Rolling his eyes, Donner made a face, shifting his focus back to the traffic around him. Nestled into the time frame that marked the transition from late evening into night, the city was fast winding down for the day, catching a needed rest before starting well before dawn again in the morning.
Outside, the lights of storefronts were beginning to dim, the predominant color moving toward the filmy orange glow of streetlights. In front of him, a loose cluster of taillights could also be seen, final stragglers making their way home.
Seeing and inventorying the sights before him, little managed to actually register with Donner, his attention still aimed at the man opposite him on the line.
While many had accused Donner at times in recent years of taking the job too seriously, of handling things as if he were still in the service, Ames had the far greater annoyance of being someone that envisioned himself an elder statesman. As a lifetime military man, he had come to let his rank define him, somebody that thought the world viewed him through the same narrow constraints of his professional hierarchy.
Part of that meant he was always doling out unwanted platitudes like the one he’d just dropped, empty words that were meant to sound wise or sage or some such similar nonsense.
“So he told you to piss off,” Donner asked, filling in what Ames would have said if he spoke common English.
The long silence that followed managed to tell him that not only was he right, but that he had struck a nerve.
“Do we have eyes on Ridge now?” Ames eventually asked, completely ignoring the comment, further confirming Donner’s supposition.
“We do,” Donner said, leaving it at that, it fast becoming clear that it would be in both men’s best interests to end the call quickly.
“Stay on top of it,” Ames said. “If he’s going to do something now, it’ll be soon.”
The same look of derision rose to Donner’s face as he again wagged a middle finger at the phone before reaching out to end the call without another word.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jackson Ridge was the first to hit his feet the moment the doors to the surgical suite opened, a middle-aged man with hound dog eyes that seemed to indicate he had been on shift for the better part of three days shuffling through. Dressed in dark blue scrubs with a New England Patriots scrub cap, he made it just a few feet inside the door before stopping and raising his voice slightly.
“Clara Tarby?”
Taking two quick steps forward, sensing his staff doing the same behind him, Ridge closed the gap to just a couple of feet before stopping.
“She’s with us.”
Eyes going wide for a moment, the doctor looked to Ridge before glancing to those behind him, eventually letting it go with only a nod.
“Were any of you with Ms. Tarby this evening?”
The question seemed to come in from afar, surprising Ridge for a moment. His jaw sagging slightly, he turned to look at Ellerbe and Stroh, the pair appearing just as surprised as him by the question.
“Um, we were,” Ellerbe managed, shifting her gaze to Stroh and back again.
“What time was that?” the doctor asked.
“Maybe...” she began, her voice trailing away.
“Five or so?” Stroh said, his tone and expression both letting it be known that there was a great deal of uncertainty in the response.
Pressing his lips tight, the doctor nodded, processing the information. “But nothing since then?”
“No,” Ridge said, jumping back into the conversation. “Can you tell us what happened? Is she okay?”
Raising his left hand, the doctor used his fingernails to dig at his scalp, the movement leaving misshapen warbles in the cotton cap atop his head.
“Ms. Tarby presented this evening with a fractured larynx,” the doctor said. “We were able to go in and get it stabilized, but I won’t lie, it’s still a pretty delicate situation. She’s mighty lucky it wasn’t crushed completely.”
Ridge didn’t need the doctor to further explain what would have happened if it had been, knowing that there would have been no way to breathe, that Tarby would have sat in her hotel room and suffocated to death.
The very same hotel room that he had arranged for her.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Ridge said. “Can we see her?”
The same expression as before crossed the man’s face as he shook his head to either side. “No, I’m afraid right now she is still in post-op, which is where she’ll stay until we can move her.
“Whether that will end up being intensive care or the general ward, we don’t yet know. The next twelve hours will go a long way in determining how hard the recovery will be for her.”
“But she will recover?” Beckwith asked, the sound of her voice drawing Ridge’s attention to the side.
Just as fast, he snapped it back forward, waiting for a response.
“She will,” the doctor said, “but this is one of the worst injuries a person can have, especially one of her age. She’s going to have to basically learn to speak again, something that can be as painful mentally as physically.”
Allowing his eyes to slide shut for a moment, Ridge slowly exhaled through his nose, the news just one more on an already bulging heap that had been accumulating for most of the day.
“Any idea what might have caused this?” Beckwith asked, Ridge snapping his eyes back open, the moment of dread passing, frustration flooding in behind it.
“Given what I saw in there?” he asked. “The only possible way to cause that kind of damage would be a direct blow, though what that may have been I don’t know.”
It was clear from the statement and the man’s posture that there was some speculation he wanted to add, decorum and a strong desire to be on his way both holding him back.
Sensing that, Ridge thrust his hand out and said, “Thank you, Doctor. Please keep us posted, somebody will be here all night.”
Only nodding in response, the doctor returned the shake before disappearing back into the surgical ward, the swinging doors swallowing him up.
Remaining rooted in place, Ridge went through the entire conversation again in his mind, running it start to finish in quick time, as if watching a movie in fast forward. Picking out certain words and phrases, his jaw clenched and his gaze hardened as he stared at the doors the doctor had just fled through.
The symbolism of the event was too much to be ignored.
Clara Tarby had come to him seeking answers about her son, an inquiry that had caused him to start making phone calls, kicking through the leaves to see what he could flush out. Ten hours later she was alone in a hotel room and received a sharp blow that broke her larynx, effectively rendering her voice box useless, making it so it would be a long time before she was able to talk again.
It didn’t take a skilled investigator to get from A to B to C.
The bigger question that remained was who had been the one to call in her injury, it most likely being the perpetrator, the attacker wanting Tarby’s body to be found, a clear message to be sent.
Handfuls of possible answers existed, though at the moment most were nothing more than educated guesses, something Ridge had been doing all day long.
It was time to start getting something concrete.
Fueled by a renewed flush of wrath, he turned on a heel, his staff still standing three across, waiting for his response.
“You three stay here,” he said simply. “I’ll be back.”
Her lips parting slightly, a charge of concern passing over her features, Beckwith asked, “Where are you going?”
Glancing to the wall, the placard affixed to it forbidding the use of cellular devices, Ridge said, “I need to make some calls.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Two minutes after leaving his team in muted silence in the surgical ward waiting room, Jackson Ridge stepped back through the front doors of the George Washington Medical Center. A loud rush of metal gates sliding open and the overhead heaters kicking to life sprang up in h
is ears as he walked by, falling away just as fast as the cold night air clutched at every inch of exposed skin.
The day had been cold – certainly not the worst he’d seen, but chillier than his aging body would like – but the evening ahead promised to be even worse, the temperatures clearly below freezing, bits of snowmelt on the sidewalk already turning to ice.
Evening had also turned to night in the short time they’d been inside, most of the movement of human life having died away, replaced by errant sounds. Lining the sidewalk were a couple of vagabonds buried beneath mounds of trash and blankets, not even bothering to look up as he marched past, assuming his previous post along the wall, his back to the building.
Scrolling through his cellphone roster, he found a listing — Pete McManley — and dialed it, the time never once crossing his mind as he pressed the ringing device to his ear.
Five rings later, just short of going to voicemail, it was picked up.
“Senator Ridge,” the man said, his voice booming, Ridge almost envisioning the red-cheeked smile on the man’s fleshy face. “Long time.”
“It has been,” Ridge agreed, “which makes the reason I’m calling now all the more difficult.”
Over the line, the sound of chair legs sliding across a wooden floor could be heard, followed by lumbering steps covering the same surface. Remaining silent, Ridge waited almost half a minute for the marching to die away before McManley came back on the line.
“Okay, sorry, we were just finishing dinner and I needed to step away.”
Feeling the skin around his eyes tighten into a wince, Ridge sucked in a sharp breath of air. “Which again makes this even more difficult.”
“Nonsense,” McManley replied. “Though shouldn’t you be off at a farewell soiree or something right now? Milking my taxpayer dime for the last time?”
Under any other circumstances, Ridge would have laughed – if not genuinely than at least granting his friend the gesture of a fake guffaw – knowing that it was said in good humor, free of any malice whatsoever.
Given all that was occurring, though, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“Listen, Pete,” Ridge said, “I hate like hell doing this, knowing you’re home with your family and all, but I need a favor that I probably don’t have coming.”
Instantly the mirth faded from McManley’s voice, replacing the good-natured friend with the man Ridge had first met, now a sergeant with the Capitol police.
“What’s going on, senator?”
“Right now I have a constituent from Wyoming staying in the city as a personal guest,” he began.
“I see,” McManley said, unease plain.
“Not like that,” Ridge said, knowing what the cold opening must have sounded like, especially given the recent spate of legislative infidelities. “This woman’s son was recently killed in Afghanistan and my office is trying to help her track down some answers.”
The reply was intentionally vague, Ridge knowing that the man was a retired veteran himself, that the story would resonate better than anything else he could have said.
“Okay,” McManley said, prompting him onward.
“And we have reason to believe that this search gave cause to her being attacked a little bit ago,” Ridge said, skipping a lot of details, both for the sake of time and shock value. “She was just rolled out of surgery at GW. I’m here now.”
A moment passed, McManley saying nothing, before finally muttering, “Jesus.”
“Exactly,” Ridge said, “and it’s going to be a while before she’s out of the woods. I know this is probably outside of your jurisdiction, but can I get a security detail down here to stand outside her door for a day or two?”
“Absolutely,” McManley said, the sound of movement over the line, Ridge able to envision the man already springing into action. “As a personal request from a ranking senator, doesn’t matter that it’s a few blocks outside our usual area. We can have someone there within the hour.”
“Thank you,” Ridge said, a tiny pulse of relief passing through him before giving way, his mind already moving ahead to the next task on his list.
“How about you?” McManley asked. “You good? Or should we send someone to ride with you as well?”
“Right now I think I’m good, but can I reserve the right to change my mind?”
“I’ll be around all night.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Joselyn Packard was sitting fifteen feet away when the surgeon walked out from the double doors demarcated by the double stripe of red paint on the floor, the barrier meant to keep worried family members and the general public at bay. Positioned at the far end of a center row of chairs, she was seated perpendicular to the impromptu gathering that took place with the doctor, using the convex mirror in the corner of the ceiling to watch everything that played out.
From where she was seated, she couldn’t hear a word that was being said, though she didn’t really need to.
She already knew exactly what would be said.
The ruse was so simple it couldn’t even be considered one, walking directly up to the door of Clara Tarby and knocking twice. Tapping into both the facts that Tarby would be a trusting sort and that she would be a ranch woman unaccustomed to how things actually worked at a place like the D.C. Hilton, she had followed the knock by announcing that she was with building maintenance and needed to check a potential problem with the shower faucets.
The door opened without opposition.
The blow was done courtesy of her right hand, a simple knife edge chop that landed just beneath Tarby’s mandible. On contact, she could feel the soft tissue crumple beneath her pressure, the woman’s eyes bulging as she fell to the floor, hands flailing as she pawed for air.
Less than a minute after arriving Packard exited the suite, showing no signs of tension or even hurry as she calmly walked into the stairwell on the far end of the hall.
By the time she emerged back into camera view twelve floors later, the blond wig she had worn was removed and placed back in her bag, ditto for the pair of non-prescription frames covering her face.
Any preliminary camera shots that saw her entering or exiting would be worthless, any memory Tarby might have erased by the shock of the moment or subject to disbelief by a lack of evidence to substantiate it.
As with most things during the evening, a task that in some circumstances could have been enjoyable but was instead rendered boring by the complete lack of skill or even awareness of those she was up against.
Even now, as she sat in the waiting room thumbing through an old copy of Redbook - a publication she didn’t know was still being produced – the world was completely oblivious to her presence. Returned to her natural mid-thirties state, she was just as anonymous as any other person in the waiting area, keeping her long brown coat on to block out any view of her clothes or the athletic form they hugged.
Alternating glances between the book and the mirror, she watched as the small gathering spoke for a few moments before the doctor retreated back behind the doors. In his absence, Ridge and his team had another small huddle before he strode away, leaving the other three behind, nobody saying much or seeming to know what to do.
Keeping her seat, Packard remained another four minutes, long enough to ensure that Ridge had not merely stepped off into the john before rising. Giving one last look into the mirror, she saw that her two charges, Ellerbe and Stroh, had both settled back into their previous seats, leaning toward each other as they spoke in hushed whispers.
Easily identified as the team left behind to stand vigil for Tarby.
The fourth member of the team, Beckwith, had waited until just two minutes after Ridge’s departure before following suit, she also bypassing the restroom and disappearing down the main hallway.
“I’ll be damned,” Packard whispered, a tiny flicker of something bordering on respect passing through her mind, as she turned and shuffled away as well, careful not to draw any attention. Trudging just a
few feet at a time, she allowed the bulky coat to swirl around her, making it back to the main lobby in time to see Ridge and Beckwith standing on the sidewalk outside.
Going back and forth in conversation, they seemed to be debating something, their faces both drawn up tight, falling just short of hostile as they spoke.
A moment later, a polished black car appeared on the curb, Ridge opening the backseat for Beckwith before piling in behind her.
Just as fast as they had arrived an hour earlier, they were gone.
No longer needing to keep up the ploy she’d been using, Packard cast aside the begrudging gait and strode across the lobby, her body responding in kind, happy to be moving at full speed again. Reaching into her pocket, she extracted her phone and pressed the first speed dial, turning north out of the building and walking fast, the glowing spire of the Washington Monument peeking out between the buildings ahead.
“Go for Donner.”
“Packard,” she said.
“Go for Donner,” he repeated, the phrase every bit as bracing as most of what came out of the man’s mouth seemed to be these days.
“Ridge and Beckwith just left the hospital, presumably headed back to the office.”
A low whistle was the first response, followed by Donner saying, “I’ll be damned.”
To that, she only nodded, not about to confess that it was the same thing she had said just moments before.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Mobile,” Donner said. “Will circle back to Dirksen as we speak, be in position when they arrive.”
“Roger that,” Packard said. “Orders?”
“Anything of note going on at the hospital?” Donner asked.
“No,” Packard replied. “They left the underlings to hold down the fort, but there’s nothing there. The closest thing to drama with them is whether or not they hook up at the end of the night.”
A bit far afield for Packard, the hope was that it would relay the extreme tedium of being attached to Ellerbe and Stroh, allowing her to rotate over onto something a bit more challenging.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 41