Darkness & Shadows (20 page)

“Parking spot could have been vacant when he came down the staircase and out that door, then the woman comes up, parks right over it, goes off on her trip.”

“And unknowingly covers the evidence.” They both took a reflective sip of coffee. Patrick said, “What about the bloodstains at Las Brisas. They get a match yet?”

Erika shook her head. “Haven’t heard a thing, but, you know…”

“Yeah. It can take a while, and with Pike, even if they have a match, he’s not gonna spill.” Patrick placed his cup down and stared at it, slowly turning it in its place.

“What?”

He looked up at her. “Wesley Clark as the suspect.”

“I think so.”

“Motive?”

“Marital issues.”

“And money.”

“They’ve got tons of that,” Erika said, rolling her eyes.

“Any idea about where it all came from?” He was probing to see what she knew, not wanting to reveal too much about the
patient misdiagnosis scam. He liked Erika, but he’d already taken a slide on thin ice by telling Julia about the story and as a result, had landed flat on his ass. He wasn’t feeling very trusting at the moment.

“Supposedly, he made a ton with his cancer research.”

He nodded, pretending to consider her statement. She didn’t know anything. He’d hang on to his information for now.

A few moments of silence passed as they thought and sipped, then Erika said, “Patrick, I need to tell you something.”

He looked up at her.

“I have nothing but respect for you…” She hesitated, and then, “I hope you know I’d never do anything to shaft you.”

“I do,” he said. It was true: from day one, she’d been authentic and forthright as a colleague. “I’m not blaming you, Erika, and to be perfectly honest, I’ve got no one to blame but myself. I screwed up. Everything that followed was just a chain reaction.”

She paused, then said, “So can I ask you a question?”

He nodded.

“What happened?”

Patrick forced a laugh. “I think you already know that. I think everyone—”

“No. I don’t mean what happened at the magazine. What happened to Patrick?”

“Patrick sort of fell apart,” he said, looking down at his hands, fidgeting with a napkin.

“It was like I was watching you one minute sitting on top of the world, and the next you’d fallen so far and so deep that nobody could find you.”

He kept his eyes on the napkin, started tearing it into strips. “It’s a long story, Erika. And not a good one.”

“I kind of figured.”

“Yeah… I’m sure everyone did.”

“I worried about you a lot,” she offered.

“I’m sorry I never returned your calls. I meant to—”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t worry about that. I guess…” She smiled awkwardly “… I guess what I’m trying to say is that I cared then, and I still do now. A lot of people do.”

He gazed at her, but it didn’t last—he looked away and said, “I really appreciate that.”

She started tugging on a sleeve, her smile appearing reminiscent. “You know, when I first met you, I thought you were one of the coolest people. Ridiculously talented—I mean nobody could work a story like you—and yet, at the same time, you managed to stay so nice. So good-hearted. Everyone else was busy trying to step over each other, but you… you were different. You wanted to help. Seemed you put everyone else first.”

“Yeah…” he said, his voice breaking, his napkin now a pile of shreds. “Didn’t seem to get me very far, did it? Feels like I got lost somewhere along the way.”

She smiled a little. “Find your way back yet?”

“I’m working on it.” But the words came out soft, flat, and utterly powerless. He thought he had been making progress, until Marybeth returned from the grave, and then everything started falling apart again.

Now all he could see was a shattered mess.

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“Hang on,” Patrick said the next day, switching his phone to the other ear, merging with rush hour traffic. “Okay, what’s up?”

Tristan said, “I’m busting out of here.”

“Legally, I hope.”

“A little convict humor. I like that. Yeah, smart-ass, legally.”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

“Although the food here is terrific, and the beds are as good as the Ritz-Carlton… Or was it San Quentin? I get those mixed up.”

“Ah,” he said, “you with the convict humor, now. Glad the bump on your head left that intact.”

“What humor? There was no humor.”

“You know… sometimes you scare me.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. So can you do me a huge favor?”

“What’s that?”

“They say I need to have someone pick me up. Some bullshit about hospital rules. They suggested I call my loving brother.”

“Oh, man. I’m never going to live that one down. So when’s the big day?”

“About an hour.”

“Seriously?” He glanced at his watch, then shook his head and sighed. “I’ll just put everything on hold and come right over.”

“Thanks, bro. You’re the best.”

The orderly was rolling Tristan out in a wheelchair as Patrick pulled into the patient pickup zone. She appeared to be arguing with the guy. He tried to help her up, but true to form, she was already helping herself and on her way to the car.

She settled into the front seat. The orderly poked his head through the window and said to Patrick, “You’ve got your hands full with this one.”

“You’re gonna miss my ass once it’s gone,” she informed him.

He turned around, walked away.

“Still winning them over with the charisma, I see.”

“This place makes me crazy,” she said, settling into her seat. “Get me away from here.”

“And where exactly would
away
be?”

“Hop on the 163 south. I’ll give you directions.”

Patrick did.

“So,” she said once they merged onto the freeway, “what’s the rest of your story?”

He took his eyes off the road to give her a brief, confused look. “What do you mean,
the rest
?”

“Well, I know you’re a reporter who isn’t sure if he has a job…”

“Actually, status confirmed.”

“Yeah?”

“Like I said, long story.”

“It just so happens I’ve got plenty of time. Spill it.”

Patrick shot her a longer look. She returned one that offered no mercy.

“Okay,” he said, “but here’s how it works. I tell my long story, you tell yours.”

“You go first. Why’d you get the axe?”

“I screwed up.”

“Yeah. I got that. You don’t get shitcanned for getting things right. Specifics, please. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

She turned her body completely toward him. “We’re not doing this again, are we?”

“No, I mean, I stopped doing my work.” He could feel her interest sharpen. “A story I was covering brought up some bad memories. I lashed out, then got very depressed.” He turned to find her eyes searching his and broke away from them. He looked back at the road, hoping she’d leave it alone, not ask any more questions.

“Okay. Next question,” she said, glancing into the side-view mirror.

Damn
… “Yes?”

“Is there any particular reason why somebody’s tailing you?”

Patrick shot his attention to the rearview, felt his nerves bristle, but saw nothing.

Tristan said, “Lincoln Town Car, beige. Can’t make out the plates. It’s been on us since we pulled out of the hospital.”

Patrick looked again, spotted it. “That’s, like, four cars back.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s how they do it.”

“How’d you notice it all the way back there?”

“I’ve got some experience with this sort of stuff,” she said, watching in her mirror. “He’s been jockeying between the lanes, keeping you in sight.”

Patrick’s sweaty palms were now stuck to the wheel. He loosened his grip. “Can you see the driver?”

“The glare’s making it hard. A dude. Dark sunglasses. If you pull to the right and slow down some, maybe he’ll come closer.”

Patrick decelerated, but so did the Town Car.

“Nope,” she said. “Not playing nice.”

“So what do I do now?”

Tristan pointed ahead. “See the exit coming up? Get in the middle lane now. Slow down, and make sure the ramp’s clear. As soon as the nose of your car hits where the median starts, swerve like hell and get on the ramp like you just realized you’re about to miss your exit. He won’t have time to follow. When he passes, I’ll try to get a fix on the plates.”

Patrick glanced in his rearview again, gave a quick nod.

As they came to the ramp, Tristan said, “Now!”

Patrick glanced in the passenger’s-side mirror, swerved over just in time. As he drove up the off-ramp, Tristan leaned her head out the window and gazed at the freeway. She read off the plates, then said, “Couldn’t see the driver.”

“Can you write the numbers down for me?”

She spotted the edge of his notebook sticking out from under the seat, reached for it, and Patrick’s heart hammered inside his chest. He didn’t know what to say—but it was too late, anyway. She already was reading.
Helpless. Helpless. Helpless
…

Tristan stared, blinking a few times, her expression markedly changed, yet difficult to interpret. Then she flipped the page and said, “Got a pen?”

“In the glove compartment,” he answered, cold sweat gathering on his forehead. He resisted wiping it away, fearing he’d draw her attention. Instead, he kept his unwavering attention on the road.

She wrote the plates down, closed the notebook. Looked out the windshield, then back at him. When they locked gazes, something in her eyes made him very uncomfortable.

“What?” he said, hearing the edginess creep into his voice.

She pointed through the window but kept her eyes on him. “Light’s green.”

Patrick swung his attention forward, hit the gas, made his turn.

“So…” she said, gesturing at his notebook with the pen, “want to tell me what this is all about?”

Caught.
He fumbled over his words. “I… It’s just…”

“Jealous wife? Boyfriend, even?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve obviously pissed someone off pretty royally if they’re riding your tail like this. You in some kind of trouble?”

He quietly let the air out he’d been holding on to.

She said, “Make a left here. We’ll take the side streets, just in case.” Then she waited with an expectant expression.

“All I know is that someone’s been watching me.”

“And you have no idea who.”

“I honestly don’t,” he lied, instead telling her about the other incidents: his car at the beach, the mysterious shadowy figure at the hospital, the break-in at the cottage.

“Make a right here. Any of this have to do with this story you’re working on? Maybe even someone from the job you mysteriously don’t have anymore?”

“Maybe the story,” he said, “but I have no idea why.”

Several streets later, Tristan said, “It’s up there on the right. The light blue place.”

Patrick slowed down, rolled up, zeroed in on the sign out front. “You live in a halfway house?”

She smiled her response.

“You’re full of surprises.”

“Look who’s talking, Mr. I’m Being Followed.”

He frowned. She reached for the door handle, and Patrick said, “Not so fast, Bonnie.”

She looked at him. “Does that make you Clyde?” She snorted.

“Your long story? I believe you owe me one?”

She leaned back into her seat, crossed her arms. “I got caught stealing.”

“Stealing what?”

She opened the door, got out, slammed it shut.

“Excuse me,” he said through the window, “but I wasn’t done yet.”

She rested her arms on the window ledge, leaned in, looked at him.

“What did you steal?” he asked again.

“You’ll get the rest of my story when I get the rest of yours.”

“Wait a minute—”

“Look, Ace, rule number one: you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m about the best there is, and you, my friend, are not. You can’t lie worth a damn. It’s written all over your face, and that’s a language I know better than what comes out of people’s mouths. I made a career out of it.”

Patrick fell silent.

“How those nurses didn’t see your load of crap a mile away is beyond me. Thanks for the lift, by the way. I owe you one.”

And with that, she turned and headed up the sidewalk to the house.

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As Patrick left Tristan’s place, his anxiety spiked, paranoia gnawing around the edges. His stalker was closing in. The thought sent the hairs straight up on his arms.

A man. But what man? He tried to think about who he’d pissed off lately, and again Jocelyn Fairchild came to mind. Since a guy had been driving the Lincoln, the Hired Thug Theory seemed to fit. Then he considered another variable: what if the driver had been following Tristan and not him? With her off-color past, there was no telling what deviants she might attract.