To hell with it. I called Alison again. No answer. I called Dell. Same thing. I called Deuce.
“Hey, doc, what’s happening?”
I told him where I was and he was surprised. Not quite annoyed but not happy with my Lone Ranger behavior. I tried to head him off by telling him exactly what had transpired over the last thirty-six hours. “The thing is, I’m convinced we’re at the edge of disaster. You know me, I have no interest in stepping on toes, but I just have to open the right eyes here, or in D.C., or at home. I can’t look the other way until somebody picks up the ball.”
“Wendell, we are on the case.”
“Yeah. Following the drugs and investigating a homicide. Speaking about that, any progress on Farzan?”
“Not a whole hell of a lot to report. No hits, no runs. Going nowhere. Same with your shooters. The brass decided it was linked to whatever is going down with the heroin and the homicide, so at least it has top priority. And Rodriguez still has a hard-on for you and your girl. I can’t talk him out of thinking you’re involved.”
“I’m not, Deuce. I swear. I know nothing. The birds keep circling my head. I’m afraid to take my hat off. I was hoping you had something. I think the feds are coming in big-time. I called Dell, and he gets it.”
“What?”
“He understands that this is bigger than drug smugglers.”
“Yeah, it is. It’s a murder investigation now. I’m not saying your theory is wrong, but I have to deal with what I see. What’s the situation with your girlfriend? Rodriguez says she took a powder again. He and his boy Griffin have been trying to talk to her for days. I assume you know something about that.”
“I do.” I explained why she was lying low.
“I need her location and number. We can’t withhold information. We’re cops and this is police business. I’ll look after her. Don’t worry about Rodriguez.”
I took Deuce at his word and gave him the new number.
“I think something is going to happen in the next forty-eight hours. There will be a mule heading for New York soon. Very soon. Forget about getting the dogs out. This won’t be about drugs, and these won’t be Mexicans or Colombians. Think some level of Islamic fanatic. Beyond suicide bomber, and think anthrax.”
“Jesus, Wendell, how the hell do you get to that?”
I gave Secondi a brief rundown of my thinking.
“I’m not kidding, Deuce. We have to cover the airports here and in New York and find her or him. Whoever the carrier is.”
“How? X-ray every boarding passenger and every one that disembarks at JFK? The feds won’t do that on a hunch.”
“Maybe not, but it has to be done.”
“Good luck.”
That sounded like the brush-off to me. Even Deuce. The surgery had been done, the mule was waiting to board a plane with the most dangerous cargo since the Enola Gay left for Hiroshima, and nothing was being done to stop it. I was a little anxious about Alison, anxious about the next few days, and at a loss for direction. I knew I wouldn’t find any in the minibar, but that’s where I went. I grabbed two little bottles of Oban, poured them into a tumbler, and had a few sips. I walked to the easy chair in the corner of the room and released myself into the soft cushion. I sipped and thought. Sipped and thought. I can’t say that that was when it all became clear to me, but ten minutes later I understood my predicament. Then I was able to act on it.
35
The 5:15 Virgin flight from Heathrow landed at JFK a few minutes earlier than its 8:10 ETA. With only a carry-on and virtually no line at customs, I was in a cab at 8:20. I called Alison on the way in and got no answer. I was at the hotel at ten past nine. The room was in my name, I had a key card, but no one challenged me at the desk or the elevators, and it certainly wasn’t because they recognized me. I took my card out of my pocket but knocked on the door anyway. When there was no response, I rang the doorbell and slipped the key card into the slot, waited for the green light, removed it, and opened the door. Before the card was back in my pocket, I knew something was wrong. I entered the room cautiously, afraid of what I would find. All the lights were on, the bed was made, and there was no sign of life. No bags, newspapers, or clothing. To the right, the bathroom was bright and clean and waiting for use. No one was about to use it. Alison was gone.
There wasn’t the slightest hint of anything sinister. The room was clean as a whistle. Nothing out of place, just a nicely cleaned room ready for the next guest. Rodriguez was right. Alison had taken a powder. It was getting to be an old story.
There was no point asking the hotel staff for information. Alison was too smart for that. She didn’t check out, because the room was registered in my name, and I had estimated my stay at a week. Maid service was usually in the morning, unless the DO NOT DISTURB hung on the doorknob. I could check that out and have some idea when she last used the room. Not a dent in a pillow or a tissue pulled since the room had been made up.
I wasn’t at all worried; I was pissed. Alison had her own agenda, and she sandbagged me again. Like a jerk, I believed most everything she told me and definitely everything she whispered sweetly in my ear. She was working. That’s all it was, and I must have been pretty easy. When you catch a woman in a good-sized lie, any reasonable man recognizes it was not an isolated incident. With Alison, they were fast and furious, one after the other. Good spy, lousy girlfriend. I was really, really pissed.
I asked around at the reception desk, in the bar, and focused on the two young guys working the door. They didn’t seem to do much, but they wouldn’t miss a pretty woman. They were friendly and casual and never bothered to ask who, what, or why. Both had come on at four, and neither remembered seeing anyone matching Alison’s description. If she was slipping away, it was unlikely that she would set herself up to register with the doormen. More than likely Alison had made a quiet exit and found her own taxi.
I went back to the desk and checked out. The bill wasn’t too complicated. No one used hotel phones anymore. The outrageous surcharges made them a just victim of cell service. The Wi-Fi was free, and room service was billed out the way it always had been. At 12:37 that afternoon, a BLT and a Diet Coke had been delivered to the room. Alison ate in the room just after noon. She knew I was on my way back from London, and she split. Looking through the rest of the room-service backup paper, I saw that she seemed to have taken most of her meals in the room. They were always orders for one—I don’t know why I was so relieved by that. Her meals were the usual boring stuff. How many BLTs can a person consume?
It was Saturday night. Figuring the time change, Tahani had performed the surgery almost twenty-four hours ago. The local anesthetic in the area had an effective life of no more than four or five hours. It had long since worn off, and the mule would be feeling the pain of stretched skin and the surgical incision. This would be the most uncomfortable period, with local effect long gone, and endorphins dissipated. Strong pain relievers were necessary. Not a pleasant time to travel but not impossible. Medevac planes transfer soldiers in extremis. Cabins were pressurized. It could be done. This patient was not in any danger. But I was guessing that he wouldn’t be traveling for at least seventy-two hours. Definitely not today, probably not tomorrow. Too much pain. Too great a possibility of attracting attention. Slipping through unnoticed was required. Acting peculiarly or attracting attention was a receipt for detection. Rule number one in the mule business: don’t stand out from the crowd.
It was too late to retrieve Tonto from the Dog House, where he boarded in my absence, and I wasn’t sure what the next few days would bring. I would make arrangements for him to stay on. Dogs adapt quickly and live happily in all sorts of situations, but first love is first love. Like I said, for me it’s about guilt. It’s in my genes.
I was pretty sure I had a day or two to mobilize forces, and I headed home for a night’s sleep. Alison wasn’t about to return to the hotel, so there was no reason to stay there. I had one of my new pals at the door hail a cab, which w
asn’t easy on a Saturday night in Chelsea. I handed him a twenty-dollar tip to seal our friendship and headed home.
At the door I realized it was a mistake, not retrieving Tonto. I listened for his snorting and his little cries of excitement, and my heart dropped from the silence. Inside, there was a faint aroma of dog and a gray loneliness. It would have been nice to be in my big old chair scratching Tonto’s head while I tried to figure out Alison. My mind was spinning as I flopped into the chair. Before I managed to get comfortable, I jumped up.
“Shit.” They wouldn’t have to worry about pain, or drugs, or making a scene if the mule was a repeat carrier. The pockets under the breasts would already be there from previous implants, and if they re-implanted within a few weeks, they would not yet have closed. It was like changing batteries. There would be no stretching of the skin, no pain. The mule could easily go from the operating room to the airport; at most they might have to wait a day to be sure there was no bleeding. A bloody shirt would make quite a scene on an airplane. Just a few Tylenol #3, or a Vicodin, and go for it. Tahani knew the details.
I scrolled to Tahani’s home number and sent the call through. After four rings, a voice I did not recognize answered in foreign-inflected British English.
“Mr. Tahani’s residence.”
“May I speak to him, please? It’s important.”
“Who is this?”
“Dr. Black. He knows me.”
“What is this in reference to?”
“Just get him on the phone. This is important.”
“Sorry, Mr. Tahani is away.”
After a few more attempts to break through the barrier, I disconnected the call. Tahani was planning a weekend in the country, and it was three a.m. in London. What the hell was his staff doing wide-awake at three a.m. Sunday morning? Then I remembered there was no staff. I called Tahani’s cell phone. There was no answer, and I left a message asking him to call me.
If Tahani was in trouble, there was little I could do about it, and every instinct told me he was in deep shit. Somehow or other, it was not going to end well for him, and I liked the guy. He was sad and had screwed up his life, but there was a gentle humanity about him that made me automatically hope for his survival. I was reluctant to call Dell again, but I couldn’t let this pass unnoticed. I compromised by sending him a long text message and hoped he would read it before his Sunday morning run. He was too compulsive to go blank on Sunday, and I had to grab a few minutes of his time before he and Liz and the kids were off to church. I wanted to respect those few hours and didn’t want to be responsible for Dell being the only person vibrating while the pastor ran on.
At seven fifteen, Sunday morning, Dell called. He was in gear. The London Metro Police were on their way to Tahani’s flat, and he had a meeting at the office of the secretary of Homeland Security at nine.
“If everything works out, we will be in New York by noon. Are you available?”
Available? Of course I would be available. I was the whistle-blower. “Of course. Where should I meet you?”
“TBD. Call you when I know more.”
I thanked him and signed off. I think I may have smiled. I know I was relieved.
My sense of relief was short-lived. That’s what life is like. At nine on the dot, Rodriguez and Griffin showed up at my door, unannounced. They rapped with their fists and shouted the usual intimidating phrases.
“Police. Open up. We know you’re in there.” It was standard operating procedure. I wasn’t intimidated, but man was I annoyed. I snuck a peek through the security eye, recognized the two, and swung the door open, steaming.
“What the hell do you want? Get off my case, you two fucking dummies.”
“Shut up. Back up and hug the wall.” Griffin actually had his pistol drawn. Rodriguez pushed me backward, grabbed my arm with an iron grip, and spun me around too quickly for me to react. My forehead was slammed against the wall and my hands cuffed behind my back before I could lash out, which would have been a very stupid move. He turned me again and pushed me into the big overstuffed chair. It isn’t comfortable, half-reclining with your hands cuffed tightly behind your back. I was happy Tonto was not at home. Something very bad would have happened, and Tonto would have been the loser. I really hated these two assholes. Now I couldn’t stop thinking that they would kill my dog. My face must have been beet-red, because Rodriguez suddenly got concerned.
“Calm down, doc. Don’t fight it. You’re gonna have a stroke here. Cool it.” Rodriguez looked over to Griffin, who had holstered his pistol and looked as sour and nasty as ever. “He looks like a candidate for it, right, partner?”
“Yeah, Rod. He does. I’ve seen ’em go just like that.” And he snapped his fingers.
“He knows his stuff, doc. Better listen to him.”
Now they were playing with me, but it wasn’t a game. No questions. A few quick statements, the Miranda card came out, and I was under arrest doing my version of an innocent man kicking and screaming. I had seen it dozens of times, but when you are the perp, there’s no restraining your emotions. They were enjoying it. I couldn’t wait to get to Midtown North and straighten these two guys out.
In the back of the unmarked car, my whole perspective on law enforcement changed. Riding downtown on Fifth Avenue, they hit the siren at corners, and the whooping stopped traffic and brought stares from pedestrians and people in the cars we passed. I couldn’t see if the flashers were on, but it was a good bet. This was a sideshow, and I was the star freak. It was easy to understand those newspaper photos of guys with their coats pulled over their faces. I would have hidden my head if I could, but that was not an option as I sat against my cuffed wrists in the backseat of the black SUV. Griffin drove and didn’t say much. All the while, Rodriguez kept tossing questions at me. I didn’t bite. Not a word. Although I did tell him to go fuck himself when he asked how long I had been involved in the drug ring.
We crossed town on Fifty-third Street, drove uptown for a block on Ninth Avenue, headed east on Fifty-fourth Street, and pulled into one of the nose-first spots on the south side of the street, in front of the precinct house. Not that long ago, I had entered through the office entrance. Today, the two assholes paraded me up the front steps with my hands cuffed behind my back. It was still Sunday morning, and the city was quiet. The shift had changed a couple of hours ago, and the few uniforms going in and out were kids, mostly in pairs, chattering about football and women. The one lone female looked zoned out and unhappy to be where she was. None of them seemed to recognize me, and they gave us no more than the sidelong glance to take in a perp. That was how it was done. Eye the perp parade. Good police habit. Have a look when somebody else makes the collar. It’s the same faces over and over, and it’s good to know the bad guys.
36
The best I could make of all the fuss was they still thought Alison was a drug trafficker and I was her accomplice. Both of which were ridiculous, but they were working me over for a reason. I stopped protesting, trying not to draw attention to myself going through the bullpen in handcuffs. Then I thought better of slinking through the room as though in shame. I scanned the room and shouted to the first familiar face, “It’s me, Dr. Black. Call Lieutenant Secondi and tell him I’m here.”
The two jerks led me to an interview room, undid the cuffs, and pushed me into a chair. I think I was pretty calm when I finally demanded my right to call a lawyer.
“Right. I’ll get right on it,” Rodriguez said with a smile, and they both left the room. I was glad for that, and I needed time to think of a lawyer. The idea of rousing my tax attorney or my divorce lawyer made me laugh. I had to think of a defense attorney. There were lots of good ones passing through our place of business, and they all knew the ropes. Murderers, thieves, and drug dealers all had the same rights, and when experienced people faced off, it was simply business as usual. I found myself thinking about who I wanted to ask for help, and in whose company I would be too embarrassed to be seen. A lot of slimeballs are
in the precincts and courthouses. But mostly they are smart, upstanding people. Good lawyers and former prosecutors, people who, for their own reasons wanted to enter the private sector.
Pissed off as I was, I really couldn’t get too anxious about my situation. Being innocent is for newborns, but I certainly hadn’t broken any laws or done anything seriously wrong . . . that I could think of. I was part of the system. Far too well-connected to be railroaded, and I was too innocent to be worried. So what the hell was I doing here?
Best I could figure, they were working on the curious coincidence that Alison knew a victim and one of the players. And then she was nowhere to be found. That made her a suspect. It was barely even circumstantial, but you had to admit it was a starting point. That was enough to make an arrest and bring her before a judge . . . however briefly. But that was Alison, not me. So I guess they figured me for her partner in crime. As far as I knew, my only crime was sleeping with her.
More than fifty minutes had passed, and I was saved the agony of calling a lawyer by the miraculous appearance of Deuce. The big guy made the best of it, standing at the door of the interview room, laughing. I laughed as well and shrugged my shoulders. I felt like a complete dork.
“Shit, man, get me out of this zoo.”
“Police Surgeon Black, this is our NYPD in action. It may seem like the monkey house in Central Park, but on the whole, the monkeys are smarter.”
Wendell Black, MD Page 16