Dead Wrong (46 page)

“What?”

“I’d probably share it with a good investigative reporter, have him expose it to the national media. That way the public would be the ones to judge if the contents were really a national security issue or not. And also they’d understand the government’s involvement in doing it. Know what I saying? Hypothetically, of course.”

Robertson stood rock still. “You threatening us, McCarthy? Because, if you—”

“Threat? No. Like I said, this is all hypothetical.”

Robertson spun around and was out the door.

Five minutes later Lange returned, Davidson on his heels. Lange said, “You’re free to go.”

McCarthy heard the words but had a hard time believing it. “Really? Just like that?” A ton of questions flooded his mind. What about the shootings in his office? What about what happened to Washington and Sikes? “What about Maria?”

“Case doesn’t hang together. The DA’s office agrees.”

“Why?”

“Several bits of evidence don’t fit Sikes’s story.”

“Like?”

“Like the ceiling tiles we found in the john with Washington’s blood on them. That sort of thing. Fits your story, not his.”

“What about the feds? Robertson just threatened me.”

Lange said, “Yeah, I heard. But if what you said is true, they’ll bury this case and not risk you going public with it. And if you do, well, Cunningham and Wyse will be toast. You’ll have to use your judgment on that.”

McCarthy glanced around the hostile interrogation room, a place he never wanted to see again. Relieved, he turned to Davidson. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

H
OW WEIRD.

Tom stood inside the heavy pneumatic double doors to the trauma center intensive care. At the far end of the hall, just outside a patient room, Bertram Wyse presided over an entourage of attentive students and residents. The students were in street clothes and short white coats, the house staff in knee-length white coats over scrubs. Surgical masks dangled around the necks of two residents. One of the residents played with a loose tie, winding and unwinding it around his index finger. Wyse’s mid-calf white coat, belted stylishly in back, covered purple scrubs. His scrubs were obviously custom tailored rather than medical center stock. Besides the distinctive color, they lacked the gray circular LMC logos randomly stamped on the hospital issue, as if defacing them would deter pilfering.

Wyse in his glory.

McCarthy’s dislike for Bert as a medical student had now morphed to hatred. Because of Wyse, he’d almost been killed. Even now, McCarthy wasn’t one hundred percent certain the threat had been completely removed. Unlike the camaraderie he enjoyed with other med students, his relationship with Wyse had always carried an abrading edge made worse by the competition of pursuing the same residency position. But their animosity had grown into far more than a simple testosterone-fueled rivalry. Wyse possessed an incessant need to one-up McCarthy. At everything. If Tom put in ten-hour days at the lab, Wyse did twelve.

McCarthy had always tried to resist being sucked into the competition. If Wyse scored higher on a test, so be it. If Wyse generated more publications, fine. But the one thing he did compete for was the prized residency position. And the joke was, their motivations for it were dramatically different. Wyse sought the prestige. Tom wanted the simple convenience of staying in the same city as the medical school: not having to uproot and move to an unfamiliar town, find an apartment, learn where to buy groceries or where to go for a hair cut, locate a new dentist. Especially at the start a grueling training program. What made it even stranger was when he tried to explain this to Wyse, Wyse accused him of lying.

In watching Wyse now, Wyse’s real motivation became clear to McCarthy: adoration. Yet McCarthy saw something different in the residents. Whereas Wyse interpreted the residents’ deference as respect for a magnificent teacher, McCarthy saw in them only fear. Fear of the sword Wyse held above their heads. When their six years of residency ended, whether or not they graduated depended solely on Wyse’s whim. He had the power to hold them as long as he wished without any recourse. Resident training was as close to a feudal system as anything in the free world.

Enough. Time to finish the job.

Wyse looked up, saw him approach, and without a hint of emotion, announced to the group, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have an unexpected guest today. If you don’t already know him, let me introduce Dr. Tom McCarthy.” He locked eyes with McCarthy. “To what do we owe this honor?”

“It’s personal, Bert. Probably best to take it down the hall,” Tom said and nodded toward the double doors.

Wyse considered this a moment, probably weighing the risk of an embarrassing confrontation in front of his audience. “All right.” Then to the group: “If you’ll excuse me, this should only take a minute.” He glared at McCarthy as they walked to the ICU doors.

They moved in silence, McCarthy’s anger vibrating through his muscles. When ten feet from the exit he turned to Wyse, but his throat constricted, making it impossible to talk. He glanced around, confirming no one was in earshot, cleared his throat, but still couldn’t speak. They stood like this, Wyse’s eyes growing confident and defiant as McCarthy remained mute.

After a few beats, Wyse said, “I don’t have time to waste. What’s so important it necessitates interrupting teaching rounds?”

McCarthy said, “Did you actually believe you could use people as guinea pigs without their permission?”

Wyse’s expression turned from annoyance to impatience. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The memory transplants.”

Wyse took a half step back, looked McCarthy up and down, and said nothing.

“Oh, I get it.” McCarthy laughed. “Think I’m wired?”

“What is it you want?”

McCarthy laughed. “I’m not here to sucker you. It’s way beyond that. You know who Tony Cassera is?”

“If this is a threat, you can kiss my ass.”

“Threat? No.”

“Then, kiss my ass anyway. This conversation is finished.”

Wyse started to turn, but Tom grabbed his shoulder. “I’m not done.”

“The hell you aren’t.” Wyse glared. “Take your goddamn hand off me or I’ll have you thrown out of here.”

“No need, I’m leaving. Just so you know, I figured it out. The moment I started to work up Russell and Baker you began to worry I’d find out what you were doing. So you talked Cunningham into classifying your work.”

Wyse glared.

“And because you weren’t sure what I did or didn’t know you convinced him I discovered Cuckoo’s Nest and was going to blow the whistle. So he sent Sikes after me.”

Wyse glanced around again. “We’re done here, Tom. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Bert. Be sure you don’t miss Tony Cassera’s report on channel five’s six-o’clock news.” He checked his watch. “It airs a couple hours from now.”

Wyse studied McCarthy a moment. “This another threat?”

“Tonight’s report is the first of three installments and deals with the memory transplants and DARPA angle. The next one will explore the financial problems facing RegenBiologic. I’ll spare you the details of the third.”

Wyse’s face went purple as he leaned close to McCarthy. “Listen, you fucking fool, any DARPA work gets out, you’ll be spending the rest of your days in federal prison writing appeals. You have no idea of the world of hurt that’ll rain down on you.”

McCarthy mimed shock and surprise. “Really? You think Cunningham’s going to back you? Word is, he’s already circling the wagons, distancing himself with claims you falsified reports.” He paused. “Oh, by the way, in case nobody mentioned it, the FBI is removing all the hard disks from the Regen-Biologic computers as we speak. It seems they want to see if any records have been deleted or altered since last weekend.”

He grinned at Wyse. “Hey, go finish rounds. Enjoy every moment. It may be your last.” He turned and slapped the metal plate to open the automatic doors.

M
CCARTHY HEARD THE bell ring and hurried to the front door of his townhouse. Sarah stood smiling at him, looking wonderfully fresh in white pants, sandals, a pale blue cotton shirt, and a blue cotton sweater over her shoulders. She held a bottle-shaped package wrapped in white tissue. He wanted to pull her inside, take her upstairs to the bedroom, and …
Easy, take it easy, for now
.

Instead, he kissed her cheek. “Have any problem finding a parking place?” He stepped aside for her to enter. Yesterday the weather hit a warm spell, teasing Seattleites with an Indian summer before dull overcast settled in for six months of drizzle and rain.

“No, I found a great one only a half mile away. Here,” she said, handing him what could only be a wine bottle.

He inspected the white wrapping paper with the gold Champion Cellars sticker binding it together. “Champion Cellars, huh?” A wine store on Denny across from where they shared a late night breakfast a little over a week ago. Seemed like months. He led her to the kitchen.

“You know it?”

“You bet. I go there when I want something special.”

They entered the kitchen, the French doors open to the deck, a soft breeze circulating. He said, “I’m throwing together a Caesar salad with some poached salmon. We can talk while I finish and then take our wine out to the deck. Does that meet with your approval?” He set her gift on the granite counter-top. She perched on one of the three black counter stools. He opened the fridge and brought out an opened bottle of wine.

“Would you like a glass of pinot gris to start? If not, I could open something else.”

“No, the pinot’s fine.”

He poured two glasses, handed her one. She asked, “Did you happen to catch Tony Cassera’s report?”

He crushed a garlic clove in a small stainless steel mixing bowl. “I did. I also talked with him on the phone today. He didn’t mention that they’ll be filing criminal charges Monday against Wyse.”

He squeezed anchovy paste in with the garlic and added a dollop of Dijon mustard. “Lange thinks it’s a given Wyse will end up in prison for at least five years. Maybe longer. Cunning-ham … well, I don’t think much is going to happen to him. Tony thinks he’ll be protected by some hand waving under the guise of national security. At least for now.”

“Too bad. And it’s too bad Wyse won’t do longer time.”

He added a splash of Worcestershire sauce and then poured in olive oil. “Which reminds me, how’s Bobbie doing?”

She took her first taste of the pinot gris. “Hmmm, nice. Oregon?”

“No, Washington.”

“She’s progressing well. Just knowing that there’s a reason for the memories has given her tremendous relief. She’s agreed to some intensive therapy. I plan to start next week.”

“What approach will you use?”

“Standard psychotherapy. She’s already showing benefits.”

He squeezed a lemon into the mixture. “There. Almost done. Then we can move to the deck and enjoy our wine and a nice evening. Good thing you brought a sweater, it’ll chill soon as the sun heads down.” He started to mix the dressing with a salad fork. “Already washed and dried the romaine. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I already poached the salmon to place on top. That’s why I selected the pinot.”

She nodded approval. “While we’re on it, one other question.”

He set the dressing aside and picked up his wine. “Yes?”

“We know what happened to Sikes and two of his men. Were there any more involved?”

Glass in hand, he leaned his butt against the edge of the counter. “Lange said an FBI buddy looked into that. He thinks there probably were, but how many for sure we’ll never know. Cunningham’s never going to say, and there’s no chance the Department of Defense will disclose that.”

She seemed to think about that. “Again, I’m so sorry about Maria.”

He looked away. Her death was the one thing stemming from the events of those awful forty-eight hours he still found very painful. “This whole thing with Maria … It’s the hardest to deal with …” He couldn’t finish. After being released by the police he’d visited Maria’s aging mother. He needed the family to know how badly he felt and look them in the eye to assure them he wasn’t her killer. But he suspected they still blamed him.

She nodded and bit her lip. “I’m sorry; I know how hard that hit you.”

He swallowed. “Okay, let’s go to the deck.”

“You have to open my gift first.”

He picked up the bottle and carefully unwrapped the tissue. “Wow, Château Margaux.” He’d expected maybe a local chardonnay. But this? The last bottle he’d priced was north of $250. “Did someone make a mistake? Wrap the wrong bottle?”

A blush ascended her face. She looked down into her wine. “No. Think of it as a thank-you present.”

Stunned, he looked at her, trying to decide if this were a joke. “A thank-you present?”

“Yes. You helped me work through something very important. That means a lot to me. So, thank you.”

He carefully set the bottle back on the counter. “What was it I helped you work through?”

“Something that happened back in Chicago.”

A twinge of jealousy went through his heart. “The professor you got involved with?”

She met his stare. “Yes, but not in the way you think.”

A jab of jealousy struck again. “Want to tell me?”

She smiled wistfully. “No, Tom. I can’t and won’t. Some skeletons are better left alone. Maybe some time in the future. It involved Jeff, but not in any way you think.”

Her determined expression said her answer was nonnegotiable.

She smiled and added, “Maybe we can both enjoy that wine one night soon when I cook you dinner.”

He remembered the conversation he’d had with Caroline, telling her he’d become involved with someone else. At the time, he’d hoped that someone would be Sarah. Still did.