J.M. Redmann - Micky Knight Mystery 7 - I'll Will

by J. M. Redmann

  I put my phone away. I pulled Cordelia to me—I couldn’t kiss her; we were sisters—and silently held her for a second. Everything we did now would be watched and heard.

  “Let’s roll,” she said quietly.

  We got out of the car. I hadn’t brought an umbrella, so we had to ignore the rain. I led the way to the opening in the chain link fence, then took her elbow to guide her over the weed-strewn asphalt to the building, the wet slickness making it even more treacherous. I wanted to take off my jacket and hold it over her, but couldn’t because of the gun.

  We stood for a moment under the portico, shaking the water off and letting out eyes adjust.

  As before, the door outline was almost invisible in the dark. I felt against the wall until my hand bumped against the frame. I hesitated for a second. This was the last moment to turn back. Then I knocked.

  The door was thrust open, the light blinding.

  “Hey, Debbie, I didn’t expect to see you here,” a male voice said.

  I squinted at the light, searching my brain for the voice.

  Vincent.

  Grant Walters had sucked him into the criminal side. I wondered if he even knew.

  “Hi, I didn’t expect to see you here, either,” I managed to get out. Keep up the façade. “This is my sister, CJ. I’m here with her. I mean Donna, that’s her given name. CJ is just a nickname,” I covered. The fourth nickname, the one I forgot to mention.

  We came in from the rain. The lights were harsh fluorescents, hidden from the outside by windows covered with boards.

  “Hi, CJ, pleased to meet you,” he said, sticking out a hand.

  Cordelia gave him a weak smile and gingerly put out her hand as if she was weak and movement was hard.

  At least I hoped she was pretending. No, I reminded myself, she hadn’t been like this walking here from the car.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked him.

  “Mr. Walters asked me to help. I was so excited to hear about this project.” Vincent’s puppy-dog eyes sparked.

  “But why? This is…kind of irregular,” I said.

  “You’re here, right? Because it’s so important that we help people.”

  “Vinnie? Who are you talking to?” A woman entered through a door behind Vincent.

  “This is Debbie and her sister, CJ. They’re here for the nine p.m. appointment.”

  The woman gave us a quick once-over. She was probably in her late thirties or early forties. The lines had settled in her face from long-ago days in the sun, her hair streaked blond as if she missed those days. She seemed neither happy nor sad to be here, none of the excitement for working for a cause like Vincent. If anything, a weary resignation that this was where life had brought her. Her voice sounded vaguely like the woman who had called to set up this appointment. Walters would want to keep his operation lean.

  “What’s your diagnosis?” she demanded of Cordelia.

  “Aggressive NHL, non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, stage three, involvement of lymph nodes in the neck and groin.”

  You’re not a doctor, I said silently, but a patient. She didn’t go on.

  “Take off your head scarf,” the woman ordered.

  Tentatively, as if embarrassed, Cordelia removed it, bending slightly so the woman could clearly see her ragged, patchy hair.

  “How are they treating you?” the woman asked.

  Cordelia put her scarf back on before answering, “CHOP.”

  “Which is?”

  “Some chemotherapy drugs: cyclophosphamide, hydroxydauno-rubicin, Oncovin, and prednisone.” She caught herself and added, “I was stuck waiting for a long time, so I occupied myself with learning the names.”

  I let out the breath I was holding.

  The woman’s face was blank. She didn’t have a clue what Cordelia was talking about.

  But that seemed to do the trick. Cordelia had used enough medical jargon—plus the hair loss and sallow skin—to pass whatever test they used.

  “Come with me,” the woman said. I started to follow and she said, “Just her, not you.”

  “Why can’t I come with her?” I asked, trying to keep the demand out of my voice.

  “It’s the way we do things. She comes alone or you leave together.”

  “It won’t take long,” Cordelia said, managing a wan smile for me.

  “But I promised I would be with her the entire time,” I said. I couldn’t let her go off without me. And my gun and my wire.

  “She has to come alone. We never allow family,” the woman replied.

  “It won’t be too long,” Vincent added. “I’ll keep you company.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Cordelia said.

  There was nothing I could do except watch as she trailed behind the woman.

  The door thudded shut.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Vincent said.

  Shut the fuck up, I thought. I managed to say, “What happens now? Where are you taking C.J.?”

  “She’ll be checked out.”

  “Checked out by whom?”

  “We have a doctor who works with us. Guess he wants to really save lives as well. He’s a really nice guy.”

  “So, is that why this is important to you?”

  “Government runs health care for a small bunch of people; the big drug companies, that sort of stuff. They know there are cures out there, but they don’t want anyone else to know about them. But it’s important to get those cures to the people.”

  “You’re here to help people?” I prompted.

  Vincent needed little encouragement. He was happy to talk about his latest fixation. “Yes, I was thrilled when Mr. Walters told me about this, that we could do more than just help with the little trickle they allow from places like Nature’s Beautiful Gift. This is real, makes a real difference.”

  “How do you know it works?”

  “Of course it works. The doctor explained it to me, but he used a bunch of technical terms and I didn’t really understand.”

  “What kind of doctor is he?” I asked.

  “Someone who truly wants to help people, not just make money. Hell, he could lose his license for doing this. He says it works and I trust him. Plus one of my friends used it. He wasn’t doing so well, and he talked to me and it turned out his doctor is our doctor, so he got on it and the last I talked to him he said it made him feel great.”

  “What was wrong with him?” I didn’t think I was going to like the answer.

  “Sickle-cell anemia. It’s a bitch—I mean, not nice—disease. We used to hang out all the time until he got too sick. Two days after he stared on The Cure, we met for a drink and he told me how much energy he had.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “About…a couple of months ago.”

  “How’s he doing now?”

  “Now? Fine, I guess.”

  “You haven’t talked to him lately?”

  “Nah, I figured old Reg was busy, probably had a new girlfriend.”

  “Can you do me a big favor? Can you call him and see how he’s doing? I really want to be able to tell my sister how great this stuff is. He can say he’s been on it for a few months and it’s going great. It was hard to scrape together the money.”

  He glanced at his watch. It was about 9:15. “Um, sure. I’ll do that right now.”

  I wondered what he would do when he discovered that no one answered.

  Vincent moved to the far side of the room to make his call. As he started to dial, I pulled out my cell phone. I called the McConkles. I turned from Vincent, hoping that between his call and keeping my voice quiet, he wouldn’t catch what I was doing.

  Donna answered.

  “Hi, sorry to bother you so late,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to identify myself. “I’ve stumbled over something and might have news for you soon. But that house you worked on? The one out in Old Metairie? What’s the owner’s name?”

  On the far side of the room, I heard Vincent leaving a message, asking his fri
end to call him back as soon as possible.

  “Just a sec,” Donna said. I heard her calling to Fletcher, asking him my question.

  She came back on the line. “Brandon Kellogg.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up.

  Brandon lived just across the street from Grant Walters. Fletcher had mentioned him owning lots of sports cars. Red, like the ones I had seen. He would know Cordelia was not a desperate believer in a miracle cure.

  “I couldn’t get hold of him,” Vincent said.

  I had to get to her.

  “You won’t. Reginald Banks is dead.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  I might be able to convince him that he was being used, on the side of the killers, not the savers, but could see no way to do it quickly enough to save Cordelia. I had been so right when I’d tagged Vincent as collateral damage.

  I kicked him as hard as I could in the balls.

  He went down, surprise and pain mixed on his face.

  “You are involved with criminals who kill people,” I told him. Into my watch, I screamed, “Get in here now! The doctor knows who Cordelia is!”

  I couldn’t wait for Rafe. Rushing past the moaning Vincent, I shoved through the inner door and sprinted up the stairs. This was a large building and I had less than no time. The split second he laid eyes on her, Brandon would recognize Cordelia and know that Lydia’s death hadn’t diverted me from the case. They had killed Lydia, they would kill her.

  The glowing light on the third floor. If that wasn’t where they were, Cordelia was dead.

  Second floor.

  Third floor. As I shoved open the door on the landing, I pulled out my gun. The hall was dark, but at the far end, a dim light seeped under the door.

  If I was lucky, Vincent didn’t have a way to contact them and they wouldn’t know I was almost outside their door. But I had little time to be quiet. I raced down the hallway, hoping that the rubber soles of my shoes would mask the sound.

  Just as I got to the door it opened.

  “Vincent, what’s—” the woman started. “You! You can’t be here.”

  I grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her out of the door, shoving her down the hallway. “The police are on their way. Get out,” I told her.

  I didn’t look to see if she was leaving or not. She had been in a small reception area. Behind it were several other closed doors. “Third floor, lighted office,” I said, holding my watch close enough that they had to hear. Rafe and his team couldn’t waste time searching the building.

  It had windows to the outside. I dashed for the door closest to the back and nearest the outer wall.

  I thrust open the door to a scene of horror, a room with only one light, focused on a heavy wooden chair in the center.

  Grant Walters had Cordelia pinned in that chair, his knee against her chest, his hands wrapped around her wrists.

  Brandon Kellogg had put an IV into the vein on the back of her hand and was about to attach it to a vial of fluid.

  He was saying, “You’re going to die anyway. This will be easier.”

  I couldn’t shoot; they were too close together.

  Cordelia saw me first. She quickly looked away and started to struggle, to distract them.

  “No!” I screamed, launching myself. I used my body as a weapon, flinging my torso at them, striking Grant’s chin with the butt of my gun as I tackled him, pushing him off Cordelia and onto Brandon.

  “What the fuck?” he yelled as he went down.

  “You said you came alone,” Brandon yelled over him. “What’s she doing here?” Then as if remembering his partner in crime, he shouted, “It’s the PI, the one I warned you about.”

  I was a fury, heedless of any pain or danger. I backhanded Brandon in the nose, then turned to Cordelia and ripped the IV out of her hand.

  Brandon fell back, making a whimpering sound.

  “Look out!” she screamed.

  Grant was behind me, grabbing my arm, going for the gun. I dug the fingernails of my free arm into his hand. He howled in pain, but didn’t let go.

  Suddenly Brandon grabbed my other arm. “What do we do?” he asked. “What do we do now?” His nose was dribbling blood onto his expensive tie.

  With Brandon on the other side of me, Grant again went for my gun. To keep it from him, I dropped it, then kicked it away. He couldn’t get it, but I couldn’t use it either.

  Cordelia struggled up, gaining a hold on Brandon, using her weight to pull him away. But she didn’t have the strength and stamina for a long fight.

  Where the hell were Rafe and his crew?

  Maybe they were in this with Grant and I was the only person who could save myself. And Cordelia.

  She managed to get Brandon away, freeing one arm. I swung at Grant, but with him holding the one arm from behind, I had to punch him over my shoulder. I couldn’t get a good angle and couldn’t land a decent blow.

  “You fucking bitch,” he snarled. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re dead.”

  Brandon punched Cordelia, then threw her down. I heard the sound of her hitting the floor, falling away into the shadows.

  I kicked at Grant, slamming my heel down on his instep.

  To retaliate, he yanked my hair, jerking my head back. I tried to duck away from him, going with the direction of his pull, then twisting away. But he was expecting it and moved with me. Then he kicked me hard at the back of the knee, forcing me to bend, then sag down on my knees.

  I struggled and turned, but he was a strong man and knew what he was doing. He wrapped an arm around my throat in a choke hold. Then he grabbed my wrist and slapped it on the armrest of the chair.

  “Put the needle in her arm. We’ll do them both,” Grant said.

  He was making it hard for me to breathe.

  Brandon started to get an alcohol swipe.

  “Fuck that! Hurry!” Grant barked.

  No need to worry about infection if you’re about to kill someone.

  Brandon did as he was told, ripping a needle out of a pack. Just as he tried to stab me, I jerked my arm.

  But it was no more than a pitifully small delay.

  “Hold it steady,” Brandon said.

  Grant shoved down with brutal force, placing his knee in my back so my face as forced into the seat of the chair, my arm bent up at a painful angle. Only then did he let go of my throat, using both hands to hold my arm down.

  “I’m sorry,” Brandon said. “But this will be easier. You won’t feel the pain as you die.”

  “I’m not about to die, you’re murdering me,” I growled at him.

  He hesitated.

  “Do it!” Grant yelled.

  I felt a prick at the back of my hand.

  Then a huge roar, as if the world was drowned out.

  “What the hell!” Grant bellowed.

  Something liquid dripped onto my arm.

  Blood.

  Brandon stumbled backward, his chest an oozing red mess.

  I rolled away from Grant, turning the chair over. He tried to hold on, but I spun around just enough to grab him between the legs. I gripped tightly and twisted as hard as I could, yanking down as I turned my hand.

  His yowl of pain was satisfying.

  I rolled away from under him, kicking at his legs as I regained mine. He thudded heavily to the floor, still moaning in pain.

  I jerked the needle out of my arm and plunged it into his, then pulled the clip off the line to the vial. It wasn’t likely I’d hit a vein, but that might hold him if he recovered from the ball torture.

  I looked around for Rafe. But he wasn’t here.

  Cordelia, just at the edge of the shadow, stood holding my gun.

  She looked at Brandon, then at me, then down at her hand.

  I rushed to her, taking the gun. I knew what I was doing; I hoped she wouldn’t. I fired, aiming as the side wall. My fingerprints were now on the gun and powder residue on my hands.

  As if coming out of a trance, she said,
“I have to try to save him.” She half walked, half stumbled to him, placing her hands on his chest, trying to stop the blood of the man who had tried to kill us both.

  Rafe and his team ran in.

  “Holy fuck,” he said, on seeing the scene.

  “Nothing holy here,” I said and went to help Cordelia.

  Chapter Thirty

  It had been a lifetime and only five minutes.

  I got to that room on the third floor only five minutes before Rafe and his team arrived. Vincent had recovered enough to slow them down.

  Dudley had been caught in Houston. Once Texas got finished with him, he’d be sent back here.

  Fletcher and Donna got the result they wanted. Vincent spent a few days in jail, then got out on parole. They passed on the information from their aunt. He had told her he no longer believed in this stuff, a friend of his had died and he was now with his family’s insurance company.

  Mr. Charles Williams did indeed make a big pot of gumbo—quite good—and I gave him, his nephew, and the McConkles an edited version of what had happened. A version that had my hand on the gun.

  Rafe made his clients in Dallas very happy. They displayed their happiness by paying him very well. A nice chunk trickled down to me. Rafe told me if I ever moved to Texas, I’d have a job. I told him I’d never move to Texas.

  Grant Walters was in jail. He was a master at manipulation, looking at everyone he met as to how they could be useful to him. Like his neighbors. He quickly picked Dudley as a rebellious meth head. Brandon was already chiseling a little away on insurance fraud, small enough time that he might have gotten away with it for a very long while. But Grant had talked him into expanding, opening several clinics that existed in name only and ramping up the amount he was taking from the practice. Grant had even talked him into putting up the bulk of the investment for the Nature’s Beautiful Gift franchise. Brandon was an amateur. Grant was a pro. Brandon was a busy doctor and didn’t keep up with the various ways the insurance fraud was trickling down to his patients. When Cordelia had first suggested asking me to locate the missing patients, he didn’t consider the possible consequences of having me around.

  He diagnosed disease. I diagnosed crime.

  Only after I’d found Reginald, involved the police and medical authorities, he panicked. He immediately called Grant, who arranged for Dudley to shut me down as quickly as possible. He had been lucky—and I had been unlucky—that Dudley was in need of a fix and was quickly on his way to my office.