ColdScheme

by Edita Petrick

  “Which means the FBI and the Baltimore Police Department would come under fire. Their competency would be questioned in terms of what they’re doing to apprehend these evil masterminds who appear to have such a powerful weapon that they can execute any citizen, any time, without the authorities knowing how to stop them.”

  “That’s already happening.” Field’s voice hardened. “We’re following all available leads. The arrow is pointing at the financial sector—Tavistock.”

  “I’ve pledged my cooperation,” the Chairman said and his face split in a cynical smile. “I’m halting the project. It’s not a mere face-saving gesture. There’s an upcoming summit meeting in Copenhagen where all the attendees will have an opportunity to discuss a range of measures to fight money laundering. I will be expected to defend my decision to halt what promised to be a very powerful answer—aimed not just for national but global acceptance and implementation. If I keep it a secret that I have suspended the project and announce it at the summit, don’t you think it would cause me a great deal of discomfort and embarrassment?”

  “One month is not going to inconvenience or embarrass you that much, sir.”

  “One month, Inspector, is a large setback for a project that has a tight schedule.”

  “You won’t have a schedule to keep if you run out of experts willing to work on it under these conditions. Publicizing what’s happening is not the answer. It’s free publicity—for the villains, endorsing their skill and craftiness. They’re moving their operations. The Baltimore mission is accomplished. After that, we may have an avalanche, one major banking and political center after another.”

  My father clenched his jaw and turned to Hartill. “Ask Blank what he thinks that publicizing will get us.”

  Hartill obeyed. He listened, with a tightening expression.

  I reached over and plucked two sheets of paper from Field’s notepad. I hurriedly scribbled a few words and passed it to Ken. I waited until he read it. His eyes widened and he nodded. I scribbled on the other sheet and swished it down the table to land in front of the Chairman. I motioned for him to read it. When he did, he leaned back, frowning, then said to Hartill, “Tell Blank that I’ll call him back with my final decision.” He waited until Hartill hung up and turned to me.

  “Why did I just dismiss my Chief Economist and Financial Officer in Washington after having roused him from bed at this hour?”

  “Probably because you want to start up the project again and live through it,” I said.

  He just stared at me. For once, he seemed to have nothing to say.

  “Who is Blank?” I asked.

  “Socially, politically or businesswise?” he responded with a tight smile.

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “Socially, R. Bishop Blank may be included in a foursome when our President wants to play a round of golf. He’s a godfather to his eldest daughter and an old, valued family friend—mine and his.”

  “Do I know him?” I could still recall most of his valued old friends. I didn’t remember anyone named R. Bishop Blank. Then again, it was always my brothers who were involved in the financial and political aspects of Tavistock business. I was kicked out of two posh private schools and escaped being saddled with a criminal record in Europe and North America only because Tavistock lawyers knew how to bribe the right officials.

  “From 1970 to 1974, he was an Economic Attaché, an advisor, posted in Caracas, Venezuela, through the Inter-American Development Bank, though it was called something else back then. From 1975 to 1979, he was a member of the task force for the Business Council for International Understanding, training and enhancing trade literacy of the US Foreign Service. That job placed him in five Latin American countries and made him a lot of friends in the State Department. From 1980 to 1985, he served as our Ambassador to Colombia. He’s a distinguished member of the Council of American Ambassadors. In 1986, he returned to his roots and until 1988, he was with the State Department, Senior Assistant to the Under Secretary for Economic, Business and Agricultural Affairs. When the Under Secretary retired, for medical reasons, he stepped into his position and ran the business until 1990 when he decided to leave the political scene and enter the private sector. He spent five years on the West Coast in corporate finance then came over to Tavistock. He has been my Chief Economic and Financial Officer for fourteen years. If I had to pick my successor tomorrow, he would be my choice. He is certainly someone you wouldn’t want to annoy without a good reason.”

  I looked at Ken.

  “Maybe you’re wrong,” he murmured.

  “Anything’s possible but I don’t think so,” I said quietly. I returned to the interrogation. “Sir, does your officer attend the economic summits?”

  “Of course. He’s one of the two Vice-Chairmen of the Advisory Committee on International Economic Policy. Six months ago, he presented a paper on Corporate Ethics and Guidelines for Multinational Enterprises at the Advisory meeting. These are open to the public.”

  “Mr. Hartill.” I turned to the executive. “What was Mr. Blank’s explanation, regarding the publicizing of what’s been happening at Tavistock?”

  Hartill looked at his boss. He received a nod and replied. “We would project confidence that we have uncovered the root of the threats and thus will be vigilant from now on. Releasing details would also stave off embarrassment and explanations that would have to be made later on at the summit. This way, all the stakeholders would have been alerted to the threat and prepared with suggestions as to how to prevent similar occurrence in the future, elsewhere.”

  “In other words, Mr. Blank thinks it would be ideal if we warned those who are behind the murders that we know the motive, where it’s leading and that we can’t do anything about it. He thinks it’s an advantage to release details and advertise concerns,” I summarized. I knew that Hartill would feel that I had taken liberties with what he’d said.

  “I don’t believe those would have been his intentions,” he objected huffily.

  “Mr. Hartill, silence can be revealing. However, silence can also be interpreted or misinterpreted. Either way, there’s no disclosure, only uncertainty. What Mr. Blank proposed, would eliminate uncertainty. Revealing details is a message to them. We have surrendered. We have no clue. You’re free to close the Baltimore episode, stamp it successful and move on to the next target. That target is almost assured to be equally successful. A precedent has been set. As a police officer, I would never make it that easy for any criminal,” I finished crisply.

  Hartill looked at his boss who sat rigid, like a statue.

  Finally, my father leaned forward. “You would have made a good lawyer,” he murmured. When I made no comment, he continued, “Should I abstain from public functions for a while?”

  “Your old friends know you well, sir. It would be wise to keep up appearances.”

  “He would certainly have the connections—and the detailed knowledge it takes…” His voice trailed off. I knew whom he meant.

  “You gave us one month, sir,” I reminded him.

  “How certain do you feel…”

  “I’m not a gambler but it would be a safe bet.”

  “It’s hard to believe… I just can’t imagine… Not like this…”

  “It’s not hard to believe. The world is made of wheels within wheels. All such activity runs on money. The stakes must be very high, that’s all.”

  “What are the stakes? It can’t be prestige and power. There’s plenty of that where he is.”

  “Maybe not as much as he would like.”

  “I just can’t believe…” He shook his head and clenched his jaw, as if grinding the words he’d left unsaid.

  “Who’s your greatest enemy these days, sir, businesswise?” I asked. He flinched.

  “Congressman Gerold Appleby, the Chairman of the House Committee on Financial Services has been a real pain lately. He must have a lot of free time, because he’s embarked on a personal crusade to check our internal accountability rega
rding the release of funds available for withdrawal. His platform is that the banks have been stretching the legal limit and in many cases, exceeded it, to increase their profits. He’s really eager to expose financial crime. He’s also charged up about predatory lending.” He shook his head, to banish what I knew had caused him many sleepless nights.

  “It’s comforting to hear that Congressman Appleby strives to earn his pay,” I remarked. “However, how would you feel, sir, if at the touch of your fingers, you could send Congressman Appleby the same kind of greeting card as the one you received in your suite? And how would you feel, if you knew that the next set of numbers you could tap on your phone pad, would see Congressman Appleby lying prone, wherever he happened to be, his chest looking like a lawnmower had run over it?”

  “Powerful?” He spoke the word with impact, as if firing a bullet into his archenemy.

  “More than that,” I said in my closing argument tone. “In control.”

  * * * * *

  It was three o’clock in the morning. Field drove. None of us felt like talking. Tomorrow, we would have to go visit the Mongrove psychiatric facility. Field would come too but first he had to understand the connection between Blank and the psychiatric facility. I didn’t have the energy to brief him now.

  I told Ken to call Brenda.

  “It’s late. She’ll be asleep,” he murmured.

  “Do you know where she is and where’s she’s taken my kid?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  Brenda was a practical woman. She was in my house, waiting to pick him up. Ken’s Malibu hadn’t been returned yet.

  Brenda must have been watching for us from the living room window.

  “She’s asleep,” she said, as she came down the steps to greet us. “She’s into drawing family trees. I couldn’t even interest her in a TV show. I’ve never seen a child so keen on homework.” She laughed and went to hug Ken.

  I introduced Field and they shook hands. He’d parked the Concorde on the street so Brenda could get her car out.

  “Thanks,” I told her as she collected her purse and keys.

  “Any time I’m free.”

  I watched them leave and was about to wish Field good night, when he cleared his throat. “I’m too tired to talk about work. I need to get some sleep,” I said.

  “So am I,” he intoned.

  “I’m also too tired to think of anything else,” I said, sharpening my tone.

  “So am I.”

  I laughed. “I gather that you’re too tired to drive.”

  “It’s a long way back to the waterfront.”

  “I have a guest room,” I capitulated.

  “Great. I would have settled for the porch if you didn’t.”

  “You used to.”

  “Only because your roommate was a dragon.”

  “You haven’t changed.”

  “No. I never gave up hope.”

  “Guest room!” I turned and headed inside. As he walked behind me, I heard him murmur, “A month ago, I would have never dreamed that I’d be sleeping in your house.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Mrs. Tavalho arrived at seven o’clock. She awakened Jazz, fed her breakfast and had her ready and waiting for the school bus before she woke me up.

  “An overnight guest, a colleague,” I murmured lamely, motioning at the closed door of the spare bedroom where she slept on overnight stays. She smiled, briefed me on the state of my child and her readiness to depart and said she would fix breakfast—for two.

  I rapped hard on the door, fervently wishing that the man had changed. Fate did not oblige.

  “Field, wake up!” I had to grab his shoulders and roll him over, just like the good old days. Once I’d run through the exhausting, ancient morning ritual of trying to get him up—tapping his head, flicking his ear, pulling his toes—and was about to smack his ass, he stirred.

  “I know you’re awake. You’ve had more than five hours of sleep. That’s all that a working FBI ace deserves. We have another hellish day ahead of us,” I said, giving him his daily horoscope. My memory slipped. I made one tiny mistake. I didn’t jump back.

  His arm shot out, encircled my waist and all but slam-dunked me down beside him.

  “Fine. I can brief you lying down,” I snorted, knowing it was useless to fight his strength, especially in the morning.

  Those turned out to be my last words for a long time.

  “Field, for God’s sake!” I gasped, when he gave me a chance to breathe. “I have to see my kid off to school.”

  “So this is what fatherhood’s like,” he groaned. I laughed, freed my hand to be able to motivate him into releasing me and slid out of his unwilling arms.

  Jazz was still on the porch, sitting on the steps, hugging her knees.

  “Sorry I overslept.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I know you’re tired. Is he here?”

  “Who?”

  “Field, from your work.”

  I was about to open my mouth to explain, when his voice sounded from behind me.

  “Good morning. Sorry I had to cut dinner short last night. The Laserquest offer still stands.”

  She lifted her head, grinned at him and said that her friends would be happy to hear that. We saw her off to the bus and then went inside to a royal breakfast spread.

  Mrs. Tavalho went to do the laundry and I briefed him on everything, from our visit to Patterson in Mongrove, to our interview with Daniel Kane. He reached for the phone while I was still speaking. I served him a “What now?” look.

  “Olsen. District Attorney’s office. We need a legal document, a court order, to avoid nasty confrontation in the facility.”

  “What for?”

  “To obtain Patricia’s case file and medical records.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Do you think this Patterson could be Dr. Martin?” he asked after he made the arrangements. The question froze my hand as it reached for my coffee cup. The unruly blond shag whipping with authority as Patterson shook his head, sculpted in my mind even as I considered Field’s question.

  “He’s too young, Field, surprisingly so to be a Chief Resident doctor in such a large State facility. Besides, a company staff physician would be a general MD, not a specialist. Patterson has to have quite a few letters and titles after his name. Clinical psychiatrist would have to be one of them. He didn’t give us his business card but he has to be qualified to hold that job. A general practitioner, a mere MD, would not get that position.”

  “Quite a few company doctors have several specialties, including industrial and accident therapy and quite possibly psychiatry, or at least mental rehab. The nature of our stressful work environment these days demands it,” he said.

  “Maybe so but Patterson’s just too young to be such an accomplished specialist.” Patterson’s slate gray eyes, sparking with youthful vitality, bothered me. So did that voluminous shag. Youth, verve, irreverence, defiance—those would be the words I would use to define Dr. Patterson.

  Dr. Martin, sight unseen, sat in my mental window like a solid, middle-aged stone. Well dressed, well groomed, well versed in corporate lingo, I saw him as an epitome of ambivalence. That would have been his primary motivation for taking a boring and mostly administrative job as a company staff physician. Was I stereotyping because it was the easiest route? Had I already fallen into a dangerous mindset, a gouge in my imagination that would enlarge, as I grew older, to where everything had to be compartmentalized, fit a precise pattern?

  But patterns were what a detective’s job was all about. Especially criminal behavior patterns that gave rise to categories used in profiling. Then again, this criminal mastermind had opened up a new category and he was its first and only member. His motives could be easily categorized but the nature of his crime was unique. He implanted his victims with a deadly device that only he could activate whenever it suited his purpose. This meant that even if he’d tagged a victim with an explosive pacemaker, if the killer didn’t nee
d to eliminate him, the victim could live out his life naturally and not even know he had a bomb planted in his chest. Would such a person still be considered a victim? Wouldn’t he be on the same level as someone born with an undetected heart defect that could kill at any time—or equally could let the person live out his life naturally? Did this unique method of control make the killer the true keeper of the dead? Is that how he saw himself—the ruler of the underworld, holding the life-leashes he could cut at any time? And did this image fit Patterson? Being the Chief Resident at a huge stage psychiatric facility meant he was ambitious but did his ambition stop at this healthy level or did it grow, like a malignant plant shooting its roots in all directions, seeking control?

  Wild and outrageous theories used to thrill me. The impossible and improbable used to be exciting, new challenges, not roadblocks.

  “Let’s visit the Mongrove facility and then you can tell me what you think of Dr. Patterson,” I said, abandoning my critical review.

  We stopped by our district office. Sven was waiting for us with the court order. The mere fact that he didn’t mention having any difficulties obtaining the document so quickly, told me that the entire BPD had been put on notice.

  Bourke would have asked Sven one question. “Is this going to help solve the case—quickly?” Sven was a good cop, smart too. His answer in the affirmative was all Bourke would have needed.

  Ken phoned the Mongrove to inform them of our impending visit. I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. Patterson would be prepared. But Ken insisted on following protocol.

  The moment I walked out of the small armored cage that was the waiting area at Mongrove and entered the stark, cold expanse of gray-white quarry, I felt something was wrong.

  Field kept staring at the nearly vertical staircase sweeping ahead of us and murmured something about mountain climbing. Ken kept shuffling his feet as if wiping them. He wore rubber-soled shoes and still managed to raise an unearthly echo. I felt the ghostly sound was a warning. I’ve seen churches that had soaring ceilings. Such grandeur had always made me want to kneel and bow my head. Here, I wanted to turn and run.