Fever Dream Page 9

  “I assume what I’m about to tell you is confidential?”

  “I assume you’d know better than to ask. Unless you’re planning to kill someone in the near future.”

  A brief smile. “God knows, I have a list. But no immediate plans, no…So you can rest easy.”

  She looked away, and I watched her watching the pilot boat disappear under the South Tenth Street Bridge.

  “I met Treva in college,” she began at last. “Up at Penn State, junior year. All I’d ever dated up till then were guys. Big dumb jocks I could talk rings around. So when I found myself attracted to her…I mean, what the hell? Some skinny little white girl? Who wrote bad poetry and was devastated when she didn’t make the cheer squad?”

  “Must’ve been a confusing time for you.”

  “Spare me the therapeutic talk, will ya, Dan? It wasn’t confusing, it was great. Treva and I were—well, I’d never been into someone so much in my life. And I figured she felt the same. Six weeks after we first hooked up, we moved into a shitty apartment off-campus. But it felt like heaven to me. We started skipping classes, just staying in together, days on end. Making love like we invented it. Listening to music and reading to each other and talking about living overseas someday. Some Third World country. Away from everybody and everything.”

  Her eyes caught mine.

  “Yeah, I know. Typical college romance. That kind of stupid love you only feel when you’re young but think you’re older. When you don’t have a goddam clue how the world works. How things really are.”

  I nodded carefully. “What happened?”

  Her face was unreadable.

  “It ended. Treva left me. For a man.”

  I followed her gaze back out to the river, its slow-moving current pock-marked by hundreds of troughs and shallow peaks. The last remaining sunlight danced across its surface in cascades of diamond-like glitters.

  “I’m sorry, Eleanor.”

  “Hell, it was all a long time ago. I’ve had lots of shitty relationships since then.”

  A thin half-smile. “With men and women. Turns out, I’m not choosey. As long as they’re good in bed and will end up treating me like dirt, I’ll jump in with both feet. At least I used to. Now…”

  “What about now?”

  “Now my roommate is a Dobie named Luther. It works for me. I get all the testosterone, none of the bullshit.”

  I had to ask.

  “But why so secretive? I mean, about your prior relationship with Treva? Even if you told Harry and Biegler, the worst that’d happen—”

  “—Is that I’d be put on a desk for the rest of the investigation. Conflict of interest. Too personally involved with a prime witness to a multiple homicide and armed robbery.” She frowned. “Not to mention the endless shit I’d get from the squad. The other guys. Not the most enlightened group on earth. I mean, most of ’em think female officers are just a bunch of dykes, anyway. Even after all that sensitivity training…”

  Again, that thin half-smile. I was starting to see how her defenses worked. The cost of her cool self-assurance on the job, in what was still pretty much a man’s world.

  I chose my words carefully. “Maybe putting you on a desk isn’t such a bad idea. Given how rattled you were by seeing her again after all these years.”

  She stared at me. “Ya know, for a head-shrinker, you can be goddam clueless sometimes.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I mean, okay, so I still care about her…” She stiffened. “You don’t stop loving the one love of your life. Ever. No matter how it ended. At least, I don’t.”

  “Is that what Treva is? Was? The love of your life?”

  “Did I say that?” A dark laugh that held no mirth. “Let’s get real, Dan. I’m a cop. I bench-press two-fifty. I can take down an armed meth freak with one hand and make him cry for his momma. I mean, Christ, I’m Harry Polk with tits. Do hard-asses like me go around bawlin’ about the love of their life?”

  “So what exactly are you doing right now?”

  She smiled then. A real one, this time.

  “Bawlin’ about the love of my life. What’s it look like, mister?”

  I took a chance and leaned in toward her. Gently touched her shoulder.

  “You know, you’ve never struck me as a hard-ass, Eleanor. Dedicated, yeah. A solid cop. But you’re no Harry Polk. I mean, hell, I like Harry. As much as he’ll let me, I guess. But you’re something very different. You know it. And so does he.”

  She looked as though she were going to argue the point, but then paused. Squeezed the tears at the edge of her eyes with her thumbs.

  “So what now, Doc?”

  “Up to you. You want to mention your past relationship with Treva Williams to your superiors, go ahead. If not, that’s fine by me.”

  She heard the hesitation in my voice.

  “But…?” she prompted.

  “Look, the last thing in the world I’d ever do is tell you how to do your job. But I do think you need to ask yourself if you can still be effective on this case. If your feelings for Treva will get in the way.”

  “They won’t.”

  “But soon we’ll be going back to the hospital to interview her.”

  “So?”

  “So you’ll be asking her to relive—again—the terrors she experienced during the robbery. Not to mention what she went through in the ambulance. Waking up to find some guy she didn’t know wearing Vickers’ security guard uniform. Getting assaulted. Surviving a deadly crash. Frankly, I’m pretty concerned about her state of mind right about now. Worried about whether I’ll know how best to deal with it. I can’t even imagine how you’ll feel.”

  She nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

  “I get what you’re saying. And maybe you’re right. But maybe my being at her side when we talk to her will calm her. Make her feel protected by someone who really knows her. Who once cared about her. And still does.”

  She got wearily to her feet. “Look, I know I’m tryin’ to make the case for myself…but I really think she’ll be more helpful to us if I’m there. That we’ll get more out of her. Stuff we can use to get these pricks.”

  I stood up, too. Rolled the stiffness out of my neck and shoulders. Felt the damp sweat on my shirt collar.

  “Like I said, your call.”

  As we turned and headed back along the river’s edge toward Noah’s Ark, she put her hands once more in her jeans pockets. Then, abruptly, she took her right hand out and touched my forearm. Let it linger there as we walked.

  I didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say. What signal she was sending.

  “Thanks,” she said at last.

  “For what?”

  “Being a pal. Listening. Keeping secrets.”

  “Hell, you just laid out my job description. Comes with the license.”

  “You know what I mean. Just promise me something, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “If, in your opinion, my feelings about Treva are getting in the way of the investigation, you’ll give me a heads-up. Let me know.”

  “You can count on it.”

  She grinned. “I figured I could.”

  Thirty seconds later, her grin had faded.

  Because her cell had rung. She’d answered, listened intently and then clicked off. Stood frozen. Shut her eyes for a long moment, breathing slow and hard.

  When she turned back to me, her look was a mix of incomprehension and anger.

  “That was Robertson at the hospital. He said Treva’s doctor just informed him that she’s awake and alert. And that she’s able to answer questions.”

  “That’s good. We’re only ten minutes from where I’m parked.”

  “Not so good. For me. Treva told the doc she’ll only talk to you. And that if there has to be a cop in the room, that’s okay, too. As long as it’s not me.”

  I just stared at her. Watched the light in her eyes go dim and fade.

  “Treva said she doesn’t want to tal
k to me. That she won’t tell us anything if I’m there. That she never wants to see me again.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  We drove in my Mustang back to police headquarters in a thickening dusk that still held most of the day’s heat. Though the silence in my car was even thicker.

  Eleanor had said only that since she couldn’t take part in Treva’s questioning, she might as well join Harry for the scheduled conference call with DA Sinclair. Then she’d settled back against the unforgiving bucket seats and closed her eyes. On me. On the traffic. On the world.

  We hit gridlock as we neared the Liberty Bridge on-ramp. I turned on the all-news station, only to catch the last few seconds of a new campaign ad by Councilman John Garrity.

  “I know how things work up in the state capitol. How to get things done. My opponent only knows how to preside over a rising crime rate and a disorganized police department. Do we really want an amateur negotiating tax codes with new businesses? With potential employers—and the jobs they bring—that this state sorely needs?”

  Then Garrity’s own version of stirring music, while a polished announcer intoned: “John Garrity. Experience we can count on.”

  “Sorry,” I said to Eleanor, clicking it off before Garrity’s thin voice could return, proclaiming that he approved this message.

  She spoke her first words in ten minutes.

  “Fuck Garrity. We’re not disorganized. We’re underfunded. Undermanned.”

  “So Sinclair has your vote?”

  She didn’t turn her head. “Another ambitious prick. Just a lot smarter, I guess. Some choice, eh?”

  I didn’t reply. My own view was that Garrity was mistaken in mocking Sinclair’s lack of political experience. For one thing, voters this election season thought that having political veterans in office was the reason the state was in such trouble in the first place.

  Moreover, Leland Sinclair was as canny a political animal as I’d ever seen. He’d sure as hell run the DA’s office all these years with at least one eye on the prevailing winds of public sentiment. Every high-profile case he and his team prosecuted just another stepping stone on the road to higher office.

  On the other hand, Garrity’s much-vaunted political experience was local, as a city councilman. And before that, as a successful CEO of an interstate trucking firm. Though not as telegenic as Sinclair—John Garrity was short, overweight, and double-chinned—he nonetheless appeared the embodiment of business savvy and cool-headedness. In fact, what he mostly possessed was lots of private money and family connections.

  Now, after months of hard-fought campaigning, he and Sinclair were still neck-and-neck in the polls. Which either said something about them, the voters, or the state of American politics. I just didn’t know which.

  ***

  In another minute or two, the traffic eased and we were moving once more, now in sight of the precinct.

  I didn’t look for another radio station, or slip in a CD. Apparently, Eleanor appreciated the silence. She turned once to give me a sad smile, then swiveled back to stare out the window. Thinking, no doubt, about Treva.

  Suddenly, Eleanor’s cell rang again. I listened as she murmured a few times, nodding as though whomever was on the other end of the call could see. Then a short, wry chuckle, then more nodding. Then she clicked off.

  “Feel like sharing?” I said.

  “That was Harry. CSU was able to lift some prints from inside the ambulance. We finally got an ID on our guy. He got sloppy and left two clear prints on the inside driver’s side door handle.”

  I considered this. “After the crash, he must’ve crawled over the driver’s body and gone out that door. Which probably means the impact pushed in the passenger side in the front. He couldn’t get out that way.”

  “Yeah. Harry said CSU came up with the same theory. Must’ve been one helluva big tree that ambulance hit. Crushed the whole right side in like tin foil.”

  “So, who’s our guy?”

  “You’re gonna love this. Back at the bank, he told Harry the truth. He is an ex-cop. Chicago PD. Then he worked for Blackwater in Iraq. Private security for what passes for government officials over there.”

  “Worked? Past tense?”

  “Blackwater threw him out. Psych problems. Excessive force. Insubordination.”

  “He was too much for them?”

  “Told you you were gonna love it.”

  “What’s this model citizen’s name?”

  “Roarke, Wheeler H. We got his date of birth and last known residence—Terre Haute, Indiana. Biegler has the local cops there checking it out, but odds are Roarke’s not heading back home anytime soon.” She rubbed her eyes. “They said it’d take at least twenty-four hours for a full work-up on Roarke. And that’s only if Blackwater and Chicago PD cooperate. Which isn’t likely. He’s not a guy either one of ’em wants to brag about, if you know what I mean.”

  “Any news about his whereabouts?”

  She shook her head. “Harry’s just leaving the crash scene now. Gonna meet me and Biegler for Sinclair’s call. But he said we still have teams searching the area around Crawford Street. Plus the ongoing alerts at area hospitals, doctors’ offices. Harry even reached out to some fancy private diet clinic nearby.”

  “Smart move. They might have a nurse on hand. Maybe even a physician. In case Roarke figures he could get some medical help that way. He’s got to be getting desperate.”

  “Desperate and lethal. Bad combo.”

  ***

  I dropped Eleanor Lowrey at the precinct and turned around in the parking lot. Then I angled myself again into slow-moving traffic heading back to Pittsburgh Memorial.

  I tightened my grip on the wheel as the traffic light five cars ahead turned from green to yellow. The guy in the Chevy truck in front of me sped up to beat the red, then abruptly changed his mind. Lurched to a sudden stop, forcing me to stomp on the brakes.

  I was still cursing this Nascar reject under my breath when my cell rang. It was Noah.

  “Not for nothin’, man, but you left the bar without sayin’ good-bye. We schizos got feelin’s, too, ya know.”

  “Sorry, Noah. Kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “No sweat. I know a thing or two about Happy Hour booty calls myself.”

  “You’re way off base, man. Eleanor’s—”

  “I know, just a friend. Whatever. But it must be nice, her havin’ her own regulation handcuffs and everything.”

  “It’s good to know you can still entertain yourself, Noah.”

  “It’s a gift. All those nights in lock-ups and padded cells really paid off. You oughtta see my card tricks.”

  “Is there some real reason you called, other than to bust my balls?”

  “Well, usually, that’s reason enough. But I got actual intel. Seein’ how bummed out you were about Andy the Android finally deactivating himself, I called around and found out where the funeral is tomorrow.”

  “Really? Thanks, Noah.”

  “No problemo. There’s a private thing at Bernstein’s Funeral Home—just family—then they’re buryin’ the poor bastard at Rosewood Cemetery. You know it?”

  “Been there a few times.” It was where my father and mother were both buried. “What time?”

  “Looks like they start diggin’ at noon. Oughtta be nice and hot by then. Perfect for wearin’ black. You mourners are gonna sweat buckets.”

  “I take it you’re not going?”

  “I can’t, Danny. You know. That thing I said, about the willies. But I…I mean, a guy can mourn in private, right? By himself? In his own head?”

  “People do it all the time, Noah. Don’t worry about it. I know how you felt about Andy. More importantly, he knew.”

  “Yeah? Then why the fuck did he do it? Eh, man?”

  I was surprised at the spike of anguish in his voice.

  Then I took a guess.

  “You’re not Andy, Noah.”

  “No, I’m just a different kind o’ crazy. B
ut we’re in the same fraternity, bro. Delta Sigma Psycho.”

  I paused, gathering my thoughts. So that’s why Andy’s death had spooked him so much.

  And, in a sense, Noah was right. He and Andy were part of a select group. A special fraternity of people who’d attempted suicide.

  Only Andy had pulled it off.

  “Maybe we should get together and talk,” I said at last.

  But Noah had already clicked off.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Finally, night. Crowding out the last faint rays of a stubborn summer sun. Though a stale heat still lingered, fringed the air. Made the darkness heavy, oppressive.

  I pulled into the parking lot at Pittsburgh Memorial, under the glowing UPMC sign. Only a few cars dotted the line of spaces, their roofs shining like new coins off the glare of the parking lot light posts.

  I went into the hospital through a side entrance, by-passing the main reception area, and took the elevator up to the ICU—

  Where, to my surprise, the doors opened onto a deserted corridor. Silent. Empty.

  I paused a moment, then stepped out of the elevator. Heard the doors close with a whispered rumble behind me.

  The corridor wasn’t just deserted. It was dark. Long shadows painted the dull walls, making gray the familiar hospital white.

  I looked up, saw that the overhead fluorescents were out. Tubes of flat black that ran the length of the high ceiling, disappearing at the end of the hall.

  I took another step and glanced toward the nurse’s station. It was empty. The wheeled chair behind the semi-circular desk was pushed back against the corner, as though shoved there.

  As though somebody had bolted out of it in a hurry.

  I swallowed, mouth suddenly dry as dust. Felt my heart revving up in my chest.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  Steeling myself, I started down the corridor toward the last room. Treva’s room.

  The first two rooms I passed were empty. Silent. Unlike earlier today. No sounds of machinery pumping. No beeps, blinking lights, pneumatic wheezes.

  And no patients. Again, unlike earlier today. I remembered that there’d been one in each of these rooms. Now the rooms were dim as caves, lit only by a rising moon’s faint glow through the windows slats. The beds were stripped. Sheets gone.