by Jason Dean
‘You really wanna know?’
‘I do.’
‘Went out to my local last night, didn’t I? Some guy kept buyin’ rounds for the house so I stayed longer than I should’ve. But I musta drunk or eaten somethin’ that didn’t agree with me or somethin’. I don’t remember too much, to be honest. I been pukin’ and shittin’ all night, and my brain feels like it’s gonna explode.’
Bishop didn’t doubt it. Wouldn’t have been hard to slip something into his drink and wait for the drug to take effect. ‘How’d you get home, Mr Esteban?’
‘No idea. Somebody musta taken pity on me, though, ’cause I woke up in my own bed. So you gonna tell me what this is about?’
‘Somebody was pretending to be you this morning, Mr Esteban. He had your ID and your overalls. This guy buying everybody drinks. Can you describe him?’
There was a pause. ‘Pretendin’ to be me? Shit, why would anybody wanna do that? Most days, even I don’t wanna be me.’
Bishop sighed. ‘Focus, Mr Esteban. The man in the bar. What did he look like?’
‘Oh, uh, well, he was a big black fella. Tall and wide, you know? Wore a suit and a nice overcoat. That’s about all I can tell you. We maybe swapped a few words, but I can’t remember what we talked about. All I know is he just came in, told everybody he’d just got a promotion and wanted everybody in the place to get drunk with him. Since he was buyin’, most of us were happy to oblige. I’m sure payin’ for it now, though. Hey, you think somebody in there slipped me a mickey?’
‘Sounds like it, Mr Esteban,’ Bishop said. ‘Go back to bed and get some rest.’ He made a cutting motion to John, who reached over and ended the call.
It definitely sounded like the same man he’d seen the day before. Maybe the same guy as the one in Arquette’s photos. That was something Bishop needed to find out.
‘Well, that’s that,’ he said, and got to his feet. ‘Thanks for your help, fellas.’
John walked him to the door and said, ‘Hey, any time. Things ain’t been this exciting for months.’
THIRTY-THREE
Back on the third floor, Bishop saw no sign of DuBay or the uniformed cop. Willard was sitting in the same seat as before, looking uncomfortable. Gerry was also there. He was standing outside Amy’s room, talking to the grey-haired man Bishop had seen before. As Bishop went over, the man turned and held out his hand. He had a triangular face that ended in a pointed chin. His grey eyes studied Bishop with casual interest.
‘You’re Mrs Philmore’s brother, yes?’
Bishop shook the hand. ‘That’s right. And you are?’
‘Hospital administrator and Dean of Medicine, Grant Fisher. I was just explaining to Mr Philmore how regrettable this whole incident was, and that you can rest assured that nothing like this will happen again. In fact, I’ve already ordered another ventilator to be brought up, purely as back-up.’
‘Good thinking,’ Bishop said. ‘And just so you know, I’ve also arranged for somebody to stay with Amy in her room on a twenty-four-hour basis. I’ll feel better knowing she’s got somebody watching over her when I’m not here.’
Fisher gave him a politician’s smile. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, but that would be entirely impossible. We can’t allow visitors in patients’ rooms outside normal hours. Hospital policy, you understand.’
Bishop smiled back. ‘Well, it’s either that or you’re facing a lawsuit.’
‘Lawsuit?’ Fisher’s face slowly fell, like wax melting.
‘I’d call what happened here this morning a clear case of negligence, wouldn’t you? I mean, somebody should have double-checked the alarm on that machine in there. My sister could have died. At the very least, I think there’s a good case for medical malpractice.’
‘You can’t be—’
‘Now look, Fisher,’ Bishop interrupted, ‘it’s clear one of two things happened here. One, whoever set up the machine in the room screwed up by setting the alarm volume too low. Or two, somebody with malicious intent sabotaged it before removing Amy’s ventilator tube. Now between you and me, I’m inclined to go with option two. In which case, you’ll understand why I want somebody close by so there’s no chance of it happening again.’
Fisher opened his mouth, then closed it again.
‘It’s up to you,’ Bishop said. ‘But as a major metropolitan hospital, you must already be up to your neck in civil lawsuits. You can’t want another one. Especially when it could be avoided so easily.’
Fisher paused. ‘Well . . .’ he said finally, ‘I suppose an exception could be made in this instance.’
‘Excellent. Oh, and I’ll want it in writing, of course. And signed by you. You know, just in case anybody tries to go back on it. The man’s name is Scott Muro.’ He smiled again. ‘And I’d like it right now, please.’
‘Very well. I’ll have my secretary work something up immediately.’
‘Appreciate it,’ Bishop said, and watched him walk over to the nurses’ station and pick up a phone.
Gerry blocked his view. ‘Who’s this Scott Muro? You never discussed this with me.’
‘He’s a private investigator who was recommended to me yesterday. And I don’t need your permission, Gerry. Why, you got any objections?’
Gerry glared at him for a moment, then said, ‘No, of course not. I want Amy safe, same as you. But I don’t—’
‘Good,’ Bishop said, and turned and left him. He walked over to Willard and sat in the next seat along.
Willard made a face. ‘I don’t know what to say, Bishop. This is all my fault.’
Bishop wasn’t about to argue the point. Instead, he said, ‘Amy’s still alive. It could have been worse.’
‘Yeah. No thanks to me.’
‘I probably should have been more explicit with my instructions. Anyway, it’s done now. I came over to tell you that the private investigator’s on his way, so you can take off if you want.’
Willard smiled as he handed Bishop his knapsack and got to his feet. ‘I get the message. My services are no longer required. So I guess this is the last time we’ll see each other, right?’
‘Nobody can see into the future, Willard.’
‘Well, I can. Adios, Bishop.’ Willard shook his head, then walked off in the direction of the elevators.
Bishop watched him until he pushed through the double doors and went out of sight. He hadn’t been lying to the guy. Willard had made a mistake in leaving his post, but he’d clearly been tired when he showed up, so Bishop couldn’t entirely lay the blame at his door. But he thought it might be a while before he decided to use him again.
He was still watching the double doors when an Asian-American man pushed through, looking at the numbers of each door he passed. Bishop had a hunch this was the guy he’d hired. In which case, the odd surname now made sense. The man looked in his mid-thirties with close-cropped black hair, and wore a dark sports jacket over a white polo shirt and black jeans. Bishop stood up and walked over to Amy’s room. The man saw Bishop and raised an eyebrow. As he got closer, Bishop saw his eyes were dark blue, which suggested one of his parents was of western descent.
The man stopped when he reached Bishop, looked at the number on Amy’s door and said, ‘Hello. I’m Muro.’
‘And I’m Bishop. Glad you made it.’ Bishop quickly looked the guy over. About five-ten. Average weight. Average looks. Smooth facial features. Good build. If first impressions were anything to go by, he certainly looked capable enough.
‘Let’s go inside,’ Bishop said. He opened the door to Amy’s room and motioned for Muro to go first. As he shut the door, Muro glanced at Amy in the bed.
‘Maybe you better fill me in,’ he said.
Bishop nodded and told him as concisely as possibly everything that had happened since the initial attack on Amy. It took about two minutes. Muro didn’t interrupt, which Bishop appreciated. When he finished, Muro blew out his cheeks and said, ‘Now I’m glad I brought my piece with me.’
‘So am I. That’s o
ne of the reasons I hired you. New York gun permits are hard to come by.’
Muro smiled. ‘Tell me about it. This one cost me a month’s worth of favours. So what’s the deal here? Are the staff gonna give me grief about staying in Amy’s room like this?’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m arranging signed authorization for you right now from the hospital director himself. You’ll have it before I leave.’
‘Music to my ears.’ Muro reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two folded documents. He unfolded each one and said, ‘Okay, this one’s our standard contract and this is a copy. All I need is your John Hancock on the dotted lines and we’re good to go.’ He handed Bishop a pen and his ID wallet.
Bishop scanned the licensed private investigator’s ID, then checked the form. Muro’s daily rates were high, but Bishop didn’t care. Equal Aid generally paid him well for his services and he was glad to put part of the money to good use. He signed his name on the last page, dated it, and did the same with the copy. He handed everything back to Muro, who countersigned both documents and gave the copy back to Bishop. ‘This is yours.’
Bishop placed the papers in his knapsack and said, ‘You got a card for me?’
Muro pulled a business card from his billfold and handed it over. It was very simple. Just the words Muro Investigations in a classy engraved font, then Muro’s name, an address in Brooklyn, and a bunch of telephone numbers. ‘You need to contact me directly,’ Muro said, ‘call the cell phone number.’
‘Right.’ Bishop pocketed the card. ‘So is there anything else you need from me?’
‘Just your professional opinion. Should I be expecting more trouble?’
‘I think so, yeah. The people behind this have made two attempts on her life already. I don’t know to what lengths they’ll go to finish the job, but in those kinds of situations I generally prepare for the worst. All I can say is don’t trust anybody. Except for me, that is.’
‘Fair enough. In that case, I’ll settle in and let you get on with whatever you’re getting on with.’ Muro then pulled the room’s only chair away from the wall and positioned it next to the window. He sat down, pulled a smart phone from his jacket pocket and wiped an index finger across the screen.
Bishop gave a thin smile. The man wasted neither words nor motion. He liked that. His instincts told him he’d made the right choice in hiring him. Which made him feel a little better about leaving Amy to go to Washington. After a final look at his unconscious sister, Bishop left the room and looked around for Fisher.
First, the authorization papers. Then on to the airport.
THIRTY-FOUR
At 11.48, Bishop was sitting in the back of a cab as it slowly made its way down New Hampshire Avenue NW. It was a pleasant sunny day for late October. He was playing the visitor from out of town, here to take in the sights. He even had the camera to prove it.
At LaGuardia he’d caught the 09.40 Delta shuttle to DC, landing at Ronald Reagan Airport a few minutes after eleven. After making his way through the trials of passport control, he’d picked up his checked knapsack from the carousel and then it had been a short cab ride to Embassy Row. Although most of the larger embassies were located on Massachusetts Avenue NW, Bishop was only really interested in the smaller examples found on New Hampshire Avenue. Especially one of the newer ones.
He aimed his high-speed compact digital camera at the townhouses to his right, specifically the narrow four-storey building standing alone, and clicked off close to a dozen shots in three seconds. He’d taken plenty of photos already as cover, but it was this building he was interested in most. The one with the two poles on the second-storey balcony, displaying a pair of identical flags made up of three horizontal bars of black, red and green. Then he turned to his left and took a few shots of the buildings directly opposite.
Bishop kept taking photos as the cabbie made his way towards Dupont Circle four blocks down. Just before they reached it, Bishop said, ‘Okay, let me out here.’
‘You got it,’ the driver said, and pulled in close to the kerb, near the corner.
Bishop paid the fare and added a decent tip. Then he slung his knapsack over his shoulder and got out. He was directly outside the Hotel Dupont, which took up almost half the block on this side. Bishop stood by the steps leading to the entrance and looked around, as though deciding where to go next. Once the cab had pulled off and entered the traffic circle, he turned and began walking back along New Hampshire.
There was a ten-storey apartment complex on the other side of the street, then it was embassy after embassy on both sides for the next couple of blocks. Bishop walked quickly past, but when he reached the next block along he slowed his pace to a leisurely amble. Along this stretch it was mainly apartment buildings and large townhouses, most of which had long since been converted into apartments themselves.
But on the left, among a number of normal-sized townhouses in a row, was the narrow, tan stucco building with the two flags outside. Bishop took another look at it, noting everything. He still had the photos he’d taken as back-up, but nothing beat on-the-spot recon. Behind the second-floor balcony were two sets of double floor-to-ceiling windows, behind which probably lay the ambassador’s office. Then two more rows of windows on the floors above, and two windows on the ground floor along with a dark wood entrance door. Bishop spotted the large plaque next to the door informing visitors they were about to enter The Embassy Of The People’s Rebublic of Konamba.
The townhouse was separated from its neighbours on both sides. On the far side, Bishop remembered, was a gated entrance to what seemed to be an underground garage. A six-foot-high concrete wall closed the gap between the embassy and its nearer neighbour. A glance at Google Earth last night had shown him that it was just empty space behind there, although that might have changed since the satellite photo had been taken. It went quite a ways back, and as he approached he noticed more windows running along the side of the townhouse, as well as some steel fire escapes near the rear.
Bishop turned and was about to cross the street when he saw a police cruiser coming from the left, heading towards Dupont Circle. Bishop averted his face, opened a zip on his bag and pulled out a tourist map he’d picked up at the airport. He opened it up and waited for the cruiser to vanish. He already knew this area had a heavy police presence. He’d just have to work around it, that was all.
Once the cruiser was gone, he replaced the map and crossed the street. The building directly opposite the embassy looked promising. It was a fairly large six-storey apartment complex. On the ground floor was a set of tinted glass double doors under a tasteful portico with columns on either side.
Bishop walked up the short path, opened the door and stepped through into a simple foyer. There were twenty-five buzzers in a single row beside the inner door. He checked the typed names on the buzzers and nodded to himself when he saw the last one. Next, he studied the inner door. Instead of a normal deadbolt, it had one of those entry systems where you had to swipe a keycard to gain admittance. He was pretty good with most locks, but these systems were well beyond him. He’d have to find another way.
He turned and exited the building.
Outside, Bishop remembered seeing a coffee shop at Dupont Circle and began walking back in that direction. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in a booth next to a window overlooking the traffic circle. He stared past the large espresso on the table in front of him as he thought it all through. What he’d seen this morning. What Arquette had told him in the back of the car yesterday. And how much of it was open to question. Most of it, Bishop decided. Regardless, he knew he’d have to keep a watch on the Konamban embassy for a while and make sure Arquette was right about Bekele rarely leaving the grounds. Because if it were true, it meant Bishop had to find a way inside. He needed to get his hands on the guy and force some answers out of him. Which meant finding out what security systems they had in there and then bypassing them.
Sure. Nothing simpler.
Except the g
erm of an idea was already forming itself in his mind. It was a start. He’d just have to figure out the rest somehow. He wasn’t about to give up now. But he was also aware he wouldn’t be able to do it alone.
He picked up the coffee cup and took a sip of the lukewarm liquid. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out his cell phone.
THIRTY-FIVE
Charlie Monahan was just sitting back to enjoy The A-Tag Team for the third time in as many days when he heard the door buzzer go.
Cursing under his breath, Charlie stopped the DVD player and got up off the couch. He adjusted his tracksuit pants and waddled over to open the front door. The hallway outside was empty. The buzzer went off again. Which meant it was coming from outside. Sighing, Charlie grabbed his large keychain from the hook on the wall and walked over to the front entrance. Looking through the spyhole, he saw a young skinny bearded guy in the foyer, chewing gum. He was wearing a grey cap and grey work overalls, and had a clipboard in his hand. Frowning, Charlie unlocked and opened the door.
The workman smiled up at Charlie. ‘Hey, there. How you doin’?’ He checked the paperwork on his clipboard and said, ‘You’re the super here, right? Charles Monahan?’
‘That’s right,’ Charlie said. ‘What’s up?’
‘What’s up? The reported leak is what’s up. Didn’t the gas company call and tell you I was on my way?’
‘Gas leak? What are you talking about?’
The workman sighed. ‘Unbelievable. One simple thing is all I ask. “You’ll phone ahead and tell ’em I’m coming, right?” I say. “Sure, Sy, don’t worry about it,” they say. And what happens? Nothing is what happens.’ The man who called himself Sy reached down and picked up the large metal toolbox at his feet. ‘One of your tenants called head office yesterday morning, complaining about a gas smell in the building. So here I am. We’re backed up to doomsday right now and this was the earliest one of us could get out here.’
Charlie was still frowning. This didn’t make any sense. ‘Who called it in?’