Alpha Kill - 03 (16 page)

When Paul saw Joe Venn on the other side of the parking lot at the Bonnesante Clinic, he employed this very skill.

His first instinct was to stop in his tracks, to stare at the man. But Venn didn’t appear to have seen Paul, yet, and so the important thing to do was to keep walking, continue as he was, not draw attention to himself.

Even as he listened to the chattering of the man beside him - Bob Davis, the clinic’s pathologist - Paul’s thoughts were racing away, his mind trying to process the information his senses had just provided him with.

Lieutenant Joe Venn. Here, at the clinic.

It couldn’t be an accident.

From the corner of his eye, Paul saw Venn and the woman he was with, whom Paul assumed was a fellow cop, get into a car. It was the very same Jeep Cherokee Paul had seen earlier that day, when he and Beth had been crossing the road outside the hospital.

Venn had seen him then, and knew his face.

And now he was here.

Paul stood with Davis and a couple of other staff beside one of their cars, finishing up their conversation and then saying their goodbyes. Still using his peripheral vision, Paul observed the Jeep pull out of the parking lot and disappear through the gates.

He made his way over to his own car and dropped into the driving seat and closed the door. He didn’t start the engine, just sat there, his chest tight, sweat beginning to mat his shirt to his body despite the coolness of the October evening.

Like many if not most doctors, Paul had an analytical mind. Despite the fear that was threatening to overwhelm him and drown out all rational thought, he grasped at the facts and laid them out in as orderly a fashion as he was able.

One: Venn knew Paul and Beth were in a relationship. He’d seen them together, today, arm-in-arm in a way that suggested more than just friendship.

Two: Venn happened to show up at a clinic hundreds of miles upstate, at the same time Paul was there. This was so unlikely to be coincidental that he could immediately dismiss the possibility.

Three: Beth knew nothing about the clinic. She knew of its existence, of course, and that Paul had privileges there. But the...
other
aspect of it, the secret it held... she couldn’t know. At least, not from Paul.

Paul examined the three facts. There was no obvious way of connecting them.

He considered the
non
-obvious possibilities.

One: Venn, overcome with jealousy at seeing Beth with another man, had somehow tailed Paul to the clinic. The guy was a detective, and a former military man. He wouldn’t have too much difficulty keeping track of somebody with a fairly orderly, structured working schedule like Paul. So maybe Venn had been following Paul all day. Which meant he might be out there, waiting for Paul to leave before resuming the pursuit.

Why, though, did he have the other detective with him? The African-American woman?

Two: Beth knew something about what was going on at the Bonnesante Clinic, and had told Venn.

Neither possibility was particularly comforting. But of the two, the second was the more alarming. Paul had dealt with his share of stalkers over the years. Psychiatrists tended to attract them more than doctors in most other specialisms. He’d once spent six months being harassed by a female patient with De Clerembault’s syndrome, who’d had the delusional conviction that Paul was in love with her. The police had eventually arrested her when her approaches started to turn threatening.

So being followed wasn’t an experience totally new to Paul. He hadn’t, however, ever been stalked by a vengeful cop with a track record of killing people. But at least jealousy was a straightforward motive.

The second scenario, in which Beth had discovered something about the clinic and had tipped her former boyfriend off, was less likely, but more problematic. It meant there’d been a leak somewhere. It also meant Beth had been deceiving Paul, which suggested a guile in her he wouldn’t have thought possible. As a psychiatrist, his radar for deviousness in people was finely tuned. Had it failed him this time?

He became aware of a pang of guilt, and examined it.

Yes, he was hardly in a position to complain if Beth had tricked him. He had, after all, been holding back from her. Several times, when the emotional bond between them had felt particularly strong, he’d teetered on the edge of telling her everything. But he couldn’t, for all kinds of reasons, and he’d managed to resist the impulse.

Now, though, things were different. If the possibility was there that Beth knew something, he needed to confront her about it. But he also had to do it in a careful way, introducing the subject obliquely, in case he was wrong and she knew nothing.

That was going to be tricky.

Across the parking lot, Paul saw Doug Driscoll’s BMW in its reserved space. Driscoll would be staying late, as he always did on a Monday. Had Venn been speaking with him? Paul wondered whether to go inside and find Driscoll and raise the matter with him. But he decided against it, until he was clearer about what was going on.

Paul started the engine and began the journey back to the city. He’d call Beth when he was home, see if she was free that evening.

––––––––

V
enn drove in a haphazard pattern, navigating the Manhattan streets with no real destination in mind. Beside him, Beth gazed silently out the window.

He had nothing further to say to her about Paul Brogan. But he found himself wanting to prolong their contact, to delay the time when he offered to drop her off at her apartment, or wherever else she wanted to go.

After the silence had built up to a pitch that was almost unbearable, Beth said, quietly: “Tell me one thing, Venn.”

“What’s that?”

She looked at him. “Tell me this isn’t all about me and Paul.”

“What do you mean?” he said. Though he knew perfectly well what she meant.

“Tell me you’re not fishing for reasons to hassle him. Because you’re... jealous.”

Damn.
The word was like an icepick through his gut. Beth had a knack for being direct. And Venn couldn’t always deal with it.

“No,” he said deliberately. “You’ve seen the facts. Paul Brogan has a connection with the clinic. The clinic is connected with the data discrepancies you asked me to investigate. I can’t ignore it.” He hesitated, then said: “I told you. Who you see is your business. It makes no difference to me.”

Her silent gaze was disbelieving. Venn squirmed inwardly.

“Venn,” she said, her voice still quiet. “Just promise me you won’t go over the top. That you won’t hurt him.”

Venn’s head snapped round. “Hey. There’s no call for that. What do you think I am? Some kind of psycho?”

He immediately regretted his outburst. The last thing he wanted to do was trigger another panic attack in her, or whatever they were. But she didn’t flinch.

“Could you drop me?” she asked. “Back on First. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Sure,” he muttered. “But I can take you all the way home.”

“I’d rather walk a little.”

He understood the unspoken words.
She doesn’t want me coming near her apartment.
Venn knew where she lived, of course, but he’d never been there.

On the way, he said, “So will you do it? Will you see if you can get access to the clinic?”

Beth nodded. “Yes. I’ll do what I can.”

*

B
y the time Beth got out and Venn watched her walk quickly away, it was nine-fifty. He decided to go home.

On the journey back from the Bonnesante Clinic, he and Harmony had compared notes. She’d been given a brief but efficient tour of the clinic by the nurse, Clemmons, and had an idea of the layout and the facilities on offer. Apart from that, she hadn’t learned much.

“It looks like a damn hotel,” Harmony said. “Everybody’s smiling all of the time, even the patients I saw in the corridors. That’s not normal.”

She’d asked Clemmons a few questions, taking care not to seem too nosey. Approximately fifteen per cent of the patients at any given time were from the State hospitals, the nurse explained.

“Charity cases,” Harmony said to Venn. “To make the clinic look good. The clinic tops up the fees when they exceed what the HMOs are willing to pay.”

“And I’ll bet most of the patients Dr Collins transferred there fall into that category,” Venn said. “So maybe the scam’s a minor one, after all. Maybe Collins isn’t sending patients there in order to increase the clinic’s profits, but rather to keep up the number of charity cases, as you call them, in order to benefit the clinic’s image.”

“It still stinks,” said Harmony.

“Ethically, maybe,” said Venn. “Legally, I don’t think so.”

He told her about the man he’d seen in the parking lot, the one he’d seen with Beth on the street. Harmony’s reaction was similar to the one Beth showed later.

“Hey, big guy,” Harmony said. “Don’t let your feelings for this guy cloud your judgment. So he’s a doctor, and he happens to work at this clinic. Doesn’t mean zip.”

“Even so,” Venn said. “It’s worth checking out.”

He called Fil on the way down and asked him to find a complete list of the Bonnesante Clinic’s shareholders. Fil was still working on the life and career history of Bruce Collins.

“Not much of interest,” said Fil. “He’s a busy guy, got his fingers in all kinds of pies. But he’s a good citizen. Pays his taxes. No rap sheet whatsoever.”

Collins was into international exports as one of his endeavors, shipping various products to India and the Far East. Venn tried to think of any relevance to his investigation, but couldn’t.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll be back around a quarter of nine. Leave the shareholder data out for me, and get yourself home.”

He dropped Harmony at the Manhattan office, went in himself, and collected the printed documents Fil had produced. Quickly he ran his eye down the list of names. Then he compared it with the list of staff members at the clinic which Driscoll had given him.

A few names were duplicated.

That was when Venn called Beth and asked her to meet.

*

V
enn crossed the bridge into Brooklyn, the traffic a little easier at this time of night. He decided there was nothing to be gained by thinking about the case any more tonight. The bits and pieces of information he’d gleaned were too tenuous, too circumstantial to be tied together. He’d sleep on it, make a fresh start tomorrow.

Maybe he was overthinking this. Maybe Paul Brogan really had nothing to do with any of it.

Whatever
it
was.

He reached his street, parked the Jeep, and walked up the steps of the brownstone to the front door.

––––––––

A
lthough Drake hadn’t managed more than a catnap or two on the journey east, Drake didn’t feel the least bit tired. He knew fatigue would hit him, sooner or later, but right now he was wired.

Herman and Gudrun occupied themselves by examining the books and CDs throughout the apartment, shining their flashlights on the covers. Drake insisted on keeping all of the lights off. There was no point sending out any warning signs.

Skeet, on the other hand, disappeared into the bathroom and emerged with his hands shaking, his eyes redder than before. He paced the floor of the apartment relentlessly, following a set path, from living room to kitchen to bedroom and back again, over and over. As he passed, Drake noticed grains of white powder clinging to his nostrils.

“Skeet,” said Drake. “Go easy on that shit.”

Skeet mumbled something unintelligible and continued his pacing. Drake sighed. If the guy went into the bathroom to take another hit, Drake would have to intervene. He’d gotten word to Herman while still in Horn Creek, asking him to get hold of some kind of injectable tranquillizer just in case Skeet went off the rails. It would take both Drake and Herman, and most probably Gudrun as well, to hold Skeet down if he flipped.

They’d been in the apartment almost two and a half hours when Drake’s phone buzzed.

“Yeah.”

It was Rosenbloom. “He’s here.”

The adrenalin prickled in Drake’s bloodstream. “You sure?”

Rosenbloom’s voice dripped sarcasm like acid. “Uh, gee, no. I could be wrong.”

“Don’t get smart with me, you son of a bitch –”

“Yeah, I’m sure. He’s parked and he’s got out. Headed for the front door right this minute.”

“He alone?” asked Drake.

“Yep.”

Drake put his phone away. He took the Remington from beside the front door where he’d propped it.

Herman and Gudrun stood side by side, looking elegant and relaxed. Skeet hopped from foot to foot, barely able to hold his Glock.

“Get a hold of yourself, for chrissakes,” Drake snarled. He looked at each of them in turn.

“Remember. Follow my cue. No violence until I say so. He’s mine.”

“Sure, boss,” the twins chimed together.

Drake put a finger to his lips and stood by the side of the door.

Without Skeet’s footfalls, the sudden quiet was disorienting. There were the usual traffic noises of the city beyond, and the creaks and ticks of the apartment block’s pipes. But otherwise, an unearthly stillness, which reminded Drake of prison in the dead of night.

Then... footsteps. Growing louder, as somebody ascended.

Drake held his breath.

He heard the footsteps stop outside the door. The scrabble of the key in the lock.

The door opened.

Drake grabbed the man’s collar and propelled him forward into the living room, sending him crashing against a wooden coffee table and sprawling on the carpet.

With one hand, Drake pushed the door shut, reached up and flipped on the lights. With the other, he aimed the Remington at the man, who’d turned on the floor and was staring up at him.

“Hello again, asshole,” Drake said.

––––––––

B
eth was walking up First Avenue, two minutes after Venn had dropped her off, when her phone rang.

It was Paul.

“I’m almost home,” he said. “Traffic was murder. Do you feel like coming over?”