The Path of Silence (31 page)

I leaned over to Field and asked in a low-carrying voice, “Does Brenda have all this time it’ll take to get the pizza here? And what if Patterson’s not inside?”

He shook his head. “He’ll be in his office.”

“He can be holding her hostage anywhere in this place.” I worried about Brenda and at the same time felt as if I was going to participate only in a field exercise, not an actual hostage situation. Something felt wrong but I couldn’t define what it was since I was never before a part of this kind of situation.

“Patterson wants the funds released. He needs a Wi-Fi connection. He’ll be waiting with a laptop ready to transfer the money into offshore accounts,” Field said.

I pulled him away from the squad commander. “Field—” I started.

He cut me off. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, my voice ringing with frustration. “That’s the problem. I feel—”

“Feelings are not part of the FBI or police protocol in hostage situations, Sergeant,” he said. “Did you or didn’t you receive a phone call, demanding those funds be released?”

I snorted. “Yes, I did but it sounded contrived. It came conveniently. I felt even as I listened that it wasn’t real.”

“A criminal’s holding a hostage and he made demands, Sergeant. What’s unreal about that?”

I raised my hand to show him I was capitulating and he left to confer with the squad leader. He was right. Feelings had no place in police protocol in hostage situations. But I started analyzing the situation as we headed for Mongrove. It’s what I did best. That’s why I chose to be assigned to Cold Case Unit because the job required detailed analysis of historical data and information. As a cold case homicide detective, I’d read hundreds of transcripts, hundreds of police reports taken down by just as many police officers taking statements from victims’ relatives, friends or witnesses. After reading half a page of someone’s deposition I already knew the deposed’s speech patterns and could even visualize the person’s mannerisms. By studying details and analyzing information I’d learned to reconstruct old crime scenes until I could visualize them with clarity as if they were scarcely a few days old. Ken and I practiced “reading” pedestrians every chance we got. Often we would stop the citizen we’d both just “read” to have a friendly chat with him—and to confirm that I was much better at “reading” people than my partner.

The electronic voice on the phone said to release the frozen funds or the pediatric nurse would die. The caller repeated the message and hung up. No further instructions, no directions. The caller left a lot to Fate. What if we hadn’t been able to find out where Brenda was? What if I hadn’t called Joe? What if Brenda had changed her mind about visiting Valerie and happened to be somewhere other than Mongrove?

Patterson liked to project an image of a “bright boy”. He dazzled us with patients’ histories in detail. He could have been improvising or lying outright but he was still glib, witty and droll. I could see the reason for the caller to electronically disguise his voice but the message was so terse that the caller had little to worry about the police tracing his call. And I wouldn’t have recognized Patterson’s voice from that sentence alone. During our first visit to Mongrove we left Patterson our business cards. Why would he choose to call me when Brenda’s life was at stake? Why not call Ken? He was the senior partner. Well, maybe Patterson didn’t know about Ken and Brenda’s relationship. Then again, there was that glib recital of patient’s history that found such an easy mark in Ken. It could be just coincidence that the Mongrove patient who resembled Brenda had suffered breakup consequences of a relationship that mirrored Ken and Brenda’s. But what if it wasn’t? Why not call the FBI, since his demand dealt with the funds’ release? How could Patterson possibly know that the Tavistock banker was my father and I was the key person who would be able to get him to do it?

Was I over-analyzing because that was the true nature of my job ever since I’d joined the BPD? Field’s sudden appearance in my life had already eroded my emotional stability. What if it had also affected my analytical skills to a degree where I could no longer trust my judgment? Was my instinct such a reliable tool that it should become my professional yardstick for making logical deductions?

To me, the call sounded more like a tip-off by an informant who wanted the police to clean up for him. I wanted to be right but I also feared being wrong.

There were many things here that didn’t make sense to me but Field was right about one thing—this was neither the place nor time for feelings, no matter how much they were steeped in analytical thinking.

“What did the Chairman say about releasing those funds?” I heard Field’s voice behind me and abandoned my reflections.

I took out a sheet of paper and wordlessly handed it to him. I’d called my father as we headed for Brooklyn. It shocked me that he hardly asked any questions. He inquired whether I had paper and a pen ready and dictated the numbers of frozen accounts. The original three hundred had been grouped into a block of twenty-one. My father said the bank would do as we asked. I thanked him and hung up but not before I heard him say, “Be careful. Take care.”

Chapter 40

F
ield’s “pizza delivery” plan worked. However, even as I moved inside the waiting area, my back to the wall, the feeling of something being wrong washed over me again. I stopped and listened until I figured out what bothered me.

SWAT teams aren’t expected to wear athletic footwear but they could have used it tonight. The hard clatter of boots echoed like a drumroll through the stone edifice. Suddenly I felt as contrary and cynical as Joe. Why bother with pizza delivery charades? Hell, we might as well have rung the bell and asked to see Patterson.

Gun drawn and ready, I moved along the wall. I lost track of Ken and Field but I saw Sven and three more colleagues herding those few staff members who’d rushed in, into offices and rooms, locking the doors. The SWAT members took positions and secured each corridor section, before moving ahead. They must have finally realized that softer footsteps were necessary and ran on tiptoes. By the time we were within sight of Patterson’s office, everyone moved quietly, cautiously.

Guns held ready, two SWAT members faced the office door. Field stood to a side, also ready. I didn’t see Ken and worried about him. He hadn’t said a word all through the ride.

Since I was part of the SWAT briefing, I knew the strategy. Two officers would cover Field when he burst through the door. I moved closer because I wanted to see inside, even though “passive observation” wasn’t part of the plan. The SWAT team leader called this a Seize and Rescue operation.

Field slashed down his hand, a sign he was going in.

He was quick and efficient. The SWAT members were right behind him but I managed to glimpse what I felt I might see all along.

Patterson sat behind his desk, holding a cup of coffee. He was raising it to take a sip. Brenda sat in one of the antiquated wooden swivel-arm chairs, also drinking coffee. They weren’t expecting visitors—and definitely not the police. A strange sensation washed over me, a mix of relief and apprehension. I was right. Or more precisely, my instinct didn’t let me down. The phone message was a tip-off and this was a set-up.

Even as such thoughts flashed through my head, the peaceful scenario in the office cracked as if someone shattered it with a hammer. Patterson jumped up and ran to take cover between the rows of gray filing cabinets. Black-clad bodies rushed inside, momentarily obscuring my view of Brenda’s upturned shocked face. Someone ran into me and shoved me aside. Ken ran past me, gun held ready. By the time I shed my observer’s cobwebs and ran after him, two SWAT team members had Brenda between them, dragging her out. Ken turned, hands gripping his gun outstretched, protecting their departure. I heard a whirring noise and a row of filing cabinets beside me started to rotate. Before I could jump out of the way the lights went out. The SWAT members had night-vision goggles. Since I didn’t, I backed out of the office, away from the whirring noise. Part of my mind sought relief in the fact that not a single shot had been fired.

An hour later, when it was over, I knew it was a set-up, though Patterson was the right target.

“For once Joe will get a bullet-riddled body, as opposed to an exploded one,” I said to Field when we stood outside again, watching all the activity winding down.

“It was easy,” he murmured.

“For the FBI, maybe. But for the BPD and SWAT an hour of chasing the suspect all over a stone fortress, is a hard night’s work.”

“Brenda said she wasn’t threatened,” he said.

She was taken away in an ambulance, even though she protested that it wasn’t necessary. I saw that Ken wanted to go with her and told him it was all right. We could finish up without him.

“Patterson was part of it,” he sounded again when I made no comment.

“Yes, he was a major player but not the key player. I think there are other parts,” I said.

“His partners set him up,” he said, raising his brows at me.

Once he remote-shut off the lights, Patterson used all the automation at his fingertips to thwart the SWAT team and escape. By then, the BPD sent reinforcements because Mongrove was a huge facility and a thousand patients couldn’t go unattended for long, even at night. Patterson must have seen the outside swarming with police vehicles. The search lights they’d set up all along the perimeter would have told him that it was a bad idea to try gain freedom via the ground floor. With SWAT and the rest of the police officers conducting corridor searches, Patterson made his way quietly to the roof. He knew how to avoid the monitoring cameras. No one caught him heading for the rooftop staircase. He correctly assumed the police would be watching all the exits and windows. The rooftop was six stories above the ground and the hospital didn’t adjoin any other building.

Each time we visited Mongrove, Patterson strove to make a point about the underfunded state of his facility. No one expected the hospital to have a helicopter pad, never mind a helicopter on the roof.

In a sense, my curious and analytical nature was responsible for Patterson’s death. Even as Ken climbed into the ambulance and sat down next to Brenda, I reached over and tapped her knee.

“Why were you in Patterson’s office?” I asked. “Joe told me you went to visit your friend, Valerie.”

Brenda pushed away a paramedic’s hand, restraining her from leaning out and said, “I was waiting for her in the foyer. Patterson came out to tell me that though she finished her shift, she was helping to settle down two post-op patients they’d just brought back by a helicopter from Hopkins. The chopper ride upset the patients and one of them became agitated enough to break his stitches. Patterson invited me for a coffee in his office. I saw no reason to refuse. He was charming and witty. He said if Valerie took much longer, we’d order in and have her join us for late night dinner.”

When I overheard Field giving instructions over a radio to one of the SWAT team members to cover exits, no matter how well screened or steel-barred, I remembered Brenda’s words—and the chopper on the roof.

Sven Olsen shouted once at the doctor to get out of the charging chopper then shot Patterson through the cockpit glass just as the blade started to whirl around.

“Meg,” Field moved a hand in front of my face. When I smiled, he continued, “It’s almost four o’clock. Do you think there’s a coffee shop open somewhere?”

“I know a café in Washington that stays open late,” I said, shaking off the reflections.

“In Washington, I wouldn’t have asked you.”

“Is your memory that good?”

He put his hand around my shoulders. “Do you want to find out?”

I leaned against him. “We ought to get some sleep. I’d like to come back tomorrow and take a look around Patterson’s office. He had to keep records of the operation. Creeslow has moved but they’re still operating—somewhere. I’m pretty sure they would have set up in Washington—as another business, not the same but a similar business that uses limos.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” he drew me closer. “Now let’s get some sleep.”

We walked over to his car and climbed inside. He reached to start the car and paused, staring ahead. “Is Mrs. Tavalho staying with Jazz tonight?”

“She’ll stay as long as needed.” I talked to my housekeeper, even as the SWAT team searched the hospital corridors.

“I have a room at the Harbor Court,” he said.

“Really? Room service too?”

He flashed me a grin. “If memory serves…”

Chapter 41

T
he next day, Field called his agents and the trio went to meet with the Chairman.

“Should I return this?” he asked, shaking at me the sheet of paper with twenty-one account numbers my father dictated to me last night.

Once again the feeling of uncertainty washed over me. I didn’t know what to tell him.

“Patterson was set up but he was the mastermind behind the implants,” Field said, prompting me with a forward head thrust to endorse his statement.

“Meg!” he raised his voice when I still wouldn’t reply.

“I’m no longer sure of anything, Field,” I finally said, blinking to banish my fatigue and confusion.

“You tossed and turned all night, mumbling,” he said.

“Not all night,” I said, cracking a feeble smile.

His expression softened. “No,” he said, “but you’re still struggling with many issues that won’t let you get a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s not over, Field,” I said quietly.

“It’ll take some time to get at the minor players in this scheme. Blank had years to develop the infrastructure of his US organization and populate it with operatives. However, Blank’s offshore principals are probably threatening him already, because two billion dollars is still sitting frozen in those accounts. It’s just a matter of time before Mr. Blank either retires for ‘health’ reasons or disappears altogether. Now that we have retired the bomb-maker, the FBI and the BPD can continue in a more relaxed atmosphere. We’ll set up a taskforce to keep digging into the—”

I interrupted him. “Have we retired the bomb-maker, Field?”