Alpha Kill - 03

by Tim Stevens

  She locked her office and was heading down the corridor when her phone rang.

  Venn.

  Without giving herself time to hesitate, Beth answered. “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” Venn said unnecessarily. “You still at work?”

  “Yes. I was just leaving.”

  “We need to meet,” he said.

  Beth was confused. There was an urgency in his tone. But also a kind of... regret. He didn’t sound at all like a jealous, angry ex-lover.

  She said, “Okay. Same place as last night? The coffee shop?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But I’ll pick you up outside there.”

  “All right.” Beth paused. “Venn, is everything –”

  “Are you alone?” he interrupted. He didn’t sound accusing.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Stay that way. Twenty minutes?”

  He hung up.

  *

  While she waited on the corner outside the coffee shop, drawing her coat around her for warmth, Beth had the uneasy and irrational sense that Paul was suddenly going to show up out of nowhere, just as Venn arrived.

  But he didn’t, of course, and Beth hadn’t been there long until Venn’s Jeep pulled to a stop beside the curb.

  He opened the door for her from the inside and she got in, peering at his face. He looked grave. Before she’d even finished buckling up, he took off.

  “Where are we going?” Beth asked.

  “Just driving around,” Venn muttered. “It’s the most private place I can think of.”

  When he didn’t say anything for more than thirty seconds, Beth ventured a question. “So what are we meeting about.”

  Venn slowed for a red light, sped up again as it turned amber. “That man you were with today, at lunchtime. Outside the hospital. Who was he?”

  Beth sighed. So it was all about that, after all. “Venn, look. It’s just... casual for now. I was going to mention –”

  “No,” he interrupted. “That’s not what I mean. What you do is your own business. I’m not prying. I need to know his name for another reason.”

  Her confusion must have shown, because he went on: “He may be connected with the other business. The stuff you asked me to look into.”

  “Paul?” she said, involuntarily. She tried a laugh, which didn’t come out as convincing. “What do you mean?”

  Carefully, precisely, as though delivering a report, Venn said, “The patients your Dr Collins has been transferring out, have been going mostly to the Bonnesante Clinic upstate. Her husband, Bruce Collins, is a major shareholder in the clinic. I visited it earlier tonight. I saw your guy – Paul – while I was there.”

  Beth stared at Venn, then out the window. She’d heard of the Bonnesante, though she hadn’t had any professional dealings with the place. She knew Paul had a few patients there, and she believed it might be where he’d gone today.

  Finally, she said, “It doesn’t prove anything. Even if there’s some kind of corrupt deal going on, which I assume you’re hinting at – even if Olivia is sending patients to a facility in which her husband has a financial interest – it doesn’t mean Paul, or anybody else who works there, is doing anything wrong.”

  “Sure it doesn’t,” said Venn. “Not in itself. What’s Paul’s last name?”

  She felt wrongfooted, as if she was being expertly interrogated. “Brogan.”

  Venn nodded. He grabbed a stapled sheaf of papers off the dashboard and dropped it in her lap. “Take a look at the first page.”

  Beth scanned the top sheet. It was a printed-off list of shareholders in the Bonnesante Clinic. Her eyes roved down the names until they snagged on one of them.

  Paul R. Brogan.

  For a moment she didn’t say anything. Then: “It still doesn’t prove he’s doing anything wrong.”

  “No,” said Venn. “It doesn’t prove anything. But it gives reasonable cause for suspicion.” He turned his face to her, his eyes shadowed by the dim light through the windshield. “And it may be useful to us. Beth, you’re close to a man who may or may not have something to do with all of this. Either way, it gives us a potential avenue in.”

  This time Beth kept her gaze on the world passing by her window. The familiar streets, the bustle, all felt threatening to her now.

  “What do you want me to do?” she murmured.

  “Introduce the topic of the clinic to him,” said Venn. “But do it discreetly. Find out what he does there. Maybe see if he can take you along with him, tell him you’re interested in applying for attending privileges there. See if you can get a foot in the door.”

  She shook her head, bewildered. Venn seemed to take the gesture as a refusal, because he said, “It makes sense, Beth. You’re a physician. I’m not. You know what you’re looking for in a place like that. You’d recognize whether Dr Collins’ patients are being sent there appropriately, or if they’re being scammed. Get me some concrete evidence that there’s a racket going on, and I’ll bust them.”

  Beth looked at Venn once more. She said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “But like I said, be discreet.”

  After a pause, during which they were both lost in thought, Venn said, “So what kind of doctor is Paul Brogan?”

  “A psychiatrist.”

  Beth thought she saw Venn’s eyes widen a fraction, his frown deepen. She said, “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’m wondering if you could check whether he’s doing the same thing as Dr Collins. Sending his patients to the clinic.”

  Beth immediately shook her head. “No. He keeps his work at the hospital separate from his private work. He’s quite insistent on that.”

  “And you’re sure he’s telling the truth?”

  Damn you, Venn. Beth squeezed her mouth tight shut, furious at him.

  Because of course she was sure Paul was telling the truth.

  Wasn’t she?

  Chapter 20

  Drake and the rest of the convoy reached the address at seven-fifty.

  The traffic along the final stretch of the journey had been an eye-opener. Drake wasn’t some rube – he’d grown up in a small city – but he was unprepared for the gridlock that brought them to a halt.

  Luckily the twins, and Walusz, weren’t unprepared. They navigated the streets with a deftness that impressed Drake, veering away from trouble spots down side roads which looked too narrow to fit their vehicles. In the rearview mirror, he saw that Rosenbloom was struggling to keep up. Skeet would be yelling at him, agitating him further.

  Drake smiled. The fat bastard.

  And all of a sudden they were there, the soft mechanical voice from the GPS intoning: “You have reached your destination.” The street was a quiet one, partially lit with lamps which themselves were shielded by trees.

  The cars pulled up onto the curb, one after the other. Drake stayed in the SUV and watched Herman get out of the station wagon and stroll along the sidewalk, peering at the numbers of the brownstones. Eventually he turned back and came over to Drake’s side. Drake lowered the window.

  “That one,” said Herman. “With the dumpster in front.”

  The brownstone looked just the same as all of the others lining the street. Drake stared through the windshield. There had to be several apartments in there. Some of the windows were lit, some not.

  Drake looked at the dashboard clock again. The guy might not be home yet. Drake didn’t care if he wasn’t. He had all the time in the world to wait.

  But he needed to exercise caution on the initial approach. He’d come too far to screw this up.

  Drake took out his phone. He didn’t want to get out of the car just yet, in case some busybody in the street, some wannabe hero, happened to recognize him.

  “Gudrun,” he said into the phone.

  “Yes.” He could see the shape of her head in the passenger seat of the station wagon up in front.

  “Go and see if he’s home. Buzz him, tell him you’re a Jehovah’s Witness or something
if he answers. He’ll tell you to get lost. Don’t push it, just report back.”

  He watched Gudrun get out of the car and walk appealingly toward the steps leading up to the front door. Once more, his reasoning was that a woman would be far less threatening, and less likely to arouse suspicion.

  Drake just hoped she didn’t kill anybody on the way.

  He waited. Gudrun was at the door and pressing the buzzer.

  His phone buzzed. It was Skeet, in the car behind.

  “I never asked you before. Are you planning to go in alone?”

  Drake had considered this question previously. He said, “No. I want us all to go in. Me, you, and the twins. Rosenbloom and Walusz can keep watch out here in the car.”

  “Cool.” Skeet sounded genuinely thrilled.

  “I want to scare the shit out of the guy,” Drake said. “And you guys will scare him plenty.”

  “Before he dies.”

  “Before he dies,” Drake agreed. “But remember. I kill him. Not you, not Gudrun or Herman. Any of you three get trigger happy, I’ll kick your nuts out the top of your head.”

  “No problem, man.” Skeet hung up.

  Gudrun came down the steps, walked over to Drake’s side of the SUV.

  “No answer,” she said. “And his apartment’s on the second floor. The lights are all out. He’s not home.”

  “Okay.” Drake nodded toward the station wagon, where Herman had returned and was sitting in the driving seat. “Tell your brother. We’re going in.”

  He called Skeet again. “Get ready to party.” To Walusz, beside him, he said: “Keep watch. The guy approaches, you call me immediately.”

  The silent Pole nodded, once, staring straight ahead. If he called, he wouldn’t speak, but his ID would come up on Drake’s phone and he’d know the target had arrived.

  Drake clambered into the back and lifted up the seat to reveal the compartment below. The MI6 from the cache gleamed in the light from a streetlamp, tempting him. But it would be too much. He didn’t need an assault rifle for this particular encounter.

  Instead, he hauled out one of the Remington shotguns. The handgun he’d selected, the Kel-Tec, was already in his pocket.

  He got out, Skeet emerging from the Hyundai behind at the same time, the twins slamming their doors ahead.

  Time to rock and roll.

  *

  They got through both the front door of the brownstone and the door to the apartment itself without any trouble. Drake had, after all, been provided with both the electronic key code of the outer door and the physical Yale key that unlocked the inner one.

  Skeet and Herman shone flashlights around the apartment, taking care not to aim them at the windows, even though they were covered with heavy drapes. The place was a typical bachelor pad. Simple furniture in the living room, a decent-sized if not extravagant plasma TV. A kitchen full of guy stuff: basic pots and pans, a refrigerator stocked with TV dinners and beers and cold cuts. In the bedroom there was a double bed, queen-size, with a small table on either side.

  On one table stood a framed photo. Drake picked it up while Skeet shone the flashlight on it.

  “Pretty lady,” said Skeet.

  An auburn-haired young woman smiled at the camera. Drake wondered if she lived in the apartment, too. But no, that was unlikely. A woman would have brightened the place up a little. He rummaged though the closets. There was no trace of female apparel. Just shirts and two or three suits and a couple of leather jackets.

  Drake wondered if the Alpha Kill was going to return to his apartment that night, or if he was staying over at his woman’s place. It didn’t really matter if he was. There was enough food in the place to sustain them all for a while, plus the TV.

  On the other hand, maybe the guy would come back tonight with the woman. Now that would be interesting.

  Drake had long ago learned to sublimate his sexual urges, to channel them into other avenues so that they didn’t dominate him. He had a job to do now, first and foremost, and nothing - nothing - was going to distract him. Which was why he hadn’t given in to the temptation Skeet had held out before him after he’d first escaped, namely to plunge into a wild, welcome-home party, like most guys who’d just gotten out of eight years of incarceration in prison would do.

  But after he’d made the kill, after he’d satisfied his desire for revenge... well, then, there’d be plenty of time to satisfy his other desires. And if there was a woman right there, his for the taking...

  Drake went back into the living room, dropped into a recliner and put his feet up. Felt himself relax, luxuriously, for the first time since he’d gotten out. The others prowled about the apartment, but he let them be.

  The memory of the phone call he’d received in the car danced across his consciousness. He heard the man’s voice, saw the text message with the attached image.

  Drake felt tension begin to knot his gut and his neck.

  No. This was no time to worry. To brood.

  He’d turn his attention to that later.

  He closed his eyes and began to wait.

  Chapter 21

  As a psychiatrist, Paul Brogan was skilled at masking his emotions. Not for extended periods, but just long enough that he could suppress his immediate reactions to things he observed or was told about.

  It served him well, this faculty, because patients often disclosed things to him that were truly shocking. Sometimes they did so deliberately, in order to provoke a response. And Paul would be unprofessional if he allowed himself to react in the normal way. So he listened neutrally, not allowing himself to be drawn into the story and be made part of it.

  When Paul saw Joe Venn on the other side of the parking lot at the Bonnesante Clinic, he employed this very skill.

  His first instinct was to stop in his tracks, to stare at the man. But Venn didn’t appear to have seen Paul, yet, and so the important thing to do was to keep walking, continue as he was, not draw attention to himself.

  Even as he listened to the chattering of the man beside him - Bob Davis, the clinic’s pathologist - Paul’s thoughts were racing away, his mind trying to process the information his senses had just provided him with.

  Lieutenant Joe Venn. Here, at the clinic.

  It couldn’t be an accident.

  From the corner of his eye, Paul saw Venn and the woman he was with, whom Paul assumed was a fellow cop, get into a car. It was the very same Jeep Cherokee Paul had seen earlier that day, when he and Beth had been crossing the road outside the hospital.

  Venn had seen him then, and knew his face.

  And now he was here.

  Paul stood with Davis and a couple of other staff beside one of their cars, finishing up their conversation and then saying their goodbyes. Still using his peripheral vision, Paul observed the Jeep pull out of the parking lot and disappear through the gates.

  He made his way over to his own car and dropped into the driving seat and closed the door. He didn’t start the engine, just sat there, his chest tight, sweat beginning to mat his shirt to his body despite the coolness of the October evening.

  Like many if not most doctors, Paul had an analytical mind. Despite the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him and drown out all rational thought, he grasped at the facts and laid them out in as orderly a fashion as he was able.

  One: Venn knew Paul and Beth were in a relationship. He’d seen them together, today, arm-in-arm in a way that suggested more than just friendship.

  Two: Venn happened to show up at a clinic hundreds of miles upstate, at the same time Paul was there. This was so unlikely to be coincidental that he could immediately dismiss the possibility.

  Three: Beth knew nothing about the clinic. She knew of its existence, of course, and that Paul had privileges there. But the... other aspect of it, the secret it held... she couldn’t know. At least, not from Paul.

  Paul examined the three facts. There was no obvious way of connecting them.

  He considered the non-obvious possibili
ties.

  One: Venn, overcome with jealousy at seeing Beth with another man, had somehow tailed Paul to the clinic. The guy was a detective, and a former military man. He wouldn’t have too much difficulty keeping track of somebody with a fairly orderly, structured working schedule like Paul. So maybe Venn had been following Paul all day. Which meant he might be out there, waiting for Paul to leave before resuming the pursuit.

  Why, though, did he have the other detective with him? The African-American woman?

  Two: Beth knew something about what was going on at the Bonnesante Clinic, and had told Venn.

  Neither possibility was particularly comforting. But of the two, the second was the more alarming. Paul had dealt with his share of stalkers over the years. Psychiatrists tended to attract them more than doctors in most other specialisms. He’d once spent six months being harassed by a female patient with De Clerembault’s syndrome, who’d had the delusional conviction that Paul was in love with her. The police had eventually arrested her when her approaches started to turn threatening.

  So being followed wasn’t an experience totally new to Paul. He hadn’t, however, ever been stalked by a vengeful cop with a track record of killing people. But at least jealousy was a straightforward motive.

  The second scenario, in which Beth had discovered something about the clinic and had tipped her former boyfriend off, was less likely, but more problematic. It meant there’d been a leak somewhere. It also meant Beth had been deceiving Paul, which suggested a guile in her he wouldn’t have thought possible. As a psychiatrist, his radar for deviousness in people was finely tuned. Had it failed him this time?

  He became aware of a pang of guilt, and examined it.

  Yes, he was hardly in a position to complain if Beth had tricked him. He had, after all, been holding back from her. Several times, when the emotional bond between them had felt particularly strong, he’d teetered on the edge of telling her everything. But he couldn’t, for all kinds of reasons, and he’d managed to resist the impulse.

  Now, though, things were different. If the possibility was there that Beth knew something, he needed to confront her about it. But he also had to do it in a careful way, introducing the subject obliquely, in case he was wrong and she knew nothing.