Fever Dream Page 11

  Pushing me before him, we made our way to the doors.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The corridor just beyond those doors was as empty as before. And as eerily silent.

  Roarke gave me another nudge in the back with his gun and we headed in the opposite direction from the way I’d first come. Past another operating room, its double doors sealed. Then past another.

  At the end of the corridor was a metal-sheathed, green-tinted, double-sized elevator. Our destination.

  Our footsteps echoed off the worn linoleum and bounced back at us from the windowless walls. I turned my head left and right. As I could feel Roarke doing, behind me.

  For different reasons, we were both on the lookout for the police. For some sign of a trap.

  “They’re sure being good little boys and girls,” he muttered dryly into the back of my neck.

  I tried to sound more confident than I was.

  “You know they’ve got eyes on you, Roarke. Watching from somewhere.”

  He grunted. “Let’s find out.”

  With that, he shoved me with the gun. Hard. I stumbled forward, tripped. Without my hands free to help correct my balance, I fell to my knees.

  Gasping, I craned my neck around to glare at him.

  “What the hell—?!”

  But Roarke was staring past me, at the huge silent elevator. The revolver was trained at my head.

  “Whoever the fuck’s in that elevator, you got three seconds to make an appearance. Or I blow Rinaldi away.”

  I swiveled back again, eyes front, still on my knees. Gaze riveted on those wide green doors. Nothing happened. They didn’t budge.

  “Okay, assholes, I’ll just start countin’.” Roarke took two long steps and I felt the cold, hard muzzle of the gun at the back of my head.

  I froze. Breath held in a tight knot in my chest.

  “One…two…”

  Still, the elevator doors remained closed. Silent.

  I was going to die.

  Suddenly, one of the operating room doors to our left opened. I heard the swish of the rubber sealant at the bottom of the door as it brushed against linoleum.

  I turned, feeling the gun moving along the base of my skull as I did so. But I had to see.

  It was Polk. Plus two uniforms in flak jackets. Both tall, male, young. All three with guns pointing impotently at the floor.

  I heard Roarke’s hoarse laugh.

  “Well, shit. I called the play right, but had the wrong fuckin’ door.”

  I felt the pressure of the gun ease off my neck.

  As I got unsteadily to my feet, I saw that Roarke had returned to pointing the revolver at my ribs. Though his eyes were glued to Polk’s own.

  “Stupid move,” Roarke said. “Riskin’ Rinaldi’s life.”

  One of the uniforms grumbled. “It was worth a shot.”

  Roarke smiled. “Strange choice of words. But what the hell, it ain’t your life on the line. Or is it?”

  As Roarke turned and shot the cop right in the throat.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Everything happened at once.

  The cop fell backwards, blood gushing from his throat. Gagging, sputtering. Polk and the other cop, momentarily stunned, took a full second to register what had just happened. And then they were crouching beside the downed man, yelling for help, cupping their hands over his throat to staunch the dark burble of blood.

  Stunned myself, I was barely aware that Roarke had grabbed my elbow and was racing us down the corridor toward the elevator.

  Other cops poured into the corridor at the far end, through the access door. Roarke hit the elevator button. The car must have been stopped at our floor already, since the doors opened immediately. Roarke’s luck was holding.

  He shoved me inside, shouldered in beside me, and pushed the interior button. The doors started to close.

  Moments before they came together, I caught sight of Biegler and Lowrey, both with guns raised, joining the other cops coming through the access door.

  I saw Eleanor’s face come up, her eyes meeting mine from her end of the corridor. Then the doors closed, and she disappeared from sight.

  It was just Roarke and me.

  He said nothing, keeping the gun in my ribs for the full sixty seconds it took for the elevator car to settle with a shudder on a lower floor. I glanced at the button he’d pushed. Basement level.

  The doors opened and we stepped out into a cavernous, concrete-walled maintenance area. Hulking machinery. Beds stacked atop each other. Surgical carts with damaged wheels. Shelves of bottles, tubes. Linen supplies.

  “Move.” Roarke snarled.

  He prodded me again with the gun, and we started walking. Fast. Footsteps echoing. A hollow, staccato sound. In less than a minute we were across the broad expanse of the room and going through the rear exit.

  Roarke was smart enough to keep me in front of him as we stepped out into the deserted parking lot. Just in case any cops with visions of commendations dancing in their heads were waiting outside.

  The night was black, and still heavy with the residue of the day’s heat. Maybe a hundred cars were parked in the huge, open-air lot. Soft spheres of light shone under the evenly spaced lamp poles.

  Again, we mirrored each other in glancing quickly about us as we walked. Both looking for telltale movement in the shadows. Some sign of a police presence.

  Roarke headed us toward a far corner, where two cars—featureless sedans in the dim light—were parked a couple spaces apart. No other vehicles around.

  By now, my hands and arms had gone numb from being constrained so long against my back. I didn’t even feel Roarke’s grip as he steered us toward one of the sedans.

  He’d just brought us to the driver’s side door when a sudden burst of light split the darkness to our left. Then another stream of light spilled into the night from our other side.

  Headlights from a half-dozen parked cars, arrayed on either side of us, glowed like angry suns against the blackness. Roarke and I were illuminated as if on stage, pinned where we stood by the cold bright light.

  Roarke squinted at me. Eyes dark points in the glare of the lights.

  “Maybe you ain’t as valuable as you think, Rinaldi. They keep doin’ their best to get you whacked.”

  Before I could react, Roarke shoved me hard with his shoulder and I went stumbling backwards. I stayed on my feet this time, but could only watch helplessly as he got in behind the wheel of the sedan and started it up.

  I stared in disbelief. Door unlocked. Key in the ignition. Whoever owned the car was a complete fool.

  Suddenly, I heard the sound of running feet, and a rising crescendo of voices as Roarke put the car in gear.

  I hit the pavement, scrambling as well as I could manage with my hands bound behind me toward a large cement planter in a near corner. Ducked my head down low.

  In case bullets started flying.

  Which they did.

  Roarke peeled out of the parking space and headed in a straight, unheeding diagonal across the pavement toward the closest exit. Steering with his bad hand, he’d let down the window on the passenger side and was firing randomly into the night. In the direction of the approaching cops.

  I knew he wasn’t aiming for anything. Just shooting to cover himself and keep the cops honest. And wary. And backed up far enough not to block his exit.

  I raised my head, risked a look. Saw the sedan’s tail end bouncing on the concrete as Roarke drove hard and fast through the exit, then made a sharp turn onto the street.

  Almost immediately, two patrol cars, positioned on the other side of the intersection, roared into gear and came barreling down the street in pursuit. Lights flashing, sirens wailing.

  Roarke made another turn, wheels squealing in protest, and gunned the engine. The cops stayed right with him. And then all three cars were swallowed up by the night-shrouded city. Gone from view. The sirens’ wail grew faint, and then faded away.

  Meanwhile, mor
e cops had poured out of their parked cars, blurred figures backlit by blazing headlights. Running. Heading my way. All talking and shouting at once. Some at me, some into their two-ways. Getting instructions. Giving Roarke’s probable heading.

  I rolled up to a sitting position as a female cop in Kevlar knelt beside me. With a conspiratorial smile, she took a pearl-handled Swiss Army knife from her pocket and cut my hands free.

  “Against department regs,” she whispered, pocketing the knife again. Then a wink.

  When I gratefully pulled my arms around to their normal positions at my side, they just hung there, burning. Pretty much useless for the moment. I didn’t care.

  My head was another story. The throbbing hadn’t slackened, and I carefully reached up to touch where I’d been hit. Felt the pulp of soft, raised skin. The moisture on my fingers was my own slow-welling blood.

  Great, I thought. Maybe a concussion. Or worse.

  The female cop stood up then, to allow room for Biegler and Lowrey to squat on either side of me. Eleanor’s face reflected real concern. Biegler, as usual, just looked unhappy.

  He watched me fingering the back of my head.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “I got clobbered with a gun-butt.”

  Eleanor leaned in. “How does it feel?”

  “Like I got clobbered with a gun-butt.”

  She gave me a wry smile.

  “You can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Rinaldi? Any idea why?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  I roused myself, sat up straighter. Unless it was my imagination—or just wishful thinking—it seemed like my head was starting to clear a bit.

  “What about Treva? How is she?”

  “Fine. They’re seeing to her now. Dr. Holloway’s okay, too. Just shaken up. He’s got a jaw like a hunk of marble, apparently.”

  “What about that cop Roarke shot? Did he make it?”

  “Yes, thank God. He’s in emergency surgery, but all his vital signs are good. The docs say he’ll probably need some vocal rehab, and maybe more surgery down the line, but considering…”

  “I guess if you’re gonna get shot, a hospital’s the best place for it. And Detective Robertson?”

  “Concussion, but otherwise fine. Though talk about irony. He’s in one of the empty beds in ICU. Not two steps from where he was found on the floor.”

  I peered up at her. “What the hell happened up there, anyway? The lights were all out. Nobody around.”

  “That’s what we’re gonna find out.”

  Finally, with her hand under my elbow, I got to my feet. The cluster of cops around me had begun to disperse, Biegler barking orders to them in two’s and three’s. The usual protocols in the aftermath of a crisis situation. Secure the perimeter. Check everywhere for any wounded, missing, hiding. Start crafting a timeline for what happened, and when.

  And, most importantly, begin building a case for which poor bastard to blame for the fuck-up.

  Not my department, I thought sullenly, as I started to walk back toward the hospital. Without saying a word, Eleanor came along beside me. I gave her a quizzical look.

  “Just to make sure you get your head examined.” She was smiling. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Funny. You’re a funny person.”

  We were about a dozen feet away from the entrance when I heard Lt. Biegler explode in anger. I looked back to see him screaming curses to the few remaining uniforms. Waving his arms. Literally ranting.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Eleanor.

  “I think he just realized something. I noticed it myself a minute ago, but kept my mouth shut.”

  “Realized what?”

  “The car Roarke escaped in. It’s Biegler’s.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Within an hour, I’d learned two more things:

  First, a harried ER doc checked me out and determined that, except for a nasty headache, I’d probably be none the worse for wear. Turns out I did have a harder head than Detective Robertson.

  “No surprise there,” Eleanor had said, as the doctor applied a bandage to the back of my skull.

  The second piece of news wasn’t as good: Wheeler Roarke had escaped. By the time police choppers had been called in to help, he’d led the pursuing squad cars through a maze of streets on the North Side. And then into a sprawling construction site, where he abandoned the stolen car and disappeared. The cops searched the site from the air and on the ground, but Roarke had vanished. Again.

  But how? One possible answer emerged when the police found the trucker that Roarke had flagged down after the ambulance crash. Right where Roarke said he’d be, in a ditch off Crawford Street. And, thankfully, still alive.

  He was also alert enough to tell the cops that in addition to the truck, Roarke had taken his cell phone.

  Maybe, the cops figured, Roarke had called someone early on in the pursuit. His partner from the bank, probably. Who could have driven to the construction site and been waiting there to pick him up.

  The stolen truck itself had also been found, parked in an alley behind the hospital. Where Roarke had left it. Near the loading area, ground floor. Same level as the morgue. Where he told me he’d hidden.

  I got all this from Harry Polk, who’d joined Eleanor Lowrey and me as we left the ER.

  He spoke in short, mumbled bursts. Tie unknotted and dangling, shoulders slumped under his worn suit jacket, Harry looked wrung out. Spent. More from frustration than exhaustion, I guessed.

  “Can’t believe that fucker slipped the net again.”

  Polk squinted in the glare of the unforgiving overheads as we waited at an elevator. We were heading up to the main patient floors to talk with Lloyd Holloway.

  “If he did use the trucker’s cell to call somebody,” Eleanor said carefully, “we could get the records from the phone company. I mean, assuming it was his partner—”

  “Biegler’s got the techs following up on that already. But I’m bettin’ the partner was smart enough to use a throw-away cell. Untraceable.”

  Eleanor took this in without comment. Then: “What about that conference call with Sinclair?”

  “Change of plans. After this newest screw-up, the DA just wanted Biegler and the Chief on the line.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “Now it’s more about controlling the message than anything else. Figuring out how to spin it for the media.”

  Polk snorted. “Ya got that right. No sense havin’ us grunts puttin’ in our two cents. Messin’ things up by actually tryin’ to run an investigation.”

  “That reminds me,” Eleanor said. “Did we ever send anybody over to talk to James Franconi, the bank manager? Guy who was home all day with a cold.”

  “Yeah, I almost forgot. Couple detectives from the one-three questioned Franconi earlier tonight. At his home. Better them than me. They said the guy was laid up with a bad cold. Probably still contagious. Who needs that, right? I mean, summer colds are the worst.”

  Eleanor smiled. “Franconi give them anything? Other than his germs?”

  “Just that he was sick in bed all day. Wife can verify that. Also, that he wasn’t worried when he heard about the robbery attempt.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Turns out, the bank vault’s on a timer. Roarke and his buddy woulda needed a fuckin’ bomb to open that thing. So Franconi wasn’t surprised when our guys told him no money had been taken.”

  Eleanor said, “Any way around the timer?”

  “Just one,” Polk said. “The assistant manager. Bobby Marks. He had the over-ride codes.”

  “Maybe Roarke knew that. Or at least suspected it. Maybe he planned to force Marks to open the vault.”

  “That’s what the one-three thinks, too. Then things go belly-up. The only guy who could open the vault gets shot. Roarke panics and starts shootin’ the other people.”

  I considered this. “Not the brightest move, was it? Shooting Marks. No wonder a guy as smart
as Roarke went off the rails.”

  “I still think we oughtta take another run at Franconi,” said Eleanor. “He’d know the override codes, too. So it could still be an inside job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe he and Roarke cooked it up together. He gives the codes to Roarke, stays home sick with his wife to alibi himself. But then things blow up in the bank. The alarm goes off, Roarke’s partner runs away. Roarke freaks and starts killing hostages. Which triggers our guys goin’ in. SWAT. Everybody. No time to get the vault open and grab the cash. The whole plan falls apart.”

  “Not bad,” I said, as the elevator doors slid open and we stepped inside.

  Polk stifled a yawn. “One thing’s for sure. It’s worth takin’ another look at Franconi.”

  Then he winked at his partner. “You oughtta go talk to him tomorrow morning. Those douche-bags in the one-three couldn’t get a confession out of a nun on her death-bed.”

  Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. “You’re not coming, too?”

  “Can’t. Got some bullshit personal thing.” He gave a short cough. “Cover for me with Biegler, okay?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Polk muttered his thanks. Then, hands in his pockets, he studied something interesting on the elevator floor.

  As we rode the rest of the way up in silence.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Where the hell’s that nurse with my Percodan?”

  It was Dr. Lloyd Holloway, sitting up in one of the two beds in a semiprivate room on Ward B. Arms folded, he studiously ignored his three unwanted visitors as he scanned the corridor outside.

  Holloway was in a fresh pair of hospital scrubs and sported a wide bandage on the left side of his jaw. As well as a lot of attitude.

  “I mean, how long can it—”

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  I could tell it was difficult for him to talk. The bruise peeking out from the sides of his bandage looked particularly nasty. His jaw must’ve hurt like hell.

  “She said she’d be right back,” Eleanor reminded him. “As soon as your attending physician gives the okay.”

  Lowrey sat next to Holloway’s bed on one of the straight-backed visitor’s chairs. Polk occupied the other one, which he’d maneuvered into a corner. I sat on Holloway’s opposite side, in the room’s other bed.