The Hound of Justice

by Claire O'Dell

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Dr. Watson? Dr. Janet Watson? This is Jenna Hudson.”

  Jenna Hudson, the senior partner for Hudson Realty. Also, if I guessed correctly, a member of the same agency that employed Sara Holmes. I sat down with a thump and leaned against the cabinet, suddenly emptied out with relief.

  “Yes, yes. It’s me. What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “This is a courtesy call. We need to put 2B on the market.”

  My intestinal tract gave a mighty leap. “What? Why?”

  Jenna paused, and I heard a world of calculation in that brief silence. “A matter of security.”

  Even that much information was a concession. I could tell.

  “Where is Sara?” I demanded.

  No reply.

  I sucked my teeth and considered several different curses. Not that cursing would make any difference to Jenna Hudson and the FBI. “Fine,” I snapped. “You don’t have clearance to tell me, or I don’t have clearance to get any answers. What about our lease?”

  “As you might recall, the lease includes an emergency clause . . .”

  Of course, it would, I thought bitterly. Not that it had done me any good last September when I’d pored over every single page, looking for an out.

  “Page ten,” Hudson said. “Clause eleven, paragraph two—”

  The damnable text sprang up sharp and clear in memory—something about acts of God and war. What did that have to do with Sara and her new mission?

  “You need to give me proper notice,” I said. “I can’t just find another set of rooms tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” Hudson replied. “The clause states that you have thirty days to relocate. In recognition of the short notification, we are prepared to offer you a twenty percent rebate on your last month of rent.”

  The phone clicked, a loud mechanical click, and the line went dead. Completely dead, without even a whisper of a dial tone.

  9

  I dropped the receiver into my lap and closed my eyes.

  The timing of that phone call was no coincidence. The FBI had set a watch on our apartment—Sara had warned me weeks ago. Watchers outside saw me walk through the front door. The cameras and audio pickup had recorded the moment when I discovered Sara’s empty bedroom.

  I blew out a breath. Considered shouting out a string of curses for my invisible audience.

  Let’s not test their sense of humor.

  All my fantasies of hot tisane and twenty-four hours of deep sleep faded away. I levered myself to my feet and stumbled back down the hall to my own bedroom. No doubt they were still monitoring me, but right now I didn’t care.

  A quick scan showed nothing obviously out of place. None of my clothes or books had been tossed around. Neither was the room unnaturally tidy. With a sigh, I set about making a thorough examination of my belongings. Books, none taken, none added. Same with my medications. Closets . . . well, I didn’t rifle through all the pockets of all my clothes, but the contents seemed untouched, including that one jacket that was always falling off its hanger.

  Next up, the subtler clues. I did a quick inventory of my cell and tablet. No obvious signs of tampering, but then, these were experts. I stuffed both items back in my bag and sat down heavily on the bed.

  Sara had left on a mission. That was clear. And now Hudson and the federal government wanted their expensive apartment back.

  I scanned the room again. I remembered how my breath caught that day Jenna Hudson first showed me 2B at 2809 Q. How I’d come to see this apartment, this room, as a refuge, both quiet and lovely. A gift, however temporary.

  Perhaps that was the nature of beauty—that it was meant to be brief. Perhaps I was right about gifts, after all.

  ***

  I skipped the tisane and went straight for the bottle of Macallan single malt, a Christmas present from Jacob Bell, who must have spent a week’s salary on it. Oh, Jacob, Jacob. I wish you were here right now. We could trade stories about Sara. Stories about coming home and finding you didn’t quite fit where you once belonged.

  Whining didn’t help, but it sure felt good if you had someone to share with. The recording devices all over 2B didn’t count unless the FBI came to take me away for a more personal discussion. So, I drank a long slow glass of the single malt, then went through the usual drill with Lazarus and my medications and took myself to bed.

  ***

  The moment I woke up, late Sunday morning, all of yesterday’s madness flooded back into my brain.

  Sara had vanished into a new mission.

  I had twenty-nine days to find a different apartment.

  Other duties could wait. I spent the rest of the morning taking stock of what remained from Sara’s abrupt departure—the answer being, not much, other than the fancy appliances and my own clothes and books. I found a loaf of bread in the refrigerator, a few scoops of coffee in a glass jar, and a single paper filter in one of the cabinets. Everything else—dishes, food, the knives and their knife block, the glassware—was gone. That alone convinced me more than anything else that Sara would not return.

  By the afternoon, I’d ventured out, all grubby in my hoodie and sweats, to acquire groceries and a few utensils. None of my neighbors said hello, but at least they didn’t report me to the police. Then I hunkered down with a mug of fresh coffee and my tablet to research apartments.

  Not so bad. Not so good.

  My share of the rent at 2B cost me $1,200 a month. For $1,100 a month, I could rent a cheap one-room affair in the SE quadrant, utilities included. The neighborhood would not be as quiet, or as safe, and I would have to spend more for a Metro card, but at least I would have privacy, and no one would twitch the rug from under my feet.

  I created a new bookmark folder and added six possibilities. Then I made a fresh pot of strong coffee and played online games for the next six hours. It was almost enough to let me slip outside the problems and complications of this world and this reality. Almost, but not quite.

  ***

  Monday morning, I reported for duty as required. Luckily, I’d had time to reassemble my armor against the world.

  Or so I thought.

  Pascal was leading morning rounds that day. She glanced at me with a smile when I joined the group, but then a faint crease appeared between her brows. I made a quick adjustment of my own features, which led to her smiling once more, but after the rounds, she glanced at me again, her expression curious.

  That was the pattern for the rest of the day. Concern. Curiosity. Sometimes outright suspicion. My only respite was OT with Sydney, where I rolled through all the drills by rote. Apparently, that was the trick, because Lazarus and I now worked as partners, without debating every motion. No, more than partners. We were like a single organism, like the Father and Son. Now all we needed was to find our Holy Ghost.

  By five P.M. and the afternoon rounds, I’d almost convinced myself that everything and everyone were back to normal, including me. I even managed to argue with Carter, who paused as if by coincidence while Chong gave her presentation. Our exchange was professional, if not exactly friendly.

  “Busybody,” Navarette muttered afterward as we headed toward the vending machines. “She’s not CMO, not yet. Maybe never.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t trust myself to be fair.

  “Speaking of CMOs, I heard a rumor . . .” That was Pascal, who had drifted up behind us. “Something about a certain CMO on a certain president’s short list.”

  Navarette’s eyes went wide. “A cabinet position?”

  “I thought Donnovan nominated someone to HHS already,” I said. “Unless . . .”

  “Withdrew,” Pascal said briefly. “Family reasons.”

  Oh.

  “That explains why she’s so frantic about the M & M rate these days,” Navarette said. “I thought it was just the funding issue.”

  We reached the vending machines, and I slid my debit card into the slot. “Could be both, you know. Could be she doesn’t want our p
atients to die. Not everything is about politics.”

  Navarette smirked. “You’re such a goddamned idealist, Watson.”

  “Maybe.” I punched in the code for a Diet Coke, and the can slid into the dispenser. My comment about politics had reminded me about Sara’s vanishing act. Who was I kidding? Goddamned politics had run my life for the past four years. Politics had robbed me of my best friend.

  Breathe. Breathe. You lost a friend, but you always knew she was temporary. Remember the ones standing right here with you.

  Both Pascal and Navarette were staring at me with obvious concern. Oh god, what kind of expression did I have? I took that deep breath and smiled, however unconvincingly. Flipped open the tab and lifted the can in a mock toast. “To our CMOs, past and present and future.”

  Before I could take a sip, my cell buzzed with a text message. Please report to CMO ASAP scrolled across the screen. The same moment, the loudspeaker crackled. “Paging Dr. Watson. Dr. Janet Watson. Please report to the CMO’s office.”

  Oh shit. This could be either very good or very, very bad.

  Navarette punched me in the arm. “What the hell did you do, girl? Did you forget to laugh at one of her jokes?”

  I gave Navarette an answering love tap. “Nothing like. Bet she wants my advice on hair.”

  Pascal laughed. “Ten dollars says you’re right.”

  “Goddamned white girls,” I said with a smile, and headed toward the nearest elevator.

  My first warning came when I arrived on the fourth floor, to find the reception area outside Hernandez’s office completely empty. No executive assistant. No clerks or other minions.

  Warning number two: Hernandez and two men in dark gray suits waiting just inside her office suite. Hernandez had a particularly pained expression, which made the almost invisible lines on her face stand out. The men, however, were utter blanks. Gray suits, gray hair. I suspected gray eyes as well, but those were hidden behind tinted glasses.

  What the hell—?

  “Dr. Watson,” Hernandez said. “These gentlemen have a few questions. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Questions about what?” I asked cautiously. “And who are you?”

  “We’re investigating any unusual communications that took place on Inauguration Day,” said Mr. Gray #1. “Our records show you placed a cellular call to Georgetown hospital’s emergency center to report an altercation in the streets. We noted a few anomalies about that communication, which placed you on our list.”

  A cell call? Oh, right. The mob of red caps attacking black men. Frantically I tried to recall exactly what I’d said, what I’d done, that hectic day. Judging from their expressions, these two men wouldn’t take I don’t remember for an answer.

  I managed to swallow enough spit to clear my throat. “I remember making that phone call, but I don’t recall any anomalies—”

  I stopped, suddenly afraid. I wanted a lawyer, or at least a witness other than Esma Hernandez, who was doing her best to appear invisible. No, bad idea. These were clearly federal agents, from one alphabet organization or another. I’d not forgotten my interviews with Special Agent Davidsson last November. Quite likely these two gray men had all the necessary paperwork to justify a private interrogation in case I proved uncooperative.

  “I don’t remember any anomalies,” I repeated.

  Gray Man #2 nodded, as though he’d expected that answer. “You made a call to the emergency number for Georgetown University Hospital. Your exact words were, There’s a fight going on. Near Volta Park. You might want to get ready for incoming casualties. Then you said, It’s going to blow up fast.”

  And not ten minutes later, bombs had exploded the next street over.

  I breathed in through my nose, felt the nausea settle. These were the times I appreciated the drills my parents had put me through, me and Grace both. In a very calm and level voice, I recited the events of that day.

  “On Thirty-Fourth Street, I saw several dozen men fighting.”

  No need to mention these were white men attacking blacks.

  “The police had arrived on the scene.”

  With Tasers, which they used to attack the black men.

  “A man . . .” Here I hesitated, then rushed ahead. “A man wearing a red cap drew a gun. I fled the scene but heard gunfire, so I called in to GUH for a heads-up. That would be at Thirty-Fourth near Volta Park. The crowds appeared restless in that area as well, which is when I took refuge in a bookstore.”

  “Until you exited a few moments later,” said Gray Man #2.

  How the hell did you know that?

  But I continued to be polite, cooperative. “That is correct,” I said. “I’d heard the explosions. Based on my experience in the war, I knew there would be casualties.”

  The other special agent tilted his head. Light glinted from the metal implants behind his ears. And just like Sara, he went still and silent, listening.

  “We have confirmation from the DC police department,” he said to his companion.

  Thank you and goddamn you for not believing me.

  Gray Man #1 stood up and offered me a hand. “I appreciate your cooperation, Dr. Watson. And thank you, Dr. Hernandez, for giving us this opportunity.”

  We went through the usual formula. Or at least I think we did. Truth be told, I couldn’t remember a damned thing we said. The Gray Men exited through the doors. Hernandez settled back into a chair with a sigh.

  “That was close,” she said softly.

  Close for you, or close for me?

  “I don’t need to tell you that we have a difficult road ahead of us,” she went on. “Political matters. Matters of safety for our patients. You’re one of the best surgeons on our staff, once you complete your training. I don’t want to lose you. Our reputation . . . is a delicate matter these days.”

  I suppressed the urge to say she could take her reputation and stuff it somewhere dark and damp. “I understand completely,” I said in that voice I’d practiced since elementary school. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  We smiled at each other, neither one entirely convinced. I took my leave and headed back to the vending machine to replace the soda I’d handed to Navarette. It was all very odd, I thought. The Bloody Inauguration had turned bloody over a month ago. Why the hell were people bothering me now?

  10

  “That woman likes to play favorites,” Navarette said. “That’s my one and only complaint about her.”

  That woman meant Hernandez.

  “Liar,” Pascal said easily. “Why, just this morning, I counted six complaints, five snarky remarks, and one very filthy rant. And that was before rounds. You, my dear, don’t have just one complaint. You have a small zip code’s worth.”

  We had gathered in the cafeteria over limp spaghetti and slices of what claimed to be garlic bread. It was a late lunch for all four of us. Half the tables were empty. A few nurses occupied a table at the opposite end of the room, while interns eyed the not-so-promising list of specials. Even so, Navarette and Pascal kept their voices low as they continued their argument.

  “You know what I mean,” Navarette said. “She picks a favorite. Heaps them with attention, special perks. Tells them they have a bright career ahead. Then she . . . changes her mind.”

  Her glance toward me was brief but expressive.

  I shrugged and concentrated on winding spaghetti around my fork. Navarette had not asked about my summons to Hernandez’s office three days ago, but she was obviously curious. Pascal, too. Only Letova, who had come off a very long shift, kept quiet and huddled over her cup of coffee.

  “Take Carter, for example.”

  Pascal wrinkled her nose. “You take her.”

  “Oh hush. You know I’m right. We all believed Carter was the golden child,” Navarette said to me. “First that surgery-and-transplant fellowship, then senior attending just a year later. Rumor said Hernandez was pushing for Carter to be named the next CMO. Way too soon, but maybe not, not if Hernandez get
s that cabinet post.”

  By this point, our conversation had dropped into a whisper, and we all leaned close together.

  “But then you came along,” she went on. “Rumor said you were the new golden child, with all those perks and that shiny new device. You were not just a damned talented surgeon—you were a hero.”

  I twitched at the word hero. For a moment, I saw the muddy ditch in Alton, Illinois, where I hid with my patients from the enemy soldiers. Quickly I pushed the memory aside. “I’m hardly eligible for CMO.”

  “No, but—”

  “Enough.” Letova slammed her cup down, slopping coffee all over the table. “Can’t you do anything else but gossip? And I thought you were too goddamned serious for these stupid games, Watson.”

  The three of us glanced at each other. Letova’s voice was rough with anger. Her eyes were red rimmed from exhaustion. She’d been edgy all week, but not like this.

  Letova pressed both hands against her eyes. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t get much sleep yesterday.”

  “David giving you trouble again?” Pascal asked.

  David was Letova’s brother, an angry young man who had frequent run-ins with the police. Drugs. Shoplifting. At least one arrest for arson, when he set fire to a local mosque. Nina never made excuses for him, but she never stopped taking his calls.

  Today, she merely shrugged. “Something like that.” She wiped up the spilled coffee and dropped the napkin into the cup. “I should get going. I need to stop by the grocery store, and I don’t want to fall asleep in the frozen foods aisle.”

  Navarette laid a hand on her shoulder. “My medical advice is that you go straight home and go to sleep. Leave the shopping for tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, sunshine. You are wiped.” Navarette snapped her fingers. “Better idea. Anyone on call this evening? No one? Why don’t we head out to a bar or a movie? Pascal, call your wife and tell her you need to make a medical intervention and she’s on kid duty. Letova, go home and take that nap. But after that, my friend, we are going to get you stinking drunk. Watson, are you with us?”