ColdScheme

by Edita Petrick

  “We made friends. She’s like you but she’s also like her father. I don’t think you have much to worry about.”

  “I don’t know how to tell her, or how much.” I said what I’d been fighting to acknowledge.

  “I find that a simple approach works the best.”

  “You like a direct approach—with a hammer,” I grumbled.

  “I’ve never used a hammer on you,” he deadpanned.

  Finally, I laughed.

  “Did she ask you anything?”

  He nodded. “I told her I was an old family friend.”

  I groaned and he continued, “I said that I knew her grandmother then told her about your mother and her family.”

  “Great,” I moaned.

  “Your mother was not a Tavistock.”

  “She was a Hanley, of the Rhode Island shipbuilding empire.”

  “I omitted empires.”

  I laughed again. “How did she take it?”

  He lifted his head and stared into space. “When I finished, she was drawing her grandmother. I think it looked a little like your next-door neighbor. She popped in, a busybody. She saw the limo and wanted to know who died. It’s a start. You can do the rest. I promised her that I would keep in touch. Will you let me?”

  It was a strange lunch. Then again, it was the first of a kind. He told me that the Washington FBI had discreetly and very cautiously started to probe into Blank’s background and cloaked activities.

  “His personal physician is also under investigation,” he said, “but your approach is probably what will work to retire Mr. R. Bishop Blank. I’ll see how far the Justice Department dares to move against him but I’ve already given orders to start implementing your solution. Discreetly, of course.”

  “Why is the FBI investigating Blank’s doctor?”

  “They believe that he may have worked for the IMF.”

  “Dr. Martin,” I said then told him where he fitted into the scheme of things.

  “Blank must have a lot of people involved in this scheme, hidden under assumed identities. I’ve heard what happened at Hopkins,” he said.

  “The doctor who was shot wasn’t a part of it. He was set up. Our prime suspect now is the Chief Resident doctor at Mongrove. We’ll have to pay him a visit soon.”

  “Be careful,” he frowned.

  “I’m a homicide detective,” I groaned.

  “Yes I know,” he said snappily. “And I didn’t worry so much when you were working historical cases. Research is your forte. But this is live.”

  “You’ve kept track of me? Where I was? What I was doing?”

  He sat back, stiff-necked. “Well, of course. You’re my daughter. What did you think?”

  I told him—at length. He kept sipping his coffee, listening with a bemused expression. Now and then he shook his head and chuckled.

  * * * * *

  Ken and Field brought our dinner—a Chinese takeout. Jazz asked whether she could take her plate to the living room and watch TV. Since we would probably discuss business over dinner, I gave her permission.

  Ken was watching the coffee maker, ready to shut it off, because he didn’t like strong coffee. Field spread the paperwork on the table then went to check my email in the living room. We were waiting for Agent Mattis to either call or email information that would give us a legal right to bring Dr. Patterson in for questioning.

  My cell phone chimed. I smiled, thinking that Agent Mattis was bold to call me directly and circumvent his boss and flipped it open.

  “Yes?”

  “Release the frozen accounts or the pediatric nurse is history.” I heard an electronic voice haltingly deliver the message.

  “Who is this?” I demanded.

  “Release the frozen accounts or you’ll be picking up pieces of the pediatric nurse all over town,” the voice said. Its electronic warble wasn’t strong enough to affect the message.

  “Who is—” I started but the line went dead.

  I stared at the phone. “Ken, where is Brenda?” I asked, without looking at him.

  He put down the pot on the table then looked up. “What?”

  “Is Brenda working tonight?”

  “No, she went out with a friend.”

  “Who?”

  “She didn’t say.” He frowned.

  I dialed Joe’s cell.

  “Yeah.” He sounded hoarse.

  “Where are you?”

  “In bed. Where the hell do you think I am at ten o’clock after spending sixteen hours on my feet? What’s up?”

  “Have you seen Brenda today?”

  “In the morning, when she clocked off her shift.”

  “Did she say what she was going to do the rest of the day?”

  “She clocked off a shift. What the hell do you think she’d be doing? Sleeping.”

  “All right, thanks.” I was about to hang up when I heard him again.

  “Hold on. Yeah, I think she said something about going to see Valerie later on, or someone.”

  “Where?”

  “Mongrove. I think she’s a friend, a nurse.”

  “Thanks,” I hung up and looked at Ken. “Call Sven.” I slashed my hand to stop his questions. “A SWAT team might be a good idea. Covert approach. Extreme caution. We’re going in.”

  “Where?” He stared at me but took out his cell phone.

  “Mongrove,” Field’s quiet voice came from the hallway. He was holding a sheet of paper. “Mattis sent the email. I printed it out. The proximity of four victims to Mongrove makes it a logical target. Morris filed a report at Hopkins about his suspicions when he treated Patricia. Mattis got a hold of it. It implicates Patterson. Patricia was overmedicated and physically abused. Hopkins administrators never followed up but Morris kept trying. A month ago, he approached the Hopkins’ administration. He asked Francis to take action. Patterson must have learned about it. It might be the reason why Patricia suddenly met with an accident. He could have also set up Morris. And you were right.” He nodded at me. “Patterson did work for Lamar-Forest but he left there, at age thirty-nine, to join Doctors without Borders.”

  “Where did he go?” I asked.

  “Lima, Peru. He’s also buried there, died of parasitic disease six months after his arrival.”

  “He came back from the dead and is a Chief Resident at Mongrove,” I said, tightening my lips. It was of no comfort to me that I was right about Patterson all along. I worried about Brenda.

  “A ruthless man saw an opportunity and came back as Patterson. Brick must have been targeted when he worked in Peru. He might have left because he felt unsafe. They saw that his talent had potential to cause them problems. Mongrove was a perfect place to carry out their pacemaker experiments, especially on the patients without family. Agent Gould is still tracking down escort services. What did they ask for?” He stared at me, grim and uncompromising.

  For Ken’s sake, I didn’t want to repeat the whole message.

  “They want the frozen funds released.”

  He snorted. “Of course. What’s the threat if we don’t comply?”

  “They’ll execute another victim,” I said, avoiding his eyes.

  “Brenda?”

  I hissed softly.

  “What?” Ken’s hand with the phone dropped. “Brenda’s in Mongrove?”

  “Let’s go.” I waved him on.

  “Where’s Jazz?” Field asked, heading for the door, his cell phone held against his ear.

  “Mrs. Tavalho took her along, to help set up the church bazaar.”

  “Leave her a message. We might be all night,” Field said over his shoulder.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mongrove was a fortress that could be approached from outside but to get inside quietly through all the screens wasn’t possible.

  It was after ten o’clock. The last light of the beautiful June evening had faded but the hospital guards monitoring the outside cameras would still be able to see dark shapes, darting around and positioning themselves f
or an unfriendly entry. Field was on the same thought-wavelength because he ordered the SWAT squad leader to hold position. He pointed at Sven Olsen and said, “I saw a pizza place a couple of blocks away. Have one of your men pick up an order. We’ll go the ‘delivery’ route.” He turned back to the squad leader, handing him something. “Pick a man to handle the pizza delivery. Have him stick this into the lock when he enters. It’ll take thirty seconds to burn through, then we go in. Coordinate your squad’s approach. Two-by-two, once inside sweep and secure the main floor. Put staff into rooms and lock them.”

  I leaned over to Field and asked in a low-carrying voice, “Does Brenda have all this time it’ll take to get the pizza here? And what if Patterson’s not inside?”

  He shook his head. “He’ll be in his office.”

  “He can be holding her hostage anywhere in this place.” I worried about Brenda and at the same time felt as if I was going to participate only in a field exercise, not an actual hostage situation. Something felt wrong but I couldn’t define what it was since I was never before a part of this kind of situation.

  “Patterson wants the funds released. He needs a computer connection. He’ll be waiting with a laptop ready to transfer the money into offshore accounts,” Field said.

  I pulled him away from the squad commander. “Field—” I started.

  He cut me off. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said, my voice ringing with frustration. “That’s the problem. I feel—”

  “Feelings are not part of the FBI or police protocol in hostage situations, Sergeant,” he said. “Did you or didn’t you receive a phone call, demanding those funds be released?”

  I snorted. “Yes, I did but it sounded contrived. It came conveniently. I felt even as I listened that it wasn’t real.”

  “A criminal’s holding a hostage and he made demands, Sergeant. What’s unreal about that?”

  I raised my hand to show him I was capitulating and he left to confer with the squad leader. He was right. Feelings had no place in police protocol in hostage situations. But I started analyzing the situation as we headed for Mongrove. It’s what I did best. That’s why I chose to be assigned to Cold Case Unit because the job required detailed analysis of historical data and information. As a cold case homicide detective, I’d read hundreds of transcripts, hundreds of police reports taken down by just as many police officers taking statements from victims’ relatives, friends or witnesses. After reading half a page of someone’s deposition I already knew the deposed’s speech patterns and could even visualize the person’s mannerisms. By studying details and analyzing information I’d learned to reconstruct old crime scenes until I could visualize them with clarity as if they were scarcely a few days old. Ken and I practiced “reading” pedestrians every chance we got. Often we would stop the citizen we’d both just “read” to have a friendly chat with him—and to confirm that I was much better at “reading” people than my partner.

  The electronic voice on the phone said to release the frozen funds or the pediatric nurse would die. The caller repeated the message and hung up. No further instructions, no directions. The caller left a lot to Fate. What if we hadn’t been able to find out where Brenda was? What if I hadn’t called Joe? What if Brenda had changed her mind about visiting Valerie and happened to be somewhere other than Mongrove?

  Patterson liked to project an image of a “bright boy”. He dazzled us with patients’ histories in detail. He could have been improvising or lying outright but he was still glib, witty and droll. I could see the reason for the caller to electronically disguise his voice but the message was so terse that the caller had little to worry about the police tracing his call. And I wouldn’t have recognized Patterson’s voice from that sentence alone. During our first visit to Mongrove we left Patterson our business cards. Why would he choose to call me when Brenda’s life was at stake? Why not call Ken? He was the senior partner. Well, maybe Patterson didn’t know about Ken and Brenda’s relationship. Then again, there was that glib recital of patient’s history that found such an easy mark in Ken. It could be just coincidence that the Mongrove patient who resembled Brenda had suffered breakup consequences of a relationship that mirrored Ken and Brenda’s. But what if it wasn’t? Why not call the FBI, since his demand dealt with the funds’ release? How could Patterson possibly know that the Tavistock banker was my father and I was the key person who would be able to get him to do it?

  Was I overanalyzing because that was the true nature of my job ever since I’d joined the BPD? Field’s sudden appearance in my life had already eroded my emotional stability. What if it had also affected my analytical skills to a degree where I could no longer trust my judgment? Was my instinct such a reliable tool that it should become my professional yardstick for making logical deductions?

  To me, the call sounded more like a tip-off by an informant who wanted the police to clean up for him. I wanted to be right but I also feared being wrong.

  There were many things here that didn’t make sense to me but Field was right about one thing—this was neither the place nor time for feelings, no matter how much they were steeped in analytical thinking.

  “What did the Chairman say about releasing those funds?” I heard Field’s voice behind me and abandoned my reflections.

  I took out a sheet of paper and wordlessly handed it to him. I’d called my father as we headed for Brooklyn. It shocked me that he hardly asked any questions. He inquired whether I had paper and a pen ready and dictated the numbers of frozen accounts. The original three hundred had been grouped into a block of twenty-one. My father said the bank would do as we asked. I thanked him and hung up but not before I heard him say, “Be careful. Take care.”

  * * * * *

  Field’s “pizza delivery” plan worked. However, even as I moved inside the waiting area, my back to the wall, the feeling of something being wrong washed over me again. I stopped and listened until I figured out what bothered me.

  SWAT teams aren’t expected to wear athletic footwear but they could have used it tonight. The hard clatter of boots echoed like a drumroll through the stone edifice. Suddenly I felt as contrary and cynical as Joe. Why bother with pizza delivery charades? Hell, we might as well have rung the bell and asked to see Patterson.

  Gun drawn and ready, I moved along the wall. I lost track of Ken and Field but I saw Sven and three more colleagues herding those few staff members who’d rushed in, into offices and rooms, locking the doors. The SWAT members took positions and secured each corridor section, before moving ahead. They must have finally realized that softer footsteps were necessary and ran on tiptoes. By the time we were within sight of Patterson’s office, everyone moved quietly, cautiously.

  Guns held ready, two SWAT members faced the office door. Field stood to a side, also ready. I didn’t see Ken and worried about him. He hadn’t said a word all through the ride.

  Since I was part of the SWAT briefing, I knew the strategy. Two officers would cover Field when he burst through the door. I moved closer because I wanted to see inside, even though “passive observation” wasn’t part of the plan. The SWAT team leader called this a Seize and Rescue operation.

  Field slashed down his hand, a sign he was going in.

  He was quick and efficient. The SWAT members were right behind him but I managed to glimpse what I felt I might see all along.

  Patterson sat behind his desk, holding a cup of coffee. He was raising it to take a sip. Brenda sat in one of the antiquated wooden swivel-arm chairs, also drinking coffee. They weren’t expecting visitors—and definitely not the police. A strange sensation washed over me, a mix of relief and apprehension. I was right. Or more precisely, my instinct didn’t let me down. The phone message was a tip-off and this was a setup.

  Even as such thoughts flashed through my head, the peaceful scenario in the office cracked as if someone shattered it with a hammer. Patterson jumped up and ran to take cover between the rows of gray filing cabinets. Black-clad bodies
rushed inside, momentarily obscuring my view of Brenda’s upturned shocked face. Someone ran into me and shoved me aside. Ken ran past me, gun held ready. By the time I shed my observer’s cobwebs and ran after him, two SWAT team members had Brenda between them, dragging her out. Ken turned, hands gripping his gun outstretched, protecting their departure. I heard a whirring noise and a row of filing cabinets beside me started to rotate. Before I could jump out of the way the lights went out. The SWAT members had night-vision goggles. Since I didn’t, I backed out of the office, away from the whirring noise. Part of my mind sought relief in the fact that not a single shot had been fired.

  An hour later, when it was over, I knew it was a setup, though Patterson was the right target.

  “For once Joe will get a bullet-riddled body, as opposed to an exploded one,” I said to Field when we stood outside again, watching all the activity winding down.

  “It was easy,” he murmured.

  “For the FBI, maybe. But for the BPD and SWAT an hour of chasing the suspect all over a stone fortress, is a hard night’s work.”

  “Brenda said she wasn’t threatened,” he said.

  She was taken away in an ambulance, even though she protested that it wasn’t necessary. I saw that Ken wanted to go with her and told him it was all right. We could finish up without him.

  “Patterson was part of it,” he sounded again when I made no comment.

  “Yes, he was a major player but not the key player. I think there are other parts,” I said.

  “His partners set him up,” he said, raising his brows at me.

  Once he remote-shut off the lights, Patterson used all the automation at his fingertips to thwart the SWAT team and escape. By then, the BPD sent reinforcements because Mongrove was a huge facility and a thousand patients couldn’t go unattended for long, even at night. Patterson must have seen the outside swarming with police vehicles. The search lights they’d set up all along the perimeter would have told him that it was a bad idea to try gain freedom via the ground floor. With SWAT and the rest of the police officers conducting corridor searches, Patterson made his way quietly to the roof. He knew how to avoid the monitoring cameras. No one caught him heading for the rooftop staircase. He correctly assumed the police would be watching all the exits and windows. The rooftop was six stories above the ground and the hospital didn’t adjoin any other building.