Last Shot

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Bear brought Tim up a fresh shirt from the gift shop. They checked in with Guerrera at the command post, and then Bear went back to his rig to retrieve some information from the field files. Thomas and Freed showed up, having had no luck with the pursuit. They kept near the elevators, walking tight circles with their cell phones pressed to their ears. Tim sat some more, a set of matte black handcuffs resting against his thigh.

  Kaitlin finally came out. She’d pulled her hair back taut into a ponytail and changed into scrubs. She took note of the handcuffs. “He wants to see you,” she said.

  Tim slid the handcuffs back into their belt pouch, stood, and nodded at Thomas and Freed. Thomas squared himself so he was facing Kaitlin.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Tim said.

  Sam was sweating, sheet thrown back from his bloated legs. His skin, so dry in places that it had cracked, had darkened to an olive-yellow shade.

  Tim sat bedside and said, “Hey, Sam.”

  Sam coughed a bit. He sounded dry and raspy. “Kaitlin’s not being all dramatic still, is she?”

  “She’s doing okay.”

  Sam’s upper lids were puffy, more jaundiced even than the rest of his face. “I was thinking….” he said. Tim waited him out. He coughed some more, then said, “If any of my other organs are any good, maybe some other kid could get ’em so his eyes don’t have to turn yellow.”

  Tim lowered his head. Took a deep breath. Said, “Sure, I can have the doctor come talk to you about that.”

  “I wanted to tell you before Kaitlin. She’s too emotional.”

  “I’ll make sure she knows what you want.”

  Sam scratched his shoulder, leaving red tracks through the flaky skin, and drowsed off. The sleeve of his gown stayed shoved up. High on his flimsy biceps, Tim made out a Magic Marker tattoo, days faded. It was an imitation of Walker’s—all yin, no yang. The tattoo was not featured on any of the photos of Walker they’d released to the press, nor in any of Walker’s files.

  Kaitlin was on the bench where Tim had left her, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. She’d loosed her ponytail, her hair falling in sheets, hiding her face. Between her shoes, a few clear drops blurred the tile. She gripped the pager in both hands, just below the fringe of hair. Another tear tapped the floor.

  Tim sat down beside her. “How long have you been in touch with Walker?”

  “Just this night.”

  Not according to Sam’s faded Magic Marker tattoo. Tim clenched his jaw, weighing the variables that had collided. He said, “Do not lie to me. I’m your friend here for about five more seconds. Then I’m not.”

  The anger in his voice snapped Freed’s head around up the hall, but Kaitlin kept hers down. Tim counted to five, then pulled the handcuffs out. “Sam needs you right now. But if you won’t cooperate, I’ll take you out of here.” He grabbed her right wrist and cinched metal around it.

  “We never wanted any part of it,” Kaitlin said quietly. She still hadn’t raised her head. Tim keyed the cuff, releasing her wrist. She rubbed it like a weathered con, an instinctive reaction she’d likely picked up from TV. “He never told me anything specific about what he was up to. He broke into the house a few times to root through Tess’s stuff, find clues, I guess, like you. He left when he was ready. Finally I told him he couldn’t involve me and Sammy. That we never wanted to see him again.”

  “And tonight?”

  “I went there to say good-bye. And to let Sammy do the same. I thought everyone deserves a good-bye.”

  “He bonded with Sam?”

  “Yeah. Despite himself.”

  “When’s the first time you saw him?”

  “The morning after he got out.”

  Tim made a noise and sank back in his chair. “What else do you know? About where he was staying, what he was doing? Anything?”

  “I don’t know any more than what I saw on the news. He didn’t tell me, and I knew better than to ask.” Kaitlin spoke in a monotone. “He poked around in Tess’s room and wanted revenge on the people he thought had killed her. That’s it.”

  “If you’re not being straight—”

  “It’s the truth.” At last she sat up, swept the hair out of her face. She placed the pager on the bench beside her delicately, as if it were made of glass. “So what are you gonna do? Let Sam die alone? Put me in jail?”

  “People are dead because you aided and abetted a fugitive.”

  She clutched her beat-up purse in both hands, as if holding on to it to stay afloat. A label on the worn leather read PURSE. She managed only a whisper. “What are you gonna do to me?”

  “The cell phone Walker gave you…?” Tim nodded at her purse, but Kaitlin didn’t respond. “We’re putting a trace on it.”

  Kaitlin removed the disposable phone from her purse, snapped off the cheap flip top, and threw it down the hall. It skittered across the tile, past the Mexican family, past Thomas. Freed, stepping out of the elevator, stopped it with a Ferragamo loafer.

  Tim looked at her incredulously. “Why?”

  “What do you know? How can I explain a thing like that? Why. Because I’m stupid. Because he picked me in a smoky bar with Merle on the jukebox and me with my two beautiful friends and he picked me. And he picked me every day, every day till he didn’t. You have to do that. You make a choice every day, and you pick your spouse every day.” Her dishwater hair, tired brown streaked with gray at the temples, hung lank. She glanced at Tim’s ring. “I’m not sure if you know that or you don’t. But that’s how it works. Every day. He fought something out there in the desert he shouldn’t have fought, and it’s not fair, but that’s how it is. But he’s still my husband, and I still picked him. Every day. Even when he didn’t pick me.”

  “Kaitlin—”

  “I knew you’d never understand. You probably have a sweet wife and a quiet life with a bunch of healthy kids and they’re great and they jump on you when you get home from work. And it makes sense, your world. There are laws. There are answers. There are solutions. Maybe we’re too dumb to figure it out, or maybe we’re too busy feeling sorry for ourselves. Me and Tess and Walk. We just can’t get the fucking answers right. I had six miscarriages before the doctor told us to stop trying. Six. Every one like a piece of me bleeding away. I tried so hard, but I couldn’t. The last one—I knew it would be the last—I went to the bathroom and there was blood everywhere, blood on the toilet and the tile, like today, today with Sam, and I sat on the toilet because I didn’t know what else to do. I must’ve sat four, five hours before Walker came home. He put his hands here”—she gripped Tim’s forearms so he faced her, their foreheads almost touching—“and he looked at me. Didn’t say anything. And then he got some towels. And he wiped the floor. And he ran the water, ran it warm. And he cleaned me, the blood, from my feet, and my ankles, and here”—she touched the inside of her thigh—“and I sat there and I thought I might be dead, but here was this man on his knees cleaning me, cleaning every part of me. And I knew I wasn’t dead. I knew I wasn’t dead because of him. And that part of him, that part of him he lost somewhere along the way. And I don’t want you to kill him for that.”

  A nurse went into Sam’s room, trailing a fresh saline bag on an IV pole.

  Tim shoved down his emotions. He hardened his face. He said, “I’m gonna get you another phone programmed with that number, and I’m gonna get you a warrant, and you’re gonna answer it if it rings. If you don’t, you’ll be leaving Sam on his own and putting yourself in prison. It’s my best offer, and it’s good for about thirty seconds.”

  “I never had a good choice. Not in any of this.”

  He felt a pull in his chest—she was wrong, but only partly. “You put yourself here, Kaitlin.”

  The door swung open as the nurse left, and they could see Sam. An oxygen tube snaked under his nose. He waved, and the door closed.

  “Fine.” Tears ran down her cheeks. She looked at her hands. “I’ll do it.”

  Tim put his back against t
he wall, and they sat side by side. He said, “He showed up at your house. He was controlling, dangerous. He threatened you and Sam if you ratted him out. You were scared. He demanded you show up at the apartment where we found you. You obeyed because you were worried he might hurt you if you didn’t.”

  She kept her gaze on her lap as he rose. In a quiet voice, she said, “That’s just how he told it.” She fussed with her hands. “Thank you.”

  He paused over her, staring down at the floor, then kept walking.

  Thomas got off the phone as he approached. “What are we doing with the broad?”

  “Get her a new cell phone. Get her number transferred. Use Frisk if you have to.”

  “You think Walker’ll call her?”

  “Probably not, but we can’t afford not to be set up if he does.”

  “You sure you’re not just hunting out something for her to cooperate with to buy her lenience when the prosecutors bring the heat?”

  “I’m not that bright. More important, I want you to go up live on the hospital line to Sam’s room. Walker cares about that kid more than he’s let on. He’s gonna be in touch with him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Sam’s gonna die soon. And he saw that in the apartment.”

  Thomas’s mouth dropped, a rare show of emotion. “Days?”

  “Maybe less.” Tim moistened his lips and tried not to think about the resigned yellow eyes. “I want you at the switchboard, and I want to be patched in, live, before you put any calls through to Sam’s room. And secure the floor in case Walker makes a personal appearance.”

  Tim rode down to the basement. He wound through endless white corridors before stepping out into the ambulance bay. Bear’s truck was in the far corner; Tim could see the scattering of files across his dash. He headed over, passing parked ambulances, one after another.

  An EMT with a shaved head sat on the tailgate, face buried in a newspaper. The headline read FUGITIVE MAKES APPEARANCE AT DEPUTY’S MOORPARK RESIDENCE. Tim cast his mind back through the chronology. Yes, that had been yesterday. This morning had begun, decades ago, with the sniper attempt on Dolan and Dean at the Vector investor meeting.

  Without lowering the paper, the EMT called out, “Want me to take a look at that neck, pal?”

  Tim raised his hand to the cut. A dribble of blood. The paramedic at Game had gotten in only three of five stitches before Tim had bolted for his father’s. “No, thanks.”

  He got about halfway to Bear’s rig when he stopped. Bear looked up through the windshield, puzzled. Tim raised a finger to Bear, turned around, and walked back to the EMT, standing before the wall of newsprint.

  Pete Krindon, freelance techie and man of infinite disguises, lowered the paper. His eyes went to Tim’s neck, and he frowned. “Sit down.” He threw a file in Tim’s lap and snipped at the old stitches with a tiny pair of scissors. “Who sutured this? Dr. Frankenstein?”

  As Pete pulled the old sutures out, Tim stared down at the top page. A blank e-mail, sent at 12:43 P.M. on June 3, carrying an attachment. Forwarded from tuffnuff@pizzazzu.net to tess_jameson@westindentistry. com. The subject line read, simply, Highly Confidential. Tess must’ve found it by running a key-word search on Chase’s BlackBerry that pulled up something in the attachment’s contents.

  Pete, who’d started resuturing the wound, said, “Sit still.”

  Tim flipped the page and was hit with a dense spreadsheet filled with abbreviations and numerals. It looked like a lot and not much at the same time. “Pete—”

  “Shaddup for a second. I’m almost done.”

  “Wait a minute. What am I doing?” Tim started to pull away, but Pete was midstitch. “You’re not an EMT.”

  “No, but I play one on TV.” Pete produced a square mirror and held it up, barbershop style. “All done.”

  The sutures actually looked pretty good, but since Tim didn’t want to concede the point, he returned his focus to the report that Pete had recovered from Tess’s work computer, where she’d forwarded the e-mail. Charts, graphs, more numbers, nothing clearly labeled. The bottom sheet showed Tess’s pizzazzu account access log. Tess had logged on the evening of Thursday, May 31, and then just past midnight on Saturday, June 2. Tim closed his eyes, recalling dates and constructing the likely story.

  Monday, May 28, Tess discovers she’s pregnant. She buys folic acid tablets and hires an attorney. Wednesday, May 30, she or her attorney alerts Chase that she’ll be prosecuting him for rape. Dean calls and asks her to lunch on May 31, where he threatens to pull Sam from the study if she doesn’t drop the case. In return for her cooperation, he offers to shepherd her—and Sam—back into Vector’s fold. She accepts, planning to use the opportunity to dig for information she’d been pursuing. She discharges her lawyer the next morning, Friday, June 1. That night at The Ivy, Tess manages to switch her valet ticket with Chase’s, get into his vehicle, and forward herself the e-mail with its attachment containing damaging information about Vector, perhaps involving covered-up risks of Xedral. She’s careful to erase her tracks, deleting the record of her action on the BlackBerry, unaware that Chase’s primary computer at work still holds a record of the forwarded attachment. At home she logs on, a little past midnight, reads the attachment, and forwards it to her work e-mail since she doesn’t have a printer at home. Monday she goes in to work and prints it.

  What she doesn’t know is that Chase, back at the office to start the workweek, sees on his computer that the sensitive e-mail was forwarded Friday night. He has Percy do some digging, finds out that the recipient e-mail address belongs to Tess Jameson. Chase talks with Daddy Kagan, and they decide to wait it out and watch her, maybe tap her phone to see how she’s going to respond. They know that Tess will likely tip her hand—if she deciphers the report—by dropping Sam from the trial herself.

  That day Tess faxes a letter to Vector, withdrawing Sam from the study. Tuesday she contacts Melissa Yueh at KCOM and tells her she wants to see her, that she has something to show her. She’s decided to blow the whistle. Kagan & Co., alerted that Tess understands the report and is willing to act on the conclusions she’s drawn from it, deems her an unacceptable risk and puts out a contract on her life. Percy Keating sets up the deal online with a hit man he believes is the Piper. He has Ted Sands, a former Beacon-Kagan security worker, do the cash drop at Game the next day, Wednesday, June 6. Wes Dieter intercepts the cash and the job. He murders Tess two days later, safely before Yueh’s return from Baghdad.

  Only one question remained.

  Tim tapped the sheaf and said, “What’s hidden in these numbers that’s so goddamned dangerous?”

  Pete’s thin shoulders rose and fell. “Beats me. Shit like this, it takes some decoding.”

  “You think Tess could’ve figured it out herself?”

  “After what she staked to get it? You bet your ass. Remember, this was a research-savvy woman with an accounting degree. And she followed a trail that led her here. To the smoking gun.”

  Together they stared at the report.

  “Given that she’s dead,” Pete asked, “who are you gonna talk to?”

  Tim eyed the Vector logo on the document header. “Why not go to the source?”

  Chapter 72

  Seemingly relieved to be back in submissive charge, Edwin made Tim and Bear wait a solid five minutes in the parlor before Bear’s escalating threats, conveyed in hushed tones through a house phone, bought them an escort back. They’d requested to see Dolan but wound up in Dean’s study, alone with the progenitor. They’d left the confidential report that Krindon had recovered in Bear’s rig outside, not wanting to show their cards until they were ready. And before leaving the hospital, they’d run off a few copies, leaving one with Freed so he could start making headway with the numbers in case they struck out here.

  Dean rose as they entered. A sturdy security guard sat in one of the two club seats, flipping through the newspaper. He did not look up. A garbage-can-size paper shredder stood out in the co
rner, anomalous among the elegant study furnishings.

  “We came to see Dolan,” Bear said. “Why were we brought here?”

  “Dolan’s very shaken up from this morning. I don’t think it’s wise—”

  “We didn’t ask for your wisdom,” Bear said. “We asked to see Dolan.”

  “He’s too upset to see anyone.”

  “He’s a grown-up. He can make his own decisions.”

  Dean cocked an eyebrow as if perhaps that wasn’t true. “I understand you helped us at the presentation this morning, and for that I’m appreciative, but that doesn’t give you the right to storm into my house and make demands.”

  Tim said, “We know you had Tess Jameson killed.”

  The guard lowered the paper, his forehead wrinkling. Dean sat down, folding his hands across a knee, his dark gaze trained on Tim. “Would you go check on the rear-perimeter motion sensors?” He waited until the door clicked behind the guard, then said, “Can I be assured I’m not being illegally recorded this time out?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not a stupid man, Deputy Rackley. I’m aware that you have your suspicions. Let me give you some advice. Don’t waste your time here. If that fantasy of yours were true? You’d never, ever link me to it. I’d never be so foolish.”

  Tim’s disgust settled into a calm anger. That’s how they are, the privileged, when they decide that laws no longer suit them. They always have men beneath them to make deals and move money, and when the lower floors start caving, the penthouse stays afloat.

  “Well,” Tim said, “then I’ll have to find something else.”

  Dean smiled, white teeth against tan skin. “Happy hunting.”

  Tim walked over and rested a hand on the paper shredder. Still warm. “I can have a warrant for Dolan faxed here in minutes. If I get it, we’re searching the entire house.”