“Just a sec.” He heard Shannon moving around, papers shuffling. “Here it is.”
“Give the information to Crosley when he calls, but reverse the first couple of numbers in each sequence. If he comes back on you for some reason, you can say he copied them down wrong, or you were nervous and reversed them by mistake. That may get him away from you, at least until the police can track him down.” He gave her a few seconds to consider the option. “What do you think?”
“It might work. Just reverse the first two numbers of each seven-number sequence. Maybe I’ll do that.”
Mark checked his bedside clock. “It’s getting late. Shall we try to get some sleep? I’ll call you tomorrow morning. It’s Saturday. Maybe we can do something to take your mind off your troubles.”
“It would take something extra special to do that. But I look forward to the call.”
THE RINGING OF THE PHONE AT HER BEDSIDE ROUSED SHANNON, and like a person struggling free of quicksand, she emerged grudgingly from sleep. The clock on her bedside table showed 6:12 a.m. Surely Mark wouldn’t be calling this early. She wasn’t on call, so this shouldn’t be from the medical center. And if this turned out to be a telephone solicitor, she might crawl through the wires and strangle them.
She lifted the receiver and croaked, “Hello?”
“How did it feel to be looking down the barrel of a gun?”
The voice was rough and raspy and unmistakable. She’d heard it on the phone and in person, and each time it brought more and more fear into her heart. And the recollection of sitting next to that man, fearing for her life, made Shannon literally shake.
The harsh voice continued, “I thought I’d give you one more chance before coming after you. And this time, there won’t be anyone to distract me. I want—”
“I know what you want. And I’ll give it to you. I have the information written down, but you’ll have to hold on long enough for me to get it. Will you do that?”
There was a pause as he apparently thought about it. “No. But I’ll call back in five minutes. Have it ready for me then.”
“I’ll—” Shannon heard the click and realized he’d hung up. Should she give him the numbers? Why not? They meant nothing to her. The police already had them. Maybe if she gave this man what he wanted, he’d go away.
She hurried from her bedroom to the desk in the living room. The card was where she’d left it. And as she picked it up, she saw the black box on the desk next to the phone. All she had to do was push a button when the man—why didn’t she call him by his name? When Crosley called back, she would record the conversation. Surely that would be helpful to the detectives.
Then another thought hit her. After the police found him, what then? What would they charge him with? Did something like making menacing phone calls and holding a gun on her carry a stiff enough sentence to keep him out of circulation? She was enough of a realist to figure a good lawyer might get him off with the proverbial slap on the wrist.
Should she— The phone rang, and Shannon almost jumped out of her skin. She pushed the button and lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
“Give me the information.” The four words, delivered in guttural tones, sent chills down her spine.
“You’ll need to write this down,” Shannon said.
“Do you think I’m stupid? I’m ready. Give.”
Last chance. Was she willing to risk making him angry? “234 8160 694 7900.”
The silence on the other end of the line lasted long enough for Shannon to think she’d lost the connection. She took the phone away from her ear, but before she could hang up, Crosley said, “You’re sure?”
That did it. “I’m not sure of anything. You—” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat. “You’ve scared me half to death. But this is what Radick said. The man who heard it has an eidetic memory.”
“What’s . . . Never mind. This better be right.”
She was still gripping the receiver when she heard a click. When she replaced the phone and pushed the Stop button on the recorder, her hand shook. She hoped she’d done the right thing.
MARK PLACED THE CUP OF HOT COFFEE NEXT TO THE OPEN BIBLE on his kitchen table and sat down. The scripture for this morning’s quiet time was Psalm 139. He paused when he came to the words, “I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” As a pathologist, Mark normally had occasion to see the human body after its spirit had flown, but he never failed to marvel at the intricacies of that piece of machinery and the genius of its Creator.
He was about to start his prayer when the phone rang. This had to be either a wrong number or something important. He rose and hurried into the living room, catching the call just before it went to voice mail. “Dr. Gilbert.”
Shannon’s words were tentative. “Is it too early?”
Something’s wrong. “Not at all. I’m up. What’s going on?” Mark was ashamed that one of his thoughts was that Megan had made another mess that Shannon would have to clean up.
“I’ve had another call from Crosley, and I wanted to talk with you before I reported it to the detectives.”
Mark carried the cordless phone back to the kitchen and sat down at the table. “Tell me about it.”
“He said he’d give me one more chance to give him Radick’s dying message. I . . . I did what you suggested. I switched some of the numbers. When he asked me if that was correct, I sort of stammered and said he was making me nervous.”
“Good. That would explain it if the numbers aren’t the ones he needs.” Mark sipped from his cup. “You did the right thing. Did you think to record the call?”
“Yes. I had to go into the living room to get the card where Lee wrote down the string of numbers, so when I picked up the phone in there I turned on the recorder.”
“So are you going to report this to Callaway and Alston?” Mark took another healthy swig of coffee. Something told him he was going to need the caffeine today.
“I wanted to talk with you first, make sure I did the right thing. I’ll call one of them as soon as we hang up.”
And I know which one you’ll call. “Yes, you did the right thing. Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, do you think you’ll have to go down to police headquarters this morning? I can come with you.”
“Steve . . . Detective Alston has seemed to prefer coming by my house so far. I imagine he’ll do the same this time.”
That cinched it for Mark. “Tell you what. Call me back when you know the details. Either place, I’ll be beside you.”
Mark drained the last of his now-cold coffee and went to get dressed. Shannon was certainly right to fear Walt Crosley, and her next call should be to the police. But Mark was concerned. He didn’t think it was by any means a certainty that Steve Alston’s interest in her was purely professional. If Alston was going to be there, Mark wanted to be there as well.
SHANNON WAS POURING A CUP OF COFFEE WHEN SHE HEARD Megan enter the kitchen. “Smells good.”
“Here, let me pour you a cup.”
Megan was barefoot, her pajamas partially covered by an open robe. Her hair was tousled, her face still creased by wrinkles from sleep. She yawned, nodded her thanks, and took the cup Shannon held out. “About two of these and I may wake up.” She blew gently on the coffee, then sipped. “What are you doing up so early on a Saturday?”
“Walt Crosley called this morning.”
“Who . . . Wait. Is that the guy whose picture I identified, the one who’s after Barry Radick’s last words?” Megan stifled another yawn and addressed herself to her coffee once more.
“Yep. Mark and Detective Alston are coming over. If you plan to sit in on the meeting, you may want—” Shannon found herself talking to an empty room. “Where are you going?”
From the hall, Megan yelled, “Got to get dressed.”
Shannon had just finished her own coffee when the doorbell rang. Who was here first? Mark? The detectives? Or had Crosley decided to make a house call—hold a gun
to her head until she gave him the correct sequence of numbers? Stop jumping at shadows. Crosley wouldn’t ring the bell.
She hoped it would be Mark. He’d been nothing but supportive and protective during this whole trying series of episodes. She found it comforting in a way she couldn’t explain. Maybe by the time this was over—
The bell rang again. Shannon squared her shoulders and marched to the front door. She looked through the peephole, something she had to admit she’d rarely done before the shooting. The expression on Steve Alston’s face was somewhere between anticipation and annoyance. When Shannon opened the door, she saw why. Jesse Callaway stood off to the side, and there was no doubt about his expression. It was his usual scowl.
“Dr. Frasier,” Alston said, “I understand you have more information for us. And we have some for you, so either way we were going to meet today.”
“Yeah, but not this early,” Callaway growled. He walked past Shannon and into the house. Alston threw Shannon an apologetic look and followed the larger detective through the door.
As Shannon was about to close the door, she saw Mark’s car pull into the driveway. She ignored the detectives and waited to greet him.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“A little shaken, I guess.”
It seemed to Shannon that Mark’s hug was a bit tighter, his kiss a little longer than usual. “I came as soon as I could,” he said. “Looks like I haven’t missed anything, though.”
“No. And I’m glad you’re here.”
In the living room, the group took seats. Once more, Shannon and Mark were on the sofa. Callaway sat at a right angle to them in an overstuffed chair, a notebook open in front of him. Steve Alston, as usual, chose to lean against the doorframe.
Callaway started. “According to what you told Detective Alston,” he said, “you had a call this morning from Crosley. Did you record it?”
“Yes,” Shannon said. She went on to explain how she’d originally answered in her bedroom, but when she came into the living room she’d started the recorder.
Alston moved to the equipment, hit a couple of buttons, and in a moment the conversation issued from the small speaker. Shannon shivered as she heard that rough voice again. The mental picture of Crosley sitting next to her, leveling a wicked-looking gun at her, flashed unbidden into her mind. She shook her head, as though by doing so she could erase the image.
When the recording ended, Alston removed his own notebook and flipped a couple of pages. “Let’s hear that again.”
Shannon saw a frown cross his face as she heard her voice speak the numbers. “If you’re wondering about it, yes, what I gave him was wrong,” she said. “To me it was a no-brainer to give him what he wanted. By changing the sequence, I thought I could keep Crosley from finding whatever he’s after until you people can catch him. I presume you’re checking out the numbers.”
“Sorry to be late.” Megan entered the room and took the other chair, opposite Callaway. She pointed to the recorder. “Was what I just heard the conversation with . . . what was the man’s name?”
“Crosley,” Alston said. “Walt Crosley.”
“And what you gave him were Radick’s last words? That string of numbers?”
“Not really,” Shannon said. She rose and crossed to the desk, picked up a three-by-five card, and handed it to Megan. “I switched a couple of numbers. This is the correct information.”
“We’re checking out what you gave us,” Alston said, “but so far, no luck. We thought it might represent a couple of phone numbers, but the US has almost three hundred area codes, so that’s going to take a little time to investigate.”
“We thought the sequence might be a safe combination,” Callaway said, “but there are too many numbers. Same thing with any kind of combination lock.” He spread his hands. “But we’re still working on it.”
Megan frowned. “I presume you’re grouping these like I see them written here, but is that the way Radick said them?”
Shannon frowned. Radick’s dying words had been all but unintelligible to her. But this was the way Lee wrote them. “I don’t know. I suppose so.”
“I was wondering . . . ,” Megan said. “Oh, maybe not.”
“Why don’t you call this doctor with the whatever-you-call-it memory?” Alston said. “Maybe the way he gave them to you wasn’t right.”
Shannon pulled out her cell phone and scrolled until she found Lee’s number in the directory. She punched it in and waited. “Lee, Shannon Frasier. Sorry to call so early.”
Everyone leaned forward, as though by doing so they’d be able to hear the conversation. It didn’t last long, and when Shannon hung up, she frowned. “Lee said he grouped the string of numbers that way—you know, three digits, four digits, three digits, four digits—because it was easier for him to give them to me like that. But Radick actually spoke them a different way.” She took the card from Megan. “The way he said them was 32 48160 96 47900.”
“Still makes no sense to me,” Callaway said.
Shannon was about to say something when she noticed a strange expression on Megan’s face. “Is there something you want to tell us?”
“Maybe,” Megan mumbled.
“Let’s hear it,” Callaway said.
“I . . . I may know what those numbers represent.”
FIFTEEN
MEGAN HAD THE SENSE THAT EVERY EYE IN THE ROOM WAS turned in her direction. This was exactly what she didn’t need . . . didn’t want. When will I learn to keep my mouth shut? Well, there was nothing to do now but plunge on. “I think I know what they are,” she repeated. “I could be wrong, of course, but—”
“If you’re wrong, we’re not going to shoot you,” Callaway growled. “What’s your idea?”
She looked around the room. “When I was in rehab, I did a lot of reading, and one of the books was about an activity I thought might be fun—geocaching. I tried it after I got out, and although I didn’t have much free time, anyone who does geocaching will tell you it gets under your skin. So when I saw the way the numbers were grouped, it reminded me.”
“What’s geocaching?” Callaway asked.
“People hide things, called caches, and others look for them using GPS coordinates,” Megan said. “Maybe those numbers are coordinates of a location where something is hidden, something that was important to Barry Radick. And apparently to this guy as well.”
Megan looked at the detectives. She felt like a third grader who’d just answered a teacher’s question and was waiting to see if she’d get approval or correction. “So does that help?” she asked.
“It may,” Steve Alston replied. “I want to get back to the station and check out these coordinates. If they’re somewhere near here, that could explain a lot.”
“Exactly what would they explain?” Mark asked. He looked first at Callaway, then Alston. “I get the distinct impression that you’re not telling us everything—about Radick and Crosley, for starters. What are you holding back?”
“It’s none of your—” Callaway started.
“Jesse, they deserve to know,” Alston said. “When we found out that Crosley was the man trying to find out what Radick’s last words were, it linked up with some things we heard from an informer. Last month two men held up a bank in the Park Cities area. They got away with three-quarters of a million dollars.”
Megan watched the exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, looking first at Mark, then at the detectives. Attention seemed to have turned away from her, and she edged toward the wall, as though by doing so she could make herself invisible.
“We heard Crosley was one of the bank robbers, but we didn’t believe it because we thought he was dead.”
“And you think Radick was the other bank robber,” Mark said. “Crosley wants the share his partner hid, and maybe Radick’s dying words were a clue. Right?”
“Why would Radick come here? And why would he whisper those numbers to us as he died?” Shannon asked.
“H
e met Megan in rehab, and for some reason he was looking for her,” Mark said. “He found your name in the phone book and figured he could locate Megan through you. After he was shot, in the weak light he mistook you for her. That’s why he whispered the numbers.”
Megan shivered. As events unfolded, she felt herself being drawn deeper into the situation. How could she distance herself once more?
Alston’s cell phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and frowned at the display. “I’ve got to take this.” He rose and walked into a corner, turning his back to the group. The conversation was short, and mainly one-sided. Finally, Alston said, “Right,” then stowed his phone and said, “We have to run.”
Callaway rose to join his partner, and they had a quick whispered conversation. Megan breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe they’d drop the question of her involvement for now.
The detectives had the door open when Mark asked, “Is this about Shannon and Megan’s case?”
Alston paused with one hand on the doorknob and uttered a noncommittal, “I guess you could say that.”
Mark spread his hands. “If it involves them . . .”
Alston slid one foot forward, ready for a quick getaway. “A patrol officer just called in a report that he’d located one of Crosley’s associates, Frankie Brown. We need to head for that location right now.”
“What’s the hurry? Why don’t you ask the officer to bring him to police headquarters and hold him until you can question him?” Mark asked.
“Ordinarily we would, but not in this case,” Callaway said. “The officer found Frankie lying in a doorway with two bullets in his head.” He turned to his partner. “C’mon. I want to get there before someone steps all over the evidence.”
MARK STOOD AT THE FRONT WINDOW AND WATCHED THE DETECTIVES leave. He doubted that they’d stand outside the door and eavesdrop, but it never hurt to be certain. Once he was sure they’d gone, he turned back to Shannon and pulled her close. “How are you doing? Sounds like this is escalating.”
He felt her arms tighten around him for a moment. Then she pulled back and looked up at him, and he saw determination in her eyes. “I’ll be okay.”
Critical Condition Page 14
