The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel (20 page)

Mid-September 2003

T
he phone call came from the top floor of the concrete trapezium on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC. The director in the Chicago office made little circles on the desktop with his fingers to pass the time until the one-sided conversation with the FBI director ended. There was little information included with the request—there didn’t have to be. All responsibility would fall to the agent assigned. The order had the highest priority and there would be no debate. The local chief already had an idea who he was going to dump this one on.

“Finding a missing doctor? You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Special Agent Paul Cotsworth said again.
“You chose me why?”

“You’re the best I’ve ever had.”

“Not that way, pal,” retorted Cotsworth. “Never been that drunk.”

His boss would offer no more laudatory remarks, only the succinct reason.

“It’s a favor for a Company friend. Naturally, that person wants a quick answer.”

“I’d like to know who the hell
that
friend is.”

Only someone in the top tier could insist on such an expedited request. And that made his ulcer hurt more. No good ever came to an agent who was handed this sort of investigation. Long ago Cotsworth was assured his days in the field were over.

“I’m not the police, damn it,” he said.

“Get on it, Paul. Protesting is a waste of time. You know that.” The director gave an unsympathetic laugh. “Moses tried, but he still did what God told him to do. And his reward wasn’t the Promised Land.” He laughed again, the same irritating way. “Don’t worry, though. If you screw up, I’ll fire you.” He shrugged. “Bye.”

Paul Cotsworth was pissed.

“Agent Cotsworth…a pleasure.”

Ross Merrimac’s spirited handshake was as jovial as his voice. Cotsworth appreciated immediately that the surgeon was a man to be both admired and respected. Still, the agent wondered how those huge hands fit inside a kid’s chest.

“Please, Dr. Merrimac,” said Cotsworth, “I’m not in the office. Call me
Paul
.”

“And I’m
Ross
.” The black man grinned. “Too much formality for me. I let the kids call me
Dr. Ross.
We’re caretakers of God’s creations, not our egos.”

He kept grinning. “Only my wife calls me
Dr. Merrimac
, usually because I wash darks with lights. Whatever she says after that I just agree and promise not to do it again.”

“Isn’t that the truth!”

Both men laughed together. They were off to a good start.

“Coffee?” Merrimac asked. “Before you say yes, you have every right to be skeptical about hospital coffee.”

“I’ll trust your decision,” Cotsworth laughed. “Show me the way.”

The men talked as Merrimac led him from the hospital lobby to the new café. Lattes in hand, they found a secluded table and sat down. Merrimac stretched back and looked around.

“They designed this, you know,” he said with exaggerated pride.

“You mean Pruitt and Morgan?” asked Cotsworth.

“I’m being indulgent, of course. But in a very real way, yes,” Merrimac answered.

“How so? You said she designed the ventilation systems and the like, and he had some hand in the operating rooms. Is there more?” Cotsworth didn’t understand.

“Hard to explain,” said Merrimac. “It’s like these buildings have a collective energy all their own. Everyone, in a sense, who creates, works in one, or has been a patient adds to its soul.” Merrimac smiled. “Sometimes I feel Caroline’s spirit circulates in the ductwork, and Wes, well…his devotion to his patients and maybe even his love for Cay, was the force that made it all come together.”

He sighed. “Paul, I can already guess what you’re thinking…sharing these repressed thoughts of mine.” Merrimac chuckled. “I admit, I did enjoy reading Freud in college…probably too much.”

“Me too,” Cotsworth admitted with a laugh, while pulling a legal pad and pen from his valise. “I’m going to write as we talk, okay?”

“I would expect as much,” said Merrimac. “Before we really dig in, let me ask…How did you get involved in this? I mean, I spoke to the police a year ago. Did it take this long for their report to filter up to you?”

Cotsworth shook his head. “It didn’t come from the police. To be frank, I don’t really know.”

In the first week, the agent received four follow-up calls—three from his local director and one from the director himself in Washington. Somebody wanted an answer.

“I’m glad you’re on it,” said Merrimac. “Go ahead and write away. Don’t worry ‘bout time. Got nothing scheduled until after lunch.”

“Thank you.” Cotsworth reviewed his notes. “So…you told me about Morgan’s family. His mother died?”

“The last time we spoke, Wes had said she was close. When I called the place in La Grange…oh, last fall…thinking they might have a contact number for Wes, all I found out was that the final arrangements, the estate and the like, were handled through his attorney. I’ve got his number somewhere.”

“I’ll find it.” Cotsworth wrote—
Call lawyer.
Not that it would do him much good. Client privilege was the bane of his work.

“His sister died too, correct?”

“As a child…in the operating room…during surgery for her Tetralogy of Fallot, or
blue baby
as it used to be called.”

The agent sensed the surgeon’s frustration.

Merrimac continued. “We fix it so routinely these days it’s hard to remember a time when it wasn’t so easy. When Wes interviewed for the job, he told me…” Merrimac’s tone became nurturing. “He became a pediatric heart surgeon so other sisters could live. Childlike reason, I know, but sincere. And darn if the man didn’t devote years learning how to do just that. That devotion I mentioned earlier…When one of his patients died—and that was rare—well, he told me he reminisced about his sister.”

“Friends?” asked Cotsworth, moved by what he had just heard.

“Not really. Me, I guess.”

Cotsworth made a note while Merrimac continued.

“No…Morgan’s best friend was probably surgery. Maybe more like an enslaving paramour, that is, until he met Caroline. She changed him completely…and for the better.”

“Tell me.”

“Wes was smitten—I mean
in love
.” A reflective smile evolved. “Shandra—that’s my wife—and I went out a couple of times with them.” Merrimac then whispered a private admission, “Paul, if I’d been single, I’d have married her. She was impossibly beautiful…sexy as all get out with that Virginian drawl, and smart too!”

Cotsworth whistled, sitting back in his chair with his fingers fanning wide outside his open palms.

“Cay never flaunted it. She’d stand with him at our boring staff get-togethers and make chitchat…letting Wes stay center stage.”

Cotsworth was enjoying the tale.

“Funny,” Merrimac added. “Morgan’s wayward reputation didn’t bother her, because when he met that girl…Lord have mercy!” Another laugh. “From what I gather, Caroline fell just as hard too. Once they connected, man! Their single days were over.”

“And…she died on September 11,” said Cotsworth.

“Yes.” His voice grew muted. “Caroline had finished a project she started in New York before she moved here, and was at Windows of the World attending a breakfast celebration.”

“Oh, Jesus…” Cotsworth felt his sympathy swell.

“Wes planned to surprise her at the reception. He was going to give her a ring later too, so…he tried to get up there late Monday afternoon. As usual, he got stuck in the OR. Our secretary kept rearranging his flights.”

He held a woeful look. “He finally got out of Chicago late only to wait in airport after airport, getting to Newark by morning.”

What Merrimac said next was worse than Cotsworth could imagine.

“His cab hit gridlock…he saw the smoke and ran toward it, thinking of course he could rescue her…” The surgeon sighed. “Then…he saw…well…her red suit.” Merrimac’s eyes closed briefly as if he was offering a prayer. “Later, Wes walked all the way to the Plaza Hotel where Caroline was staying. Out of humanity, the concierge finally agreed to let him into her hotel room. The poor guy sat in there alone until the planes flew again. If he ate at all, it was probably crackers from the minibar.”

Merrimac’s voice grew lifeless.

“Shandra and I picked him up at Midway airport. He looked like a zombie dug from a grave…clutching her suitcase like a child grasps a teddy bear.” The man wiped a tear. “The dust…it was all over his clothes. When we got him to our place, he sat on the sofa and said nothing. Shandra finally put him to bed.”

“I’m sorry,” said Cotsworth. “You could’ve lost him too.”

“I know,” replied the surgeon. “He could have perished with her.” He sighed again in despair. “Maybe I lost him anyway.”

The next call Cotsworth didn’t want to make.

“Sir, let me say first how sorry I am for your loss.”

“Much appreciated.”

Pruitt was amazed how rapidly the bureau responded. Zach must have called the director when he hung up. Connie was right—as usual.

The FBI agent went through his list of questions. When he asked about the corporation Pruitt had owned outside Washington, the father became aloof. Not wanting the agent to suspect he was the link to the FBI’s involvement, Pruitt redirected Cotsworth’s attention.

“Agent Cotsworth,” Pruitt said with a stressed voice, “let me give you the number of Jane Bonwitt. She knew both Cay and Wes…set them up on their first date….also hired a private investigator to try to find him after she lost him at O’Hare.”
God help you when you call her
, Pruitt didn’t say.

Cotsworth covered his mouth to hide another yawn. He spent a tedious hour in Bonwitt’s office, watching her blow her nose and blot tears, the only things that prevented the woman from talking continuously. When Cotsworth was finally able to inject a question about the private investigator, she launched into another commercial-free diatribe, concluding with the story of the GPS delivery, handing him the receipt.

He tried not to laugh while writing down Brosinski’s phone number. The private investigator’s clumsiness wasn’t reassuring, but he would probably have—Cotsworth hoped, at least—some sort of usable facts. So far he had nothing more than a growing list of questions that filled the lines of pages of a yellow legal pad.