ColdScheme (14 page)

“Ever since I graduated from college.”

It was just as well that I hadn’t picked up the tray with
the beverages. It would have landed on the counter with a crash.

“Where did you go to college?”

“Duke University, in Durham, North Carolina. Do you know
where it is?”

“We had to memorize the names of all the states in the third
grade. What do you think?” she responded indignantly.

“Grade school’s tough these days. Where do you go to
school?”

“Brown Elementary, ten bus stop pick-ups all over the
place.”

“You’ve always lived here?”

“Well, sure, since I can remember.”

“Were you born in Baltimore?”

“No. I was born in Mexico. I don’t remember coming to
Baltimore. I was a baby,” she sighed and took aim. “Mom was born at the same
time I was, in Mexico, because she doesn’t remember anything before that
either.”

“That’s enough, Jazz.” I turned around. “Finish your
homework, then you can watch TV or play video games, or talk with your friends
on the phone. I’d also suggest cleaning your room. Mrs. Tavalho is not going to
do it—for a month.”

“I wasn’t going to flush her car keys down the drain. I like her. I was just upset.”

“That’s fine—as long as you don’t upset others with your
antics.” I picked up the tray. My hands felt numb. I headed for my home office.
“Inspector, this way please.”

“I’m only discussing work,” I said when the door closed
behind him.

“Fine. You can sit here while I talk. Thanks for
remembering.” He reached for the tea and the saucer with lemon wedges.

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“If I sat here for a year and talked, there still would be
something left to talk about,” he rumbled.

“If you don’t want to talk about work, I’ll throw you out.”

“Then I might as well go back out into the kitchen and
continue my chat with our daughter.”

“Field, please, don’t. I didn’t know anything about you ten
years ago. That’s when it would have mattered. I married you and ten days later
you left. That’s all the history I have. I don’t want to be briefed on
anything.”

“We should get our stories straight. You left.”

“I went to my Criminal Procedures lecture and then to the
library to study for my exams. You were supposed to pick me up for dinner and
then we’d go home. I went home alone that day. You never came back.”

“It’s true what I’ve told our daughter. I joined the FBI
right out of college. The Smithsonian was an assignment—”

“Field! I don’t want to talk about it. Please, leave me
alone!” I headed out the door.

Suddenly, two powerful arms entwined me from behind and
lifted me off the floor. Before I could say a word, I was back on the chair. He
restrained me, dragged a chair over with his foot, sat down and rested his chin
on my shoulder, holding me tightly. “You won’t scream because you don’t want
Jazz to come in here. I know this isn’t hurting you but you can’t move. The
Smithsonian was not my first assignment but it was the first time I fell in
love. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have done what I did.”

I had no choice but to listen.

A Smithsonian art exhibit coordinator had contacted the FBI
when, by accident, he peeled off a strip of fabric from one of the Asian
masterpieces. It was a part of a foreign art collection that would be soon
leaving the US, continuing its global tour. A paint application had blended the
strip into the painting’s landscape. The other side contained writing—codes,
ciphers—formulae. Someone had figured out a novel way to pass on government
information, top military secrets. The FBI suspected that the Washington
facilitators had to be on the inside—in the Smithsonian. Agent Weston drew the
field assignment. He was placed at the Freer Gallery of Art as a security
guard. The strip of fabric had been replaced in the painting, imprinted with
useless information. The exhibit was to leave for Europe in five weeks’ time.
The conspirators were hard to flush out. A week before the exhibit was to leave
the US, the Smithsonian art curator negotiated an extension—six additional
months. The rationale was that the exhibit continued to draw huge crowds.

I came into his life at the beginning of his assignment. The
six-month extension gave him a chance to fall in love with me—and marry me
because birth control methods were not foolproof and I was a statistical blip.
The FBI had shifted their scrutiny from the support personnel and focused on
the higher administrative officials. Apparently, that was their only mistake.

It turned out that the bad guys were on the bottom, in
security—Agent Weston’s colleagues. The day before the art exhibit was to leave
the country, he was patrolling in company of three friendly guards. They had
clued into his real identity. By the time he wondered why they had walked out
of their patrol sector, it was too late. All the security guards had guns. The
bad guys had two apiece. He was caught between them in a barrage of fire.

He woke up, three months later, from a coma, still in the
intensive care unit, under guard, at the Potomac Hospital in Washington. A week
later, he received a visitor, Mr. Crossley Morgan Tavistock. The visit had set
back his recovery. Two months later, he was transferred to the Mead Naval
Rehabilitation Center, north of Baltimore. He spent five months in therapy. Mr.
Tavistock visited him one more time, at Meade. He brought a document for him to
sign—annulment papers.

He recovered—physically—and returned to the FBI Washington
office. Two months later, he received a promotion and upon his request, a
reassignment to the West Coast. He spent nine years there, working on his
career. Six months ago, he returned to Washington.

“A year ago, I ran into Nellie Clarrington at an energy
conference, in San Diego. She was shocked to see me. She never liked me. I
can’t imagine why. When I brought up your name, she turned evasive. When I
brought out my gun, her reluctance faded. She said you might still be on the
East Coast, Washington, or perhaps Baltimore. It never occurred to me to ask if
you were still a Tavistock,” he finished and the pressure of his arms
disappeared.

I knew he wanted to hear my side of the story but I didn’t
want to give it yet. I needed time to digest what I’d heard. I had to sort
things out, lay the blame where it should have always rested—on the shoulders
of the Tavistock monarch.

“Field, I don’t…” I felt his warm breath on the back of my
neck and didn’t want to turn around.

The door burst open. “Mom! Oh, sorry. I mean you’ve got to
come see this thing on TV.” Jazz waved. “Come on, you’ve got to hear this.
They’re putting stuff into people’s chests that makes them explode—at Hopkins!”

Chapter Eight

“Yes Ken, I’m watching it too,” I said into the phone, not
taking my eyes off the TV.

“It’s unfortunate that Joe and Quigley had to slug it out in
public. It’s a hospital. There are always people milling about. Family members
would get spooked, hearing something like that. Hell, who would let their loved
one go into surgery in a hospital that conducts research in implants that can
blow up. All this publicity will make the investigation that much harder but
it’s out. Tomorrow, it’ll be all over the newspapers. Thanks, I’ll see you in the
morning,” I finished and hung up.

“The police phone lines must be burning,” Field commented,
as the TV reporter pushed the microphone in front of another “witness”. He was
a family member who had overheard shocking things as he stood in the corridor
where two doctors, who ought to have controlled their tempers, hadn’t.

“Jazz, how about giving me a break and going to bed early?”
I expected an argument.

“Sure, Mom. I know you’ve got work things to talk about.
Nice to have to met you, Inspector Weston.” She stretched her hand to him.
After he shook it with a grin, she left.

I shut off the TV and sat down on the couch. Field straddled
the coffee table and faced me.

“Maybe that was Smeddin’s strategy,” he said pensively.
“Olsen said that he wants the hospital administration to implement an interim
security measure. He knew how most doctors would react to it. That’s why he
decided to go public. It was a clever move.”

“Their public relations office will be flooded with calls.
They’ll have to implement security measures, not just post a watchdog in
surgery. They’ll have to mount a campaign to reassure the public that having
surgery in Hopkins is a safe proposition. This will get Joe what he wants.
Still, I think he should have waited until Bourke went to see the directors.
It’ll take months for Hopkins to clear their reputation. Quigley and everyone
in the neurosurgery and heart surgery must be livid.”

“It was a little drastic,” he admitted.

“Joe must be scared. He thinks that there are more people
who have been implanted. It could only have been done in a hospital
environment—a research center like Hopkins.”

“Does he suspect it’s one of the doctors?”

“It probably is. We were going to talk to you when you got
back from the IMF. We wanted to see if you’d get a different story from the one
we got.” I quickly outlined what we had learned and why Joe had succumbed to
stress.

“But Dr. Martin left the IMF just over three years ago,” he
said.

“According to what Ms Sedgwick told us, he left just after
Brick resigned his job. We got what was in Brick’s personnel file but all that
was there was Martin’s address, which no longer exists. The apartment complex
where he used to live has been demolished.”

“Were there any personnel photographs on file?”

“Not on Martin. I got an impression that they didn’t keep
such things. You can follow up on it.”

“You said that Martin had referred Brick to a specialist.”

“We don’t have his name either. Joe believes that a doctor
is involved. He’s probably right. I’m not sure whether Brick really suffered
from tension headaches but there is a doctor connection. I don’t think that’s a
coincidence.”

“Four years ago, Tavistock awarded the IMF a contract to
develop a new mathematical model. If Brick had worked at the IMF, it’s likely
that he had something to do with it. That would explain why the IMF never
delivered. Brick was probably the only one who had the expertise. When he
disappeared, the project stalled.”

“Gould said that there is a new team developing some kind of
system. How many people are on it?”

“Sixty-two but they’re not all in Baltimore. Five are at
Tavistock National. The rest are dispersed throughout the country. The majority
are in New York, Washington and Los Angeles. The Chairman is doing a tour of
the participating banking institutions. Baltimore was his second stop. He asked
me to give you a message. He said you were right. As people grow older,
philosophy and emotions take over. He also said that ten years of reflections,
on both sides, are enough. If you’d like to spend the next ten years listening
to his apologies, he’s up to it. Are you?”

“You saw him?” I lowered my head so he couldn’t see my
expression.

“It was our third meeting in ten years. It wasn’t as
stressful as the others but just as tense. He’s not going to halt the project and
won’t be blackmailed.”

“That’s a brave declaration,” I snorted.

“Meg, what happened on your side?”

“Nothing.”

“Why did you go to Mexico to have the baby?”

“They have better doctors and none of them were named
Martin.”

“What did your father do?”

“You saw him. Why didn’t you ask him?”

“I saw him officially, in a conference room with fifteen
other banking principals. It wasn’t really the time or place to ask him about
it.”

“It’s late.” I started to rise. He reached over and pushed
me back down.

“Much like the Smithsonian job, I came here on assignment.
The last thing I expected was to find you in the Baltimore police ranks. I
don’t have any right to interfere in your life but I have the right to know
what happened more than ten years ago. I told you my story. I want to hear
yours.”

“You left. I was pregnant. My father thought motherhood
would interfere with my studies. He had political ambitions for me. I disagreed
and left to have my child where I felt comfortable.”

“Why did you change your name?”

“To lead as normal a life as possible—and raise my
daughter.”

“Did you ever try to find out what happened to me? As a
police officer, you would have the means.”

“No. As an FBI agent, you would have even better means. Why
didn’t you look for me?”

“When he came to see me in Mead, you father said you’d had
an abortion and left the country, to work in Europe’s banking circles. He had
made it clear that you didn’t want me to interfere in your life.”

“And you believed him?’

“Yes.”

“For an FBI agent, Field, you’re easily convinced.”

“He’s the chairman of a bank. It didn’t dawn on me to
question him.”

“He’s a messenger. He’ll say anything to get what he wants.”

“I know that now. Why didn’t you ever marry again?”

“My child and my career kept me busy. Did you remarry?”

“I never fell in love again. There didn’t seem to be a
point,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell our daughter about me?”

“There didn’t seem to be a point.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Maybe.”

“Was I that unmemorable?”

“You weren’t there. I don’t like to talk about ghosts.”

He rose and turned to leave. I should have let him go but
some habits are hard to break. I always see my visitors to the door. I stood up
and followed.

He stopped, hand on the door handle. He stood in profile. It
was safe to look, remember and regret.

He turned around, suddenly and unexpectedly. I had no time
to avert my eyes. I don’t know what he saw on my face. He grabbed my neck and
pulled me closer. His other hand rose and gripped mine. He placed it on his
shoulder, pressed it down and I felt his lips brush against mine.

It started as a soft kiss and ended as a hard demand.
Memories started to circle. They grew more vivid with each pass. It was the
same kiss as ten years ago but on a different level of intensity. The youthful
playfulness was gone. It was replaced by urgency. He was wearing a different
aftershave. The one I had remembered was spicy. This fragrance was lighter on
my senses. The closeness was not.

“Fielding!”

“You used to call me that when I forgot to leave a tip in a
restaurant.”

“You did that on purpose,” I murmured.

“I did a lot of things on purpose but that wasn’t one of
them. Meg…” he sighed.

“Field, I have to think.” I turned my head.

“Don’t leave me out of your thoughts, Meg,” he murmured and
kissed me again. He pressed his forehead against mine, as if wanting to
penetrate into my thoughts. We stood for a long time, in silence.

“Remember when we stood in line for Springsteen tickets and
you fell asleep on my shoulder, standing up?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“It started just like this. It was cool outside and I hugged
you to keep you warm.”

“I was tired. I’d spent all night studying for a test.”

“You do remember.”

“It’s hard to hide the memories, Field.”

“Ten years is enough, Meg. Don’t hide any more.”

“We have to work together, for God’s sake. Don’t make it any
harder.”

“I need something to look forward to in the morning.”

“Field.…”

“I’m leaving,” he said, stealing another kiss. “But I won’t
be far away.”

It was only later, when I sat down on my bed, ready to bury
my face in my pillow that I remembered I hadn’t checked on Jazz. I got up and
went to her bedroom. Her nightlight was on and she was breathing evenly—but her
eyelids were flickering.

“Thanks for being so good tonight,” I said softly and ran my
hand across her brow.

“You’re welcome,” I heard her mumble when I was closing the
door.

* * * * *

“Brenda said that half the hospital was down on the fourth
floor when Joe and Quigley exchanged their expert opinions,” Ken said, when I
picked him up in the morning. “Even pediatrics is in an uproar. She was called
in at two a.m. for backup in emergency surgery after a head nurse ran out in
tears. A doctor had ripped into her for not handing him an instrument fast
enough. The place is going to be sheer hell. Staff will be snapping at each
other. Suspicions will kill any cooperative spirit. If the patients start
canceling appointments and surgery, the board will sacrifice a few doctors.
They’ll dismiss them as means to restore public confidence. Brenda said that
Joe had accused Quigley and his team of mismanaging implants…” His voice
trailed off as he sipped his coffee. I’d brought it, knowing it was going to be
a difficult morning.

“If Martin is at Hopkins—whether as Martin or under another
name—this’ll make him cautious. He’ll cover his tracks and remove whatever
evidence there might be of using the hospital facilities. We’ll never flush him
out. Joe should have controlled himself. The newspapers will have a field day.
A maniac is loose—a doctor experimenting on live subjects.”

“They won’t catch on to the execution element,” he said.

“Probably not. But whatever chance we had of finding Martin
is gone.”

“We’re probably going to get a lot of crank calls,” he
sighed.

“It looks like you’re right,” I said, as we walked into the
office.

“This is your share,” Sven said, as he handed me stack of
phone report slips. He gave another to Ken.

I drained my coffee and started reading reports from
frightened and anxious people.

The first five were filed by men who had visited Hopkins in
the last two years, either for minor surgery or as outpatients. They’d felt
strange twinges while watching the news last night. The next three complainants
were fishing for material to use for lawsuits. One report was a page out of the
X-Files
. The complainant hinted at a possibility of an alien presence
among us. He wanted to make sure that he would be the next on their abductee
list.

George Hicks had filed report number ten. He needed a reason
to continue drawing unemployment benefits and not be forced to look for
work—lest his chest explode. Jack Sampson was sure that the scar tissue on his
upper left chest was hiding an explosive device instead of the result of a cyst
removal five years ago at Hopkins.

The last report was odd.

Daniel Kane didn’t have chest pains. He didn’t think he had
been implanted with an explosive device—but he had heard rumors in Mongrove.

“Do you think this is something?” Ken asked, as we headed to
visit Kane in Curtis Bay. It was not far from Brooklyn Park.

“It’s hard to say. At least we have a reason to get out of the
madhouse that used to be our office,” I sighed.

I’d phoned Daniel Kane and asked whether we could send a
squad car to get him. What he told me was not reassuring in terms of
credibility. He never left his house. He never opened his window shades either.
The whole world was spying on him. He no longer dared to venture outside. He’d
spent nine months in Mongrove where they frequently opened their shades. I got
the impression that he was still upset about it.

Kane suffered from acute schizophrenia. But there was
something about the way he gave me information—freely and not excusing his
condition—that made me decide to see him.

Kane lived in a nice two story house. It was light gray with
blue painted trim and matching striped awnings. His front lawn was well kept.
The white picket fence was freshly painted. If he never ventured outside, he
had to have hired help looking after the upkeep. That meant he was not
destitute.

We stood on the porch for five minutes, after we’d slid our
IDs and business cards through the brass-trimmed mail slot as requested. There
were four peepholes in the iron-bar reinforced front door.

I tried not to show what I felt, standing there waiting,
while Kane checked us out. Suddenly, my cell phone chimed.

It was Kane. He was checking out our phone numbers. Ken got
a call too.

Finally, my compassion ran out.

“Mr. Kane,” I said, moving closer to one of the viewing
spots. “I’m sure you must recognize my voice. I’m Detective Stanton. We spoke
on the phone. You invited us to visit you. This is my partner, Detective
Leahman. Please let us in. We really are Baltimore police officers.”

He let us wait another minute. Then the door cracked open.

“Detective Stanton, enter first please.”