Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  A voice-over from the studio asked, “Any leads yet on who might be responsible, Lucy?”

  The shot panned back to the reporter who shook her head and resumed looking into the camera. “No, Don. Earlier reports on this issue have not yet been confirmed. But the police have released a description of who they now are calling a person of interest, a doctor, a Tom McCarthy. Sources say his office is in the building directly behind me. It’s my understanding that the shootings took place in his ninth-floor office. Just moments ago hospital security, in a KING News exclusive, released this picture.” She held up an eight-by-ten color picture of Tom’s face. The camera zoomed in on the picture, the one on his hospital ID badge.

  It pissed Sarah off. Okay, it was understandable that security would help the police, but she believed that someone had made a huge mistake. Tom McCarthy was no killer. He couldn’t be involved in such a violent act. He wasn’t a violent person.

  “Police are requesting that anybody with knowledge of this man’s whereabouts contact 9-1-1 immediately. For those of you outside the Seattle city limits you can call either of these numbers.” The picture segued to two telephone numbers, one with an 800 prefix. The reporter’s voice continued as the screen displayed the numbers. “Police advise that if you see him, do not attempt to apprehend him. He is considered armed and dangerous.” The reporter’s image replaced the phone numbers. “That’s all from here at the moment, Don.”

  The picture switched to the studio, where a familiar grim-faced anchor in a blue suit sat behind a fauxmahogany console with the Seattle skyline as a backdrop. “Thanks, Lucy.” His eyes looked straight in the camera. “That’s our live coverage on this breaking story, but as always, we will continue to update you on new developments here on KING News as soon as they occur. For those of you who are just now tuning in, you will be able to see a full recap on our regular five-o’clock evening segment or on the KING dot com website. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.”

  Sarah’s beeper started chirping. She recognized the number for the paging operator. Unusual, she thought. Most inhouse people dialed the pager directly without going through the operator. She wove back through the television viewers to one of the dictation booths and used the phone. “Doctor Hamilton answering a page.”

  “Doctor Hamilton, I have a Doctor Wyse on the line for you. Will you take the call?”

  Doctor Wyse? The only Doctor Wyse she knew was the chief of neurosurgery at Lakeview, but why would he call her? Then again, both she and Tom had requested Baker’s and Russell’s medical records twice from Lakeview without results. Maybe he was finally responding.

  “Yes, put him through. Thanks.”

  “Sarah?”

  She immediately recognized the voice and froze in disbelief. She caught herself from blurting out his name. Instead, she whispered, “Is that you?” while glancing around self-consciously.

  McCarthy said, “Yes, and I need your help.”

  She couldn’t help but glance around again to make sure she wasn’t overheard. That didn’t appear to be the case, but still, she turned her back to the room and whispered, “No kidding. I think the entire free world is searching for you. Where are you? You okay?”

  “I’d rather not to say. At least not over the phone.”

  A chill snaked down her spine. The anxiety brewing since this morning mushroomed into near panic. “Got it. What can I do?” Without thinking, she glanced over her shoulder again, and realized she must look guilty as hell.

  McCarthy said, “Are you okay with it? I worry about asking … it’d officially make you an accomplice. If you hang up now, you’ll still be clean.”

  She didn’t give it a second thought. “Just tell me what to do.”

  He sighed in relief. “Thank you.” Paused a beat before, “I need a safe place to hide until I can get out of here and get legal help. I didn’t do anything wrong, believe me.”

  She cupped the mouthpiece with her hand. “You’re here, in the hospital?”

  “Yes. I’m trapped.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s see … a place to hide …” Eyes closed, she forced herself to stay calm and think. There was one place. Would it be safe? “I have something in mind, but should check it out first. Think you can you give me ten minutes?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You on your cell?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call as soon as I can.”

  MCCARTHY’S MUSCLES WERE killing him from the chilled, cramped, claustrophobic position. He attempted to work his calves to increase circulation, but it didn’t help. He checked his watch yet again and marveled at how slowly seconds seemed to pass. He’d give Davidson two more minutes before calling.

  Once again he sorted through the events of the past two weeks, trying to make sense of them.

  The cell vibrated, startling him. Too soon to be Sarah. The number showed up as unlisted. Don’t answer. Turn it off.

  It vibrated again.

  Maybe Davidson’s calling from a different number? Made sense. After all, it was past when Tom agreed to call him. He connected, put the phone to his ear, but didn’t say a word.

  “That you, McCarthy?”

  His gut knotted. Not voice he recognized. “Who’s this?”

  “Captain DeLeon Franklin. Seattle Police. I’m calling to discuss what we can do to help you out of a very bad situation. I know you never intended for this to happen and things just spiraled out of control. That’s why I want to help. First, how you doing? Need any food? Coffee?”

  Jesus, they worked fast. They had his cell number already, meaning Verizon was helping them. Which also meant they could get a GPS fix on him. Hang up! No, he wanted to say a few things. “Talk with my lawyer. Anything I have to say comes through him. I assume you’re recording this, so for the record, his name is Palmer Davidson. He should be contacting you guys any moment.”

  Panting, heart pounding, McCarthy powered down the phone and tried to calm his nerves, but just then a key rattled the door lock. His heart seemed to stopped.

  The dead bolt clicked, followed by the door latch.

  Every muscle in his body locked up. From where he squatted in the alcove, he couldn’t see the door, yet could feel it open. Then he heard footsteps.

  Tom slowly reached down for the handle from the mop bucket. Ah, there it was. He gripped the cold rubber end and raised it as he slowly got up from the crouch he’d been in.

  The footsteps stopped. Then came what sounded like a zipper opening, followed by a splatter of fluid.

  You gotta be kidding me!

  Tom leaned forward to peeked around the edge of the shelving. A man about six feet tall, a black handgun exactly like Washington’s wedged into the small of his back, stood urinating into the mop sink. Tom darted from the alcove and jabbed the pipe into the man’s back. “Don’t move!”

  The guy’s stream stopped, then started again. “Fuck you.”

  Tom prodded the pipe into him again. “Hands over your head.”

  The guy slowly raised his left hand. “Right hand’s busy, asshole. Unless, of course, you want to hold my dick for me. You a faggot, McCarthy? That kind of thing appeal to you?”

  Tom yanked the gun from the man’s belt and quickly stepped back. Though wearing a white dress shirt, the man was muscular, his blond hair in a short military cut.

  “I’m going to shake my dick off and zip up, so don’t get excited. Got problem with that?”

  “I do. Don’t move.”

  McCarthy realized that the man stood between him and the door. Not only that, he probably carried an additional weapon. Was he prepared to kill him? It only would take a moment of hesitation before the guy could be all over him. He had to get out of here now.

  “Down on the floor, spread eagle.”

  Instead of moving, Sikes’s man said, “Target encountered. Fourth floor, west end electrical closet. Request immediate backup.”

  Fuck! A curlicue wire ran from under his collar to his
left ear. Tom side stepped to the left, closing the space between him and the door. “Who are you?”

  The man turned his head far enough to see McCarthy from the corner of his eye. “Buck Lewis, Department of Defense. You’re riding a raft of trouble, asshole.”

  “Who do you guys work for?”

  “Apparently you don’t listen too good.”

  Lewis, if that was really his name, didn’t look mad or happy, just determined. Unnerving as hell.

  “What’s this bullshit about me stealing classified information?”

  Lewis just stood there, sizing him up.

  “Answer me!”

  A hint of a smirk appeared on Lewis as he gained more control with each second Tom stood there. Lewis’s expression became confident in the knowledge he’d won the battle of wills, that McCarthy wouldn’t pull the trigger. “You won’t live through this day. You know that, don’t you?”

  Tom realized if he didn’t do something right now, he’d be dead in another second.

  At that moment, Lewis spun into a kick, his left foot speeding straight for Tom’s head.

  19

  SIKES WATCHED SPD homicide detective Jim Lange shift on his haunches, studying Washington’s body from a different angle. Lange was older, maybe mid-fifties, probably already had twenty years in and was sticking around to pay his kid’s college tuition. Or for the medical benefits. Or because he didn’t have a life outside this job. Gray, close-cropped hair and more pounds than Sikes would tolerate regardless of age. He probably stopped working out years ago, figuring Budweiser lifts in a La-Z-Boy sufficed. Lange wore tan Dockers, a navy Ralph Lauren short-sleeve polo shirt, cordovan loafers, and a Glock .40 in his leather holster. Lange had draped his tweed sports coat over the back of one of the chairs when he entered the room.

  Lange asked the uniformed SPD officer, the one who’d initially responded to the 9-1-1 call, “Realize I asked you this before, but you didn’t move anything did you? Turn him over to look?”

  The cop shook his head. “No, sir. Didn’t touch a thing.”

  Lange looked up at Sikes with doubt in his eyes. “And you? Move anything?”

  Sikes didn’t blink, said, “Been over this twice now. Besides, where’s this going? You accusing us of altering a crime scene?” He said this in hopes of winning the uniform’s allegiance by supporting his indignation. His patience with Lange was wearing thin, the self-important detective making him stand around with his thumb up his ass while Lewis and Womack searched for McCarthy. He should be out there, side by side with his men, not here with some jerkwad over-the-hill detective. Washington was dead. He owed him McCarthy’s head on a platter, and he couldn’t get that by yakking with the locals. On the other hand, it was crucial to sell Lange the story that McCarthy killed Washington. So maybe a little ass kissing—distasteful as it was—might be warranted.

  Lange said, “Tell you what. Let me be very specific. In return I want a very specific answer. Did you, or did you not, move your partner? You might’ve had several reasons. Maybe you wanted to help him?” Lange put his hands on his knees but didn’t stand.

  Sikes met his eyes full on. “One final time: Other than to feel for a pulse, I didn’t move Sergeant Washington.”

  Lange frowned. “Not even to try to help him?”

  So there it was: the when-did-you-stop-beating-your-wife question. Well, fuck you. “With all due respect, Detective, I’ve answered that multiple times and my answer hasn’t changed. Far as I’m concerned, this interview is over. I’ve tried to be patient, but that’s gone. If you haven’t noticed, McCarthy remains at large. Your priority should be to find him, not to badger me. Do I make myself clear?”

  Lange shook his head. “Stow it, Sikes. This is my homicide investigation and you’re a material witness, which means that until I have a satisfactory statement from you, you’re not finished here.”

  That did it. Time to play the trump card. “You’re ignoring a very simple fact: This deals with a matter of national security, and that makes this my responsibility and trumps a homicide investigation any day. Especially one as clear cut as this. So let me explain to you what’s going to happen: Whether you like it or not, I am about walk out of this room to help find that murdering son of a bitch who killed my partner. If you have a problem with that, call my CO. I already gave you his name and Pentagon number, but in case you didn’t pay attention, it’s Colonel Clyde Cunningham.” With a nod to Lange and the uniformed cop, he said, “Good day, gentlemen.”

  “Hold on, hotshot.” Lange grimaced while pushing up from the crouch. “One last time, just so I got it straight: This doc unloads on your partner, then kills his receptionist, then runs out the door? That’s how it went? In that order?”

  “Yes.”

  Lange shook his head and studied Sikes a moment. “All right, go help your men. But don’t leave the medical center without checking in with me first.”

  Sikes’s hand shot up and pressed the bud in his left ear, listening to Buck Lewis say, “Target located. Fourth floor, west end electrical closet.”

  Sikes double-clicked the radio to acknowledge receipt of the message while saying to Hansen, “God damn, got the motherfucker trapped. Show me how to get to the fourth floor, west end electrical closet.”

  Hansen took off at a brisk pace, Sikes following. Sikes yelled over his shoulder to Lange. “You need me, call my cell.”

  But Lange was right on his heels.

  20

  PENTAGON

  CUNNINGHAM FELT HIS cell vibrate against his thigh. Keeping it under the table where only he could see, he checked it. Good Lord, Sikes again. A momentary rush of optimism said good news. But this was quickly followed by a flood of pessimism that his initial premonition earlier today was correct: The mission was snakebit. Totally and completely. To have an agent and a civilian gunned down during a simple operation would stir up a raft of shit. In Afghanistan collateral damage had been an unpleasant fact of doing business, something easily covered up or glossed over. But a simple intelligence operation in downtown Seattle? Not fucking likely. How could Sikes allow that to happen? Especially his best operative, the one who never made mistakes, the one who always conducted successful missions. A bit of a hothead at times, but hey, working under stress like that, who wasn’t?

  Cunningham pushed up from the chair, nodded for the person talking to continue, and slipped out, the phone vibrating in his hand like a rattlesnake.

  Out of immediate earshot of anyone in the corridor, he connected and said, “I assume this means things are under control.”

  “Yes, sir. Lewis caught him hiding in a closet.” Sikes sounded uncharacteristically out of breath, pissed, and rattled. Not a good combination.

  “You’re out of breath. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, sir. Ran down nine flights of stairs. Calling to give you a heads-up, is all.”

  Cunningham didn’t like “heads ups,” especially the way things had gone so far today. Particularly when it included bullshit like Sikes out of breath from running downstairs? Not fucking likely. “Stand by a moment.” He cast another glance around to make certain no one within earshot, lowered his voice. “Continue.”

  “Got ourselves a bit of a SNAFU, sir. Apparently McCarthy contacted a lawyer before we captured him. Apparently this guy’s a heavy hitter, name Palmer Davidson. Ever heard of him?”

  “No.” And there was little reason to have. Cunningham ignored anything concerned with the West Coast, considered it irrelevant to the functioning of the rest of the country. That place was inhabited solely by tofu-eating liberals who worshiped Hollywood at an altar of silicon breast and lip enhancements. All pussies, all one hundred percent of them.

  “From what I just heard, he’s not what you want on the other side of the courtroom. A regular Johnny Cochran with an ACLU membership.”

  Not surprising, considering the location. Fucking liberals. But having a lawyer involved at this point was worrisome and could cause serious problems. And it br
ought up the question of how Sikes had allowed McCarthy an opportunity to contact him in the first place. “What are you saying, the lawyer’s with him? I understood you to say you had the bastard nailed.”

  “Yes, sir, I do. My information is that McCarthy has only talked with Davidson on the phone, no eyeball-to-eyeball at all.” Sikes sounded as if he was cupping the phone with a hand. “Davidson’s already gone public by making two demands.”

  “Bullshit. He’s in no position to make demands.”

  “Well, apparently he just did. Here they are: First, he wants a negotiated surrender. Second, he demands McCarthy not—I repeat, not—be placed into our custody. He says McCarthy will only surrender to the local law enforcement. No feds.”

  “Why are you whispering? Someone with you?”

  “Affirmative, sir. Head of hospital security and a detective.”

  A cute air force second lieutenant marched by hugging a sheaf of manila folders to her breasts, her hip-emphasizing blue skirt an eye magnet. After a momentary longing, Cunningham snapped back to the subject. “What’s the problem? We don’t negotiate, Lieutenant. Not to this dipshit, not to anyone. Especially since you’ve got McCarthy in your possession. This is a matter of national security. Take McCarthy to a suitable place and interrogate him properly, then complete the mission as originally stated. Do you read me?”

  When Sikes didn’t answer immediately Cunningham’s suspicion spiked. “You do have McCarthy in custody, do you not?”

  “Yes, sir, one of my men does. I’m heading there now. But it’s not that simple. This detective,” his voice now barely audible, “is a real hard ass. Name’s Lange. Claims the double homicide makes this his jurisdiction. See the problem? He claims McCarthy is his. What I’m saying is he needs serious and explicit direction from his superiors. Understand what I’m saying?”