by Jeff Abbott
He leaned back from her, pride clearly stung – he was not a good poker player.
‘May I call you Celeste? I feel as if I know you from your TV days.’ He dumped sugar in his tone now. ‘I must know if she left anything with you. For safekeeping. You’re not betraying her trust if you help me.’
‘No. She brought nothing but her briefcase.’ Celeste kept her voice steady. ‘She sat in the same chair you’re sitting in and we talked and she left.’ Celeste decided to play the trump card, see how he reacted; it would either prove or disprove Miles’s theory. ‘Wait. I was finishing up a late lunch when she stopped by, and she asked to borrow my computer. She was expecting an important e-mail and wanted to check her account on the Web.’
‘Were you with her?’
‘I don’t stand over people’s shoulders while they read their e-mail. She was alone for about five, ten minutes, while I finished eating.’
His face paled, his lips tightened, and he seemed to be steadying himself for an unwelcome task. ‘I appreciate your honesty, Celeste. But I suspect I have unwelcome news. Those pills she took back from you. Were they white?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll need to come to the hospital with me.’
‘No. I’m agoraphobic. I don’t leave my house.’
‘You were given medications that could have interacted badly with your other meds,’ he said. ‘We need to get you tested.’
‘No.’
‘I can sedate you, if you prefer. But I must insist. For your own good.’
‘No.’
A shift in his eyes and she was afraid of him, now; he wore the simmering glare of a child unused to refusal. He stood, tented his hands. ‘Celeste. This is a medical emergency, and I can compel you to come with me…’
‘I said no.’
‘You can’t take care of yourself at home. You’re not better, you’re worse. Just imagine’ – and he took a step toward her – ‘you started cutting yourself again, really bad, and just imagine I found you, bleeding, suicidal…’
And then the soft click of a gun. Miles stood behind Hurley, Celeste’s gun at the doctor’s head. ‘And just imagine you sit down and start talking.’
Hurley froze.
Miles shoved Hurley back onto the couch. ‘Do no harm is supposed to be your motto. It’s sure as hell not mine.’
‘You’re making a mistake,’ Hurley said.
‘It doesn’t feel like a mistake,’ Miles said. ‘You okay?’
Celeste nodded.
‘If you’re interested in the white pills,’ Miles said, ‘I can help you.’
Hurley said, ‘I hope we can work out a deal.’
‘The deal is you answer my questions, I don’t blow your brains out,’ Miles said. Celeste got up from the chair, retreated toward the kitchen. ‘That’s the deal, Doctor Dolittle.’
‘You already have Frost, if you’re Allison Vance’s partner,’ Hurley said. ‘I’m not sure what else you can negotiate for.’
‘Tell me the truth about Frost.’ He put the gun close to Hurley’s head.
‘Medicine to tranquilize those suffering from PTSD. It makes the trauma bearable, so therapy can be more effective.’
Miles glanced at Celeste. ‘These white pills, they make you sleepy?’
She shook her head. ‘Not sleepy. Calm.’
‘Allison had you take one before therapy, right?’ Hurley said.
Celeste nodded.
‘That’s right. It dulls the traumatic memory so that the person can talk about the trauma more easily.’ Hurley said.
‘But Celeste and Nathan Ruiz didn’t know they were being tested.’
Hurley didn’t answer and Miles prodded him with the gun. ‘No one knows. I didn’t know she was giving it to Celeste.’
‘Where is Nathan Ruiz?’
‘He – he escaped from us. We’ve had no word from him. I suppose he’s hiding. Or dead.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s dangerous, you know, to himself, to you if he gets a chance.’
‘The medicine’s not helping him?’
Hurley shrugged.
‘Who’s the guy who’s hunting me?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ Hurley said, ‘if you give me Frost. Listen, you want to take down that guy, I’ll give you a bonus. He’s crazy. No offense.’
‘None taken,’ Miles said. ‘You’re trying to tell me he’s not on your side.’
Hurley nodded. ‘I’ll help you so you can get rid of him. I’ll set it up. But you give me Frost.’ Hurley attempted a smile; an awful, frightened flex. ‘He’s not going to let you walk. He’ll kill you for it.’
‘I don’t have Frost.’
Hope lit Hurley’s eyes. ‘Were the files burned up with Allison?’
‘I don’t know. What’s on these files?’
‘All the research notes, the chemical formulae, videos of the patients during the testing, everything to prove Frost is effective.’ Hurley shook his head. ‘If you really don’t have Frost, then you played the wrong bluff with him. He’s sure you do.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t have a reason to help you now.’
Miles frowned. ‘Celeste. Please go into the other room. Close the door. I’ll use the silencer. It shouldn’t be too bad.’ He winked at her.
Her eyes wide, Celeste shook her head. ‘Don’t kill him. Please. Don’t.’
‘Have to. He won’t tell me what we need to know.’
She shook her head, not understanding his bluff. Then he winked twice again. And she got quiet. ‘If you have to.’ She hurried into the kitchen.
‘You and I are not sitting across from a negotiating table, Doctor,’ Miles said. ‘I’m sitting with a gun at your head. Now. Answer my questions. Who’s hunting me?’
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘My name is DeShawn Pitts,’ the tall man said, shaking Groote’s hand. ‘I’m with the U.S. Marshals Service and I need to talk to you regarding a person of interest.’
Groote noticed Pitts wore finger braces on his left hand – two fingers broken – and his bruised face announced he’d been on the losing end of a recent fight.
‘Happy to help.’
‘Where were you with the Bureau?’ Pitts asked.
‘Fifteen years in the Los Angeles office.’
‘Now you’re for hire.’
‘The parent company of the hospital retained me.’ He realized he was talking too much, but he always did when he was around other feds. Old habits. His colleagues had always made him nervous, hyperaware, as though they could see the shadow he’d become after Cathy died and Amanda got sick. He brought Pitts to Hurley’s first-floor office, two doors down from the conference room where Sorenson waited.
‘You said you wanted to talk about a person of interest.’
Pitts took a seat. ‘Yes, and you’ll forgive me if I skimp on details. A person of interest that we’re trying to locate – his name is Michael Raymond – received a call on his cell phone from this hospital two days ago. I need to know who tried to call him.’
Groote kept his face impassive but thought, Oh, hell. When I tried to call MR back again and got no answer. ‘Michael Raymond. The name’s not familiar to me.’ Who is this Michael Raymond and why is he screwing everything up for me? Groote cleared his throat and typed on the computer keyboard in Hurley’s office. ‘Let me check the visitor logs.’ He collected his thoughts while he scanned the log. ‘He hasn’t visited us. I can e-mail the staff, ask if anyone knows him.’
‘Not quite yet. His psychiatrist was Allison Vance. Have you heard about this explosion-’
He’s a patient of hers. Nathan was telling the truth. ‘Of course. It’s a tragedy. And you thought he might seek help from us.’
‘He’s… delusional. He believes that he needs to “right” Doctor Vance’s death.’
Groote raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he believe he bears responsibility?’
DeShawn Pitts pointed to Doctor Hurley’s nameplate on the door. ‘Hurley’s your
psychiatric chief? I think I should wait and discuss this man’s mental state with the doctor. You understand.’
‘Of course. I didn’t mean the question in a medical context but in terms of security. If this man is a danger to the hospital, I want to know what kind of threat he is.’
‘I don’t think he’d hurt anyone. But if he shows up, I want you to call me immediately, at this number. Detain him if you can.’
‘Call you and call the police.’
‘No. Just call me. It’s critical that I locate him. Without a lot of public fuss.’
Groote raised an eyebrow again. ‘I could be of much greater help to you, if I knew exactly who this man was.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t go into details.’
Searching for a man but you can’t say that you’re searching for him. Interesting, Groote thought. More than interesting. A situation with very few plausible explanations. ‘Is this man wanted by the Marshals Service? Is he a fugitive?’
‘As I said, he’s a person of interest, and we don’t want to make a big production.’
This man knows the truth about my target, Groote realized, and he measured, on an internal scale, the risk of confrontation with Pitts. ‘Your boy doesn’t believe the fire was caused by a gas leak.’
‘No.’
‘And this investigation, it’s part of his delusion?’
‘Possibly. He’s suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder.’
‘You know, it’s possible that your guy called Doctor Hurley. Hurley knew Doctor Vance; the psychiatric community here’s not that big. Perhaps the call was Hurley returning a call from your guy.’ He tapped fingertips against the table, pretended to think. ‘Hurley mentioned an odd call the other day.’
‘Then I need to speak with Doctor Hurley. You and he could help me bring this guy in.’
Groote seized the opening. ‘I’m not in the business of laying traps for people. Legally, I’m in quicksand if Mr. Raymond shows up, I detain him, and call you and you have no just cause.’
Pitts clicked tongue against teeth. ‘You said you were ex-FBI.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why’d you leave?’
‘Family tragedy.’
DeShawn said, ‘Excuse me, but I need to make a phone call.’
‘Certainly. There’s a private room next door.’ He ushered DeShawn into the room – an interview room, used in consulting with patients.
‘Walls are padded,’ DeShawn said, a hint of distaste in his voice.
‘Yes,’ Groote said without comment, and closed the door. ‘Hit the door twice when you’re done.’ Then he hurried back to the computer in Hurley’s office, activated the hidden camera in the soft fabric of the wall. Every room had these cameras, ready for use when Hurley needed them. A mike paired to the camera and he snapped a window on the computer open, adjusted the sound.
‘Jimmy, I need background on Dennis Groote. Former FBI field agent in Los Angeles,’ Pitts said. The mike wasn’t powerful enough to pick up the response. DeShawn waited on the phone. Groote already knew the answer would be glowing; his record was clean.
Pitts was asking, first, to ensure that Groote was who he said he was, and second, that – please, God, please – Groote could be trusted.
They want to find him but they don’t want the locals to know a manhunt is on. So he’s one of their fugitives, but he slipped the leash. Doesn’t make sense. A fugitive wouldn’t be working at an art gallery, wouldn’t be seeing a psychiatrist regularly. No. Michael’s not a fugitive. So what is he? A marshal hunts fugitives. But why hunt a fugitive and not let the cops know? Why protect the bad guy that way – protect. The word echoed in Groote’s head. Michael Raymond’s not a fugitive – he’s a witness.
‘Uh-huh,’ Pitts said into the phone. He was now wearing the bored expression of someone getting a record read to him.
Meanwhile inspiration struck Groote. He opened another window feed on the room’s camera, jumped back on the digital tape, watched DeShawn hit a speed dial. The number flashed on the phone’s screen. Groote scribbled the number down on a Post-it note and slipped it into his pocket. He killed the second window. On the live camera DeShawn Pitts said, ‘Uh-huh, okay,’ three more times.
Groote picked up the phone and dialed the number. He got routed to another marshal, since DeShawn Pitts was already on Jimmy’s line.
‘U.S. Marshals Service.’
Groote made his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘Jimmy – need Jimmy. Right now. Need help.’
‘Who’s speaking, please?’
‘I’ll only talk to Jimmy. Only to a WITSEC inspector. He’s got to help me.’
‘Hold on, sir,’ and Groote clicked off the phone.
A witness. Michael Raymond was a federal witness. One they had lost, one they needed to find. He’s suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Find him without a lot of publicity.
A witness who had run. But guys who walked away from the program were on their own. Except this one, who must still be of particular value.
On the camera screen DeShawn Pitts closed his phone. He pounded the flat of his hand against the fabric twice.
Groote went to the door, let Pitts out, led him back into the office.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes. You check out. Outstanding service record. Call Gomez at your old field office, he’ll vouch for me and this operation. You won’t be at legal risk.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Could you give me Doctor Hurley’s number now? I want to arrange a meeting with him,’ Pitts said. ‘If you think he’ll help.’
‘He’s very civic-minded,’ Groote said. ‘I’ll call him for you.’ He flipped open his own phone. Hurley would soil himself, trying to get Celeste Brent back to the hospital sedated and ready to talk, if a federal agent phoned him.
He dialed Hurley’s number, smiling politely.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Hurley coughed, dried his mouth against the back of his wrist. ‘The man’s name is Dennis Groote. He’s from California.’
‘Who’s he work for?’ Miles jabbed the gun harder against Hurley’s skull.
‘A man named Quantrill.’
‘Who’s Quantrill?’
‘He’s my boss.’
‘Where do I find him?’
‘Santa Monica, California.’
‘What’s the connection with Sorenson?’
‘I don’t know any Sorenson.’
‘Lying is a bad idea, Doctor. I shot a man. It’s easier, I suspect, the second time.’
‘Nice of you to share,’ Andy said, leaning against the wall. ‘Shoot him, Miles, he’s useless. Kill again. It won’t make you better or worse.’
Miles took his finger off the trigger but dug the barrel of the gun harder into the back of Hurley’s head.
The pressure spilled the words faster from Hurley. ‘I don’t know any Sorenson, I swear to God.’
The cell phone in Hurley’s pocket rang, playing a Bach toccata. ‘I’m supposed to be checking in. I don’t, Groote will come straight here.’
Miles believed him. ‘You buy us time. Play dumb. Answer it.’
Hurley gently dug the flip phone from his pocket, opened it. ‘Yes, hello?’
Miles kept the gun close on Hurley, knelt so he could hear. ‘Doctor Hurley, it’s Dennis Groote.’
‘I spoke with Celeste Brent. She knows nothing.’
‘Understood. There is a gentleman from the federal government in the lobby. He wants to speak to you about a patient of Doctor Vance’s. A man named Michael Raymond. I know you’re very busy right now…’
Miles prodded Hurley with the gun, mouthed, Tell him no.
‘I can’t see anyone,’ Hurley said. ‘Not now. Tomorrow.’
‘I strongly suggest you should make time now, Doctor. This takes precedence. We could be of service to the authorities. They need to find Mr. Raymond.’
Hurley froze. Miles mouthed, No, again.
‘Tomorrow,’ Hurley sa
id. ‘Not today. I can’t. My hands are full.’
A pause; Miles could hear Groote’s frustrated sigh. ‘All right. I’ll set up a meeting for tomorrow.’
‘Tell the officer thank-you for his patience.’
‘Understood.’
‘I have to go now,’ Hurley said. ‘Good-bye.’
‘Bye.’ Groote hung up.
Miles closed the flip phone. Celeste edged back into the room.
‘I know you won’t want to, Celeste, but you need to leave,’ Miles said.
‘Isn’t that for me to decide?’ she said quietly.
‘These people are dangerous, you can’t stay.’
‘But I don’t know anything. I don’t have what they want.’
‘Allison stole computer files, then used your computer. There has to be a reason. Might be she thought they were monitoring her system. But they’re not going to leave you alone until they find out if you have Frost.’
Celeste sank into a chair.
‘Your friend you mentioned. Could you call her, have her come pick you up?’
‘And put her in danger? No. This is a matter for the police…’
‘I have to do this, make it right for Allison… I promised her…’
Celeste stood up. ‘Say she took the research and hid it on my computer. Or sent it to someone else, or to herself, in case she got caught. Or killed. There will be an electronic trace.’
‘Up,’ Miles ordered Hurley, jabbing the gun into his back. ‘Celeste, please show me your computer.’
The two men followed Celeste down the hall. Pictures covered the walls: Celeste and a handsome young man on the beach, on a patio clicking margarita glasses together, Celeste giving the man a kiss on the cheek. And on the other side were a montage of photos, he guessed, from her brief television career: she and nine other people standing on a beach, her in a modest lime-green bikini, looking alternately pensive; crafty; overjoyed; chopping palm wood, hauling herself over a stone barrier. Holding a check for five million dollars, a dazzling smile as bright as summer.
He and Hurley followed Celeste into her study; her computer, a new, high-end number, sat on a maple table in the corner. The room smelled of cleanser and Celeste’s tangerine shampoo, and Miles wondered if she washed her hair a lot, if she scrubbed her skin till it ached. Cleansing herself of guilt. It had not occurred to him; Andy’s blood seemed as permanent as a tattoo on his hands. The faint odor of antiseptic hung in the air like a woman’s perfume.
