Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  “That still doesn’t explain having another identity.”

  “That was my idea. I figured if things got difficult I could leave the country easier if I wasn’t traveling under my own name. Can we leave now?”

  She stepped past him. “I’ll go first.”

  Sarah opened the door and stepped into the hall. “Looks clear.”

  They moved quickly along the corridor to another back stairway, then started down. They were almost to the first floor when she stopped abruptly and turned to him. “Oh crap! I just thought of something. When I came this morning in the lot was full so I parked over in the annex. This time of night, the only way to get there is through the lobby. The last time I checked, security was still all over it.”

  “Shhh.” Tom touched a finger to his lips and glanced back up the stairwell. He couldn’t see past the next landing but was certain a sound just came from that direction.

  She raised a questioning eyebrow.

  He tapped his ear and pointed up the stairs.

  For thirty seconds they listened.

  Finally, he shrugged and muttered, “Must’ve imagined it.”

  Sarah leaned close and whispered, “Just thought of another route. Go to the basement just like we planned. Know the corridor to the Sanderson building?”

  He’d walked the tunnel only a handful of times. He nodded.

  “Are you familiar with that northeast stairwell?”

  He couldn’t remember it very well. “No.” In fact, he couldn’t remember any exits.

  “Just go to the very end of the hall where it Ts. Turn right and you run straight into a stairwell that goes up a half floor. There’s a side door onto Cherry. It’s hardly ever used so no one should even think of watching it. I checked earlier. It was totally deserted down there, so it should be safe now. I’ll pick you up outside the door on the sidewalk.”

  SECURITY OFFICER KEN Ritter was conducting a routine patrol of the southwest wing as he entered stairwell SW5. He routinely varied his patrol route at random so that anyone up to monkey business could never predict where he’d be at any moment. In addition, he took extreme care to open and close the heavy stairwell doors silently. He chose rubber-soled Eccos for footwear. Expensive puppies, those shoes, but worth every cent on account of they allowed you to sneak the stairs in silence and creep up on people doing funny business. Like smokers. Smoking in public buildings was illegal in Washington state. And there were nicotine addicts who showed total disrespect for the law. Worse yet, they left disgusting evidence of their vice—paper cups full of butts rotting in a layer of stale Pepsi—for someone else to clean up.

  Only two minutes until break time and he was looking forward to enjoying a cup of coffee at his usual corner cafeteria table where he could read the Seattle Times without interruption. He made a point of reading the national section cover to cover.

  Whoa, what was that? He stopped to listen to hushed voices echo up the stairwell.

  He leaned over the tubular metal rail and peered down the switchbacking stairs. Near the first floor a man and a woman talked in hushed tones. Very suspicious. Ears sharp, he crept down one step at a time, straining to listen. Closer now, he peeked over the rail again. Both suspects wore green scrubs. The woman had on a white doctor’s coat. The angle, along with the blue disposable surgery cap, made it impossible to identify the white male. But he heard her say, “Be careful, Tom.”

  Tom? Could it be Tom McCarthy? An adrenaline surge caused all four of Ritter’s limbs to tingle. Holy Moly, could that be him? The murderer? The spy? He watched the woman reach for the door.

  Oh man, what do I do now? Radio for help? No, they’ll hear me and take off. Or worse yet, come after him.

  Arrest him? With what? Security officers weren’t allowed to carry weapons. Not only that, but Hansen had warned the team that McCarthy was armed and dangerous. No way would he be foolish enough to confront an armed killer without some serious Kevlar, a 12-gauge pump action, and SWAT team for backup.

  The man called Tom started down the basement stairs and the woman opened the door to the main lobby. Holy Moly, they were splitting up. Now what?

  The evening report echoed through his mind. Armed and considered dangerous. Meaning the woman would be the safer bet. Besides, it sounded like she planned to meet the man later so he could work with that. Ritter scurried down the stairs and opened the door to the lobby. The woman was now fifty feet away, walking confidently across the marble floor. Which meant the male suspect was probably already at the first basement level. Ritter jerked his handheld from his belt, keyed the transmit button. “Central, this is Ritter. Got a copy?”

  “Ten four.”

  With immense pride swelling his chest, Ritter said, “Suspect McCarthy is on stairwell southwest five en route to the first-level basement. Request immediate backup.” Hot damn, he’d caught a killer!

  34

  MCCARTHY REACHED BASEMENT level one and turned left as Sarah had directed. Ahead of him stretched a block-long cement hallway. So far, so good. More optimistic about escaping the building, he continued toward the distant T in the hall.

  Someone yelled, “Hold it right there, McCarthy.”

  He stopped and slowly turned, praying it would be a friend, preferably someone who hadn’t seen the news. But he knew a friend wouldn’t sound so confrontational.

  A hospital security officer maybe fifty feet away came jogging straight for him, a short Hispanic-looking guy, maybe five-nine, with shoulders as wide as a Hummer. The good news was he wasn’t armed. McCarthy looked past him for another exit, but the hall ran another fifty feet before turning right. He had no idea what lay beyond that. Could be another hall, could be a dead end. So much for the possibility of running that direction.

  “Don’t even think about it, McCarthy. Stay right where you are!”

  McCarthy tried to appear innocent. “You talking to me?” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was approaching from his blind side, saw no one.

  The man jabbed a finger at him. “I’m talking to you, ass-hole. Now stay put.”

  McCarthy knew he had to do something. What? Had the guard had already called other guards? Make a break for it? Try to outrun the guy to the stairwell? Would the guy’s radio work down here? Maybe, maybe not.

  McCarthy said, “Who’s McCarthy? My name’s Wilkins.”

  The officer stopped four feet away, giving him a careful once-over. “Party’s over, McCarthy. It’s been a long day for you, but it ends right here. Put your hands behind your back and turn around. I have to restrain you.”

  Tom flashed his best puzzled look, said, “Obviously, you’re confusing me with someone else. My name’s Robert Wilkins. It’s been a long day, and I’m heading back to my office in the Cherry Tower. So if you don’t mind,” he tried to push the man aside.

  The officer got in his face, blocking his path. “Oh yeah?” He gave him another head-to-toe inspection, but this time there was a specter of doubt in his eyes. “Where’s your ID badge? You’re supposed to wear it at all times.”

  “It’s on my white coat.” He looked the man dead in the eye. “And my coat is in my surgery locker. Come with me and I’ll show it to you. But it’s getting late and I’d like to get home.”

  “Don’t move.” Mimicking any number of real police he probably seen on COPS, Ortega planted both feet wide apart and jerked a radio from his right hip.

  Before the man could press transmit, McCarthy kicked him in the groin, connecting solidly. Eyes bulging, knees buckling, Ortega gasped and started to slump. McCarthy grabbed a fist of black shirt, turned the guard ninety degrees and gently leaned him against the wall. “Hey look, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you don’t understand. When this is over, I’ll buy you a beer to show there’s no hard feelings.”

  The man gasped, “Cocksucker!” and slid to the concrete floor still holding the radio to his mouth.

  Tom took off running full out, and heard him gasp, “Central, susp
ect’s in basement corridor west one running west.”

  The hallway came to a T just as Sarah described. Without slowing, he rounded the corner and ran straight up the stairs to a fire door. What she’d forgotten to mention was an alarm trip in the upper corner of the horizontal push bar with the sign: EMERGENCY USE ONLY. Without slowing he rammed his hip into the bar, throwing open the door, and shooting out into the chilly night air. An ear-splitting alarm began clanging. He stopped in a beauty bark covered flowerbed, a three-foot strip of lawn separating him from the sidewalk. He plugged each ear with a finger and looked frantically for Sarah’s red Honda. Not there. He rushed to the sidewalk for a better look at the cars along the curb. No Civic, red or otherwise.

  The alarm suddenly cut off, leaving his ears ringing and slightly deaf. Lights burst on in the windows overhead.

  Well shit, he couldn’t just stand there, so he started along the sidewalk in the direction Sarah should come, fighting an almost overwhelming urge to run now that he had finally made it out of the building. But running would surely draw attention.

  He found it hard to believe that he’d escaped. Suddenly the night air seemed sweet and clean, not at all like the usual carbon emission city air, so different from the claustrophobic hot stale air in the false ceiling. Just then a SPD cruiser came squealing around the corner, blue lights flashing, heading straight for him.

  35

  LAKEVIEW MEDICAL CENTER

  THE MELODY OF “Yellow Submarine” broke Bertram Wyse’s concentration. Who’d phone him at this time of night when he wasn’t on call? He checked the caller ID but it didn’t recognize the number. Ignore it? He started to dump the cell phone back onto the desk, but reconsidered. What the hell was he thinking? This could be about the McCarthy situation, even if from an unfamiliar number.

  “Wyse.” He swiveled his chair to face the magnificent city view.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Warren Sikes, team leader on the McCarthy investigation.”

  God almighty! At last. Some news. They caught the prick. “Yes, Lieutenant?” He smiled at the thought.

  “Got us a real clusterfuck in progress, sir, so I’ll make this quick. McCarthy was identified exiting the medical center in the company of a female. The officer who spotted them believes she’s a doctor. We have reason to believe her name may be Sarah Hamilton. You know anything about her?”

  Shit! McCarthy wasn’t dead. “Does that mean he’s still on the loose?”

  “Afraid so, sir.” Sikes sounded appropriately apologetic yet defensive.

  Wyse began assimilating the ramifications of the situation, and he didn’t like it. McCarthy was out of the building now. Meaning he was probably beelining to that bleeding heart shyster, Davidson. Once that happened, it’d be impossible to contain the situation. And the whole point of this morning’s little exercise was to learn exactly what McCarthy knew and then eliminate him. End of risk. Shit, shit, and more shit!

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Cunningham guaranteed the interrogation would be a cakewalk. Even promised to send his best men. Who, it turned out, was the asshole he was talking to now.

  Whoa, hold on a moment; don’t lose perspective. The amount of damage McCarthy could cause depended on how much he knew. Which was supposed to be the whole point of interrogating him. Maybe, just maybe, McCarthy hadn’t put any of it together. After all, it would be a huge stretch to link all the dots. If Wyse were lucky, well then, the situation wasn’t all that bleak.

  Wyse knew this possibility should be comforting, but it wasn’t. Not when dealing with McCarthy. Now enraged, he almost threw the goddamn phone through the window.

  McCarthy. The free spirit.

  The free spirit thing irritated Wyse most. McCarthy muddled through life as if he never really gave a shit about the important things people worked hard to earn: money, power, the respect of one’s colleagues. No, McCarthy simply accepted them into his charmed life as if they were predestined. Did Mc-Carthy give a rat’s ass about success? Of course not. And why not? Because that was something that just seemed to happen to him without a struggle. Every other poor schmuck in the world had to bust their butts to get ahead. Not McCarthy. And that was what pissed Wyse off more than anything.

  “Sir?”

  “What?” Shit, he was still on the line with Sikes.

  “The female with McCarthy, Hamilton? Have any information about her?”

  “Don’t you guys have any line of communication? I passed her name to hospital security hours ago. She’s a resident. I have reason to believe she may be working with McCarthy.”

  “So you have no idea where they might be headed?”

  “No. But let me know the moment you find out something. Anything.” He hated himself for sounding so panicked.

  MCCARTHY SLOWED HIS pace and faced the oncoming cop car. At this point, making any secretive or evasive move would be dangerous. Evading hospital security was one thing, but fighting real, armed police was quite another. So he watched the car, ready to raise his hands or go spread eagle on the cement—whatever they commanded.

  But the patrol car didn’t slow. Instead it flew past, neither officer so much as flashing him a cursory glance. The tires squealed around the corner and vanished, leaving behind a slight scent of exhaust and the constant low-level din of city noise.

  McCarthy stopped in disbelief, waiting for something bad to happen. Had they even seen him? Was this some sort of trap? Tentatively he resumed walking just as a red Honda Civic slowly rounded the same corner as the cop car. He recognized Sarah’s profile behind the wheel, waved, ran to the curb. She pulled over.

  He slid into the passenger seat and locked the door. “Let’s get out of here.” He slid down in the seat until he could barely see out the window. “Thanks.” He watched one block and then two pass, still unable to believe he actually escaped.

  Sarah blew a stop sign at the next intersection and hung a left turn.

  He started to say something about being careful to not doing anything to draw attention of the police but decided not to. Instead, he slumped back in the seat and tried to relax. Every muscle fiber in his body felt rock hard. He wanted to say something but was unable to think of anything other than thanks.

  Sarah tweaked the rearview mirror. “Sorry I was late, but man oh man, what a thrash. Thought I was never going to find you in this mess. First I tried getting here from the other direction but something big must’ve happened outside the entrance to your parking garage because it looks like a police convention. They had a Medic One unit there and five cop cars blocking off the street. Couldn’t get near enough to see what was going on, but that was one of the things that held me up. When I came through there, what, maybe ten minutes ago, there was a group of homies hanging around, so maybe it was a drive-by or something. Or maybe they got into a fight. Who knows?” She shrugged, changed lanes. “But the police had the entire street blocked off. I had to turn around and go back four blocks before I could make it back over to Cherry.” She glanced at him, like seeing him for the first time this evening. “Whoa, something happen? You look worse than ever.”

  He watched another block pass. “You didn’t tell me about the fire alarm.”

  “Fire alarm?” She thought about that a moment. “Crap city! They armed that puppy?” She braked to a stop at a red light.

  “They did. But it gets worse. A security guard caught me in the basement.”

  The light changed and she started through the intersection. “And?”

  He decided not to mention kicking the guy in the groin. “He was pretty fat and looked out of shape, so I ran.” Okay, so it was part truth.

  “Lucky he wasn’t armed. Oh well, just as long as you made it out of there. Hey, sorry about the alarm. Last time I used that door, it wasn’t hooked up.”

  He noticed she had the Civic up to forty now. “While you’re at it, you might want to slow down. All we need is to be pulled over.”

  She eased up on the gas. “Good point,” and stopped for
a red light at Madison and Boren. “Are we far enough away that you should try calling Davidson now?”

  Tom checked his cell. Still enough juice in the battery. “Good idea. Why don’t you pull over until we know where we’re heading.”

  He dialed Davidson’s back line, wondering if he was still in the office. Davidson picked up and didn’t bother with preliminaries. “You had me worried when I didn’t hear from you. Please tell me you’re out of there.”

  Still worried that Sikes could be monitoring, McCarthy wasn’t about to give specifics. “I am. Finally.”

  “Excellent. So our first order of business is to meet. I need to hear exactly what happened. Just answer this next question yes or no. It there a place where you feel safe meeting me?”

  McCarthy and Sarah had discussed this while holed up in the room. It had to be out in the open where they could see other people, yet must provide sufficient privacy to not be overheard.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t say it. Call me back at this number. Ready?”

  Davidson recited the number and Tom programmed it into his cell.

  SIKES STOOD LOOKING over the security officer’s shoulder as the computer selected Sarah Hamilton’s ID picture from the database.

  “There you go.” The officer tapped the computer screen.

  Sikes bent over for a better look. Fuck! Dr. Sarah Hamilton. The same bitch from the call room. He’d even noted her name on the ID badge when she held it up, but at the time it didn’t mean anything. He had known something was going on inside the room the instant he heard the conversation through the door. He’d bet his left nut that fucking McCarthy had been right there, inside the room with her. He’d bet his other nut that she stalled to give McCarthy time to climb into the false ceiling. He kicked himself for not checking it out.

  Hansen asked Sikes, “What now? You want to go back to the garage?” Back to where Buck Lewis lay crumpled in a pool of blood, the cops buzzing around like flies on a fresh turd.