“Maybe not to death, exactly, but it might scare me.”
“Then I won’t ask.”
“Okay, let’s do that over again. Take two. Second chance. Pretend you just asked if it would scare me to death if you asked me to take you to my room.”
“And your reply?”
“If you can pry yourself free from my pooch, I think it’s a terrific idea.”
“Me, too.”
Chance started to follow, then, perhaps thinking better of it, hopped up on the couch and rolled onto his back. Nick held Jillian’s hand and led her down the hallway to his bedroom door.
“You sure?” he asked.
She looked up at him and held his gaze with hers. “As sure as I need to be,” she said finally.
“Be it ever so humble,” he said, guiding her inside.
“I like it. I feel you in here.”
The room was spacious and airy, with bookcases covering one wall and two large windows another. Nick’s library, neatly arranged, featured huge medical tomes, historical biographies, the complete works of Poe and Shakespeare, and a large array of paperback novels, most of them adventure stories or thrillers. Interspersed throughout were framed photos of his family.
“No photos from your army days?” she asked.
“I have them, but they haven’t made it out of the box yet.”
“I understand.”
Nick sat on his mattress and watched as Jillian scanned the titles in his bookcase.
“I never was a huge reader,” she said, pulling out a copy of Two Years Before the Mast. “Not like Belle. I always want to be around people or out experiencing nature. When it gets late, I’m usually so beat that instead of picking up a book, I just conk off.”
“If you were subject to recurrent nightmares like most of us with PTSD, you might become more of a reader. Sleep is definitely not our friend.”
Jillian scanned the list of SUD scores taped on the wall beside the bed.
“You have the nightmares often?”
“I never used to before the explosion and Sarah’s death. Since then it’s like the event got branded into my brain. I have variations of the same bad dream almost every night, and so far there’s not been a damn thing I can do to keep them from happening. Last night, you were in there.”
She sat on the bed beside him, her expression playful.
“Me, in a nightmare,” she sighed like a starstruck teen. “Now that’s something a girl doesn’t hear every day. Tell me about it.”
“I don’t think so.”
She caressed his face, and again looked deeply and seriously into his eyes.
“It’s okay to tell me,” she said.
“All right, but it wasn’t pretty. It started off as a dream, a really nice one actually. But then it ended with the same truck that killed Sarah hitting you instead, cutting you in two. I’m not always the driver, but last night I was.”
If the mention of Sarah’s name or the horrific outcome of the nightmare upset Jillian, it did not register in her expression.
“Tell me about the nice part of the dream,” she said.
She leaned her body against his. He tingled at the feel of her skin pressed against his own.
“We were kissing,” he said.
“Like this?”
She held his face in both her hands. First their lips met, then parted. Their tongues explored with increasing urgency. The feel of her hands caressing the back of his neck and the gentle pull of her fingers through his hair sent shivers through him. Still kissing, she eased him onto his back and nestled in next to him.
“Yes,” Nick breathed into her ear. “We were kissing just like that.”
NICK HAD dozed off, perhaps only for a few minutes, when his cell phone startled him awake. Images of their lovemaking refused to leave. He could not believe that it had happened and could not wait for it to happen again. Reaching across Jillian, he answered the phone and set it on speaker.
“Hello, this is Nick Garrity,” he said, having to clear his voice after the first word came out as a croak.
“Three years ago, Umberto Vasquez was transported by ambulance from the Singh Medical Spa and Cosmetic Surgery Center to Shelby Stone Memorial.”
“Go on,” Nick said to Mollender.
“Three years and one month ago to the day, to be exact. Vasquez was brought by a private ambulance, Littleton Ambulance Services, it looks like. I’ve tried Google, Yahoo, and a couple of other places, but I can’t find them, and I’ve never heard of them.”
“I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Saul.”
“Maybe not. But I will take that gift your friend Ms. Coates was kind enough to make for me—that is if she hasn’t incinerated it.”
Jillian nodded vigorously and gave Nick a thumbs-up.
“Nope, she still has it. She’s an optimist. You’re a good man, Saul Mollender,” Nick said.
“Not really. I’m a bit of a dud. I know that. I did it because I believe Andy would have wanted me to. And I trust you. Not really sure why. I guess when you spend your day reading medical records you forget the humanity that goes into those pages. Perhaps you reminded me of that.”
It was then Nick realized Jillian had started getting dressed.
“Saul, hold on a second.” Pulling the phone up to cover the receiver with his hand, Nick asked, “Where you going?”
“That date. Belle was a nursing student at Shelby Stone on the day Umberto was brought there. I’m going back to the hospital before my shift to see if I can catch up with Nancy Lane at the nursing school. She’s been like a mother to each of her students for over twenty years, and she keeps incredible records. There’s a chance that she’ll be able to figure out where Belle was working that day. I’m certain that’s where her path and Umberto’s crossed and that’s how she knew about Nick Fury.”
“Good idea. Saul, sorry, you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“So, what floor did Umberto go to after he was dropped off at Shelby Stone?”
“Well, that’s where it gets really interesting,” Mollender said.
“How so?”
“There are no other entries in his record.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a word. According to all I’ve been able to find, Umberto Vasquez was delivered at Shelby Stone Memorial at ten o’clock that morning. Then he just disappeared from our records. It’s as if he simply dropped off the face of the earth.”
CHAPTER 36
On the way south, Jillian phoned Nancy Lane, dean of the nursing school at the Shelby Stone Institute of Health Professions. She had seen the woman at Belle’s funeral, and then received several concerned calls from her after that.
During the horrible days following the fire in her condo, when it appeared as though Jillian was destined for an extended stay in a Residence Inn or crashed out in a succession of friends’ guest rooms, Lane had come through for her as she had in so many situations for so many students. One phone call was all it took to secure a room for Jillian indefinitely in Anne Marie Cosco Hall, the nursing school dorm.
Lane was not in her office when Jillian called, but her secretary felt certain she would be back before leaving for the day. In addition to all her help, the dean was one of the few who did not discount that Belle had been murdered. Hopefully, knowing that Jillian’s request to meet pertained to her sister would be enough to keep Lane in her office.
With time to think during the sluggish drive to D.C., Jillian’s mind wandered to the beautiful and entirely unexpected afternoon spent in Nick’s arms. Her desire to take their relationship to the next level had, she acknowledged, been there almost from the start. He was a beautiful, deeply caring man, with demons that were keeping him somewhat at bay. But she felt ready and anxious to help him drive them from his life. All the two of them needed now was time.
Belle had once likened Jillian’s dating life to the Oregon Trail, joking that it had begun along the smooth tracks of the hopes and de
sires of her admirers, only to become littered along the way with pieces of their broken hearts. If only her sister could be here to meet Nick. Jillian’s feelings for him were unlike any she had ever experienced before, and after they had made love, her mind flashed like neon with a giddy, but also panicky thought—this was it. Nick Garrity was the one.
Logjammed by the heavy afternoon traffic, Jillian grew increasingly anxious about her chances of catching the dean in. By the time she had parked and trekked from the garage to the office, she had all but given up. She had also given up intellectualizing her feelings for Nick, and was ready to let emotion guide her.
Lane’s office door was closed and there was no light spilling out from underneath it. Jillian cursed softly. Thanks to Saul Mollender, they had taken a huge step forward in connecting Belle to Umberto Vasquez, and possibly learning more about why she had been killed. Armed with the bewildering information that Umberto’s medical record had him going by ambulance from the Singh Center to Shelby Stone, where his arrival was never documented, Jillian wanted to move as quickly as possible. Something was very wrong with Singh’s clinic, and now it seemed quite possible that something was rotten at Shelby Stone as well.
She made a tentative knock, then sighed with relief when she heard movement from within. Nancy Lane, in a charcoal business suit, embraced her warmly. In her early sixties, the dean had grayed over the years, and with her granny glasses and jovial laugh, reminded some of Santa’s wife. But she was a force. She had almost single-handedly built the nursing school into one of the top in the country, and was showing no signs of slowing.
“Thank you for waiting,” Jillian said.
“Everything all right in the dorms?”
“Perfect. It seems like lately I’m always thanking you for something, but thank you for that one. Staying here has made a huge difference. The insurance company has come through, so now I’m looking for a new place.”
“Take your time, dear. Stay here as long as you need to. So, come into my office, sit down, and let’s talk.”
“Thank you . . . again.”
Jillian followed Lane into her office suite, accepted a cup of tea, and settled in on the sofa beside her.
“So tell me now, what’s going on?” the dean asked. “I understand it’s about Belle?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I think about your sister all the time, Jillian. Nothing about her death makes any sense. I wrote a recommendation for her when she moved to Charlotte, and she called me so excited when she got the ICU job. She was already such a shining star in our profession. Her loss has affected us all deeply.”
With effort, Jillian used her anger to help her maintain composure.
“I know that,” she said, “which is why I came to see you. Many people admired and loved Belle, but you are one of the few who truly understood and believed in my conviction that she would never ever take her own life.”
“I did then and I do today.”
“I’ve formed a friendship with a doctor named Nick Garrity. He runs the medical van that drives around caring for the homeless people around D.C. and Baltimore.”
“Yes, of course. I have heard wonderful things about him and the marvelous nurse who works with him.”
“Junie Wright. Actually, they are partners in the van.”
“They do such good for so many.”
“Well, there’s a connection between Belle and Nick that I’ll tell you about when I have more time. For now suffice it to say that Nick and I might be closing in on finding her killer.”
“Oh, my God. Please be careful,” Lane said.
“So far we’re just feeling our way along, but we’re not taking any chances,” Jillian replied, smiling inwardly at the recent events in the Singh Center. “We don’t have all the facts yet, so we’re not ready to make any claims, but Belle’s death might be linked to the disappearance of Nick’s close friend, a soldier named Umberto Vasquez.”
“So, what can I do to help?”
Jillian withdrew a folded piece of paper and handed it over.
“I need to know where Belle might have been on that date.”
“Three years ago?”
“She was a senior nursing student back then. I think that date might be very important somehow, but I can’t be sure.”
“Let me check. Our record keeping for student schedules is a bit haphazard, so this could be tough. I’ll start by pulling up her transcript from student services.”
Lane crossed the office and settled in at her desk. Jillian took the black spindle-backed chair catty-corner to her. The search did not take long.
“Well, I may have something here,” the dean said after no more than two minutes.
Lane motioned for Jillian to look at her computer screen. Seeing Belle’s school photo in the upper right corner of her digitized nursing school transcript brought a now familiar mix of sadness and intense anger to her chest. Intuitively, Lane took hold of Jillian’s hand.
“Your sister was a beautiful woman,” Lane said. “Inside and out. We have all her awards, faculty recommendations, and certifications listed here. She was a standout member of our community, admired by her peers and revered by our faculty.”
“Anything on or around that specific date?”
“No, not on the date you gave me, though I thought it reminded me of something. Then I saw this here.” Lane pointed to an entry in Belle’s transcript. “It was an honor we gave Belle for being one of our top students. She was allowed to observe, as part of her rotation in surgery, the operation for Aleem Syed Mohammad.”
Jillian drew a blank on the name, though it sounded familiar.
Sensing her former student’s puzzlement, Lane helped her out. “Mohammad was a terrorist—one of the highest ranking we have ever captured. Our troops found him in a cave—somewhere in Pakistan, I think. I don’t remember the exact details, but I recall that his men defended him to the death. He was turned over to the CIA and was brought back here.”
“Of course. I remember now. Belle told me about what happened. I was away, but she saved me the newspaper articles.”
“Exactly. Not long after he was captured, Mohammad became progressively ill, and was found to have a rather large tumor in his heart—quite a rare tumor as I recall, although I’m blocking on the name. He needed major open-heart surgery to remove it. Our hospital was selected for the operation because of our proximity to where he was being held in Virginia. Plus, we’ve handled this sort of high-profile thing before.”
“As I said, I was away at the time. Friends and I were climbing in the Rockies. Belle was the only nursing student in the OR, yes?”
“There was also a medical student.”
“She told me the operation, what there was of it, was a nightmare.”
“Mohammad was the second-most-wanted terrorist in the world behind Bin Laden himself. Capturing him was quite a feat. I’m glad I don’t know what methods were being used to interrogate him, but that all came to a halt when he became ill. A team of experts was assembled from around the country to perform the surgery. Then, as they were transferring Mohammad from the stretcher to the operating table, he had a cardiac arrest. Never made it to the surgery.”
“How was Belle chosen to observe the case?”
“It was very last-minute who got picked because we weren’t sure right up until the day of the operation if the government folks were going to allow it. As I recall, there was no doubt about choosing her.”
Jillian was truly dumbfounded by the news. The day after Umberto disappeared, after he had been delivered by ambulance to Shelby Stone Memorial Hospital, Belle witnessed the operating room death of one of the world’s most feared and reviled terrorists. There had to be a connection. But what? And were those events in any way tied to Belle’s murder three years later? No matter how she twisted that thought in her mind, Jillian could not see how they could be.
At the moment, though, Umberto Vasquez, Aleem Syed Mohammad, and Dr. Nick Fury were all
they had. Despite the lack of an obvious scenario that connected the three, this was going to be exciting news to share with Nick.
“Do you have any idea who else was in the operating room that day?” she asked finally.
“I don’t have a clue. I’m sure some of the names are in the man’s hospital record. We could check there, or we could see if the case was recorded.”
“Recorded?”
“Yes. Did you know about the cameras hooked up in the operating rooms?”
“No, I didn’t. Do you record every operation?”
Lane shook her head. “We don’t have the resources to do that because each operation has to be edited down to a manageable length and then transferred to DVD for storage. But selected cases—the ones of teaching or legal or historical importance—are recorded now.”
“Where do we get the funding for that?”
“As part of a grant—federal, I think. Shelby Stone was one of the first metropolitan hospitals to install video equipment in all twenty-four of our operating rooms. We use the videos in our teaching curriculum, and so do the medical school and residency programs. In addition, I’ve heard of a couple of malpractice suits that have been squashed because of the recordings.”
“Do you think Mohammad’s operation was filmed?” Jillian asked.
“Well, I suppose if they’re going to record any case, they’d have done that one.”
“Then there should be a DVD of his operation archived somewhere,” Jillian said.
“I think you’re right,” Lane said. “We request them by the surgical procedure or even by the surgeon, and the record room transmits it to us or maybe sends a disc over. I could ask one of our instructors how it all works.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jillian replied. “You’ve been an amazing help already.”
“But how will you find out?”
Jillian flashed on the Mole. “I have someone I can call,” she said.
CHAPTER 37
Phillip MacCandliss knew the Jericho people would come to their senses. Given the level of exposure and risk thrust upon him following the Manny Ferris breach, they had actually gotten off easy. In addition to Vasquez and Ferris, he had delivered three other worthless vets to them over the last four years. The three, like Vasquez and Ferris before them, were near duplicates for the photos Jericho had provided him—seven-out-of-ten-point matches for the facial characteristics they had insisted upon, one of them an eight.
Michael Palmer Page 22