The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1) (4 page)

This was how it all started.

6.

I was sitting
in a waiting room in Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh, waiting for an appointment with Dr. Jane Lockerby. Dr. Lockerby was the lead doctor for John and Karrie Wimbledon. John and Karrie were the children of Carter Wimbledon, the male murdered in the school parking lot shooting. I wasn't allowed to see the children as they had sustained severe injuries and the presence of the lead doctor was required.

The wait was long, so I dialed Carmela Molinari's number.

"Hi Mike, you left so early yesterday evening," Carmela greeted me.

"Had to attend to my client's business," I responded.

"We have some unfinished business," she said.

"We do," I smiled in my mind.

"When are you going to pay me a visit again?"

"As soon as I can, you know you’re my favorite."

"When would that be precisely?"

"How about next week? I have an important project to finish right now."

"What kind of project?"

"You know what I do more or less. It’s not really a conversation for the phone."

"Yeah. I know."

"I'll buy you something nice next time I visit. What would you like? Any suggestions?"

"Mike, don't ask such questions. I would love to get a pressie from you, but show some imagination. Figure out something yourself," Carmela laughed.

"Okay, I'll do better next time," I said, trying to save face.

"Where are you now? You don't seem too busy," Carmela changed subject.

"I’m in a hospital, waiting for the doctor who is looking after the witnesses I need to interview."

"Is it a he or a she?"

"It's a female, Dr. Lockerby," I responded.

"Wow, sounds interesting. Are you going to ask her out for a date?"

Carmela cared about me a lot, but she knew she was high-class hooker and not a high-ranking contender. I was looking for a possible partner, but wasn't desperate and still wasn't settled in any permanent relationship. Read that: still looking for a near-perfect partner in vain. Me and Carmela, it was just about sex and having a good time. It suited both of us well. I paid well so Carmela was happy. Carmela performed well so I was happy too. I performed well as well, no doubt about it. So hopefully she was doubly happy. After the physical performance, I liked to chat with her on all sorts of topics. Anyway, she wished me well and wanted me to settle down, as much as settling down was possible in my line of business.

"Of course not. This is just a professional meeting," I protested.

"There’s no harm in mixing business with pleasure."

"Well, I suppose there isn't."

"Don't be shy, Mike!"

"Stop it!"

"Okay, I won't tease you anymore."

"Good," I smiled.

"So I’m waiting for a special gift from you. Buy me something nice."

"I will."

"Talk to you soon."

"Talk soon," I finished the conversation.

Not long after I ended the call, Dr. Lockerby entered the waiting room. To be honest, I was irritated with Carmela's talk a few minutes ago, but when I saw Dr. Jane Lockerby, I said to myself: “Wow, I can now see why people are attracted to women wearing scrubs.”

"Hello, Mr. Greystone?" Dr. Lockerby addressed me.

"Hello Ms. Lockerby, nice to meet you," I answered.

"Please, follow me to my office."

The Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh was quite large, which was good for the patients, I suppose. All the rooms, facilities, corridors, and all the other things you had in a hospital for comfort. I wouldn't envy patients with reduced mobility though - I mean walking those long corridors.

As I said, the corridor was very long, and I was following Dr. Lockerby, so I had plenty of time to notice she was well-endowed in the right places by Mother Nature. I wasn’t a professional in these matters, but she seemed to have perfect proportions. A reasonably wide ass, but not too wide, complemented by a slim waist and a pleasantly proportioned chest. I made a passing glance over her bust and it looked very appealing I must admit, but her buttocks and hips were worthy contenders for the crown. She was walking along this long corridor swaying her hips gracefully, a splendid view. I thought the long corridors were a nightmare for reduced mobility patients but, who cared. I was just listening on the radio earlier today a song by “The Wanted” – “She walks like Rihanna.” I had no idea how Rihanna walked, but I was sure it was meant to be very sexy. Dr. Lockerby swayed her ass in a very sexy way. I liked long corridors, no doubt about it.

We nearly reached the end of the passage, and Dr. Lockerby asked, "How do you like our hospital?"

"I'm not a frequent visitor to hospitals, but I rather fancy this long corridor."

"Strange, people normally praise our facilities, the cleanliness or the friendly staff. Nobody ever said anything positive about the corridor?"

"It's just that it makes me feel nice, this corridor," I explained, visualizing Dr. Lockerby walking like Rihanna, swaying her hips in an enticing way, if that was what the songwriter had in mind. I wasn't particularly keen on poetry in school. I liked the rhymes, but had no idea what the author, the songwriter in this case, wanted to say. I thought I'd get some illumination if I googled their video clip. This was actually what I did after meeting with Dr. Lockerby, to see how Rihanna walked, but nearly got caught by Carmela. It wasn’t my age group, you know, I was probably much too old to listen to that music.

To my regret, we reached the end of the corridor. Dr. Lockerby ushered me into her tiny office. She was only a doctor, so she didn’t have an executive corner office. Her office was so tiny that she had to do some acrobatics to get behind her desk. There was a fancy standing coat rack beside her desk, extending sideways at chest level. Dr. Lockerby had to stick her bum out, bend gently forward, and then stick her boobs out to pass the coat rack. I tried to look indifferent but watched every move attentively. Dr. Lockerby wasn’t super slim, but I could see a nice tight belly when she passed her desk. “Nice body,” I thought to myself.

"Right,” Dr. Lockerby started, "Mr. Greystone, what is it that I can help you with?"

"I'm investigating the recent school shooting," I responded.

"Are you working for the police?"

"Not exactly, I supply the relevant authorities with information to solve problems. I occasionally may get involved more directly."

"The relevant authorities?"

"Yes, the relevant authorities, I can’t provide too much detail."

"I suppose you need to show me some papers to confirm your mandate?"

"Here you go," I showed her my credentials. "This is however quite generic in nature, you understand."

I would normally get authorization papers from various agencies, the CIA, NSA, Homeland Security and occasionally the FBI, whichever was handier or suitable for the job. To be honest, it only mattered for cops or feds, it didn’t matter for civilians, most of whom would accept a letter from Santa. I had a few generic papers from the agencies I effectively worked for (through Research & Execution), and I got a dedicated one for specific jobs. Dermot “Leprechaun” Clenaghan organized that for me.

"Thank you, that should be sufficient," Dr. Lockerby said, studying the document, while I was studying the prominent breasts tucked in nicely under her bra, under her scrubs.

"Can you tell me how the kids are doing?" I asked. "They’ve been through quite a lot in the last few hours."

"They were in shock for sure, but are getting better now. John got one bullet in his arm and is recovering well. Karrie was injured by a ricocheting bullet in her thigh, a lot of blood, but nothing serious it turned out. They will have to remain in hospital for some time. Primarily to remain under the supervision of a psychologist. This was a really big shock for them to see their father killed brutally. His brain rally was all over the car, I was told by the police. It wouldn't be an understatement to say it could be a life-changing experience for them in a very bad way."

"Will they ever recover emotionally?" I asked.

"I hope so, but it’s very premature to say that at this stage," Dr. Lockerby continued. "As far as anyone is concerned, we have good professionals looking after them. They are not seriously harmed physically, but the mental wounds may take ages to heal. I just hope their father's or their mother's insurance is enough to pay for the continued support of a psychologist. We only deal with victims for a few weeks, after that they really are on their own, you know the system."

"Do you know any details of what happened yesterday?"

"I just know there was a crazy guy with an automatic gun and bazooka shooting in every possible direction, and these two kids got shot and their father was killed. I’m not sure I can add anything else, I wasn't there."

"I need to talk to both kids to get some details for my investigation."

"That's not possible today, they were in shock and have had surgery. I can’t let you talk to them today. Also, due to the shock they were subjected to and post surgery medication, they’ll be of little or no use to you, really," Dr. Lockerby stated firmly.

"Dr. Lockerby, I need to talk to them."

"If you come over tomorrow around lunchtime, they’ll have had a good, long night’s sleep, and may be more responsive," Dr. Lockerby suggested. "Don't get me wrong, I want you to catch the bastard who killed their father and injured them as much as you do. But their physical and mental health was entrusted to my care and this is my primary responsibility. Please come back tomorrow."

"Thank you, I'll drop by tomorrow lunchtime."

"Great, I have a morning shift tomorrow," Dr. Lockerby said finishing our conversation and getting up from her chair. While doing so, she had to pass the coat rack, again with some acrobatics. Chest forward, ass backward. Nice view I thought to myself again.

"Will you find your way back, Mr. Greystone?"

"Call me Mike, Dr. Lockerby."

"Call me Jane, Mr. Greystone, that is, Mike."

"I think I should find my way back all right, although I admit this corridor is quite long and I might get lost," I said hoping so see her walking like Rihanna again.

"It's very straightforward, but I'll show you the way. I was always sure men get lost in complex urbanized settings. Women are skilled at orienteering as they train in shopping centers, where they instinctively know where to park to be closest to the target shop. They just know," she responded and entered the corridor swaying her hips in a mesmerizing way. I was looking forward to tomorrow's visit, I must admit.

7.

After my visit
to the hospital, I wanted to do some shopping. I wanted to buy something nice for Carmela. Our last “date” was interrupted, and I’d promised to make up for it next time.

I dialed Carmela's number.

"Hi Mike, nice to hear from you," Carmela greeted me.

I often used disposable phones with a locked caller ID. I also had a secure, untraceable phone, courtesy of Dermot Clenaghan from Research & Execution. However, for people I knew, it was easier to use my regular phone without a caller ID lock. Well, there was some trade-off. On balancing up the pros and cons, it was better to have your number displayed at the other end, so that the person you were calling would pick up your call (and they were more likely to do so when they knew who was calling). Phone calls could decide your fate. I usually picked up all calls, but, needless to say, I preferred to know who was calling. Only a selected few had this number, so I didn't get time-wasting calls. I used other phones to pay bills and do daily life stuff.

"Hi Carmela, how are you?"

"Good, and you?"

"Fine, thanks. I just wanted to apologize for having to run so quickly from our last get-together," I tried to sound sufficiently apologetic. "I’m still in Pittsburgh and will be here until tomorrow. If you have time, I would enjoy your company today. I'll book a seat on a plane for you. We could have a nice dinner and then continue where we left off last time. Does that sound like a good plan?"

"I wasn't planning anything particular for today, so I'll gladly come. What time is the flight?"

"Five-thirty."

"Great, I'm coming then. Looking forward to seeing you again!"

I called Martin to book the flight for Carmela for this evening.

"Hi Martin, it's Mike."

"Hi Mike, how’s things?" Martin responded.

Martin Keenan was Head of Operations of my private intelligence unit, my company working for all who could afford my services. Martin was responsible for gathering intelligence for my jobs, arranging all things logistics, planes, cars, hotels, etc. He also organized clean-up operations when things got out of hand (which didn’t happen very often, but was an inherent risk in this business). In addition, Martin also liaised with one of our main clients – the Research & Execution Agency - the undercover joint venture between government bodies like the NSA, CIA and HS, and which was founded to fix difficult problems that couldn’t be resolved officially. Martin dealt with their contact officers and analysts to get the best possible intel on current projects that we working on for them. Martin actually went one step further, he collected a lot of data on our employers and collaborators, contract killers, the mob, and government officials. You never knew when this information could come handy. In simple terms, Martin and his team were invaluable.

"Do you have any new information on the St. Brigid shooting?" I asked Martin.

"Nothing conclusive yet," Martin answered. "Our guys are working overtime on this."

"Did Research & Execution provide anything interesting?"

"They think, based on interviews with the victims and witnesses, that the perpetrator was very keen on shooting at Wimbledon's car, clearly with intent to kill. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence, but it may be a lead worth exploring. This could be a personal kind of vendetta."

"I’ll look into it. I’ve thought about that myself. Carter Wimbledon, the deceased father, was the only adult victim with a dozen bullets in his body. I was at the hospital today, but the Wimbledon kids were not yet mentally fit to be interviewed. I'm going to the hospital tomorrow to interview them."

"Good, I’ll let you know if anything new comes up as soon as I know it myself."

"One more thing," I said, "I need to book a flight for Carmela Molinari to Pittsburgh for 5.30 today."

"Sure, no problem, I'll arrange that."

"Thanks."

"Anything else?"

"No, that's it, thanks," I finished the conversation.