“Martin? It’s Bradford,” he said in a stern tone that sent a shiver down Jamie’s spine. “I need a bed on PH22. No access except medical personnel and the police.”
“His wife?” Jamie was still reeling from what she was hearing.
“And his wife,” Bradford added. “Zuckerman will be his attending. How quickly can you make this happen? He’s down having a cat scan right now.” Bradford typed away on the computer before shutting it down. “Good. I just sent you the file. Dr. Jameson from emergency will be up with him ASAP.” He didn’t stop there. As soon as the call was over he was already dialing a second number. “Bruce, it’s Hamilton. I just assigned you a new patient. I sent you the file. He’ll be in Phillips House, twenty-two. I expect you to check on him as soon as possible.” He didn’t bother to wait for an answer, he just hung up. “That should about do it.”
“More than I had expected.” Jamie gaped at the man who simply oozed power. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“No need.” He shrugged as if he had bought her a cup of coffee, not moved mountains to ensure Max’s safety and good health. “Did you know that Detective Samuels and your wife solved the murder of Whitney Cabot about fifteen years ago?”
“I’m not familiar with that case.”
“I am.” He stood while straightening his jacket. He bent over to scribble something on a note pad. “This is the name Detective Samuels is listed under.”
Jamie accepted the slip of paper and almost burst out laughing. She stuffed the slip of paper into her pocket.
“My grandson is at that age. It is just about the only thing he says,” Bradford said with a wry smile. “Good luck, Dr. Jameson. I’m off to give the governor an earful.”
As soon as Max was back, Jamie informed her team that his file had been red-flagged, which meant they were not to discuss his treatment with anyone. She stressed the point again before grabbing Alvarez and Stella. The three of them used the back elevators to wheel Max upstairs. Phillips House consisted of three floors where dignitaries, rock stars, and other people who commanded privacy were treated. Most were listed under fictitious names. To enter the unit you had to be buzzed in after being viewed on camera. Jamie slid in her key card then buzzed.
“Dr. Jameson with Seymour Butts.”
No one answered verbally, the buzzer simply buzzed and the three of them scurried to get Max inside. “Dr. Jameson, Dr. Zuckerman is waiting right this way.” A middle-aged nurse with a no-nonsense attitude led her through the pristine hallway. They guided Max into a room with a large plasma television, mini fridge, large comfortable bed, desk, and a comfy sofa for visitors. With the assistance of the floor nurse, they skillfully moved Max into his bed.
“Dr. Jameson.” Dr. Zuckerman didn’t bother to offer his hand.
“I have Mr. Butts’s file, including his X-rays and the scan. Is there anything you need to add to the information?”
“No. I’ll be returning soon with his wife.”
“Very well. That should give me time to examine him,” Zuckerman said. “What’s his real first name? If he wakes up, I’d like to perform some standard tests.”
“Max.”
Dr. Zuckerman nodded and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. The trio left the unit as quickly as possible.
“That place is nicer than my apartment,” Alvarez said. “I never knew it existed.”
“The three floors that make up Phillips House are very restricted. You need the right last name or an Academy Award to get in.” Jamie carefully explained.
“So, how did you…”
“I asked for a very big favor. Remember, you can’t talk about this,” Jamie said. They exited the elevator. “Thank you, Alvarez. Go home, it’s getting late.” Alvarez hurried away. “Thank you, Stella. I’ve always known that you were the one who is really in charge, but to have God on speed dial, now that is impressive.”
“Oh, please. Ham? I’ve known him since he was a wet-behind the ears intern.”
“You lead such an exciting life,” Jamie teased. She left Stella and went in search of CC and Shirley.
Spotting her wife was easy. CC stood out among the crowd in the waiting area. She seemed to be in a very animated conversation with the police captain and an older pot-bellied man who was obviously a cop. The tacky necktie and cheap suit jacket gave him away.
“Shirley?” She approached Max’s wife and tenderly offered her arm. “He’s going to be okay. He’s up in a secure room.” The poorly dressed detective stomped over and flashed his badge. Jamie ignored his intrusion and continued speaking to Shirley. She nodded to CC and the captain when they sauntered over. “The doctor assigned to his case is the best.” Once again, Mr. Bad Suit flashed his badge. Again, she ignored him. “I’ll take you upstairs,” she said to Shirley.
“Hold on.” The pushy man flashed his badge again.
“Yes, it’s very shiny. Thank you for showing it to me,” Jamie said curtly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’m taking Mrs. Sampson to see her husband.”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s more than apparent,” Jamie cut him off. “I’ll be back. You can have a seat.”
“I’m going with you,” he said, working Jamie’s last nerve.
“Are you a relative?” Jamie asked, pleased when his jaw dropped. “I didn’t think so. I suggest you find something to occupy yourself until I return.”
“This is a police matter.”
“This is a medical matter. I will call security and have you removed.”
“She’ll do it, too,” CC said bluntly.
“Who do you think you are?” Detective Whiney asked.
“At this moment, I’m the acting head of emergency medicine at this hospital and one of Detective Sampson’s physicians.”
Jamie didn’t bother to stick around. Her only concern was for Shirley and Max. Shirley was trembling until Jamie informed her of the alias Max had been assigned. Then she wailed with laughter. Once inside, Jamie translated Dr. Zuckerman’s diagnosis for Shirley that boiled down to mean Max was going to be just fine, but they needed to keep an eye on him.
* * *
“If you think you’re going to cover this up, you have another think coming. Understand, Calloway?”
“I understand that you’re acting like a jackass.” She sneered.
“What’s with that doctor? I need to talk to Sampson, and I need to do it now.”
“I wouldn’t push Dr. Jameson’s buttons, Palmucci,” the captain informed him. “Just simmer down and wait. We’ve offered you full access to our files and lab.”
“I’m telling you, those drugs are going to match the stuff we found in Billy Ryan’s room,” CC tried explaining for what seemed like the one hundredth time. “All I’m asking is that you tell the press you found an unidentified body at The Ballard.”
“I won’t be part of a cover-up. Your partner was found with drugs in his pocket. How do I know he didn’t take them from your crime scene?”
CC was exasperated. She had already spelled out everything for Palmucci over and over again. “There’s no cover-up. Investigate to your heart’s content. I’m just asking you to list Max as a John Doe. Trust me, someone is going to call in and tell you who he is. In the meantime, he stays here and gets medical treatment. I’ll bet you fifty bucks that not only do you get the call, but the drugs are a match and we won’t be missing a single gram.”
“Fifty? You have a lot of faith in your partner. I can’t help wondering if you’re in it just as deep as he is.” His superior tone was working her nerves.
“I’m telling you it has to do with this case we fell into. Max Sampson is clean. Hell, he’s getting short. Why risk everything to start dealing?” She tried once again to get through to him.
“Maybe that was the incentive. You did say that he’s shopping for a boat.”
“Yeah, Max is dirty. That’s why he’s driving a Buick that’s almost two decades old.” She threw her hands up in frustration.
“Found his car.” Palmucci sucked air through his teeth. CC hated when people did that. It was not only annoying, it was disgusting to boot.
“And?” the captain said.
“Suffolk Downs.” Palmucci snickered. “Probably where he set up the deal.”
“Or where the killer hid it,” CC said. “The track is a perfect hiding place, and it’s in Boston.”
“Yeah?” Palmucci scratched his head, clearly confused. “It’s not far from the scene. He could have walked.”
“Really? It’s what… four, five miles maybe more down the highway? There’s no way Max could have managed without stroking out.” CC doubted that Palmucci would fare better. “As for Max’s car, Boston PD will tow it to our garage, not yours.”
“I knew it. A cover-up.” He shouted startling everyone in the waiting area.
“You know diddly squat,” CC said just as Jamie returned. “How is he?”
“At the moment, he’s resting comfortably,” Jamie said in a cool, professional tone. CC cringed when Palmucci again shoved his badge in Jamie’s face. “Yes, I’ve seen it. Your mother must be very proud.” Jamie brushed his gold shield aside. “Given the situation, he’s been placed in a secure location under a pseudonym.”
“What?” Palmucci was, indeed, a clueless wonder.
“Single room, fake name,” CC slowly spelled out for him. “We need to put an officer outside his room.”
“I figured as much,” Jamie said. “You need to have them checked in by someone on the list, which is limited to me, Shirley, and his doctors.”
“Fine. I’ll have one of my men over in a minute.” Palmucci glared at CC.
“Fine by me.” CC was pleased when he looked surprised.
“Now, Detective…” Jamie said to Palmucci.
“Palmucci.”
“Palmucci,” she repeated clearly annoyed. “Detective Sampson has suffered a serious head injury. He didn’t say anything relevant other than knowing his name and his wife’s name. Just the basic stuff. I asked him what happened, and he has no idea. Short-term memory loss isn’t uncommon in these situations. Get your officer here, and I’ll escort him up to the detective’s room.”
“I’ll see him now.” Palmucci announced giving his belt a jerk as if he had just won something.
“No.”
“What?”
CC held back a snicker as she watched Palmucci’s face turn beet red. Palmucci was basically a good cop, but when he got something stuck in his head, it stayed there. The guy had the bad habit of developing tunnel vision. It had cost him dearly over the years. He lost some big cases, and his family, for nothing more than being pigheaded. Jamie just stood there, not flinching no matter how hard Palmucci tried to intimidate her. CC couldn’t have been prouder.
“If you need anything else, you can contact Detective Sampson’s physicians, Dr. Hamilton Bradford and Dr. Bruce Zuckerman.” Having had her say, Jamie spun around and walked off.
“Oh, I’ll be contacting them alright,” Palmucci said. “That bitch has no idea who she’s dealing with.”
“I’d let it go.” CC didn’t feel the need to inform him that Jamie was her wife. Based on the grin he was sporting, Captain Rousseau approved of her suggestion. “We’ve agreed to cooperate fully. Are you going to do the same? It’ll give you the freedom to investigate without everyone knowing he’s a cop.”
“Fine. Fine.” Palmucci was already barking into his cell phone, trying to locate the two doctors Jamie had mentioned. “I’ll be in touch,” he added with a triumphant smirk, dismissing CC and her boss.
“He thinks he’s won something.” CC led the captain around the corner.
“Palmucci is always thinking he’s hit the case that will make him famous.”
“He should just try doing his job.”
“I know, and I’m trusting you on this one.”
“You don’t think Max is dirty, do you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I trust both of you.”
CC cast a glance at her boss. The poor guy had been dragged out of a party because one of his people had been found with his head bashed in and a stash of drugs in his pocket. She was willing to bet this wasn’t the way he had planned on spending the long weekend.
“Give me two days,” CC said as they approached Jamie’s office. “Then all of us, including Palmucci, will sit down, and I’ll tell you everything. If you still think I’m a lunatic, then so be it. Personally, I’d love to be proven wrong.”
“That is never good,” Rousseau grumbled while CC knocked on the door. “Whenever you don’t want to be right, usually everything goes to hell.”
“Have a seat.” Jamie waved at the chairs when they entered her office.
“Jamie, good to see you again. Just wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Me, too. Okay, so now that Detective Smart Mouth is busy trying to get in touch with two of the most prestigious doctors in the country, I can fill you in. Max suffered a severe subdermal laceration and another laceration that led to extreme blood loss.”
“Someone hit him in the head, which cut him, so he bled a lot.” CC ran her fingers through her hair as she translated what Jamie was saying.
“Before that,” Jamie said, “he received an electrical shock. In addition to his head injury, he suffered cuts and abrasions.”
“Someone zapped him with a stun gun and tossed him down a flight of stairs. I saw the burn marks.”
“He struck his cranium on a hard surface.”
“Smacked his forehead on the cement floor.”
“Then someone used a blunt object and struck him in the back of the head,” Jamie said. “He seems to be doing well. He knows his name, what year it is, and his wife’s name. However he has no recall of this afternoon’s events. With this type of trauma, it’s not surprising that he’s blocked out what happened. His short-term memory should return soon, but nothing is certain. His doctor, who literally wrote the book on the subject, is very optimistic. We should know more in the morning. Given recent events, I assumed that you wanted him kept somewhere safe. So, he’s in the private ward under an alias.”
“How private?” Rousseau asked.
“You have to be buzzed in. He’s on the floor where rock stars go to dry out and the Kennedys go for whatever they need. Very secure, and the staff is well versed in keeping their mouths shut. Shirley is up there with him now. The two of you can wait to see him in the morning.”
“James…” CC began to protest.
“Caitlin, let him catch his breath. He’s in good hands. I wasn’t kidding, Dr. Zuckerman wrote the book on this subject. The hospital wooed him away from the National Head Injury Institute.”
“Thank you.” CC felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
“Don’t thank me. Dr. Bradford arranged everything.”
“Isn’t that the guy you’re always referring to as God?”
“Around here, that’s exactly who he is. He seems fond of you and Max. So, it wasn’t hard twisting his arm.”
“Really?”
“Hamilton Bradford,” Rousseau repeated the name slowly. He smiled when the answers came to him. “The Ivy League murder. Of course. He’s one of those Bradfords.”
“Whitney Cabot,” Jamie said.
“That’s right. He’s her second uncle or something like that,” CC suddenly recalled. “That poor girl.”
“Murdered?” Jamie cringed.
“By her boyfriend.” CC clenched her jaw as the image hit her of Whitney Cabot’s remains scattered in a dumpster. The horrific memory still made her sick. The body had been mutilated so badly, it took almost a month to identify her. “Derrick Peabody Adams, from another fine old New England family. His hobbies included rowing, tennis, golf, domestic violence against the women in his life, and he was rather fond of date rape. Now, he’s spending the end of his days in a five-by-nine cell at Walpole. I’d add him to my list of people who hate me, but w
hy would he bother killing people on the West Coast?”
“If either of you want to visit Max tomorrow, I can take you up,” Jamie said. “It will have to wait until after three. Jack’s services are in the morning. I’ll try to make time for the cranky detective. With a disposition like that, no small wonder he’s divorced.”
“How did you know he’s divorced?”
“What woman would let her man leave the house dressed like that?”
CC was thoroughly amused by the look of pure disgust plastered on Jamie’s face. “I’ll go with you to the services,” she offered.
“Then you’ll need to go home and get some rest.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nudged her boss before giving Jamie a quick kiss. She felt spent as they wandered back out to the parking garage and searched for their cars.
“You know what I find amazing?” Rousseau threw out.
“What’s that?” CC yawned and clicked the remote for her Subaru.
“You can follow instructions.”
“Only hers.”
He laughed and went on his way. CC climbed into her car and pulled out her cell phone. She sent a picture email and smiled. She was really getting the hang of the new gadget. She had her doubts in the beginning. Still she did feel that all she really needed to do was make phone calls. She hit speed dial while searching through her CDs.
“Wayne,” she barked at the poor technician. “I sent you a photo.”
“I know! Did you know this is my day off?”
“Look, I don’t have a lot of time on this one,” she pleaded.
“You never do.”
“Run the bar code on that bottle of vodka. I want to know where and when it was purchased, and by whom.”
“You don’t ask for much. Again, my day off,” he groused.
“Then I need you to break into Max’s Facebook account and find any messages from someone named Bunny. Track down the sender and get back to me ASAP. Got that?”
“Day off, and if you want to know about Max’s personal life, just ask him.”
Checkmate (Caitlin Calloway Mystery Book 2) Page 32
