by J. B. Turner
The rest of the morning dragged, as the comings and goings of 38th Street NW were laid bare for Reznick. He managed to get the air conditioner working, the blast of cold a welcome relief. Outside, in the heat, he saw dog walkers, joggers, deliverymen, and the mailman. Ford hadn’t made a move in hours.
Reznick knocked back a bottle of water and popped a couple of Dexedrine to keep him going. He felt the amphetamines rouse his system, sharpening his mental antennae. He stared through the one-way window and continued to watch the world go by. The morning gave way to a blazing afternoon, as the heat seemed to warp the asphalt and bricks. All the time, he kept his eyes peeled on the townhouse.
He wondered if Ford was putting his feet up for a few hours. But the man could just as likely head out of the house at any moment. Reznick had to stay alert.
He wolfed down a cream cheese bagel, and peed in an empty plastic water bottle.
The afternoon gave way to early evening, the light fading. Still no sign of life from Ford. Jaded men and women, jackets slung over their shoulders, ambled down the street after a day’s work, no doubt looking forward to a cold drink and a refreshing shower.
Reznick smelled his armpits and knew he could do with the same. The hours without air had stunk up the van with his body odor. His cell rang a couple of times—Meyerstein asking for updates and Stamper trying to raise his spirits with guy-talk about beers when it was all over.
A lot of people hated the soul-destroying, mind-numbing boredom of surveillance work. Reznick wasn’t one of them. He understood that needs must, and someone had to stand watch. It would have been the easiest thing in the world just to tag along back to base with Stamper. To switch off, knowing the core investigation was on terrorist groups, not some doctor who was unwittingly under surveillance.
But he knew that leads had to be earned. They didn’t just land in your lap.
It was all about putting in the time, and sometimes—maybe—you got a break. But by God, you had to earn it.
The hours, sometimes days, of waiting, hunkered down in thick mud or deep snow up in the mountains of Afghanistan, or in fly-infested ditches smelling of shit in Iraq . . . now that was tough. By comparison, this was a breeze.
Reznick stretched out: a ten-minute routine he often used. He felt his calf muscles stretch. Darkness fell slowly.
Was this guy even working tonight?
He swigged some more water, pissed some more, and ate a stale donut. As a rule, in his experience, healthy eating was not compatible with surveillance work. Reznick focused on the door, green-tinged through the night-vision binoculars.
Just before 9 p.m., Dr. Adam Ford emerged from his home. He was talking into his cell phone, a jacket slung over his shoulder. Reznick quickly alerted Meyerstein.
“He’s on the move. Heading south on foot.”
The radio crackled to life—it was Stamper. “Got him.”
A few minutes later, Stamper’s voice came back on. “The subject has entered the hospital. Alone.”
Then radio silence.
Reznick remained in the van, still observing the front of the house. His cell phone rang.
“Jon, how’s the lonely vigil?” Meyerstein’s voice was soft and warm.
Reznick snorted. “You know me, I’m a glutton for punishment.”
“Jon, bad news. We’ve failed to gain a court order granting access to Ford’s house.”
“What?”
“Look, our counsel is appealing the decision, but it doesn’t look good. There was a discrepancy in the papers being submitted, and the judge refused to sign.”
“You serious?”
“It happens. We’ve filed new papers, but we won’t be able to gain access until the morning at the earliest.” Meyerstein sighed. “And we think Ford is telling the truth. We’ve checked him out. A more solid citizen you’ll not find. Churchgoing, helps out at soup kitchens, set up his own medical charity for veterans, a top Washington surgeon, avoids parties, teetotal. Clean-living. Don’t see how he fits into this at all.”
Reznick was silent. He wondered if he should broach the subject or if he should let her do it.
“You still there?”
“You think there’s a chance she’s in the house?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What’s stopping me getting inside and having a look around?”
“Jon, I couldn’t condone that. Besides, what if he returned unannounced?”
“He won’t.”
“Look, this guy is not a suspect.”
“You want to know where I’m at?”
“Sure.”
“I think you’ve got to close this circle. He’s a link back to Caroline Lieber. Until we’re a hundred percent on this guy, I say I go in and have a look around.”
Meyerstein said nothing.
“Get Stamper and his guys to cover my back.”
Meyerstein was quiet. Eventually, she spoke. “What if I said we wouldn’t stand in your way—how would that make you feel?”
Meyerstein’s decision to allow him to gain entry had been unexpected, and Reznick wondered if she knew more than she was letting on. It felt good to be doing something, and he wanted to find out more about Ford.
His thoughts turned to the task at hand. He took a couple of minutes to change out of his sweaty clothes and into black jeans, T-shirt, and baseball cap. He checked his earpiece was still in place, then lifted up the small metal toolbox, checked the coast was clear, and pulled back the sliding door. He strode across the street and headed down the path at the side of the house.
Pushing open the gate, he saw a side door to the property. After switching on a tiny jamming device to disable any alarms or electronic sensors, he pulled some plastic shoe covers over his sneakers, so as not to leave any dirt or mess from footprints, and snapped on his gloves.
The distant sound of sirens filled the night air. He glanced around. Lights on across the street, but all quiet. He pressed his ear against the door and closed his eyes. He was listening for the merest sound inside. Perhaps a TV playing low.
But there was nothing. Satisfied it was all clear, he reached into the toolbox and pulled out a lock-picking set. A minute later, he was in the house.
Reznick’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dark as he headed through a hallway into the kitchen, where he could see the glint from a metallic range. He pulled out a penlight from his pocket. The thin beam of light danced across black marble floors and a granite work surface. Sitting on a dining table were two large glass bowls of fruit, overflowing with bananas, apples, oranges, and pears.
He opened the fridge, and the light came on. Dozens of bottles of water, carefully aligned. Low-fat milk in three containers. Low-fat spread. The freezer contained packets of free-range chicken breast.
He opened a cupboard. Rows and rows of neatly arranged protein shake mixes, alongside several bags of basmati rice. The guy was something else. Talk about a health freak, Reznick thought.
He padded through to the living room. It smelled of beeswax polish—perhaps a hint of sandalwood. He pointed the penlight around the room. Large TV screen on the wall. Photos of the doctor at his graduation; with friends and family, eating out; wearing blue scrubs, face behind a mask. The sofas were caramel-colored, matching the walls.
He headed upstairs, the penlight showing the way. Two bedrooms. He quickly scanned the guest room. It was clear. Then he went into the master bedroom, which had expensive-looking hardwood flooring. He checked out the contents of the room. Gilt-edged photos of Ford in dark-blue rowing colors, his lean torso honed to perfection, muscle definition on his triceps. A framed Yale degree. A bookcase packed tight with medical tomes and political biographies.
Reznick went over to a huge closet and pulled back the doors. A small light came on, illuminating a line of sharp suits and crisp dress shirts. He checked a few of the labels: Hugo Boss, Ralph Lauren, Armani, Versace. Expensive. On the closet floor, arranged in neat rows, were polished shoes.
It was li
ke something out of GQ magazine.
Reznick was a jeans-and-T-shirt sort of guy. Worrying about the cut of a suit always seemed to be the height of pointlessness.
He pressed on across the master bedroom and into an en-suite bathroom containing expensive shaving gels, aftershaves and moisturizers, carefully arranged razors, and soft white towels monogrammed with the initials A.F. in gold thread.
Reznick went back into the bedroom and pointed the light at the ceiling, where he saw a hatch for the attic. He reached up and turned a brass handle. The hatch opened and a ladder descended.
Penlight between his teeth, he climbed up into the attic. As the light bathed the darkness, he saw around a dozen hand-labeled wooden crates.
His earpiece crackled into life. The voice of Stamper.
“How long you gonna be, Jon?”
“Not long.”
“You found anything so far?”
“Nothing to write home about.”
Stamper said nothing.
“I’ll be out of here in a few minutes. I just want to check downstairs to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”
Reznick climbed down from the attic and headed downstairs, back into the living room. A final look around. Nothing.
Outside on the street, he heard voices raised. A couple having an argument.
Reznick went through to the kitchen. The calendar on the wall listed various charity lunches, meetings with hospital benefactors, and other such stuff. At the far end of the kitchen was a door that led through to a utility room. A washing machine, and a huge refrigerator humming away, its blue light on. On the floor, a small Persian rug.
He bent down and lifted the rug.
A hatch.
He opened it and shone the tiny light down into the dark space. The guy had a fully equipped gym in his basement.
Reznick climbed down the stairs. Descending carefully, step by step. The smell of stale sweat and leather. On the walls were fitness charts showing impressive amounts of weight lifted, at what time and on what day. Time spent on the rowing machine. Strokes per minute. Beats per minute.
This was the gym of a fitness fanatic. Push-ups, pull-ups, squat thrusts; time spent punching the bags; circuit training.
The light shone on a ledge with a framed document. Reznick edged closer.
It was a letter from a mother in the Anacostia neighborhood of DC, whose son had been run over by a hit-and-run driver and had sustained multiple internal injuries. He’d been fighting for his life, but following extensive surgery had made a full recovery. She expressed herself profoundly grateful for your lifesaving work, Dr. Ford.
Reznick stared at the letter. He wondered if Ford used it to remind himself why he had got into medicine in the first place.
The earpiece crackled into life. “Jon, get the hell out of there.”
“What? I haven’t finished yet.”
“You have now. Ford has just left the hospital on foot.”
Reznick climbed the stairs and out of the basement, shutting the hatch. He arranged the carpet exactly how it had been, picked up his toolkit, and headed out the side door. He shut the door to the lock position, pulled out his trusty pick, and locked it again from the outside. Finally, he switched off the jamming device, reactivating the electronics and alarms.
Reznick’s heart was beating fast as he headed down the path and across the street, baseball cap pulled low. He climbed back into the van and locked the door.
Stamper’s voice came through the earpiece. “He’s walking down the street now.”
Reznick peered through the window as Ford approached the townhouse.
“Jon, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m out of there, don’t worry.”
A long sigh.
“Why the hell’s he back so soon?”
“No idea. Just glad you made it out in time.”
Reznick wiped the sweat from his brow as Ford entered his home. “On the surface, there’s nothing untoward in the house I could see. Guy likes to keep fit. I didn’t get time to check out the garage.”
“No sign of Caroline Lieber, O’Grady, or anything to incriminate Ford in their disappearances?”
“Absolutely not.” A light went on in Ford’s living room. “But something doesn’t feel quite right.”
“What do you mean?”
“My gut feeling? I think there’s a lot more to this guy than meets the eye.”
Six
It was just after 2 a.m.—and Reznick was gulping yet another strong coffee inside the van—when he spotted Ford emerging from his home. He watched as the doctor, now wearing dark jeans, a white polo shirt, and loafers, climbed into his silver Mercedes, which was parked outside.
“He’s on the move, folks!” he whispered, afraid of making too much noise.
Stamper’s voice came over the radio. “Yeah, copy that. We’re gonna swing by and you can jump in with us. We’ll get one of my guys to take away the van.”
Reznick sighed. “Hurry the fuck up,” he said, as Ford drove away.
A few moments later, a Suburban pulled up. Reznick climbed out of the van and got in the back seat beside Stamper.
“You smell like shit,” the Fed said.
Reznick grinned. “Bet you say that to all the boys, huh?”
Stamper shook his head, chewing his gum. “Gimme a break, will you?”
The Suburban sped off through the near-deserted streets of downtown DC in pursuit of Ford.
“You any idea where he’s going?” Reznick asked.
“He’s not on the hospital rotation for a couple weeks. Last-minute vacation, apparently.”
“He’s headed northeast,” said the driver. “There he is!”
Reznick craned his neck and saw the Mercedes up ahead. “Yeah, I see him.”
Stamper took out his radio. “Looks like our guy is getting on I-95 North.”
“We’re getting too close,” Reznick said. “Back off.”
Stamper turned and looked at him. “We’ve been doing this for a long time, Jon.”
Reznick said nothing, and a silence opened up as they followed Ford, about a hundred yards back. Ten minutes into the journey, Stamper said, “I don’t understand how he fits into this. I don’t get it.”
“Well, what do we know about him?”
“Privileged background. Private school, then Yale. Star student. All that. I don’t think he fits anything we’re interested in.”
“He has a link to Caroline Lieber—and she’s dropped off the radar. I don’t believe in coincidences. There’s a connection.” Reznick looked ahead and saw they were now three cars behind Ford’s car. “What else do we know about Dr. Adam Ford?”
“Like I said, not a lot. He looks pretty solid. Brilliant surgeon, incredibly bright, top of his class at medical school, does humanitarian work. Hospital chief executive told us, strictly confidentially, that he’s a dedicated surgeon and loved by his patients. Although he did say he was a bit aloof at times, and didn’t seem to forge close relationships with other staff.”
“What else do we know?”
“Well, we’ve been trawling his bank accounts, and it’s healthy, as you can imagine. He’s got one point eight million dollars in stocks. Apple, Intel, Google . . . blue-chip technology stocks, mostly.”
“What else?”
“He pays his taxes.”
“Relationships?”
“Not a great mixer. A colleague said he was scrupulously polite, never flirtatious with female staff. And she never heard him talking about women or girlfriends.”
“What about his parents?”
“Dead, but they were wealthy—solid suburbanites. Father was a lawyer.”
“What about donations? Political leanings?”
“None. Worked around the world for the Red Cross after he graduated. Active humanitarian, I guess. But all in all, a very private man.” Stamper leaned toward the driver. “Where’s he going?”
“GPS on his cell phone shows he’s still headed northeast.
Baltimore, perhaps.”
On the outskirts of Baltimore, they hung back as Ford pulled up at an all-night gas station. A visit to the bathroom, and then back in his car, still headed northeast. They passed the city, its lights in the distance.
Long silences punctuated the journey. Past Wilmington and into New Jersey. Then Cherry Hill and Trenton. Soon they saw signs for New York.
Stamper got out his cell phone. “Martha, we’re about forty minutes out of Manhattan.” He sighed. “OK. So what do you reckon? We just watch and wait?” He nodded. “Got it.”
Union City, and then down to a crawl before the tollbooths at the Lincoln Tunnel. The first tinges of dawn lightened the sky as they emerged from the tunnel and headed through the snarling, early-morning traffic of Midtown Manhattan. The driver yawned, as did Stamper. They headed uptown.
Twenty minutes later, the driver slowed down. “Lenox Hill. Prime Manhattan.” More than a hundred yards ahead, Ford pulled into a space outside a fancy townhouse. He then used a fob to lock his car and walked up to the front door, pressing the apartment buzzer. He waited for a few moments. A balding, middle-aged man opened the door, two young kids next to him. Ford flung his arms out wide, picked up the kids, and gave them a big hug.
Stamper was peering through powerful binoculars. “He pressed Apartment Two. Who lives there?”
A short while later, a text came through on his phone.
“William T. Rhodes, medical director of Lenox Hill Hospital.” He sighed. “Rhodes has two kids—Amy and Alexander. They’re the godchildren of Dr. Adam Ford.”
The driver groaned.
Stamper fed the information back to Meyerstein. “Goddamn family friend, that’s what he is. Visiting them on the first day of his vacation. Just great.”
Seven
The Lowell Hotel on Manhattan’s East 63rd Street was where Reznick, Stamper, and the driver decamped to freshen up in an eighth-floor suite. The hotel was about seventy yards away from the house Ford was visiting, on the opposite side of the street. An FBI surveillance unit was keeping watch.
It had felt good to take a long hot shower and put on fresh clothes, sourced by the hotel management.
