ColdScheme (20 page)

Nancy’s slightly swollen but pleasant face rippled with a
smile. “Very well,” she said. “A nice man, very helpful and smart. One day he
was in, waiting for the limo to arrive, when my system crashed. He not only
restored it but streamlined quite a few functions and corrected what he said
were a lot of bugs. I was shocked that he did it so quickly, less than twenty
minutes. Whenever I had to call in the service rep, he would spend a whole day,
sometimes two and it still wouldn’t work properly. He was very embarrassed the
first time the limo came with a built-in travel companion but he got used to
it. He never asked me about it and I didn’t volunteer explanations. I let him
think that it was part of our package, included for valued customers but it was
the limo service perk, not ours. Like I said, they never charged us for it.”

“Why would the customers be picked up at the travel agency?”
I asked her.

“Unusual,” she smiled again. “They didn’t want to pick up
customers all over Baltimore and the suburbs. They liked the convenience of
having them waiting in the same prearranged spot. They dropped them off at the
same place. They charged less that way, so we made it part of the tour package.
I think it was blackmail.”

“Was Kim a frequent customer?” I asked.

“Once a month, usually towards the end. He said he had a
limit and once that money was gone, he would simply stay around, enjoying the
action. He was a gambler but he had the discipline to stay within his
boundaries.”

“Was he always alone?”

“Yes.” Her smile grew wistful. “One of the few customers who
came alone. The majority would come as couples or small groups, though Creeslow
insisted on no more than four people per any given ride. I found that strange.
Those limos could pack in a dozen and still have plenty of space left. They
could have saved themselves some money and made fewer trips but they never
tried to pass the extra cost on to us. Our weekend package tour included return
limo transportation and accommodations but no meals. Most of our customers
prefer to make their own meal arrangements.”

We thanked her, wished her all the best with the pending
joyful event and left.

“That jerk who owns the travel agency doesn’t deserve her,”
Ken murmured when we headed for the Interstate.

“No but that’s life. Ten years from now, with a couple of
kids, she might clue into her hubby’s extracurricular activity and dump him.”

“She should dump him now.”

“She’s about to deliver his child. Do you think it’s that
easy to be a single mother?”

“How did you cope?”

“Who said I did?”

We drove in silence for a long time. Then he asked, “Do you
know the Chairman?”

“I do now.”

“That’s not what I meant. You don’t pull punches, no matter
who you’re dealing with but in that boardroom, you took over.”

“Middle of the night boardroom meetings are my forte.”

“More like your battlefield.”

“We’re battling a lot here, Ken.”

“Where did you go out for dinner that night?”

“Portofino’s.”

“Fancy place, expensive too. Do you know him?”

“Who?”

“Weston.”

“I’m getting to know him.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I knew it wasn’t. But this wasn’t the time to explore the
issue.

“Well, do you?” he persisted when I stayed silent.

My nose quivered. I rubbed it as I said, “You know I never
discuss the ‘father’ issue.”

That shut him up.

Chapter Twelve

Three days later, we moved our office into my house. It
wasn’t so much a cowardly gesture as it was a life-saving one. The media turned
into a hungry pack of wolves, scavenging the city for sources of information,
offering huge rewards to anyone who would talk to them. Two of Kim’s team
members quit their jobs outright. What the news media and tabloids must have
offered them for their stories allowed a life of leisure. We read the papers
simply because some of the speculations were so outlandish they were actually
interesting—and could give us new clues. People’s imagination had no boundaries
and since ours began to wilt, we welcomed help from the sensationalistic
corner.

Bourke was now spending half of his time at Hopkins,
attending meetings where he was probably the lowest ranked participant, the one
who would have to answer all the difficult questions and shoulder all the
action items from the Hopkins’ directors, our District Commander and, of
course, our Commissioner. When he wasn’t being tortured at Hopkins, he’d come
and sit beside us. It was the last thing we wanted, hence our desperate flight
to my house.

Agent Gould politely declined to be a part of our home-office
circle and preferred to report to her boss by phone. She was not having much
luck touring Washington’s armored car and limo services.

The name “Creeslow” was unfamiliar to any of the sources
she’d worn down with her FBI protocol. I told her to let go of this fixation
for a while and simply find out which of the services were the “newest”
business ventures in Washington.

“She wants to hear her master’s voice,” I said, covering the
mouthpiece and handing the phone to Field. He gave me an odd look and reassured
his agent that I had been speaking his mind.

“You train your staff well,” I remarked when he finished.

“Quantico trains them well. I merely use their excellent
skills.”

“I’m sure she would be happy to hear your glowing offsite
performance review.”

“You don’t like her, do you?”

“She’s Agent Scully, minus Hollywood, the bravery and fierce
independence.”

“She has a scar on her shoulder from a bullet she took for a
colleague, saving his life, when she worked a case of auto body scam in
Boston.”

“You’ve seen her scars?”

“The photographs are in her file,” he laughed.

“Ken has feather-mop tracks all over him. Brenda’s been
dusting his parochial courting attitude for years, hoping to uncover a modern
man who would fearlessly propose. No luck so far,” I said, chuckling.

“It wasn’t impulse, you know.” His voice softened.

“What?”

“Asking you to marry me. And it wasn’t because you were
pregnant either.”

“Youthful insanity then.”

“You were more prone to that than anyone I’ve ever known. I
was twenty-seven. I knew what I was doing.”

“But you were still impressed enough to believe the message
my father brought you.”

He sighed. “He was very convincing, didn’t mince any words,
that’s for sure.”

“Did he threaten your career?”

“Not as much as he pointed out what a threat I would be to
yours.”

“I married a Smithsonian guard, Field, not an FBI agent. If
anything, you would have been an asset to a lawyer. Did he offer you money?”

He sighed again. “Yeah.”

“Did you take it?”

He shook his head.

“You took the promotion instead.”

Once again he shook his head but this time with less
certainty. “I deserved it but I might have had to wait for it for a while. I’m
not sure whether that came as a result of anything he did or said.”

“Feeling guilty now or just lost in memories?”

“Neither. I’m angry that I didn’t get my shit together for
so long and come looking for you.”

“I like to run away from things that have a potential for
causing me pain,” I remarked. “It’s a challenge, to see how long I can keep it
up.”

Just then my partner came back from the kitchen where he’d
been raiding my fridge. He was considerate enough to bring cheese, crackers and
a fruit tray, with a pitcher of iced tea.

Agent Mattis called. He had been commissioned with the task
of checking out Dr. Patterson and his credentials. Field must have seen the
questions firing through my eyes because he simply handed the phone over.

Agent Mattis had no problem switching authorities. He liked
his boss but he didn’t adore him to a degree that would cause him to seek
permission for every word he said.

“According to the American Medical Association, he’s legit,”
Mattis reported cheerfully.

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“Really? He looks a lot younger, not much over thirty,” I
said.

“His degree is from the Northwestern University Medical
School in Michigan. MD, three more years at Sacramento Medical College,
specializing in psychiatry and mental disorders. Three years of internship at
the Mississippi State Hospital, doing damn well everything, from stitching in
emergency to autopsies. He’s good with the Oregon Medical Association too.
Spent three years up there, at the NorthPacific Center for Clinical Research
and Neurosurgery, involved in psychiatric applications and alternate solutions
to antipsychotic drugs. He went back to South Mississippi State to test out
some of the techniques he’d learned and seven years ago came to Maryland,
Lamar-Forest Mental facility, private and very expensive. He stayed three years
at Lamar and then applied and got his current job, at Mongrove. He’s in good
standing with the Maryland State Medical Society. Lamar director and two
Society members provided him with references that got him the job at Mongrove.”

I did quick math in my head. “We’re talking a good sixteen
years of studies and experience, prior to taking the job as the Chief Resident
at Mongrove, right?” I asked.

His head was in good order too. “I guess he was a bright
boy.”

“Who got his medical degree at twenty-three out of
Northwestern?”

“It’s possible,” he said, a lot more hesitantly than before.

“Yes but very unlikely. The majority of students complete a
full undergraduate curriculum before being admitted to med school. We’re
talking about students that are lucky to get in at twenty-one. Then it’s at
least four more years of med studies before they’re into specializing for three
more years. That takes you to twenty-eight. Then there’s internship for three
more years, though he could have done his internship at the same time as his
specializing. Let’s say that’s what he did, so after he’s done polishing his
education and stitching up flesh in emergency, he claims to have ten more years
of working experience which conveniently brings us to thirty-nine.”

“He could just look young or the file information could be
wrong. Someone’s finger slipped on the keys,” Mattis offered but his light tone
told me that he didn’t believe it.

I didn’t believe it either, though entry mistake was a real
possibility, especially when the image of the cherry-red haired baby-person
from Endless Tours sprang into my mind. Still, this case started with Ken
holding a handful of forged IDs. That’s what my instinct was whispering. I
didn’t doubt that Patterson’s academic and work credentials existed. I just
wasn’t sure whether they belonged to the very young-looking man with the
gloriously bouncing blond shag. We would have to pay him a visit again, on a
more personal note this time, have a chitchat, about the man, his
hairdresser—and his roots.

“Agent Mattis, were you able to get a photograph of Dr.
Patterson from the Lamar-Forest facility, the last place he worked at?” I
asked.

“Lamar is a private facility but I didn’t even have to raise
my voice over the phone when I asked Dr. Wheaten for it,” he said.

“Who is Dr. Wheaten?”

“Lamar’s Director and the one who provided a glowing reference
for Dr. Patterson.”

“Well, does the photo look like the Patterson we know?” I
asked impatiently.

“Yes,” he said so crisply his voice hurt my ear.

“But?”

He chuckled. “The hospital file photo is seven years old. I
also have a current photograph of Dr. Patterson, a snapshot I took of him
yesterday. He looked a lot older seven years ago than he does today,
Detective.”

“Thank you,” I said and sat back, thinking. Was Patterson
vain and had he opted for a face-lift to look younger than his true age? He certainly
expended great care on his hair, tossing it around with pride. Then again, what
man wouldn’t be proud of such hair volume?

“It’s possible to perform the implant surgery in a
psychiatric facility like Mongrove,” Field said, when I finished the unsatisfying
briefing that raised even more questions than I had before. “But it would be
riskier than doing that sort of thing in a limo—or at another site prior to
delivering the subject to his original destination.”

“Joe certainly believes this kind of procedure can be done
easily and quickly enough these days. Mind you, he was talking about
defibrillators, not micro bombs. He told me that you can shoot a
heart-regulating device through a blood vessel so no surgery’s required. Still,
I think that a medical facility would be a better choice, simply because
equipment is available if something goes wrong.”

“Meg,” Field said, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t have
cared, had something gone wrong. They would have just dumped the body somewhere
off the beaten path and gone after the next target.”

“They are that ruthless and mercenary,” Ken spoke up.
“Brenda went to visit the morgue to view Kim’s body before it was released to
the funeral home. Joe told her that what he fears most is the next step.”

That comment worried me. Field and I stared at him.

Ken continued, “Joe said that if this sort of thing is that
easily accomplished, it should not be overly difficult to take the device to
the next level—where it explodes in the real sense of the word. It would be
cheaper too.”

“What do you mean, cheaper?” I moved the cheese tray away
from him so he would not be tempted to stuff his mouth.

He shrugged. “You wouldn’t have to fill the device with the
toxin. It would be destroyed with the rest of the victim, in the explosion. That
would be just as good for their purposes, no trace of evidence left either.”

“So we have a money laundering scheme that probably reaches
into the billions and you’re telling me these people could turn stingy, worry
about the economic aspects of their operation?”

He grinned. “That’s probably Joe’s freehand input. He’s the
cheapskate.”

I laughed. But something tickled in the back of my throat.
It felt like a stuck chicken bone.

“Patterson is probably legit,” Field said.

“Why?” I challenged.

“Because Mattis is a good researcher. He would have checked
out many more details than those he gave you.”

“Ah! So he held out on me.” I smiled nastily.

He shook his head, keeping his grin in check. “He just
didn’t want to bother you with the level of detail he had since it could be all
summarized into what he told you.”

“He said thirty-two-year-old Patterson looked a lot older
than our current, thirty-nine year old Dr. Patterson. And since you’re saying
that he only gave me summaries, it means he must know how that is possible.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to insult you by stating the
obvious—that Dr. Patterson values youthful appearance and wanted to preserve
his, through a face-lift.”

“A face-lift would certainly account for Patterson’s current
young look but a face lift can also be performed to markedly change the
individual’s appearance such that he looks like someone else. If Agent Mattis
has such information it would have been courteous of him to share it with me.
You know, in the police ranks, we have a different definition of sharing and
cooperation.”

“In the FBI, we like to summarize and make things easier for
everyone because we are too busy to get bogged down in details.”

“You were so much more attractive when you were the
Smithsonian guard—and bald.”

“I was younger,” he replied, smiling.

“Actually, you look younger now that you have hair—and a
decent haircut. I used to think you were at least ten years older than I was. I
just listened to Springsteen’s songs and enjoyed the noise but you had to
analyze the lyrics like a wise, old professor.”

“I only started analyzing lyrics after I sat through your
law lectures. It was contagious.”

I tossed my head back and laughed. Then I caught sight of my
partner, sitting on the floor like a statue of Buddha, the cheese tray resting
like a worshipper’s offering in front of him.

“You two know each other?” he asked in a preadolescent
voice.

I sighed so deeply the swoosh of my breath lifted my bangs.
I knew Field wanted me to answer. It was my choice. “We used to be married,” I
said.

“To each other?” Ken asked.

“Yes.” Field decided on an economic answer. Hopefully, it
would stop any further questions. It didn’t.

“What broke up the marriage?” Ken asked.

“Bullets,” Field said.

“Money,” I replied, almost on top of Field’s answer.

“I thought it would have been your jobs,” he said. I knew
that was his foremost concern and his excuse, for still dating Brenda after
nearly fifteen years.

“We could have juggled our careers with marriage and
family,” Field told him. “We fell a little short in communication. I couldn’t
say everything that was on my mind and she was busy practicing saying
everything that was on hers—in the classroom.”

“You lied to each other?” Ken’s interpretation was
bizarre—but not inaccurate.

Field looked at me. “Not so much lied, as listened to the
wrong voice.”

“I didn’t lie,” I said.

“I didn’t either but I couldn’t tell you who I was until the
case was closed.”