by Tim Stevens
Worst of all, more incomprehensible than anything else, was her soft breath in his ear.
Black clouds started to scud across Ricky’s vision, then to coalesce. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at his neck, his feet drumming on the floor.
The wire dug deeper and he felt something give so that the pain hit a new level. At the back of his neck, he felt the woman’s knuckles, and he understood, somehow, that she was twisting her hands.
He couldn’t cry out. He couldn’t inhale. His windpipe was completely choked off.
Ricky’s last thought was that he was nineteen years old, and he was about to die. Not only that, it was to be at the hands of a movie star.
Then the gray overcame him.
Chapter 16
Venn breezed past Shawna in reception, who was on the phone anyway and paid him little regard apart form a finger raised in greeting.
He found Harmony already back there, talking animatedly with Fil. Vaguely, Venn registered that they seemed to be getting along, which was good and made a change.
She stood up as he entered, a look of triumph on her face. “Jeez, boss, wait till you hear this.”
Venn had finally got through the traffic jam and reached the parking lot of the Division of Special Projects after an hour. One-fifty p.m. by his watch. He was irritable because of the delay. More than that, he was unsettled by what Dennis Yancy had told him on the phone.
“What you got?” he said.
Fil answered. “A match for Bruce Collins and the Bonnesante Clinic.”
“Huh.” Venn took off his leather jacket and slung it over the back of a chair.
Harmony said, “He’s CEO of a company in which Douglas Driscoll, the director of the clinic, owns forty per cent of the shares.”
She handed Venn a printout. Venn scanned it, his mind still not fully focussed. The sheet gave details of Triton Enterprises, a manufacturer of instruments used to sterilize surgical equipment. There was Bruce Collins’ name at the top. A little further down, highlighted with a green Sharpie, was Driscoll’s.”
“Then we’ve got a potential conflict of interest,” said Venn. “Dr Collins ships out her patients to an expensive private clinic whose director is a business ally of her husband.”
Fil grimaced, tipping his head this way and that. “Maybe. Maybe not. It’d be hard to prove wrongdoing. Plenty of people buy shares in plenty of firms. And we don’t know exactly why these patients got sent there. For all we know, the clinic provides some kind of specialized treatment that’s unique. There may be valid clinical grounds for Dr Collins to send her patients there.”
“Ah, come on.” Venn shook his head. “You smell a rat, just like I do. Admit it.”
“Sure as hell stinks to me,” said Harmony.
Venn hadn’t sat down yet. He stood, thinking, for a few moments. Then he said, “Fil, I want you to call the clinic. See if you can arrange a meeting between me and the most senior person there.”
Fil raised his eyebrows. “Today?” He glanced at the wall clock.
“Yeah,” said Venn. “Today.”
Harmony said, “Hold on. You go in there and start asking questions, they’ll clam up tighter than a virgin’s ass.”
“I’m not going there as a cop.” Venn explained what he wanted.
Fil nodded. “Okay.”
While he made the call, Venn prowled around the office, drinking coffee, flicking through emails and memos he wasn’t interested in. He felt restless, wired.
Fifteen minutes later, Fil called: “You’ve lucked out.”
Venn went over to join him.
“Driscoll himself will see you,” Fil said. “Five thirty this afternoon.”
Venn checked his watch, grimaced. He grabbed his jacket off the chairback.
“Come on,” he said to Harmony. “We’re going for a ride.”
*
The Bonnesante Clinic was situated five miles outside of Glens Falls, in southeastern Warren County two hundred miles upstate of Manhattan. Venn figured it would take them three hours to get there, if he didn’t waste any time. Or hit any more damn traffic jams.
He left Fil grinding away through the remainder of the patients on the list Beth had given him, and told him to call with updates.
Ten minutes into the journey, Harmony said: “So what’s bugging you?”
He glanced across at her. “What?”
“Something’s crawling around in your boxers. And it ain’t the traffic jam you got stuck in.”
Venn was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You hear about the prison breakout? At Horn Creek in Illinois?”
“Yeah, of course.” Harmony gave a low whistle. “What a cluster fuck. Gotta be some red faces in the Department of Corrections right now. Some firings, too.”
“One of the guys who escaped. Gene Drake. I know him. I put him away, eight years ago, when I was a Chicago cop.”
“Yeah?” Harmony turned in her seat, intrigued. “Jesus. You must be pissed.”
“The irony was, I got him through sheer chance. He was wanted on three homicide charges, but I wasn’t hunting him for those. We got a tip-off about a planned hijacking of a bunch of armored cars, transporting cash for one of the banks. My guys and I ambushed the operation. Several of the hijackers were killed, but we got the leader. And it was Drake.”
“What did he get?”
“Life,” said Venn. “Two life sentences, in fact. For two of the homicides. He wriggled out of the other one, but it didn’t matter. It was enough. He went straight into Horn Creek, and he’s been there ever since. Until now.”
“Should of shot the son of a bitch when you had the chance,” said Harmony.
“I’ve been talking to a contact of mine in the FBI, and they think the prison break was an inside job. Somebody sabotaged the power supply. Drake may have been behind it, somehow. It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“He won’t last,” said Harmony. “If he’s smart, he’ll keep his nose clean for a while. But he’s high-profile enough now that as soon as he so much as commits a parking violation, they’ll get him.”
“Thing is, he’s already making waves,” said Venn. “My FBI guy called me when I was stuck in traffic. A 911 call came through at eleven this morning, from an auto repair shop in Western Pennsylvania. The kid who called it in reported a positive sighting of Drake. Next thing, the line goes dead. By the time the local cops got there, they found the kid dead. Garrotted. A professional kill. No trace of Drake, of course.”
“Huh.” Harmony thought about it. “Is that Drake’s MO? Garrotting?”
“Not particularly. He’s not some psycho killer who gets off on it. At least, that’s not the way he comes across. He’ll use whatever method comes to hand. But the sighting, then the dead kid... it’s no coincidence.”
“Pennsylvania,” said Harmony.
“Yeah. My FBI guy says he thinks Drake’s heading for New York. No real reason, but he’s out east, and New York’s one of the obvious destinations. Could be somewhere else. Could be Philly, or Boston, or Baltimore.”
After a few seconds’ silence, Harmony said, “You think he’s coming after you?”
Venn raised a shoulder. “It’s easy to get melodramatic. Paranoid. You’re a cop, you know how it is. These guys break out, and all they’ve got on their minds is the cop who put them away. Even if it means they’ll get caught, and spend the rest of their lives in solitary, for good this time. But it’s a hell of a stretch to assume Drake’s looking for me, just because he was sighted somewhere east of where he bust out.”
“I guess,” said Harmony. “Not least because Drake wouldn’t necessarily know you were in New York.”
“Yeah.”
After another spell of silence, longer this time, Harmony said, “You okay about the other thing?”
“What’s that?” said Venn. Though he knew what she was getting to.
“Helping Beth out.”
Venn sighed. “Do I think this is a valid avenue of investigation for us
? Yes, without reservation. It’s exactly the kind of thing we were set up to take care of. Am I comfortable working with my ex? No.”
Harmony looked out the window. “I guess I’m just wondering...”
When she didn’t speak further, Venn said, “Come on. Spit it out, Harm.”
She angled a glance at him. “I’m wondering exactly how much you’re doing this because you think you have a shot at winning her back.”
“Hey. Hey,” Venn said angrily. He braked, a little later than he intended, to avoid tailgating the car in front. “Don’t you damn suggest that I’d be unprofessional about this. Like I said, this is a case that warrants investigation. There’s no ulterior motive.”
“Whoah there.” Harmony held up her hands. Anybody else would have backed down, but not her. “Touched a nerve there, much?” She sighed, shaking her head. “Face it, Venn. You’re still nuts about her. Doesn’t matter whether or not your head’s accepted the reasons she gave for leaving you. She’s still there, inside you. In your gut. And other places, too.”
Venn shrugged. “Sure. I’d never deny that. But she’s come to me as a cop, not as a former lover. And I’m responding as a cop.” He looked over at Harmony. “What does it matter, anyhow? Even if I was doing this to try and impress her... what the hell difference would it make?”
“Because, shit for brains,” said Harmony, “people tend to make mistakes when they’re approaching a job with other stuff going on. They start seeing clues where there aren’t any, and on the other hand missing them when they’re there. I need to know I’m working alongside a partner who I can rely on to watch my back.”
Venn rolled his eyes. “Okay. I tell you what. You have my absolute permission to tell me if you think I’m screwing up, if I do anything that suggests my personal issues are getting in the way of the investigation. How’s that?”
“Big deal,” said Harmony. “I’d do that anyway, with or without your so-called permission.”
“And another thing,” said Venn. “We’re not partners. You work for me, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She waved her hand. “Whatever.”
Chapter 17
It was a little after five-ten when Venn turned the Jeep into the driveway of the clinic. A lowered boom stretched between two gateposts, and a security guard leaned out the window of the one nearest to Venn.
“May I help you, sir?”
“James Caldwell,” said Venn. “I have an appointment with Dr Douglas Driscoll.”
The guard checked something out of view, probably a computer monitor, and said, “Yes, sir. Go right on through. Parking lot’s on the right, and reception will direct you further.”
The boom swung up and Venn headed down the drive.
The Bonnesante Clinic was situated in ten acres of rolling woodland and meadow, walled off around the perimeter. The main building itself was a low, modern-looking steel-and-glass structure with three or four floors, extending horizontally more than vertically. Exquisitely manicured flowerbeds lined the driveway, and signposts promised a variety of facilities in smaller buildings dotted around the lawns: a heated swimming pool and saunas, a sports center incorporating the physical therapy department, and, discreetly off in a far corner of the grounds, a morgue. This last featured the tallest structure of the entire clinic: a chimney, through which the incinerators no doubt fed their waste.
“Place creeps me out,” Harmony muttered, as Venn swung into the parking lot. It was around half-full, many of the staff probably having left for the day.
“Why?” said Venn. “Looks pretty relaxing to me.”
“Hospitals aren’t supposed to be relaxing,” she said. “Places like Bellevue, Harlem Center... they’re noisy, chaotic, and everybody rushes around looking stressed as hell. But you get the sense that it’s life or death there, that there’s a real battle going on to save your ass. These squeaky-clean private places - it’s like you come here to die.”
“Your prejudiced attitude doesn’t become you,” Venn growled. But he kind of knew what she meant. Beth had expressed a similar view.
The receptionist was as cool as the airconditioned interior beyond the sliding glass doors at the entrance. She gave a brilliant smile.
“Mr Caldwell,” she said. Her eyes shifted to Harmony, her welcoming demeanor not slipping in the least.
“My fiancée, Marie,” said Venn smoothly.
They’d discussed it in the car on the journey up, he and Harmony. She’d been predictably opposed to the idea.
“You look like a cop,” she’d said. “But you could pass as a veteran, which you are. Me, I don’t look like your type. Not in the slightest. Nobody’s going to buy it. And it’ll screw up your own cover. A big tough white guy and a sister from the Projects? We might as well get matching tattoos on our foreheads, saying ‘Bad Cop’ and ‘Seriously Bad Cop’.”
“Then we’ll just have to turn our bullshit generators up a couple of notches,” said Venn. “Look. Even if they get suspicious, we’re taking a low-key approach. They can’t risk stonewalling us completely, just in case we really are potential customers. Word-of-mouth is real important for this kind of place and its reputation.”
The receptionist murmured into her phone, then turned her expensive orthodontic work on Venn again. “Dr Driscoll will be down in just a moment,” she said. “Please take a seat. May I get you coffee? Water? Soda?”
Harmony started to say no, but Venn interrupted. “Water would be great. Thanks.”
Cops didn’t usually accept offers like that.
‘Just a moment’ turned out to be ten minutes. The doors to one of the elevators off to the left opened suddenly, smooth as a whisper. A man came striding out.
He was around fifty, dressed in a beige silk three-piece suit. His bouffant hair was suspiciously black, and his walk had a certain fussiness. But his face was open and genuine enough.
“Mr Caldwell,” he said, extending his hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Doug Driscoll.”
Venn shook, as did Harmony. He winced inwardly at Harmony’s surly expression. She was great at undercover work, one of the best he’d ever encountered. But she didn’t do this kind of schmoozing all that well.
Driscoll led them into the elevator and up to the third floor. On the way he inquired about the distance they’d traveled, the traffic conditions along the way, and the weather back in New York City. It was only when they were seated in his office, which was plush in an understated way, that he said, “So. What can I do for you?”
“My PA mentioned my circumstances when he called, I hope,” said Venn. “My mother has type I diabetes. She’s having difficulty controlling her blood sugars, and she has extensive end-organ damage. Eyes, kidneys, and peripheral neuropathy which has caused two foot ulcers which are failing to heal. I’m not satisfied with the treatment she’s getting in her local hospital, and I’d like to explore the possibility of her care being transferred to your clinic.”
Driscoll nodded sympathetically. “I don’t see a problem,” he said. “However, the best approach in the first instance is for your mother, or you, to ask her family physician to make a referral -”
“Her family doctor is, to put it bluntly, worse than useless,” Venn cut in. “We don’t trust him. I’d prefer to make a direct request to you.”
Driscoll folded his hands on the desk, nodded. “I fully understand, Mr Caldwell.”
Venn said, “I’d be paying straight. No HMOs. I’m a Marine, honorably discharged and running my own security company. I’m a man of means, Dr Driscoll. Not spectacular, but more than enough to meet whatever costs are incurred.”
Driscoll stared at Venn.
In his time as a cop, both on the Chicago force and in his present job, Venn had been struck by how nakedly the most primal of human emotions shone through in people’s eyes, even in people who were otherwise expert at disguising their inner motivations. Complex notions such as religious zealotry, intense patriotism, commitment to an extreme political ideal... t
hese were all relatively easy to conceal, in the case of a consummate actor.
But it was near impossible to mask the rawest drives of all.
Jealousy.
Revenge.
And greed.
It was this last that Venn observed in the level gaze of Driscoll. In his stock-still face, his slight, fixed smile.
“Mr Caldwell,” he said softly, amiably, “I think we can come to an agreement. We would be delighted to accept your mother here at the Bonnesante Clinic.”
Venn nodded, leaned back in his chair.
Driscoll put his hands together – he managed to refrain from rubbing them – and said, his tone now businesslike: “Perhaps we could begin with a tour of the facility.”
Venn looked at Harmony. “If it’s all the same, my fiancée is the one best placed to judge the esthetics. Could somebody show her around? I’d like to talk business with you, Dr Driscoll.”
Driscoll’s eyes flicked to Harmony, then back to Venn. “Of course.” His slight smile never wavering, he picked up the phone. “Could you see if Jane’s still around? There’s a client who would like a guided tour.”
He listened, then put the phone down. “Jane Clemmons is one of our senior nurses. She’ll be more than happy to show you everything.”
“Cool,” said Harmony. Again Venn felt a twinge of desperation. What was she going to start doing next, chewing gum? Driscoll’s eyes met his. Venn thought he saw a hint of sympathy there.
He didn’t like that. The goddamn snob.
Jane Clemmons must have been only a few doors down, because she appeared almost immediately. She was a homely woman in her late forties, pleasant and brisk.
Driscoll said, “Mr Caldwell is interested in considering his mother for Bonnesante, Jane. Could you kindly show his fiancée, Ms – ?”
“Jones,” said Harmony. She shook the other woman’s hand. “Marie.”
“ – Ms Jones around the facilities?” Driscoll finished.
The two women left.