Spare Parts: A Ted Mitchell Detective Novel (Ted Mitchell Detective Novels Book 4)

by Jeffrey Kinghorn

  Seldeen said, “Who’s in the room you came out of?”

  “No one,” said scrubs.

  None of us believed him.

  “Mind if I take a look?” said Seldeen.

  “I’m calling the Police,” said Pudge M.D.

  “Happy to keep bleeding while you do,” I said.

  Seldeen reached into his back pocket and took out his badge and identification. The doctor looked at it long enough to have read it thoroughly several times. He said, “Am I under arrest?”

  “Why would I arrest you?” said Seldeen.

  “I don’t think I’d better say anything more,” said the doctor.

  “Relax,” I said. “We’ll get to you eventually. Right now we want Reznikov.”

  “Who’s Reznikov?” said Mr. Chub. That he asked it with a straight face so late in the encounter after Reznikov’s name had been invoked suggested that despite years in medical school, he conducted himself with the defense mechanisms of an adolescent.

  “He sells body parts,” I said.

  “That’s illegal,” said the doctor, egregiously scandalized.

  “Some of them,” I added, “have even been harvested here.”

  “I’m new,” he said.

  “How new?” said Seldeen.

  “I just started,” he said.

  I said, “Why is there no one manning the front desk?”

  Blue Scrubs was careening back and forth between Seldeen and I. “She quit,” he said.

  Seldeen said, “When?”

  “About a year ago,” he said.

  “And you know that,” I said, “because you’re new.”

  He had tripped over himself and his attempt at a save went beyond awkward. “It’s what I heard,” he said.

  “Who from?” said Seldeen.

  “The others,” he said.

  I said, “What others?”

  The young man was rattled now. “Who work here,” he said.

  “What exactly is your job?” I said.

  His voice grew plaintive. “I do what I’m told to do,” he said.

  Seldeen said, “Where did you go to medical school?”

  He said, “Columbia.” It had been close to inaudible.

  “New York?” said Seldeen.

  Pudgy Scrubs shook his head and said, “South America.”

  “You don’t look Columbian,” I said.

  “It wasn’t my first choice,” he said, lingering disappointment dulling his tone.

  As I was about to be the patient and his portfolio appeared to be thin, I decided not to pursue it. “Mind if we get started,” I said. “I’m bleeding here.”

  “I’m going to look around,” said Seldeen. He opened the door and closed it behind him. Seldeen always wanted to police the perimeter.

  The doctor looked helpless, forlorn, a schoolboy lost.

  “What’s your name?” I said.

  He said, “Garrett Saunders.”

  “Would help if you wore a nametag,” I said.

  “No one wears them here,” he said.

  I said, “I wonder why?”

  He moved to a cabinet and started gathering supplies onto the counter, though he kept looking at the closed door obviously concerned about what Seldeen might discover. “He’s not going to find anything,” he said. “I’m the only one here.”

  “What about the cars in the parking lot?” I said.

  “I’m not in charge of the parking lot,” he said.

  I said, and not unkindly, “Have you doing enough inside, do they? Those who tell you what to do?”

  “Look,” he said, “you might as well know, I man the front desk.”

  “So,” I said, “you’re not actually a doctor.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I am a doctor. I’m just not licensed to practice in the U.S.”

  I nodded and said, “But they let you practice here.”

  “It’s complicated,” he said.

  “Sounds very much in keeping,” I said.

  He said, “You’re free to go to a hospital.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Doctor Garrett Saunders, do you know what you’re doing?”

  He stood a little taller. “Yes,” he said.

  “In that case,” I said, “ready when you are.”

  “No more questions,” he said.

  I said, “Can’t promise that, I’m afraid.”

  “I need to concentrate,” he said.

  “So concentrate,” I said. “You know who Reznikov is, don’t you? What he does?”

  “He’s disappeared,” said Saunders. “Gone underground.”

  “He was already off the grid,” I said. “Now he’s off the grid some more?”

  “They’re after him,” said Garrett Saunders.

  “Who is they,” I said, “other than the Police?”

  “I’m not saying anymore,” he said.

  “I heard you,” I said. “His own people are after him?”

  Saunders said, “Russians don’t forget.”

  “Probably don’t forgive either,” I said. “They want him for deserting in Afghanistan, or for saying too much to me?”

  Garrett Saunders looked at me in a new and curious way. He had obviously heard something. Rumor. The gangly unstoppable growth of scuttlebutt. He asked, quietly, “It was you he talked to?”

  “What’s the word on the street?” I said.

  “I’ve said too much,” he said.

  “So what’s a little more?” I said.

  “Reznikov flipped,” said Saunders. “Too much solitary confinement.”

  “The man was never alone,” I said. “Maybe that was just something you heard?”

  “He was a machine,” said Saunders. “Machines break down.”

  Sounded like more rumor-mill verbiage. “Garrett,” I said, “who’s in charge?”

  He looked at me curiously again and finally admitted, “That’s not clear at the moment.”

  I said, “Who’s giving you orders?”

  “Rain,” he said.

  That consolidated what I had suspected when I saw her beating the young girl up in the 1960 compound. “She the Bottom Bitch now?” I said.

  “That’s just it,” said Saunders, “I’m not sure. She acts like she’s running things.”

  “Tell me this,” I said, “you doing what she’s telling you to do?”

  He nodded, as if he had no choice. “Yes,” he said.

  I said, “Then she’s in charge.”

  “I doubt this clinic will be in business,” he said, “this time next week.”

  “You’d better make a plan,” I said.

  He acknowledged the suggestion with a small adjustment in his countenance. “You still want me to treat you?” he asked.

  I lay back down on the table. “What the heck,” I said, “I’m here.”

  “After I stitch you up,” he said, “you’re going to need to begin prophylactic treatment for rabies.”

  “And I know that’s going to be pleasant,” I said.

  With textbook authority, Dr. Saunders offered, “Multiple injections into the muscle layer of the abdomen.”

  “My abs are rock solid,” I said. And at one time that would have been true.

  “No problem,” said Saunders, “the hypodermic is thrown like a dart deep into the stomach.”

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “I’m a champ at darts,” said Garrett. This was offered as information, not as bragging.

  Twenty-three

  I did not normally use the elevator at the Kiam Building to get to my third floor office. I’m pretty much a two-at-a-time stairs guy. But the puncture wounds and stitches, to say nothing of the dart game played in my abdomen, had me moving with less than optimum coordination. And that was only the first in a series of such injections I was looking forward to. Seldeen was back out prowling the street. I needed some down-time to catch my breath before I joined him for further agitation in Reznikov’s sandbox. We had our eye on the Sandpiper Motel as soon as I was u
p to it.

  That Reznikov may have brought about a desire within his network for him to be forcibly removed was not unwelcomed. There was no official documentation of his existence in the first place, so his voluntary or involuntary disappearance was not going to leave a question mark in any public census. It was disappointing, however, to the extent that Seldeen wanted him for Mulcahy, and I wanted him for Allison. We were not going to let it go at his retreat into merely playing dead.

  At the third floor, the elevator door opened onto Ebbersole and Taggart who must have been waiting and had seen me come into the building. My appearance, thanks to the Doberman, was a surprise to them. “What the hell happened to you?” said Ebbersole.

  “Finally found a dog that didn’t like me,” I said.

  “All of that from one dog?” said Taggart.

  I said, “It was a professional.”

  “We’ve been looking for you,” said Ebbersole.

  “Missed you at the funeral,” I said. As I had intended, Ebbersole took offense.

  “We were there” said Taggart. “Just not inside.”

  “We need to ask you some questions,” said Ebbersole.

  “Any chance we could do that in my office?” I said. “I need to sit down.”

  She shook her head. Taggart said, “Got to be recorded.”

  “I’ve got a tape recorder,” I said.

  “We’ll want video too,” said Ebbersole.

  “I’m really not fit for camera work at the moment,” I said.

  They stepped into the now crowded elevator car and the down-button was depressed. But not by me.

  One of my homes away from home, the familiar interview room at Police Headquarters on Fannin. Always an indicator of intention, when such meetings were not taking place at the intake facility on Riesner adjacent to the county jail on the bayou. It augured cautiously well for my continued freedom, though it was by no means a guarantee.

  “Any chance I could sit on that side of the table this time?” I said.

  “Why?” said Ebbersole.

  “Offer my better side to the camera,” I said.

  “Knock it off,” she said. I held up a hand in an offer of deference. She went on, “We have reason to believe that you purposely disturbed what you knew would be considered a crime scene in the homicides of Sergeant Mulcahy and his wife.”

  “What reason would you have to believe that?” I said.

  “How do you respond?” she said.

  I said, “With curiosity.”

  “We would appreciate a direct answer,” said Ebbersole

  “As would I,” I said.

  She absorbed this, worked on her cool, and continued, “It has come to light that Sergeant Mulcahy and his wife offered safe haven to the child known as Grace Thomas, the granddaughter of a woman known to be your frequent companion, Adrienne Davenport.”

  “Is that right?” I said. “Sounds like you’ve read some kind of report.”

  “Moreover,” she said, “it was in protection of said child that the Mulcahys are believed to have been murdered.”

  I said, “Then that speaks well of the Mulcahys.”

  Ebbersole’s jaw became minutely more pronounced. After a moment, Taggart picked up. “What can you tell us about an incident down on 288 in Sugarland,” he said, “that occurred the morning the Mulcahys were discovered executed in their home.”

  “Highway 288?” I said. “Sugarland. Nice quiet community. What happened down there?”

  “Two bodies,’ said Taggart. “One the result of what looks to be a hit and run with something larger and more conspicuously damaging than your average automobile.”

  “Wow,” I said, “like, agricultural equipment or something?”

  “The other,” said Taggart, “was found with a fatal bullet wound to the head.”

  “In Sugarland,” I said? “My, my, sounds so sweet down there.”

  “Shot through the windshield while the car was moving,” he said. “It eventually left the road and settled in an open field some distance off the highway.”

  “Trace the bullet?” I said.

  “The bullet was not found,” he said.

  “Bummer.”

  “The two bodies belonged to known criminals,” said Ebbersole, “connected to a recently exposed human trafficking organization with international influence.”

  “Well, that certainly sounds very similar to the operation controlled by Stefan Reznikov,” I said, “which I introduced to you two quite some time ago.”

  Ebbersole said, “We are aware that you had been working privately in connection with that.”

  I said, “I remember feeling that you were not overly impressed with the information I brought to you at the time.”

  She had to unclench her teeth to say, “The information you offered was referred to the proper division within this department.”

  “Even though,” I said, “it was on the heels of the death of Allison Thomas, who died of sepsis after a botched kidney harvesting.”

  Ebbersole pressed on, “Every indication is that you presumed upon the generosity of the Mulcahy’s in pursuit of protection for the child.”

  “See,” I said, “if this were my interview, I would have started with the business of the 288 killings, and then slowly walked me into the mine field of the Mulcahy murder scene.”

  She slapped the table without, I thought, actually intending to, and quickly realized it. “Your hostility in response to these questions,” she said, “could make things very difficult for you down the road.”

  “Forgive me,” I said, “here, again, a word to the wise. That sounds very much like a threat, and we are being recorded. Audio and video, isn’t that right? Which is why you insisted, despite my apparent injuries, that I be brought downtown to answer your questions.”

  Her color changed. “Did you or did you not,” she said, “remove the child from the Mulcahy home upon discovering that it was the scene of a homicide?”

  I had Seldeen to consider here. I banked on the conclusion that he would have set me straight about any complication he might have encountered when leaving the Mulcahy house. “Perhaps I had better call a lawyer,” I said.

  She lost some of her cool. “Where is the child now?”

  With that, a line had been crossed, and it was definitely my point on the scoreboard. Taggart closed his eyes and allowed his head to shake almost imperceptibly. His lips parted on a slow, plosive exhalation of air. At least he and I knew the juncture to which we had now arrived. I stared at Ebbersole and waited for her to get it. She blanched when, eventually, it closed. I picked up slowly, “Now that this interview, and my rights, have been compromised,” I said, “beyond your ability to make use of any of this, I will do my best to answer anything you’d care to ask me.”

  “Where is the child?” she said.

  I said, “Safe, I hope. But it remains a concern.”

  “She needs to be in protective custody,” said Ebbersole.

  “Could you,” I said, “with the behemoth of your custody bureaucracy, guarantee her safety?”

  “It’s what needs to happen,” she said.

  “Let the audio and video records show,” I said, “that you just evaded the question of guaranteed safety.”

  “There are no guarantees,” she said.

  ‘Which is why I cannot,” I said, “at this time, divulge the whereabouts of the child.”

  She said, “Did you remove her from the Mulcahy home?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Were you alone?” she said.

  “Yes.” A stretch, but true, nobody had helped me remove her. “You will find,” I said, “upon questioning Adrienne Davenport, who retains full legal custody of the child that she directed the steps taken on behalf of Grace’s safety.”

  Taggart said, “Did you have anything to do with the two deaths in Sugarland?”

  “Yes,” I said. I told them all about it.

  Taggart gave me some unspoken credit for daring-d
o in evading my own murder. Ebbersole was unreadable. “So,” she said, “you were informed that an attempt would be made on the lives of the Mulcahys.”

  “Reznikov played it full bore arrogant,” I said. “It caused him to count his chickens. He assumed that I was about to be dead. I am not dead. And he can’t slither into the mud deep enough and fast enough.”

  “If you kill him,” said “Taggart, instead of bringing him in―”

  I said, “He has already tried to kill me―”

  “The charge against you,” he continued, “could well be murder.”

  “I expect he’ll try to kill me again,” I said. “I further expect to effectively defend myself.”

  “You are now being officially warned,” said Ebbersole, “to stand down.”

  “Here we go,” I said, “one more time. Sergeant Ebbersole, this interview is as good as non-existent. Save your breath.”

  Twenty-four

  Adrienne’s house was on the market before she left the hospital. I picked her up after having to wait while she argued with the hospital Gestapo about walking to the curb under her own steam and about their insistence that she be pushed to it in a wheelchair. They prevailed. Still, Adrienne thanked them as she slid into my Chrysler, though I could tell her nose was out of joint. In the days she had remained in the hospital, my dog wounds had done a fair amount of healing, though I could still turn heads.

  “All this,” said Adrienne, “and they never touched a kidney. Should I be insulted?”

  “Maybe they didn’t have a recipient,” I said. “That business model is about keeping spare parts on the hoof and not on a shelf.”

  “Why didn’t they just kill me?” she said. “Like they did my mother.” The imagining of Adrienne trying to crawl out of a deep grave with dirt cascading down on top of her sent chills through me. “Hate being toyed with”, she said. “Could be they opened me up, saw something dreadful, and closed me back up quick.”

  I said, “You’ve been given a clean bill of health.”

  She said, “If I can believe it.”

  “Reznikov’s butchers could have had both your kidneys and anything else,” I said, “if they’d wanted them. Brisk market in corneas.”

  “Truth is,” she said, “it did scare me.”