The Path of Silence

by Edita A. Petrick

  “Would you like to book a tour?” the eager young girl with cherry-red hair and clothes held together by large silver safety pins, inquired in a lilting but definitely hungry tone of voice when we explained our purpose. She must have flunked her high school course in listening skills. We’d spent ten minutes, speaking good English but didn’t seem to get our point across.

  “No tours.” Ken placed his large hand down on her desk, leaning so close I thought the teenager would feel threatened. I was getting old. Or my feelings were maturing faster than I would have liked. She was delighted with such close proximity of male flesh, sterilized with industrial strength aftershave. For a moment, it looked to me as if she were going to squeal with joy, wrap her hands around his neck and kiss him. I was about to warn him, when he straightened up, hand still planted on her desk, fingers tapping. “Just explain to us—please—everything that is included in your tours to Atlantic City.”

  “We’re running a special to the Ocean City,” she said, in her best TV-audition voice.

  Ken capitulated. “Do you have a brochure that explains what is involved in the Atlantic City casino tour?”

  “Braa-sure?” She recoiled as if the impact of that alien word pushed her back, hard.

  “Colorful piece of paper with lots of words on it, describing what the customer can expect to enjoy if he buys one of your pre-packaged gambling tours to Atlantic City.” I hoped that I had not used my entire supply of simple words and analogies.

  “Lots of fun,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. I decided to try word association.

  “Drinking?”

  “Hey, like for sure.”

  “Lots of drinking?” I bravely lengthened the sentence.

  “Like you’re kidding me? Sure.”

  “Gambling?”

  “Real heavy.”

  “Car?”

  “Nah. They get driven there in a limo. They got to get their own car when they get there but why would you?”

  “No idea.” I didn’t want to spoil this good rapport. “Limo from here to there?”

  “Yeah, like real stretch.”

  “Limo picks up here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Many customers take the limo?”

  “Nah. Real special.”

  “One customer, one limo, one trip?” I was really pushing it.

  “Well yeah, like dahhh.”

  “Limo’s name?”

  “George, real cute but no flex.”

  “I meant limo company’s name.”

  “Herman something.”

  “Any other company before that?”

  “Creepy slaw.”

  “No more Creepy slaw?”

  “Nah. Busted.”

  “You sure?”

  “Like dahhh? Phone disconnected.”

  “When?”

  “March.”

  “You sure?”

  “Lady, it was my birthday. Like yeah, real sure.”

  “Got Herman in March?”

  “Yep.”

  “Cute driver?”

  She smiled. I felt sorry for the chauffeur.

  “Customer list?” I became daring.

  “Like no way. I’d get busted.”

  I was tempted to flash my badge and saw it had also occurred to Ken but this gem of a customer rep would have probably missed the significance of a police officer’s ID.

  “Your boss?”

  “Banging someone’s wife.”

  “His name?”

  “Lucifer.”

  “Really?” I thought she was paraphrasing again since she could not possibly be capable of such a metaphor.

  “Yeah. Lucifer Bassiano.”

  “His address?”

  “His wife’s home.”

  “Her address then.”

  She gave it to us. We left and found a coffee shop, amusing the counter clerk by ordering a tray of six large coffees—for the two of us. Then we headed for the Bassiano residence.

  Nancy Bassiano was nine months pregnant and about to deliver. I prayed it wouldn’t happen right at our feet as we stood on the doorstep of her large, comfortable suburban-style bungalow. She used to perform the job at her husband’s travel agency that now sat on the shoulders of the teenager from Fogsville High. Business must have thrived when she worked there. She rattled off the names of the Creeslow Limo service customer rep, the names of the three chauffeurs they used and their address—Hellenic Plaza in Brooklyn Park. Endless Tours had employed them for more than three years, without complaints. She was surprised to find that one day their telephone number was disconnected. She thought a service as reliable as theirs should have looked after its customers with more consideration informed them that they were closing down their Baltimore operations, given them time to arrange for another limo service. She gave us her e-mail address and in return, we gave her our business cards. She promised to e-mail us a list of customers who had booked tours for Atlantic City and were driven there in Creeslow limos. We left her with the impression that we were checking things out as a result of Creeslow bankruptcy.

  Just as we were about to leave, Ken asked whether she knew what kind of “extras” the limo service might have provided for its good customers.

  “I never thought it was proper,” she sighed, not alarmed by the subject. “Luke thought it was enterprising but I didn’t like it. They never charged us extra for it but now and then, for a particular customer, they would send a lady in the backseat. All their vehicles had tinted windows but I’d catch a glimpse of a sleek foot wearing high heels and ankle bracelets just above a tattoo. I don’t think it increased our business. Most of our steady customers are also steady gamblers. That sort of thing goes with gambling, I suppose.”

  “Would you by any chance remember a customer Felix Kim?” Ken asked boldly.

  Nancy’s slightly swollen but pleasant face rippled with a smile. “Very well,” she said. “A nice man, very helpful and smart. One day he was in, waiting for the limo to arrive, when my system crashed. He not only restored it but streamlined quite a few functions and corrected what he said were a lot of bugs. I was shocked that he did it so quickly, less than twenty minutes. Whenever I had to call in the service rep, he would spend a whole day, sometimes two and it still wouldn’t work properly. He was very embarrassed the first time the limo came with a built-in travel companion but he got used to it. He never asked me about it and I didn’t volunteer explanations. I let him think that it was part of our package, included for valued customers but it was the limo service perk, not ours. Like I said, they never charged us for it.”

  “Why would the customers be picked up at the travel agency?” I asked her.

  “Unusual,” she smiled again. “They didn’t want to pick up customers all over Baltimore and the suburbs. They liked the convenience of having them waiting in the same prearranged spot. They dropped them off at the same place. They charged less that way, so we made it part of the tour package. I think it was blackmail.”

  “Was Kim a frequent customer?” I asked.

  “Once a month, usually towards the end. He said he had a limit and once that money was gone, he would simply stay around, enjoying the action. He was a gambler but he had the discipline to stay within his boundaries.”

  “Was he always alone?”

  “Yes,” her smile grew wistful. “One of the few customers who came alone. The majority would come as couples or small groups, though Creeslow insisted on no more than four people per any given ride. I found that strange. Those limos could pack in a dozen and still have plenty of space left. They could have saved themselves some money and made fewer trips but they never tried to pass the extra cost on to us. Our weekend package tour included return limo transportation and accommodations but no meals. Most of our customers prefer to make their own meal arrangements.”

  We thanked her, wished her all the best with the pending joyful event and left.

  “That jerk who owns the travel agency doesn’t deserve her,” Ken murmured when
we headed for the Interstate.

  “No but that’s life. Ten years from now, with a couple of kids, she might clue into her hubby’s extracurricular activity and dump him.”

  “She should dump him now.”

  “She’s about to deliver his child. Do you think it’s that easy to be a single mother?”

  “How did you cope?”

  “Who said I did?”

  We drove in silence for a long time. Then he asked, “Do you know the Chairman?”

  “I do now.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You don’t pull punches, no matter who you’re dealing with but in that boardroom, you took over.”

  “Middle of the night boardroom meetings are my forte.”

  “More like your battlefield.”

  “We’re battling a lot here, Ken.”

  “Where did you go out for dinner that night?”

  “Portofino’s.”

  “Fancy place, expensive too. Do you know him?”

  “Who?”

  “Weston.”

  “I’m getting to know him.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I knew it wasn’t. But this wasn’t the time to explore the issue.

  “Well, do you?” he persisted when I stayed silent.

  My nose quivered. I rubbed it as I said, “You know I never discuss the ‘father’ issue.”

  That shut him up.

  Chapter 30

  Three days later, we moved our office into my house. It wasn’t so much a cowardly gesture as it was a life-saving one. The media turned into a hungry pack of wolves, scavenging the city for sources of information, offering huge rewards to anyone who would talk to them. Two of Kim’s team members quit their jobs outright. What the news media and tabloids must have offered them for their stories allowed a life of leisure. We read the papers simply because some of the speculations were so outlandish they were actually interesting—and could give us new clues. People’s imagination had no boundaries and since ours began to wilt, we welcomed help from the sensationalistic corner.

  Our boss, Bourke, was now spending half of his time at Hopkins, attending meetings where he was probably the lowest ranked participant, the one who would have to answer all the difficult questions and shoulder all the action items from the Hopkins’ directors, our District Commander and, of course, our Commissioner. When he wasn’t being tortured at Hopkins, he’d come and sit beside us. It was the last thing we wanted, hence our desperate flight to my house.

  Agent Gould politely declined to be a part of our home-office circle and preferred to report to her boss by phone. She was not having much luck touring Washington’s armored car and limo services.

  The name “Creeslow” was unfamiliar to any of the sources she’d worn down with her FBI protocol. I told her to let go of this fixation for a while and simply find out which of the services were the “newest” business ventures in Washington.

  “She wants to hear her master’s voice,” I said, covering the mouthpiece and handing the phone to Field. He gave me an odd look and reassured his agent that I had been speaking his mind.

  “You train your staff well,” I remarked when he finished.

  “Quantico trains them well. I merely use their excellent skills.”

  “I’m sure she would be happy to hear your glowing offsite performance review.”

  “You don’t like her, do you?”

  “She’s Agent Scully, minus Hollywood, the bravery and fierce independence.”

  “She has a scar on her shoulder from a bullet she took for a colleague, saving his life, when she worked a case of auto body scam in Boston.”

  “You’ve seen her scars?”

  “The photographs are in her file,” he laughed.

  “Ken has feather-mop tracks all over him. Brenda’s been dusting his parochial courting attitude for years, hoping to uncover a modern man who would fearlessly propose. No luck so far,” I said, chuckling.

  “It wasn’t impulse, you know,” his voice softened.

  “What?”

  “Asking you to marry me. And it wasn’t because you were pregnant either.”

  “Youthful insanity then.”

  “You were more prone to that than anyone I’ve ever known. I was twenty-seven. I knew what I was doing.”

  “But you were still impressed enough to believe the message my father brought you.”

  He sighed. “He was very convincing, didn’t mince any words, that’s for sure.”

  “Did he threaten your career?”

  “Not as much as he pointed out what a threat I would be to yours.”

  “I married a Smithsonian guard, Field, not an FBI agent. If anything, you would have been an asset to a lawyer. Did he offer you money?”

  He sighed again. “Yeah.”

  “Did you take it?”

  He shook his head.

  “You took the promotion instead.”

  Once again he shook his head but this time with less certainty. “I deserved it but I might have had to wait for it for a while. I’m not sure whether that came as a result of anything he did or said.”

  “Feeling guilty now or just lost in memories?”

  “Neither. I’m angry that I didn’t get my shit together for so long and come looking for you.”

  “I like to run away from things that have a potential for causing me pain,” I remarked. “It’s a challenge, to see how long I can keep it up.”

  Just then my partner came back from the kitchen where he’d been raiding my fridge. He was considerate enough to bring cheese, crackers and a fruit tray, with a pitcher of iced tea.

  Agent Mattis called. He had been commissioned with the task of checking out Dr. Patterson and his credentials. Field must have seen the questions firing through my eyes because he simply handed the phone over.

  Agent Mattis had no problem switching authorities. He liked his boss but he didn’t adore him to a degree that would cause him to seek permission for every word he said.

  “According to the American Medical Association, he’s legit,” Mattis reported cheerfully.

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “Really? He looks a lot younger, not much over thirty,” I said.

  “His degree is from the Northwestern University Medical School in Michigan. MD, three more years at Sacramento Medical College, specializing in psychiatry and mental disorders. Three years of internship at the Mississippi State Hospital, doing damn well everything, from stitching in emergency to autopsies. He’s good with the Oregon Medical Association too. Spent three years up there, at the NorthPacific Center for Clinical Research and Neurosurgery, involved in psychiatric applications and alternate solutions to antipsychotic drugs. He went back to South Mississippi State to test out some of the techniques he’d learned and seven years ago came to Maryland, Lamar-Forest Mental facility, private and very expensive. He stayed three years at Lamar and then applied and got his current job, at Mongrove. He’s in good standing with the Maryland State Medical Society. Lamar director and two Society members provided him with references that got him the job at Mongrove.”

  I did quick math in my head. “We’re talking a good sixteen years of studies and experience, prior to taking the job as the Chief Resident at Mongrove, right?” I asked.

  His head was in good order too. “I guess he was a bright boy.”

  “Who got his medical degree at twenty-three out of Northwestern?”

  “It’s possible,” he said, a lot more hesitantly than before.

  “Yes but very unlikely. The majority of students complete a full undergraduate curriculum before being admitted to med-school. We’re talking about students that are lucky to get in at twenty-one. Then it’s at least four more years of med studies before they’re into specializing for three more years. That takes you to twenty-eight. Then there’s internship for three more years, though he could have done his internship at the same time as his specializing. Let’s say that’s what he did, so
after he’s done polishing his education and stitching up flesh in emergency, he claims to have ten more years of working experience which conveniently brings us to thirty-nine.”

  “He could just look young or the file information could be wrong. Someone’s finger slipped on the keys,” Mattis offered but his light tone told me that he didn’t believe it.

  I didn’t believe it either, though entry-mistake was a real possibility, especially when the image of the cherry-red haired baby-person from Endless Tours sprang into my mind. Still, this case started with Ken holding a handful of forged IDs. That’s what my instinct was whispering. I didn’t doubt that Patterson’s academic and work credentials existed. I just wasn’t sure whether they belonged to the very young-looking man with the gloriously bouncing blond shag. We would have to pay him a visit again, on a more personal note this time, have a chitchat, about the man, his hairdresser—and his roots.

  “Agent Mattis, were you able to get a photograph of Dr. Patterson from the Lamar-Forest facility, the last place he worked at?” I asked.

  “Lamar is a private facility but I didn’t even have to raise my voice over the phone when I asked Dr. Wheaten for it,” he said.

  “Who is Dr. Wheaten?”

  “Lamar’s Director and the one who provided a glowing reference for Dr. Patterson.”

  “Well, does the photo look like the Patterson we know?” I asked impatiently.

  “Yes,” he said so crisply his voice hurt my ear.

  “But?”

  He chuckled. “The hospital file photo is seven years old. I also have a current photograph of Dr. Patterson, a snapshot I took of him yesterday. He looked a lot older seven years ago than he does today, detective.”

  “Thank you,” I said and sat back, thinking. Was Patterson vain and had he opted for a face-lift to look younger than his true age? He certainly expended great care on his hair, tossing it around with pride. Then again, what man wouldn’t be proud of such hair volume?