by Diane Capri
When he checked through his lashes, he saw her pacing the room, stopping now and again to glance out the window at Bayshore Boulevard. On a clear day, Gaspar knew she could have seen Plant Key and George’s Place and probably all the way to MacDill at the opposite end of the linear park. Not today. Heavy clouds had moved in, bringing congested air that obscured the sightline. He settled his eyes truly shut.
Gaspar figured even if Reacher was in the vicinity, he couldn’t reach Weston as long as Weston was still in surgery. Gaspar might have dropped off for a quick twenty winks, but he heard Otto engage in subdued conversation with one of the women. Probably Kimball. Reporters were chatty by nature. Probably not Lane. Lawyers were notoriously tight-lipped. Trying to talk to Lane would be a waste of time. Whatever Otto found out from whoever she was talking to, she’d tell him eventually. He let his breathing flatten and even out as he felt himself dropping again toward sleep.
He was almost there when the door opened and Gaspar raised his eyelids enough to see a woman dressed in pink surgical scrubs enter. “You’re the FBI agents?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Otto said, directing her to the seat next to Gaspar and leaving Kimball and Lane behind her looking miffed at being excluded.
“I’m Trista Blanke, O.R. Patient Coordinator,” she said. “I’ve been told I should give you an update on Mr. and Mrs. Weston. They should both be out of surgery shortly. Mr. Weston’s most serious wound was the shot to the back of his shoulder. The bullet traveled through his body, which is better than most alternatives. But it nicked an artery. He lost a lot of blood and the repair surgery lasted a bit longer than it otherwise would have.”
“And Mrs. Weston?” Otto asked.
“She was wounded in the right thigh. Again, the bullet traveled through, but it shattered the femur. She should be fine once reconstruction is completed,” she said. “They’ll be in recovery for an hour or so after the procedures.”
“When can we talk to them?” Otto asked.
“When they’re out of surgery, you can give it a try. But until the anesthesia wears off, they may not make much sense.”
“Thanks,” Otto said.
“No problem,” she said before she approached Jennifer Lane, likely to deliver the same news. Kimball crowded in to hear.
“We are probably wasting our time,” Otto said, quietly.
Gaspar didn’t argue. Except for the possibility of running into Reacher, he figured their time could be much better spent eating. He settled back into his waiting posture and reclosed his eyes, hoping for a quiet five minutes.
When Ms. Blanke had completed her mission and advanced toward the exit, Gaspar heard Otto join her, asking, “Where can I get a cup of coffee?”
Four minutes, forty-five seconds later, the football game ended and the two guys who’d been watching left the room. Gaspar was now alone with the two women. In his bachelor days, he’d have considered that a fringe benefit of the job.
Jessica Kimball spoke first. “Are you planning to arrest both Westons when they come out of recovery?”
“What reason do you have for arresting Samantha Weston?” Jennifer Lane demanded.
Kimball replied, “He’s FBI. The Asian woman, too. Why else would they be here?”
“Is that true?” Lane asked.
Gaspar’s eyes remained closed and he said nothing. Otto would have bristled at the assumption she was Asian. Oh, sure, she looked like her Vietnamese mother. But she considered herself 100% tall, blonde, sturdy, stubborn German, like her father. Gaspar grinned and said nothing.
Kimball walked over and kicked the sole of his right shoe. Not hard. Just enough to jostle a normal person to attention. But the strike sent painful shock waves up his right leg and into his right side where the muscles had collapsed and the nerves touched things they weren’t meant to touch.
“You’re not sleeping,” Kimball said.
“Checking my eyelids for holes,” he replied, willing his pain to settle down. Which never worked. Biofeedback was bunk. Maybe pain was in the brain, but despite his exercise of will, his leg settled into the dull thumping he’d long ago accepted as normal. He opened his eyes, but didn’t alter his posture. “What can I do for you, Ms. Kimball?”
“Same thing the FBI has been doing for me for a decade,” Kimball said, bitterly. “Nothing.”
Lane cut in belligerently. “Do you have an arrest warrant for Samantha Weston? You intend to arrest her while she’s incapacitated and unable to understand her rights, Agent Gaspar?”
“Obviously, she understands she has a right to an attorney, since you’re here,” Gaspar replied without moving. “The only way your presence here makes any sense to me is that she’s been expecting us. Which means someone tipped her off. When I find out who did the tipping, you may have yourself another client.”
The expression on Lane’s face suggested he’d hit the bulls-eye. Most leaks were intentional. If someone had warned Samantha Weston of her impending arrest, the notice was tactical. Which made him wonder briefly, as a matter of professional curiosity, what the local agents were really up to with Weston. If they already had a warrant supported by probable cause for arrest, why did they want his wife?
“Maybe I don’t need your client, Ms. Lane. I’m only interested in the original murder investigation,” Gaspar said. “What do you know about that?”
“Samantha wasn’t living in Tampa back then,” Jennifer Lane replied. “Nor was I.”
Kimball said, “I’ve investigated thoroughly for Taboo, and I was at the gunman’s execution. So I probably know more than she does.”
The waiting room door opened again and Otto entered with four cups of black coffee. Everyone took a cup and spent a few moments adding and stirring.
Lane sipped and swallowed before she asked, “Are you thinking today’s shooting is somehow about that old case?”
“What do you think?” Gaspar replied.
“I doubt it,” Otto said. “Seventeen years is a long time for any normal person to carry a grudge.”
Like a woman with personal experience, Kimball said, “Not where your kids are concerned, it isn’t.”
“Say you’re right,” Lane said to her. “What do you think is going on here?”
Jennifer Lane looked young and inexperienced. How’d she get a powerhouse client like Weston’s wife? Curious situation, at the very least, Gaspar thought again.
Jess Kimball was about the same age as Lane, but she seemed more worldly somehow. As if she’d been through tough times that had aged her and forged her titanium spine. She said, “We need to know how today’s shooter is connected to Weston. It wasn’t a random shooting, because the guy went right up to Weston and fired only at him. When we get the name of the shooter, I should be able to tell you what’s going on.”
“What makes you so sure?” Otto asked.
“I do very thorough research, Agent Otto. If Weston’s sneezed in the wrong direction, I’ve found out about it,” Kimball said, clearly miffed at the perceived slight to her reporting skills. “Listen: this guy is a miserable human being who’s caused nothing but heartache wherever he’s gone. This wasn’t the first time someone has tried to erase Weston from the planet. He’s had more lives than an alley cat already. Sorting through the list of people waiting in line for a chance to kill him will take some time.”
Before Otto had a chance to reply, the waiting room door opened again. Every time it happened, Gaspar tensed a bit. Expecting Reacher. But so far, he hadn’t materialized.
This time, four people entered ahead of a short, stout man dressed in hospital scrubs. The smallish waiting room was instantly overcrowded.
Gaspar recognized the two FBI agents he’d seen at the memorial service intending to arrest Weston for a laundry list of crimes against the government. Lane and Kimball weren’t too far off in their assessment of the FBI’s intentions, though they had been led a bit astray regarding the identity of the Bureau’s official team for the arrest.
&nbs
p; There was an awkward moment while everyone seemed blinded by the unexpected presence of the others before the stout man in scrubs began threading his way through the group on his way to the interior door. One of the agents stopped his progress by pulling out his badge wallet. “I’m Special Agent Edward Crane and this is Special Agent Derek Bartos.” Crane, Gaspar thought. He knew—and didn’t much like—the man. “We’re here to take recorded statements from Thomas Weston and his wife, Samantha Weston.” Crane pointed toward one of the other two newcomers, a tall redhead wearing jeans and blazer over a white tee-shirt and a pixie hair cut suitable for a woman ten years younger. “This is Judge Willa Carson and her court reporter, Ms. Natalie Chernow.”
Gaspar’s right eyebrow shot up. There weren’t that many Federal judges in Florida and he’d met most of them several times—the FBI and the federal bench routinely worked cooperatively. Judge Carson’s jurisdiction was the Middle District of Florida, though, and Gaspar generally stayed in his own sandbox in the Southern District, so he’d never met her.
But he’d heard stories about the freewheeling Willa Carson, who was said to care less for precedent and statutes than her own version of appropriate justice. Some said Carson’s conduct was unjudicial. Others said she was a breath of fresh air. All of which, for a law-and-order man like Gaspar, wasn’t usually good news. But he’d mellowed lately on the rule-following. He could hardly fault Judge Carson for doing the same.
The stout man spoke up. “I’m Steven Kent, physician’s assistant assigned to both patients. Colonel Weston is out of surgery and stable, though he’s too groggy to answer questions yet. He’ll be moved in about thirty minutes.” His tone was not exactly disrespectful, but he wasn’t deferential, either. “Mrs. Weston should be moved by then as well. I’ll let you know.”
Kent turned smartly like a soldier on parade and left without further comment. Brief silence reigned.
Otto stood and introduced herself and Gaspar to the new arrivals before she said, “There’s a coffee pot at the station across the hall. Anybody interested?”
Jennifer Lane held out her empty cup and said, “I’d love another one. Would you mind? I’d come with you, but I need to watch these new guys.”
Bad move. She’d insulted the FBI, which raised Otto’s hackles along with those of the other agents. Gaspar remained unruffled. Lawyers were always sanctimonious, in his experience. Being a lawyer herself, Otto couldn’t very well say so. Gaspar hid his grin as she grudgingly collected Lane’s cup.
“I’m fine,” Kimball replied.
“Judge Carson? Coffee?” Otto offered.
Carson moved to join her, towering over Otto and glancing back as they headed for the door. “Surely you people can play nice until I get back. If not,” she looked Gaspar in the eye, “go ahead and shoot them all.”
Gaspar laughed out loud. Yep. Judge Willa Carson might be worth the drive up from Miami on the right case. He’d keep the idea in mind. If he ever got back to his normal job.
9
After the door closed behind Otto and the Judge, Crane said, “Agent Gaspar, can I have a word with you outside, please?”
Gaspar stood, stretched, ignored the pain and forced himself not to limp as he followed Crane into the corridor. When they reached the window at the end of the hallway where they were unlikely to be overheard, Crane asked, “What are you doing here, Gaspar?”
“Enjoying the sunshine.”
“Still the same smart ass.”
“I think you mentioned that the last time our paths crossed, Crane.”
“When I saw you at the memorial, I called in. Miami doesn’t know why you’re here. Have you gone rogue, Gaspar?”
“Possibly,” he replied.
“If you’re connected to Weston, you’re going down. Got that?”
Gaspar ignored the threat, which was par for the course with Crane. “Rumor says you’ve got a warrant in your pocket. Brought along the judge herself, just to cover your bases. The bad news, though: you arrest Weston, you won’t need a court reporter. He’s not talking to you until he gets a lawyer, and probably not then.”
“He’s got a lawyer, and he’ll talk.”
“Lane says she’s the wife’s lawyer. Not his,” Gaspar said.
“Not to me, she didn’t.” If he jutted his chin any farther, he might fall over from the weight of his fat head.
“You’re thinking Weston’s going to confess to something? Have you ever talked to the guy? He wouldn’t tell you how he takes his coffee unless he had a damn good reason.”
“He must have a good reason, then.”
Gaspar hadn’t considered that Weston would confess. He mulled this over, pushed the idea this way and that, like kneading bread. Couldn’t make it work.
“What reason?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Crane sounded like a guy grunting his way through the defensive line. “He’s committed about a hundred counts of treason. Murder. Grand larceny. You name it. The guy’s a scum-bucket. I get it on the record in front of a Federal judge before he croaks, that’s all I care about.”
“You think Weston is dying? You’re planning a dying declaration?” Gaspar laughed a good two seconds before he controlled himself. “He was winged. Two busted legs and a messed up shoulder. That’s it. He’s not dying. You’re wasting your time.”
“Wise up. He’s got cancer. He’ll be dead by the end of the month. It’s his wife he’s worried about protecting now. He thinks we’ll charge her with his crimes.”
“Why would he think that?”
Crane shrugged and made no reply. Which was all the reply Gaspar needed. Crane must have threatened to charge Weston’s wife. And Weston must have believed the threat. Nothing else would puff Crane’s confidence up so far.
Steven Kent came around the corner and saw them standing at the end of the hallway. “You can come in now,” he said, then stuck his head into the waiting room and made the same announcement to the others.
“What about Weston’s wife?” Gaspar pressed.
“That’s his motivation. He’s trying to save her ass,” Crane said.
Gaspar wondered whether the wife cared that much about Weston, since she’d filed for divorce. He shrugged. “Will it work?”
“Depends on what he says, doesn’t it?” Crane strode away from Gaspar like a man who’d spiked the ball in the end zone.
10
They crowded around Weston’s hospital bed in a large, open recovery room that had been cleared of all patients except Weston and his wife. She was obviously still out cold, but Weston was at least approaching consciousness—quietly moaning, eyelids fluttering. A blanket covered him from the waist down, obscuring the state of reconstruction done to both legs. His shoulder was bandaged, but not casted. Gaspar guessed the repairs were done on the inside.
Unless he perked up pretty markedly, they weren’t going to get much of a statement from him. And even if they did and he said something worthwhile, it wouldn’t carry much weight later, given the amount of drugs in his system. Undeterred, Natalie Chernow, the court reporter, had set up her machine near the head of the bed to be sure she accurately heard and recorded anything he might babble. She also activated a tape recorder. Belt and suspenders, Gaspar supposed.
Judge Carson stood at the foot of the bed, the better to see and hear everything as it happened, should anything happen.
Lane said she would act as Weston’s representative for the purpose of the statement so they didn’t have to call in another lawyer, which wasn’t exactly kosher. But nothing about the situation was normal and it wasn’t Gaspar’s case, so he wasn’t going to object. Even though he’d like to whip that “I told you so” smirk off Crane’s face.
Lane stood next to the court reporter, Crane and his crony Bartos stood across the bed from Gaspar and Otto, and Kimball pressed herself into position beside them.
“Wait,” Lane said to her. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
“First Amendment and Flori
da’s Sunshine law. Press would be allowed in a courtroom for the statement,” Kimball pointed out, “so I can’t be excluded just because proceedings are in a hospital.”
Lane appealed to Judge Carson, who ruled that Kimball could stay. Gaspar and Otto, too. Carson offered no explanation for her ruling.
Gaspar didn’t expect to learn much, especially since Weston had so far only managed the occasional groan, though it made sense to play things out just in case he got chatty. You never knew. It was just barely possible he might cough up a lead on Reacher that he and Otto could follow up later. Mainly they stayed because it would have looked odd to leave at that point.
And then Weston opened his eyes. When he saw Gaspar, his mouth opened in a wide, drugged, silly smile. His pupils were dilated and his speech slurred when he gleefully asked, “Did my guys get him?”
“What?” Otto asked, leaning in.
Weston’s voice was weak, whispery, hard to hear. But unmistakably cheerful. “Reacher. Shot me. Did my guys kill him? Is he dead?”
Otto asked, “You lured Reacher to the memorial so your bodyguards could kill him?”
Crane glared at Otto, but she didn’t see him. Crane spoke up. “Colonel Weston, the shooter was Michael Vernon. He was killed at the scene. You knew him, right? He served under you in Iraq for two years. Hit by an IED, remember? Two buddies died. Vernon survived. Blamed you for the whole thing, would be my guess.”
Weston sank into his pillows and closed his eyes again. His breathing became more ragged. Steven Kent must have noticed something irregular on the monitors because he came into the room and checked the machines.
“Ten minutes. No more,” he said to Crane. “Otherwise, he won’t survive the night.”
“You said his injuries weren’t life threatening,” Crane said.
Kent stood his ground, “I said normally not life threatening. We need to keep it that way, don’t you think?”