thought. “What did you mean, you didn’t think it possible?”

  “I’ve never been able to conceive. We tried for years. Nothing worked. The doctors had no explanation for it.”

  “How far are you? How many months?”

  “Just about seven weeks,” Elizabeth said. “I’d been feeling nauseated, and I thought it was the flu.… What are you doing?”

  Dana had taken out her cell phone. “I need to make a phone call.”

  60

  THE MEDICAL CLINIC in Redmond wouldn’t open until eight-thirty A.M. Logan had rushed to get there for nothing. He and Dana sat parked outside the two-story redbrick building, sipping coffee. Dana rested an elbow out the window and considered an ugly slate-gray morning dampened by a light mist. She had slept little, but she was not tired. Her adrenaline was pumping so hard it was difficult to sit in the car, waiting. If she was right, they had a real shot to take down Robert Meyers.

  Logan had met her and Elizabeth Meyers at James’s home. They had driven to the Hill home on Lake Washington. Dana gave Elizabeth her room, and though Elizabeth professed to be incapable of sleeping, it was like watching a weary traveler making it home to a comfortable bed. She was asleep minutes after her head touched the pillow. Logan beefed up security with two additional uniformed officers, one in the front and one in the back, in addition to an officer inside.

  The sound of a car entering the parking lot diverted Dana’s attention. A cherry-red Jeep pulled into a reserved space near the glass entrance to the building. That was a good sign. So was the license plate: KIDDOC. A tall woman with shoulder-length hair emerged, paused to consider Logan’s car, then unlocked the door to the building and disappeared inside. Dana pulled out the scrap of paper and looked again at the name written on it. She wasn’t sure what had triggered her memory, but when she’d gotten back to her home, she’d found the story she recalled reading on the Internet and confirmed the name.

  During the next few minutes, two more cars arrived, and two more women followed the same routine.

  Dana pushed open the car door, stepped out, and pulled her sweater on as they approached the building. The glass doors remained locked. Logan knocked with a key on the glass, a metallic ting. No one came to the door. He knocked again, this time with more force. The woman who had exited the Jeep appeared in the hall, looking annoyed and slightly anxious. When Logan held up his badge, her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed. She unlocked the door and opened it only enough to talk. “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry to bother you before you’ve opened. I’m Detective Michael Logan. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Dr. Frank Pilgrim,” Logan said.

  The woman shook her head, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

  “Just a few questions,” Logan said, and the woman stepped back from the door with a bewildered look. Dana followed Logan into a lobby of miniature chairs and tables with a box of well-worn toys in the corner.

  “I noticed your license plate,” Dana said. “You’re a doctor here at the clinic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know Frank Pilgrim very well?”

  The woman laughed in a burst. Nerves. “I should think so. He was my father. I’m Dr. Emily Pilgrim.”

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Dana said.

  “Then you know he’s dead.”

  “I read his obituary in the paper.”

  “Did you know my father?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Dana said.

  “I don’t understand. What is it you want? I’m afraid this is a bit disconcerting.”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you. I don’t mean to cause you any grief, but where was your father when he died?” Logan asked.

  Emily Pilgrim shrugged and closed her eyes. “Where he has been most nights for the past forty-eight years. In his office, doing paperwork.”

  “How did your father die?” Logan asked.

  “He had a heart attack.”

  “Was your father in good health? Did he have any health problems that you know of?”

  “No. He was seventy-eight years old, but fit enough to run the Seattle marathon again this year.”

  Logan smiled. “That’s quite an accomplishment at any age.”

  “My father refused to accept any suggestion that he could no longer do the things he did as a young man. So, health problems? No. Why do you ask?”

  “So I take it that his death caught you by surprise, given his overall good health.”

  She gave a resigned shrug. “We were surprised, but good health doesn’t always mean a good heart. ”

  “I understand. This is a pediatric clinic?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your father was also a pediatrician?”

  “For forty-eight years.”

  “Was he retired?”

  “No. I bought the practice from him eight years ago, hoping he would retire, but he wouldn’t have it. He was supposed to work another two years, then he was going to retire so he and my mother could…” She choked back tears. Dana handed her a tissue from a box on the receptionist’s counter. Pilgrim wiped a tear from her cheek and rubbed the Kleenex beneath her nose.

  “Were you here with your father the night he died?” Dana asked.r />
  Pilgrim shook her head and crumpled the tissue in her hand. “Why are you asking me these things? What is it you want to know?”

  Dana decided to simply ask the question. “We understand from his obituary that your father was Robert Meyers’s doctor.”

  Pilgrim stopped wiping her nose. She looked from Dana to the detective. “Not for many years, but yes, he treated all of the Meyers’s children, Bob Meyers included. He also treated Bob’s father.” She turned to a table filled with sympathy cards and chose one. “He sent us a card, after my father died. And he telephoned my mother. It meant a lot to her.”

  “I don’t imagine his medical file would still be here in this building?” Dana asked.

  “Whose medical file?”

  “Robert Meyers’s.”

  Pilgrim shook her head. “One would think that, but as I said, my father wasn’t very receptive to suggestions or to change. When I bought the practice, I tried to modernize it, but he resisted, right down to insisting that all of his files remain in his office, whether they were active or closed. We had to wire the office around him.”

  Dana felt a growing sense of optimism and tried to keep Pilgrim disarmed. “My father thought of his computer as a large paperweight.”

  “So you would expect that file to be somewhere in your father’s office?” Logan asked.

  Pilgrim shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so, but—”

  “Could we check?” Dana asked.

  Pilgrim rocked back on her heels. She shook her head. “Not without some authority.”

  “We’re not asking to read the file or for you to tell us what’s in it,” Dana said. “We just want to know if it’s here.”

  Pilgrim crossed her arms. “May I ask why? This is really disturbing.”

  Dana spoke politely. “Dr. Pilgrim, I’m sure these questions are coming out of the blue, and I’m very sorry to bring up your father’s death. I recently lost a brother myself. But a full explanation at this point would be long and convoluted. Before we take up that much of your time, could we first check to see if the file is even here?” Pilgrim took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Dana feared she was becoming reticent. She asked, “Would you recognize your father’s handwriting?”

  Pilgrim opened her eyes. “Absolutely.”

  Dana pulled the empty manila file from her briefcase, the one they had taken from Peter Boutaire’s apartment. She handed it to Pilgrim, who considered the name written on the tab in faded blue ink, then opened it and asked, “Where did you get this?”

  “Do you recognize it?” Dana asked.

  “Yes. It’s is one of my father’s files.”

  “That’s his handwriting at the top?” Logan asked.

  “I’m certain of it.” Pilgrim opened the file and pointed as she spoke. “Do you see these markings here inside the cover? Those are my father’s doodles. He was a doodler. You couldn’t leave anything of importance near the telephone or he would scribble all over it. You’ll find these markings in all his files.” She shook her head. “Where did you get it? Where is the rest of it?”

  Dana said, “Could you check and see if your father has a file here for Robert Meyers?”

  “That is his file. At least that’s his folder.”

  “Could we check? We won’t disturb anything,” Dana said.

  Pilgrim considered them for another moment. Then she sighed. “Come with me.”

  She led them to an office at the back of the complex, talking as they walked. “My father’s office is as cluttered as a museum, and I haven’t had the time or the courage to try and clean it out. I don’t think I will for some time.” She pushed open the door.

  “Is this where you found your father?” Logan asked, stepping in.

  “Yes. I found him here, on the floor. My mother called and said he hadn’t come home yet.” She looked down at a commercial-grade blue carpet with flecks of color. “He appeared to be reaching across his desk for the telephone, trying to call for help, I suppose, when he collapsed.”

  Logan stood at the desk with his back to them and looked over his shoulder at the bank of green filing cabinets with a small television on top. “What time did you find him?”

  “My mother called me around eleven. She spoke to him earlier that evening, and Dad said he was on his way home. They had a routine. They spoke at ten sharp. Dad was home by ten-thirty. When he didn’t walk in the door, my mother started to worry. When she couldn’t reach him at the office, she called me.”

  “So you found him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long do you estimate your father had been dead?”

  “Probably an hour. Maybe an hour and a half.”

  “What would your father have been doing at ten at night?” Logan asked.

  “As I said, sitting at his desk, doing his paperwork and listening to the television, if the Mariners were on.”

  “Could we look for that file?”

  Pilgrim walked to the file cabinets and considered the letters on the white cards in the slots on the front. She found the drawer indicating the closed files for patients with last names beginning with the initial “M” and pulled open the drawer. She was about to thumb through the files, then stopped. One of the files had been pulled out and placed at an angle, as was her father’s custom. Emily Pilgrim looked at the name on the file in the drawer, then considered the file in her hand. She straightened and turned around. “I think you better tell me what you’re doing here.”

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Emily Pilgrim sat with her elbows propped on the desk in her office, a fist pressed against her lips. Behind her, framed diplomas and family portraits lined the wall. Her father looked like an elderly Burt Lancaster—a polished gentleman with watery blue eyes and thinning snow-white hair.

  “And this man had my father’s file?” Pilgrim asked.

  “Yes.” Dana knew she and Logan had given Pilgrim a lot to consider. Now it was simply a matter of whether she believed them or not.

  “I don’t suppose you had an autopsy done on your father?” Logan asked.

  She shrugged. “There was no reason to. And now… Well, he was cremated. Why? Why would someone take Robert Meyers’s file? Why would someone want my father dead? It doesn’t make any sense. My father devoted his life to helping children. He had no enemies, none.”

  “I don’t think it had to do with your father, Dr. Pilgrim,” Dana said. “I think it had to do with something that was in this file—something that your father would have known. Whatever it was, it appears to have been destroyed.”

  Pilgrim looked up at them from across the desk, her look of confusion replaced by one of intrigue. “Would you excuse me for a second?” She pressed the intercom button on her telephone. “Michelle, can you come in here?”

  A moment later, there was a knock on the door, and a petite brunette stuck her head in. Pilgrim introduced her to Dana and Logan, explaining that Michelle was in charge of updating the office computer system and inputting the file information.

  “How far did you get scanning my father’s files into the system?”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Pilgrim, I got tied up with the bills this month. The computer double-billed everything, for some reason, and I had to hand-correct each one,” Michelle answered. Pilgrim rubbed the back of her neck in frustration. “I’m sorry. I can continue it this morning.”

  Pilgrim stopped rubbing her neck and looked up. “Continue?”

  61

  HIS FINGERS FORMED a small steeple, his rage reflected in the white tips where he pressed the fingers together, cutting off the circulation. Meyers waited in his private study, the voice inside his head anything but quiet. The fucking black woman had refused to utter a single word about where she had taken Elizabeth, and despite what Meyers had wanted to do to her, he knew his hands were tied. Carmen Dupree had, in essence, told him to go fuck himself. That was gratitude for you.

  Now he was in a real predicament. He had been careful; no one on the staff knew of Elizabeth’s infidelities
except Peter Boutaire. When Elizabeth disappeared, he told his security staff that his wife had been acting strange, that he feared the pressure of a public life was beginning to overwhelm her, and that he was concerned she could be suicidal. He told them to quietly find her. He didn’t want any information leaked to local authorities or to the press. That was over twenty-four hours ago.

  He interlocked his fingers, his thumbs rotating.

  She disobeyed you. Deliberately disrespected you. Humiliated you.

  He closed his eyes. His hands shook. He had tried everything he could to make her grow up. Hadn’t he fulfilled his promises to her? Didn’t he teach her everything she needed to know? Didn’t he give her everything a woman could ever want? He stood, unable to keep from pacing, hands clenched at his sides. Didn’t he have enough pressures? Didn’t he have enough responsibilities? He had a fucking campaign to run, and instead, he had a dozen of his security team hunting the city for his own wife? His wife! His fucking wife! And he’d be damned if he would give her up. He’d be damned if he would let her waste everything he had done, all of his hard work and effort. He’d be damned if he would let another man enjoy the fruits of his labor.

  Someone knocked on his door. Meyers stopped pacing. “Come in.” An agent stepped into the room. “She’s here, Senator. Mrs. Meyers is here. ”

  Meyers took a deep breath. “Where did you find her?” His voice quivered.

  “We didn’t, Senator. She came back on her own. She walked through the front gate a few minutes ago.”

  Meyers stared at a painting of Elizabeth hanging over the fireplace. Of course she had. Where else could she go? What else could she do? She had undoubtedly wandered aimlessly, taking a hotel room until realizing what her life would become without him. She had to return. He supposed she could have killed herself, one final effort to embarrass him, but he knew she wouldn’t. Not when she was with child.

  “Send her in.” Meyers turned from the agent and headed back to his chair.