by Tim Stevens
That was going to be tricky.
Across the parking lot, Paul saw Doug Driscoll’s BMW in its reserved space. Driscoll would be staying late, as he always did on a Monday. Had Venn been speaking with him? Paul wondered whether to go inside and find Driscoll and raise the matter with him. But he decided against it, until he was clearer about what was going on.
Paul started the engine and began the journey back to the city. He’d call Beth when he was home, see if she was free that evening.
Chapter 22
Venn drove in a haphazard pattern, navigating the Manhattan streets with no real destination in mind. Beside him, Beth gazed silently out the window.
He had nothing further to say to her about Paul Brogan. But he found himself wanting to prolong their contact, to delay the time when he offered to drop her off at her apartment, or wherever else she wanted to go.
After the silence had built up to a pitch that was almost unbearable, Beth said, quietly: “Tell me one thing, Venn.”
“What’s that?”
She looked at him. “Tell me this isn’t all about me and Paul.”
“What do you mean?” he said. Though he knew perfectly well what she meant.
“Tell me you’re not fishing for reasons to hassle him. Because you’re... jealous.”
Damn. The word was like an icepick through his gut. Beth had a knack for being direct. And Venn couldn’t always deal with it.
“No,” he said deliberately. “You’ve seen the facts. Paul Brogan has a connection with the clinic. The clinic is connected with the data discrepancies you asked me to investigate. I can’t ignore it.” He hesitated, then said: “I told you. Who you see is your business. It makes no difference to me.”
Her silent gaze was disbelieving. Venn squirmed inwardly.
“Venn,” she said, her voice still quiet. “Just promise me you won’t go over the top. That you won’t hurt him.”
Venn’s head snapped round. “Hey. There’s no call for that. What do you think I am? Some kind of psycho?”
He immediately regretted his outburst. The last thing he wanted to do was trigger another panic attack in her, or whatever they were. But she didn’t flinch.
“Could you drop me?” she asked. “Back on First. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“Sure,” he muttered. “But I can take you all the way home.”
“I’d rather walk a little.”
He understood the unspoken words. She doesn’t want me coming near her apartment. Venn knew where she lived, of course, but he’d never been there.
On the way, he said, “So will you do it? Will you see if you can get access to the clinic?”
Beth nodded. “Yes. I’ll do what I can.”
*
By the time Beth got out and Venn watched her walk quickly away, it was nine-fifty. He decided to go home.
On the journey back from the Bonnesante Clinic, he and Harmony had compared notes. She’d been given a brief but efficient tour of the clinic by the nurse, Clemmons, and had an idea of the layout and the facilities on offer. Apart from that, she hadn’t learned much.
“It looks like a damn hotel,” Harmony said. “Everybody’s smiling all of the time, even the patients I saw in the corridors. That’s not normal.”
She’d asked Clemmons a few questions, taking care not to seem too nosey. Approximately fifteen per cent of the patients at any given time were from the State hospitals, the nurse explained.
“Charity cases,” Harmony said to Venn. “To make the clinic look good. The clinic tops up the fees when they exceed what the HMOs are willing to pay.”
“And I’ll bet most of the patients Dr Collins transferred there fall into that category,” Venn said. “So maybe the scam’s a minor one, after all. Maybe Collins isn’t sending patients there in order to increase the clinic’s profits, but rather to keep up the number of charity cases, as you call them, in order to benefit the clinic’s image.”
“It still stinks,” said Harmony.
“Ethically, maybe,” said Venn. “Legally, I don’t think so.”
He told her about the man he’d seen in the parking lot, the one he’d seen with Beth on the street. Harmony’s reaction was similar to the one Beth showed later.
“Hey, big guy,” Harmony said. “Don’t let your feelings for this guy cloud your judgment. So he’s a doctor, and he happens to work at this clinic. Doesn’t mean zip.”
“Even so,” Venn said. “It’s worth checking out.”
He called Fil on the way down and asked him to find a complete list of the Bonnesante Clinic’s shareholders. Fil was still working on the life and career history of Bruce Collins.
“Not much of interest,” said Fil. “He’s a busy guy, got his fingers in all kinds of pies. But he’s a good citizen. Pays his taxes. No rap sheet whatsoever.”
Collins was into international exports as one of his endeavors, shipping various products to India and the Far East. Venn tried to think of any relevance to his investigation, but couldn’t.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll be back around a quarter of nine. Leave the shareholder data out for me, and get yourself home.”
He dropped Harmony at the Manhattan office, went in himself, and collected the printed documents Fil had produced. Quickly he ran his eye down the list of names. Then he compared it with the list of staff members at the clinic which Driscoll had given him.
A few names were duplicated.
That was when Venn called Beth and asked her to meet.
*
Venn crossed the bridge into Brooklyn, the traffic a little easier at this time of night. He decided there was nothing to be gained by thinking about the case any more tonight. The bits and pieces of information he’d gleaned were too tenuous, too circumstantial to be tied together. He’d sleep on it, make a fresh start tomorrow.
Maybe he was overthinking this. Maybe Paul Brogan really had nothing to do with any of it.
Whatever it was.
He reached his street, parked the Jeep, and walked up the steps of the brownstone to the front door.
Chapter 23
Although Drake hadn’t managed more than a catnap or two on the journey east, Drake didn’t feel the least bit tired. He knew fatigue would hit him, sooner or later, but right now he was wired.
Herman and Gudrun occupied themselves by examining the books and CDs throughout the apartment, shining their flashlights on the covers. Drake insisted on keeping all of the lights off. There was no point sending out any warning signs.
Skeet, on the other hand, disappeared into the bathroom and emerged with his hands shaking, his eyes redder than before. He paced the floor of the apartment relentlessly, following a set path, from living room to kitchen to bedroom and back again, over and over. As he passed, Drake noticed grains of white powder clinging to his nostrils.
“Skeet,” said Drake. “Go easy on that shit.”
Skeet mumbled something unintelligible and continued his pacing. Drake sighed. If the guy went into the bathroom to take another hit, Drake would have to intervene. He’d gotten word to Herman while still in Horn Creek, asking him to get hold of some kind of injectable tranquillizer just in case Skeet went off the rails. It would take both Drake and Herman, and most probably Gudrun as well, to hold Skeet down if he flipped.
They’d been in the apartment almost two and a half hours when Drake’s phone buzzed.
“Yeah.”
It was Rosenbloom. “He’s here.”
The adrenalin prickled in Drake’s bloodstream. “You sure?”
Rosenbloom’s voice dripped sarcasm like acid. “Uh, gee, no. I could be wrong.”
“Don’t get smart with me, you son of a bitch –”
“Yeah, I’m sure. He’s parked and he’s got out. Headed for the front door right this minute.”
“He alone?” asked Drake.
“Yep.”
Drake put his phone away. He took the Remington from beside the front door where he’d propped it.
/> Herman and Gudrun stood side by side, looking elegant and relaxed. Skeet hopped from foot to foot, barely able to hold his Glock.
“Get a hold of yourself, for chrissakes,” Drake snarled. He looked at each of them in turn.
“Remember. Follow my cue. No violence until I say so. He’s mine.”
“Sure, boss,” the twins chimed together.
Drake put a finger to his lips and stood by the side of the door.
Without Skeet’s footfalls, the sudden quiet was disorienting. There were the usual traffic noises of the city beyond, and the creaks and ticks of the apartment block’s pipes. But otherwise, an unearthly stillness, which reminded Drake of prison in the dead of night.
Then... footsteps. Growing louder, as somebody ascended.
Drake held his breath.
He heard the footsteps stop outside the door. The scrabble of the key in the lock.
The door opened.
Drake grabbed the man’s collar and propelled him forward into the living room, sending him crashing against a wooden coffee table and sprawling on the carpet.
With one hand, Drake pushed the door shut, reached up and flipped on the lights. With the other, he aimed the Remington at the man, who’d turned on the floor and was staring up at him.
“Hello again, asshole,” Drake said.
Chapter 24
Beth was walking up First Avenue, two minutes after Venn had dropped her off, when her phone rang.
It was Paul.
“I’m almost home,” he said. “Traffic was murder. Do you feel like coming over?”
She was about to say no, she was tired, she wanted to be alone, when a sudden surge of anger flared within her.
Enough of this uncertainty, and conjecture, and mistrust. She was going to come out with it. Ask Paul frankly if he knew of any underhand activity with regard to the Bonnesante Clinic, and if he was involved in it. She’d watch him carefully, to judge whether or not he was giving her honest answers.
And if he convinced her, she was going to call Venn and tell him he was wrong. That his jealousy was distorting his judgment, and that he needed to lay off Paul.
“Yes,” Beth said. “I’d like that.”
“Okay.” Paul sounded like he was still driving. “Can I pick you up?”
“No, I’ll make my own way there,” she said.
His apartment was in Tribeca, a fifteen-minute trip away on the subway. She headed for the nearest station.
*
Drake started with the guy’s belly, driving the barrel of the shotgun into it like he was using a bayonet.
The man jackknifed and rolled on to his side. He puked thinly on the carpet, coughing and wheezing and gasping for breath afterward.
Drake followed up with a kick to the man’s kidney on the exposed side. The man let out a howl and tried to bring his hands across to protect his flank. With his loafer, Drake kicked him again, in the back this time, arching the guy as if he’d been electrocuted.
Before stooping so that his face was close to the man’s, Drake glanced at Gudrun and Herman. They stood and watched, their expressions rapt, their eyes shining.
The guy’s face was the gray of wet putty. His eyes glimmered with tears.
“Do you know who I am?” Drake stage-whispered.
With an effort that made him wince, the man nodded.
“Who am I? Say my name.”
The man’s voice came out in a hoarse, unintelligible rasp.
Drake knelt beside him, grabbed his hair to pull his head back, and jammed the end of the Remington under his chin.
“Louder.”
“You’re...” The man faltered, swallowed dryly, tried again. “You’re Eugene Drake.”
“Correct. So I am.”
Drake released his hair and stood up. He let the shotgun hang down loosely from one hand, and prodded the guy with it: his leg, his chest, his face. The man jerked his head away, but kept his eyes fixed on Drake’s.
“Dr Paul Brogan,” Drake said grandly. “Psychiatrist extraordinaire.” He wrinkled his nose, peered at the guy’s trousers. “Whoops. You appear to have pissed yourself, Doc. A little undignified for a man in your elevated position, wouldn’t you say?”
Skeet snickered, hopping again from one foot to the other. Drake wished he’d put the gun away. He probably didn’t even have the safety on, and it could go off accidentally.
To Brogan, Drake said: “Well, Doc, normally I’d let you head on into the bathroom and get yourself cleaned up. But, see, it would be waste of time and effort. Because your clothes are going to get stained a whole lot more, very shortly. And not with piss. You understand what I’m saying?”
Brogan, who’d been keeping his mouth shut, began to blubber. His eyes were wide with terror. Despite the agony he was in, from the blows to his abdomen and side and back, he started to scramble backward across the carpet on his elbows.
His head bumped into Herman’s feet, and he looked up sharply. Herman beamed down at him.
“Just a few friends I’ve brought along with me to enjoy the party,” Drake said conversationally. “Ah, yeah, I forgot. Where are my manners? I didn’t tell you we were going to be dropping by. Sorry about that. Well, we’re here now, so I hope we’re not putting you to too much inconvenience.”
With a gasp, Brogan rolled over onto his front, and began crawling away toward the kitchen.
“Going to get us some drinks and snacks,” Drake said. “Hey, Doc. Make mine a big old helping of revenge pie. Straight from the refrigerator. After all, I hear it’s best served cold.”
This time Gudrun tittered.
Skeet jabbered mockingly: “Hey, man. I think he’s gonna get himself a carving knife. Jeez. What are we gonna do?”
Drake watched Brogan slide off the carpet and onto the stone floor of the small kitchen. He began to feel impatient. He’d wanted to scare the guy, and there was no doubt he’d done that. Hell, just the sight of him and Skeet and the twins would be enough to freak any normal person out.
But now he felt the bloodlust rising in him like a drug. He didn’t want to torture the psychiatrist, carve him up and dismember him alive the way Herman and Gudrun would probably go about it.
No. He wanted to kill him. Noisily, violently, and spectacularly. That was one of the reasons he’d gone over the top in choosing guns from the arms cache. He wanted Paul Brogan to face a massive, explosive end. A blast of shotgun fire, followed up by a hail of handgun bullets so that his body shredded and jerked and twisted.
Drake raised the Remington. Ratcheted back the slide. Ch-chak.
A collective sigh escaped Skeet and the twins. This was it.
“Hey, Doc,” called Drake.
The man had grabbed the handle of a drawer and was hauling himself upright. He turned at Drake’s voice.
Stretched his mouth wide.
“No -”
And the buzzer sounded, beside the front door, so loud and so startling Drake nearly pulled the trigger of the shotgun back in a reflex action.
*
Drake was on the kitchen floor alongside Brogan in an instant, once more seizing him by the hair and shoving the shotgun barrel under his jaw.
“Who’s that?” he snarled.
Brogan’s eyes rolled like a wounded horse’s, his lips working soundlessly.
Drake shifted the end of the shotgun so that it loomed close to the man’s eyes.
“Dammit to hell. Who’s out there? Who’s at the door?”
Skeet hissed from the living room: “Hey, boss. Phone.”
Drake looked round, saw Skeet lob the phone toward him. He let go Brogan’s hair and caught it.
Rosenbloom said at the other end, “For God’s sake. Why didn’t you answer? I’ve been calling for like the last sixty seconds.”
Drake cursed inwardly. He’d left the phone on the couch. In all the excitement, none of them had heard it vibrating.
“There’s a woman at the door,” Rosenbloom went on. “Pressing the buzzer. Don�
��t know if it’s the apartment you’re in, but -”
“Yeah,” said Drake. “It is.” Watching Brogan’s face, he said to Rosenbloom: “Describe her.”
“Youngish, maybe thirty. Auburn hair. Difficult to see for sure, but she’s kind of hot.”
The woman from the photo by Brogan’s bed.
Sweet.
“She alone?” asked Drake.
“Yeah.”
Drake tossed the phone aside. He stood, gazing down at the man on the floor.
“Well, well. Looks like your girlfriend has arrived.”
The buzzer sounded again, a longer note this time. Brogan stared about him, his feet scrabbling on the stone floor.
Then he yelled, his voice a croak but surprisingly loud: “Beth! Beth, get the hell out of here. There are –”
Drake reversed the Remington and brought the stock down on Brogan’s face. The man’s nose exploded with a crack, blood gouting down his shirt and spattering the floor. He slumped, sliding down the counter he was propped against, his legs splaying.
Drake crouched. Shit. He shouldn’t have hit the guy so hard.
Brogan was alive, semi-conscious, his eyes fluttering, his mouth moving vaguely. Drake let him slide until he was almost supine on the floor, only his head upright against the counter.
Turning, Drake said, “Herman. Buzz her in. Say something briefly, so it’s like this guy talking.”
In two strides Herman was at the entryphone beside the door. He lifted the receiver and said, “Yeah. Come on up.” Drake had to admire the way he did it. Herman had barely heard Brogan speak, but he’d captured the man’s voice accurately. Herman pressed the buzzer to release the mechanism of the building’s front door.
Gudrun stood by calmly, but her eyes shone. Skeet had, bizarrely, dropped to his knees on the carpet, laid down his gun, and had his hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer.
Crazy fuckers, all of them, Drake thought, with not a little fondness.
He watched the front door of the apartment, waiting.