Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  “Don’t worry.”

  22

  AFTER DISCONNECTING THE call with Cunningham, Sikes had to hurry to catch up with Hansen and Franklin. He fell in with them just as they reached the maintenance room. Inside, Buck Lewis sat on the concrete, back against the wall, gently massaging his leg just below the knee, his slacks bunched up to expose an ugly patch of swollen, bruised skin. The leg appeared to hurt like a son of a bitch, making him wonder if the bone was broken. More importantly, though, where fuck was McCarthy? Nowhere in sight. Christ, this was getting old.

  Hansen and Franklin stood silently beside the open door looking in at Lewis, both smart enough say nothing. But there was no mistaking the tension of embarrassment electrifying the air. Without a word, Hansen and Franklin stepped aside, letting Sikes enter the room.

  Sikes glanced around, hoping maybe he had it wrong, that maybe McCarthy was there, spread eagle on bare concrete bleeding from a bullet wound behind the ear. But no, Lewis was the only person in the room. Injured too. Fuck! How in hell did that happen? “Where’s McCarthy?” he asked in controlled measured tones. He wasn’t going to rip Lewis a new one in front of those two bozos. That would come later.

  Lewis nodded at the narrow alcove. “Asshole was in there. Couldn’t see him until it was too late. Came up behind me, shoved a pipe in my back. I’m thinking, shit, Elroy’s gun. But no, nothing but a fucking piece of pipe. Before I could do anything, fucker slams me with it,” pointing to the ugly wound, “then takes off.”

  Just then Ernest Womack—the other team member—stepped in, glanced down at Lewis, then at Sikes. He didn’t say a word, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

  Sikes asked Lewis, “He take your weapon?”

  Lewis shook his head. “No fucking way, man. I’d die before giving it up.” He held it up for Sikes to see.

  “Then why the fuck didn’t you shoot him?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Sikes checked his watch. Too much time gone now for McCarthy to be nearby. In fact, too much time had elapsed since the son of a bitch escaped from his office. Considering he’d lasted this long, it was becoming increasing conceivable he might actually breach the perimeter and escape. And when he did, would he leave on foot or would he be dumb enough to use his car? He asked Hansen, “Does McCarthy have designated parking?”

  Hansen nodded. “Sort of. There’s a garage for docs, but we don’t assign individual stalls. It’s first come, first served.”

  Dumb shit. That wasn’t the point. “What I’m asking is did you check yet to see if McCarthy’s car is there?”

  Hansen’s face reddened. “No. Every available officer’s been patrolling halls. Want me to ask someone to find it?”

  Jesus! Sikes nodded thoughtfully as if his stupid fucking question merited serious consideration. Earlier, before SPD arrived, Hansen made a couple pointed remarks about how other law enforcement looked down their noses at private security in general and at Doctors Hospital in particular. Since then Sikes had bent over backward to show Hansen the utmost respect in an attempt to gain his alliance. The way things were going, he might need Hansen’s help later. Besides, what difference did it make if he showed the doofus a little respect? The most important thing was to find McCarthy before SPD did.

  He turned so Franklin wouldn’t hear, lowered his voice, and said, “I assume McCarthy has a parking permit, meaning your office has a record of the make and model of his car?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you get it for me. I’ll have one of my men check to see if it’s still there.” Wouldn’t that be a bitch if he simply drove away and we didn’t even know it?

  Hansen nodded and, radio in hand, stepped into the hall.

  Sikes turned to Franklin, asked, “Mind if I have a word with my men? Alone?”

  “Shit, knock yourself out. I got work to do anyway.” Franklin seemed to think about something. “Just so you know, some of the techs are on vacation and we called in a homicide detective, so it’s gonna take hours before a team can completely process McCarthy’s office. Translate that to fed-speak and it means you better be prepared for a long wait before you’re allowed in. And the reason for telling you this is I don’t want to hear a bunch of pissing and moaning when you’re told to stay out.” He turned and walked away.

  Sikes suppressed the urge to flip him off, figuring it’d look juvenile. Instead, he waited until Franklin rounded the corner before saying to Womack and Lewis, “McCarthy could be anyplace by now. Out of the building, even. But until we know for sure, we continue to look for him here. On the chance he’s out, Womack, I want you to go over, check his house. You never know. Lewis, how’s the leg? Can you walk on it?”

  Lewis jerked his pant leg down and hobbled to his feet in obvious pain. “No problem, sir.”

  “Good. Soon as Frank gets us a description on McCarthy’s vehicle, I want you in that garage. If it’s there, you sit with it on the off chance he’s dumb enough to try to use it. If it’s not there, advise me immediately because I’ll assume he cleared the building and we can move accordingly. And Womack? When you get to his place, first thing you do is check to see if his car’s there. I can’t believe he made it this far already, but you never know, so check, just in case. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hansen poked his head into the room, grinning. “McCarthy parks in the basement of his office building. You’re looking for a silver BMW, 500 series.” Hansen scribbled the license number on a scrap of paper, started to hand it to Sikes, but Sikes redirected it to Lewis.

  Sikes asked Lewis, “Know how to get there from here?”

  Lewis flashed him an insulted look before limping off without a word, Womack in tow.

  Chances were, if McCarthy cleared the building, first place he’d go would be his lawyer. That happened, he’d hear about it straight away. So odds were, McCarthy hadn’t left and was still holed up somewhere. Which, as far as Sikes was concerned, was preferable.

  He told Hansen, “You and me are going to search the rest of the hospital until something shakes out. My sense is he’ll either try to clear the building or find another hiding place until he thinks our guard’s down. We have all major exits covered, so there’s nothing more we can do about those. If he clears the perimeter, he clears. But if he’s hiding here, I want his ass.”

  Hansen nodded. “Sounds reasonable. Off the top of my head there’re several places we can look. And I’m sure the more area we cover, the more will come to mind.”

  Sikes nodded, losing patience with the bozo. “Then let’s do it. We’re wasting time.”

  PSYCH RESIDENT ON-CALL ROOM

  A FRESH SET of scrubs in hand, Hamilton opened the on-call room door and stopped dead. Empty. First confused, then hurt that McCarthy would abandon her, she threw the scrubs on the bed. “Damn it, Tom!”

  Just as quickly, another thought struck: Had Sikes found him? Made sense. What other reason would he have for leaving like this? After all, the entire medical center was crawling with people searching for him. On her trip to get Tom scrubs she’d encountered numerous police and security officers. The more she thought about it, the more the call rooms seemed like an obvious place to look. Crap, this room had been her first thought. Surely hospital security would’ve thought of it also. Oh, crap city! She’d brought him here. It was her fault if they caught him.

  No, hold on, girl! You don’t know anything for sure. Something else might’ve happened. Yeah, right.

  She sat on the bed, wondering how to find out. She couldn’t very well call security. Wait! If he’d been captured, wouldn’t those reporters outside cover it as a breaking story? During the trip to the locker room she’d detoured through the doctors’ lounge. Several physicians, mostly anesthesiologists, were clustered around the TV, transfixed by the live updates.

  She turned on the tiny wall mounted Sony television and the screen blossomed into the picture of the same female reporter addressing the camera with “… police now
confirm that a total of two shootings took place earlier this afternoon at Doctors Hospital. The victims’ identities are still being withheld pending notification of their next of kin. However, an exclusive KING TV source says that one of the victims was an employee of the Doctors Hospital Neuroscience Institute. The other victim is believed to be a government law enforcement agent.”

  A voice-over from the news studio asked, “Any leads yet on who might be responsible, Lucy?”

  Sarah muted the sound. Nothing but a rehash of the earlier story. It buoyed hope that Tom wasn’t captured. Yet. But if that was the case, where was he?

  She clicked off the set. Crap, now what? Leave? Wait? If she waited, how long? Was there any way to contact him? Cell phone? Beeper? Cells were banned in some areas of the medical center because of potential interference with critical equipment, like cardiac monitors.

  She picked up the telephone and dialed his cell anyway, on the off chance …

  It immediately clicked over to “Sorry, but the Verizon customer you are trying to reach is not in the network.” She was about to try his beeper but remembered he’d used it to distract Washington.

  Where could he go?

  If he’d only stepped out to go to the john, he should be back by now. No, something happened. She couldn’t just wait here. Might as well head down to the cardiac ICU to check on Bobbie Baker, see if they removed the tube from her throat.

  Unsure if she should be frustrated, pissed, or disappointed, she cast one last look around the narrow, empty room before closing the door.

  23

  MEN’S ROOM, RESIDENT ON-CALL AREA

  MCCARTHY BECAME AWARE of muffled conversation out in the hall and realized someone was about to enter the men’s room. He stepped into the closest toilet stall and latched the door just as the hall door opened and footsteps entered.

  The stall partition walls ended perhaps a foot above the while tile floor, exposing his shoes and pant cuffs. Too late. The person out there could clearly see that someone occupied the stall. Was that person looking for him? He aimed Washington’s gun at where a person would stand if they tried to force open the door. He didn’t intend to shoot anyone, but if this was Sikes …

  He leaned forward to squint through the slit between the door and the partition, but could only see a slice of tiled wall across the room. The footsteps stopped. McCarthy tightened his grip and slipped his finger over the trigger.

  Then came a slosh of water in the sink, followed by the rip of a paper towel from the wall dispenser. More footsteps, then the soft metallic click of the door latch again.

  Silence.

  Had they left, or was this a ruse? He squatted down to peer under the partition, but the space was so cramped he couldn’t see the entire floor. Carefully, he unlatched the door and opened it, sweeping the room with the gun. No one else here.

  After wedging the gun under his belt, he cracked open the hall door to check the hall. Deserted. Quickly, he crossed over to the call room, knocked once, but entered without waiting for an answer. A set of green scrubs, a disposable bouffant surgical hat, and a mask lay on the bed but Sarah wasn’t here. Shit! Just his luck. She must’ve returned the moment he stepped out to use the toilet.

  He changed into the scrubs and removed his wallet, keys, and cell phone from his pants. Holding up the mattress with one hand, he spread his dirty clothes over the box springs, replaced mattress, smoothed the blanket and spread, fluffed the pillow, and inspected his work. Perfect. A cursory check of the room would show that no one had been here. He stuffed his valuables in his pockets he looked at the doorknob and wondered why Sarah had left. Had she assumed he’d made a break for it without changing clothes? Would she return? And if not, where did she go? Maybe she needed to check on a patient. He decided to give her a few minutes, five minutes at the most before he would try to make a break for it.

  PHYSICIAN PARKING GARAGE

  TO BUCK LEWIS’S surprise, walking actually helped the severe pain where that bastard had clobbered him with the pipe. At first, each step was pure agony that radiated out from the marrow. But now that he was moving and bearing weight it changed to a tolerable throbbing. Well, except if his foot came down at a different angle. Then it sent a knee-buckling bolt of pain up his leg. The first few steps taught him how best to distribute his weight. After that, each one became easier. Now he could hobble with a gimpy rhythm.

  The third floor of the garage connected to the first floor of the medical center through a fire door. Lewis entered into low ceilings, bare concrete, faded yellow lines, smells of oil and car exhaust, harsh florescent lights, and the faint rumble of something mechanical. The steel fire door clicked shut behind him as he started walking row after row of cars, scanning for a silver vehicle with the circular BMW logo. The top floor yielded nothing, so he limped down the car ramp to the second floor.

  McCarthy’s vehicle wasn’t on the second floor either. Leaving him two options: Either the fucker had escaped or he’d parked on the bottom level. Which, now that he thought about it, seemed to fit how his day had gone so far.

  He started down the final ramp thinking, what if McCarthy didn’t drive today? What if someone else brought him? Anyone consider of that possibility? So if the Beemer wasn’t down here, where was it? There’d be no way to know. Even if the car wasn’t at his house, it still meant nothing. The bastard could be in his lawyer’s office, for all they knew and all the possibilities made his head hurt almost as much as his god-damn shin.

  All right! Up ahead a silver Beemer. He checked the plate. Fucking A, McCarthy’s. Excellent. He was now responsible for securing the first bit of hard information in the case. He triggered the transmitter. “Mother Hen, Chick One.”

  “Go, Chick.”

  “Target’s vehicle is—I repeat, is—still on the premises.”

  “Outstanding. There a safe observation point?”

  Lewis glanced around. Until now he hadn’t given it a thought. At the end of the ramp a cyclone fence enclosed a bicycle rack with two muddy mountain bikes chained up. The ceiling in that corner held only one low-wattage lightbulb. “Affirmative.”

  “Proceed as initially directed. Watch and wait.”

  Lewis keyed the mike twice, acknowledging the order. He scouted out a shadowy corner behind the bike rack where it allowed an unobstructed line of sight to the car’s rear bumper. With one ramp and one stairwell as the only access to this level, no one could reach the car without being seen. He unscrewed the lightbulb, then tucked down into the corner, back against the cement, and prayed McCarthy would be dumb enough to come down that ramp. Had a big score to settle with that motherfucker.

  SARAH HEADED FROM the elevator to the cardiac ICU to check on Bobbie Baker. Ironically, two weeks ago, when called to evaluate Bobbie in the ER, she’d been sleeping in that same on-call room. That minor coincidence was just one more reason to believe that today’s madness was somehow linked to Baker. Too many little hints connected the relationship. She slowed, thinking back over them. What freaked her out the most were the doctor impersonator and the forged Valium prescription. Who was he? And why would someone want to cause Bobbie harm?

  Entering the cardiac care unit, Sarah noticed Bobbie’s nurse in the next room on the right, so she stood at the glass door, waiting for her to finish. After a few seconds she caught the nurse’s eye and waved. The nurse came out massaging hand cleanser into her fingers. “Hi, Doctor Hamilton, here to see Bobbie again?”

  “Yup. What can you tell me?”

  The nurse wiped residual cleaner up her wrists. “Pulled her tube about a half hour ago. Gases look great and her lungs are clearing nicely.”

  Sarah’s heart leapt. “She talking?”

  “Hoarse as all get out, but yeah. Making sense, too. Tired, is all.”

  BOBBIE LAY ON her left side, pillows packed against her back for support, only one white sheet over her pale skin, her short hair matted haphazardly. Sarah hoped the nurse brushed it before letting Bobbie look in the mi
rror. Now that she was talking and out of immediate danger, a mirror might be one of the first things she requested—if not already.

  “Hello, Bobbie.”

  Baker’s eyes fluttered open to look at Sarah. For a moment she seemed to focus but then clamped both eyes shut and turned away. A tear slid down the side of her nose.

  Sarah decided to skip any preliminary chitchat and just ask. “Bobbie, there’re a couple things I need to know. Very important things. Will you please talk to me?”

  Bobbie ignored her.

  Sarah gently shook her shoulder. “Bobbie, I know you’re in there. I need you to talk to me. It’s important. You know that.”

  Again no answer.

  “Bobbie, I imagine this isn’t pleasant for you. It’s certainly not pleasant for me. But the bottle of pills you swallowed has my name on it. You and I both know I didn’t prescribe it, so my question is who gave them to you?” She felt like crap for being so forceful in such a delicate situation and flashed the nurse an apologetic look.

  The nurse diplomatically studied the cardiac monitor above the bed, which in itself showed tacit disapproval and only made Sarah angry. Bad enough for someone to make her look incompetent by giving Bobbie Valium, but why should Bobbie shield that person?

  “Bobbie, speak to me!”

  Bobbie turned toward Sarah but without opening her eyes weakly shook her head. After a pause, she said, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  Sarah looked at the nurse before raising her voice further. “You may not want to, Bobbie, but I’m not leaving until you give me an answer. Actually, two answers. Why don’t you want to tell me? Don’t you realize that whoever gave you the Valium was trying to kill you? Why would you want to shelter that person?”

  Bobbie shook her head again. “What if I want to be dead?”