The Other Daughter (21 page)

“Okay, it's also messier, but that's the glamorous life. Sheffield works tonight, right?

“Yes, I want you on his tail. And stick this time, even at work. I'm getting very curious about the hospital angle. So far our anonymous tipster seems to know exactly what he's talking about, so we may have much more of a fraud case than we thought.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know you don't know anything. God, they gotta start getting you guys more training. Well, do you have a pen and paper? I'll give you a lesson for the day.

“Okay, pretend for a moment that our tipster is correct and they are installing pacemakers in healthy patients. Now, no single doctor or healthcare professional, no matter how brilliant, can summarily recommend a pacemaker. A cardiologist would have an opinion. The cardiac surgeon too. Then there's the ER docs who admitted the case, the nurses who attended the patient, and the anesthesiologist who would be monitoring all the patient's vitals and administering meds during surgery. All these people examine the patient, update the chart, and know what is going on. And that's assuming the patient never asks for a second opinion. Lots of people do, which means a whole new round of doctors reading charts and offering opinions.

“So first off, it can't be as simple as faking a chart or misdiagnosing. Hospitals are set up exactly so that kind of situation can't happen. Given that, our suspects are going to have to find someone who at least exhibits symptomology. Probably a patient who comes into the ER as a “chest pain — rule out MI” admit, which means a person suffering from chest pains that they want to make sure isn't a myocardial infarction. A heart attack, Chenney. Myocardial infarction equals heart attack.

“Now, following protocol, most ERs will slap an EKG on the patient, snap a chest X ray, as well as draw six to seven vials of blood to test for cardiac enzymes. But some of these enzymes can take twelve to thirty-six hours to show up, so even if the chest X ray is clear and the EKG good, a hospital will generally keep the patient for a day or so for observation, particularly if there is a history of heart problems in the family and the person appears at risk — overweight, high blood pressure, and so on. Now, City General has a notoriously aggressive cath lab, so their ER docs also send the patient to the cath lab to shoot the coronary — check for blocked arteries.

“In the cath lab they have to feed a catheter through the femoral artery to inject the patient with dye. They'll heavily sedate the patient for the process, then send the patient to ICU for recovery and monitoring. They're also going to keep the patient under sedation because they don't want him or her to wake up in the middle of the night and pull out the catheter. So that gives us our first ‘opportunity' for nefarious deeds right there.

“At night in the ICU, the nursing staff is generally spread thin and focusing on the more critical cases. You have a recovery patient who is drugged and certainly not going to notice what's what. Someone could easily slip into a room, inject a patient with a drug or tamper with the EKG, and probably escape with no one the wiser.

“Ask around, Chenney. Have people seen Dr. Sheffield roaming the ICU a lot? That might tell us something right there.

“No, I don't completely understand what healthcare fraud has to do with Meagan Stokes, only that our tipster seems to know more than we do. Anything back from the lab yet?

“Two types of blood? Really? Jesus.” David sighed. “This case just gets weirder and weirder. Other findings?

“Yeah, I know it's too soon, I'm being an optimist. Okay, have them do a DNA test. I imagine one kind of blood is probably Meagan Stokes's. As for the other, I haven't a clue. Has the Meagan Stokes case file arrived from the Houston field office yet?

“What do you mean, they said the case file is unavailable? It's a twenty-five-year-old closed file. It's gotta be sitting in the archives.

“A case file can't be just ‘out.' The Bureau isn't a library, for God's sake.

“Shit, someone is yanking our chain. Okay, what about the Houston PD? Did they fax over their case file? Uh-huh. Give me a rundown.

“Life insurance. On two children. One million apiece. Shit. What kind of parents insure their children for a million bucks? Then again, it does explain a town house on Beacon Street.

“No evidence from Meagan ever found? Yeah, that's what I thought. Okay, when I get to the hotel tonight, I'll give you another call and have you fax the file over. Don't worry about Lairmore. I'm the lead agent, so I'll take the heat. Most likely he'll chew my ass tomorrow morning sharp, then we'll all get on with our lives. You all set with Sheffield tonight in the ICU?

“I know you're tired, Chenney. So am I. Unfortunately, whoever the hell is doing this seems to be in a rush to make up for lost time. We had Larry Digger showing up on Saturday, the altar assembled for Sunday, and a paid assassin appearing on Monday. God knows what's happening right now as we speak. We're just going to have to deal for a bit.

“I'm watching Melanie Stokes tonight.

“I know, I get all the great jobs. Enjoy tagging Sheffield. Bye-bye.”

Melanie scurried for the sofa. The bedroom door swung promptly open and David came striding into the room, scowling and looking preoccupied.

“The lab hasn't had enough time for in-depth analysis,” he stated without preamble, “but we do know there were two types of blood on the scrap of blue fabric in your room. They'll run some more tests.”

Melanie nodded. David didn't offer anything more. He was standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips and his mind a million miles away. He was tired too, Melanie realized. There were fresh lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. His skin was drawn too tight, making him look especially harsh and stern.

He crossed the room to his answering machine. The message light was blinking and he punched play. Then he strode back into his room for his duffel bag while the tape rewound. He'd just returned to the living room when the first message began.

“Hello, David, this is your dad. Still haven't heard from you. I guess the Bureau is keeping you busy? I'm reading now about some new methods for accurizing. Want to bring your Beretta in? I have some things I want to try out.” Bobby Riggs's voice petered out awkwardly. Melanie could hear the man swallow. “Ah, well. Just thought I'd see if you were in. No big deal. Give me a call if you have a chance. I got tickets to the Red Sox — or …ah, hell. It's been a while, David. Just call sometime.”

Melanie looked at David. His face was still a mask.

The next voice came on.

“Riggs, check your goddamn voice mail. I have a message that you've been involved in a shooting. I got a Boston police chief talking to me about homicide. What the hell happened to eyes and ears only, Riggs? And what happened to procedure? When one of my agents discharges his weapon, I
do not
expect to hear about it from Boston P.D. In case you're still ignoring the voice mail, I want you in my office oh-seven-hundred tomorrow! And bring a damn report with you!”

The call ended abruptly. David merely smiled.

“That was my boss,” he said easily. “Guess I won't be getting that corner office after all.”

A clipped professional voice came over the tape. “This is Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy from Quantico. Sorry to call you at home, Agent Riggs, but I was notified today by the Houston field office that you were requesting the Meagan Stokes case file. I would like to know why you are requesting this particular case file. You can contact me at…”

He rattled off the number. Melanie looked sharply at David, who had gone perfectly still.

“Shit,” he said after a moment, belatedly scribbling down the phone number. “What the hell is this all about?”

“He said you requested the file.”

“Well, no kidding. But first Houston tells me the file is unavailable, now I have Quantico calling me at home to follow up on my request in less than twenty-four hours. Why does everyone suddenly care so much about a closed case file? And, especially, why Quincy?”

Melanie looked at him blankly. “Would you like to translate for those of us who are merely personally at risk and not the trained professional?”

David shook his head. He still looked confused. Actually, he appeared nervous. He finally walked into the kitchen, grabbed a bag of frozen carrots, and slapped it onto his lower back. “You haven't heard the name? He was involved in the Jim Beckett case last fall.”

“The serial killer who escaped from Walpole?” Melanie had heard of that case. There was probably no one in New England who hadn't locked their doors and windows when the former police officer and killer of ten women had broken out of Walpole. In his brief time of freedom, Beckett had managed to cut a broad, violent swath. She didn't even remember how many people he had killed in the end. It had been a lot.

“Quincy did the original profile,” David muttered. “Served as the FBI consultant when the case team reassembled and was instrumental in plotting strategy. Beckett murdered an FBI agent, you know. There was some question about her role at the time, but Quincy stated she died in the line of duty, and if Quincy says she died in the line of duty, then trust me, all the bureaucrats have her listed as dying in the line of duty. After helping catch Beckett, he's violent crimes official expert
du jour
and about as politically untouchable as one gets in the Bureau. Basically, God himself just called about Meagan Stokes.”

"WHY WOULD THIS expert call about Meagan?”

“There's only one way to find out.” David held up the number.

Melanie faltered. Her chin was up, her shoulders square. Some part of her wanted to be strong enough. This was her family, and she would do anything for her family. She
owed
it to them.

The rest of her was feeling bruised and battered. She wanted the truth, but she feared it just as much. The truth did not always set you free. Sometimes it bound you to dark, bloody deeds and cost you the people you loved.

“Why don't you go into the bedroom,” David suggested. “You can rest while I handle the phone call.”

“No. I'm ready.”

“You've had a long day.”

“It's my family, David. I want to.”

He was quiet for a moment, then he shrugged. But his look was different. More understanding, she thought, and that undid her a little. Heaven help her, but if David Riggs turned kind now, she would most likely fall apart.

He turned away before the moment became something neither one of them was prepared to handle.

He set up the speakerphone on the dining room table and they both took a seat. Though it was after hours, they got Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy on the first try.

“This is Special Agent David Riggs returning your call.” David hit a button on his phone base. “Just so you know, you're on speakerphone and Melanie Stokes is also in the room.”

“Good evening, Ms. Stokes,” Quincy said politely, then added to David, “Why is she part of this call?”

“I'm in the middle of a case that concerns her,” David said tersely, “and it was for her that I requested information on Meagan Stokes. Why are you involved? Isn't this a closed case?”

“Yes. Thus, I was equally surprised to find a field agent from Boston requesting this information. According to your file, you work with white collar crimes.”

David tensed and Melanie got the distinct impression she was in the middle of a pissing war where information would be doled out only in hard-to-earn pellets. As the junior agent, David got to go first.

“My complete involvement in the case isn't something I want to discuss right now,” he said curtly. “But to get the ball rolling, Melanie Stokes is Harper and Patricia Stokes's adopted daughter. Two nights ago a reporter named Larry Digger—”

“The
Dallas Daily
reporter?”

“That's the one. He showed up and alleged that Ms. Stokes was the daughter of Russell Lee Holmes. Yesterday she found a shrine at the foot of her bed. It contained one red wooden pony, presumably Meagan Stokes's toy, a scrap of blue fabric presumably from Meagan Stokes's dress, and forty-four gardenia-scented candles spelling out the name
Meagan
. Then today Larry Digger was shot and killed. Now, why do you have the Meagan Stokes file?”

“Forty-four candles?” Quincy murmured. Melanie could hear scratching sounds as he made notes. “Confirmation on the toy and fabric scrap?”

“At the lab now. Brian Stokes, the brother, has made an initial ID.”

“Interesting. I don't see any mention of the police ever finding the red wooden pony or the blue dress. On the other hand, many items from the other victims were recovered from Holmes's cabin.”

“Why do you have the file?”

“Down, Agent,” Quincy said lightly, earning a fresh scowl from David. “I'm sorry if I sounded too intense on the message, but I just started researching Russell Lee Holmes as part of an internal project to develop our intellectual capital—”

“What's that?” Melanie whispered to David.

“He's researching Russell Lee Holmes to add his profile to the violent crimes database of information,” David translated. “The Beckett case must have been something else, because the Bureau usually encourages internal projects only when they decide an agent's one wick short of meltdown.”

“The more you deal in death, Agent,” Quincy said quietly, “the more you learn the value of stopping and smelling the roses.”

It sounded to Melanie as if the older agent spoke less out of wisdom and more out of regret. She began to like Supervisory Special Agent Quincy.

He said, “Special Agent Riggs is correct. In the violent crimes division, we maintain an entire database of information we've gathered from murderers, rapists, all the people you wouldn't want to invite over to your mother's for dinner. It is by analyzing and comparing these cases, these offenders, that we have been able to come up with the common traits and behavior characteristics we use to profile.

“As part of my project, I proposed that we go back and analyze famous historic cases. Last month I turned to Russell Lee Holmes. Imagine my surprise when halfway through this process I received a call about one of the files.