Dead End Deal (20 page)

“Mr. Ritter?” The smiling woman waved him back to the counter.

“Yes?”

“At this moment I am unable to obtain a confirmation for you, but there is a possibility of a flight to Seattle this afternoon, leaving at seventeen hundred for Seattle through Narita. Is that agreeable?”

An eleven-hour wait. Seemed like an eternity, now that he was anxious to leave. But, he reminded himself, sitting in an airport lounge was probably safer than waiting here. “Nothing sooner?”

She shook her head. “Not unless you wish to fly through Chicago.”

“When does that leave?”

“Fifteen hundred.”

Two hours earlier, but ultimately it would result in a Seattle touchdown hours later than the direct flight. “No, that won’t work. What about San Francisco, Portland, Los Angeles?”

“All booked.”

“Okay, I’ll take the Seattle flight later today.”

She began typing on a keyboard. He watched, unable to keep from glancing over his shoulder to scan the lobby for Feist, Fisher’s warning eating away at him. He asked her, “How soon will you know?”

Eyes on the monitor, she said, “Most likely it will take an hour or so,” then glanced at a delicate gold Seiko on her wrist. “Our café opens at six-thirty. That is not too far away. I suggest you have breakfast and when you finish, check back with me.”

Jon scanned the front doors again, coaxing himself to calm down, that he was only making the anxiety worse. “That’ll work. I’ll be back.” Which was worse, waiting here, out in the open, or back in his room? Might be safer to just pack and get out to the airport, but he had a few things to tie up before he’d leave.

“Very good, sir.”

Back in his room, suitcase next to the door, Jon flicked the TV to CNN Asia on the off-chance of catching a story about the dead patients, but they cycled through the same old stories and video clips as earlier. Feeling the need to talk to a friendly voice, he called Wayne.

“There’s a good chance I can change my ticket to this afternoon. I’ll let you know soon as I find out.”

Wayne said, “Want me to pick you up at the airport?”

“No,” Jon tried for a joke, “Michael might get jealous.”

“Ha! Dream on.”

The room began to shrink, become too hot, the air too stale. The receptionist was right, the restaurant would be the better place to wait. He told Wayne he’d call with the flight number and left the room without bothering to look through the security hole this time. The way he felt now, it’d be better to encounter Feist and just be done with it.

An attractive waitress in a sky blue
hanbok
and woven sandals led him to a table for two next to a window with a view of the parking lot and garbage cans at the back of the hotel. She handed him the ubiquitous steamy towel roll and gave him a choice between the standard breakfast, the buffet, or items from the menu. He opted for the standard Korean breakfast and coffee. She bowed and shuffled away with the flat-footed step so common to women who grew up wearing sandals.

Minutes later, she returned with a breakfast tray and coffee. He drank the first cup and a refill but only poked at the rice, kimchi, and fish in spite of an emptiness in his stomach. After the second cup he decided he really couldn’t eat, put down his chopsticks, and paid the bill.

Back at the registration desk he took his place in line behind three guests checking out. He caught the eye of the woman who had helped him before. She smiled, raised an index finger in the universal sign to hold on while she finished dealing with next person in line.

Jon stood nervously drumming his fingers on the granite counter, stealing an occasional glance at the revolving door in spite of knowing Feist wouldn’t do anything here in the open lobby. More likely, if he were to do something, it would be in his room. Which was all the more reason to head to the airport now. He glanced at his watch again, but the minute hand seemed to be at the same spot as the last time he checked.

The assistant manager disappeared into the room behind the counter and reappeared a few seconds later, all smiles, his United Airlines ticket folder in hand. “Dr. Ritter, I was able to confirm the change in flights. However, I was unfortunately unable to obtain an aisle seat for you. A window seat was the best I could do. Does this meet with your approval?”

He wanted to hug her, “Perfect. Thank you,” and slid the ticket folder into the breast pocket of his blazer.

“Will you be checking out now or later this morning?”

He was already sliding his Visa card across the counter. “Now, thank you.”

30

A
MUTED DING
announced his floor. The elevator stopped its ascent and the doors slid open for him. He planned to stop at his room only long enough to grab his luggage and return to the lobby, catch a cab to the airport. Once there, he’d confirm his seat assignment, then spend the rest of the morning and afternoon waiting in the business class lounge for his 3:00 p.m. flight. He would be safer there. Or, at least having other people around would make him
feel
safer. He turned left into the hall to his room and stopped. Three doors away, two police officers stood outside an open room. His room, he realized. The officer furthest from the door noticed him, reached out and tapped the other one on the shoulder. The second officer turned to look.

Shit! Why would cops be in my room?

Idiot. They want to question you
.

No, that didn’t feel right, there’s more to it . . . their posture . . . something in the first cop’s expression. Too late now to turn around. That would certainly appear suspicious. Question was, did they recognize him? Four doors past his room the hall turned left, eventually dead-ending at a fire door to a stairwell. Could he bluff and walk past them?

Jon continued forward, hoping they’d interpret his hesitation as nothing more than surprise at the encounter. The first cop watched him approach, not moving from the center of the hall, forcing Jon to slow. Then, at the last moment before Jon would be forced to stop, he stepped aside. Jon took the opportunity to steal a quick glance at his room. A stocky Korean with the face of a bulldog, a military brush cut, and a poorly tailored brown suit stood just inside the door facing the bathroom, cell phone against his ear. His peripheral vision must have caught the hallway motion, because he to turned to look directly at Jon’s face. A flicker of recognition registered in his eyes.

Jon continued walking without slowing, made the corner and sped up, heading straight for the metal fire door with a glowing green exit sign overhead. He started trotting, hit the horizontal push bar on the door, and let momentum carry him through into the landing. Then was flying down stairs, covering two flights before he stopped to listen for pursuing footsteps. Heard only eerie hollow silence and his heavy fast breathing. Sucked down a deep lungfull of air, palm-wiped his face, deliberately slowed his breathing and tried to steady his shaky legs. He took another moment to straighten his blazer and finger comb his hair before opening the door to a hall identical to the one he just left two floors above. Trotted to the elevator alcove and punched the call button, waited a beat, punched it again even though it was glowing.
Shit! Come on, come on!

An Asian male pulling a suitcase entered the alcove and stood next to him. Jon clasped his hands together to mask the shakes. Heart pounding, Jon patiently waited, ready to bolt at the first sign of . . .
Shit. Come on, elevator
.

An eternity seemed to pass before the ding finally came as the light above one of the four doors lit up. A moment later the door opened to an empty cage. Jon allowed the man to enter first, followed him in and faced front, saw he’d already pressed the button for the lobby level.

So far, so good. Maybe the cop really didn’t recognize him. Maybe their presence in his room wasn’t all that ominous. Maybe he could get to the airport and the hell out of Seoul. But none of that would happen unless he left the building immediately. Fisher’s alarm and insistence he leave town kept reverberating through his mind. And his missing ID card was bothering him greatly.

All he had to do was make it out of the lobby and catch a cab to Inchon airport. To hell with his suitcase and clothes that remained in the room. They were the least of his worries and all easily replaced. He checked the inside blazer pocket and was comforted to find the ticket safely tucked away.

The door opened. He stepped out first, moving as quickly as possible without attracting attention, on into the lobby, heading for the front door. Fifty feet from freedom, a hand clamped onto his arm as a voice said, “Dr. Ritter?”

He jerked his arm to free it, intent on ignoring the voice, but the hand seemed to have a death grip on him. “Dr. Ritter!”

For a split second he considered lying. Instead, he turned to the voice and came face to face with the bulldog in the poorly tailored suit. “Yes?”

He released Jon’s arm and held up an ID. “Inspector Park, Seoul Metropolitan police. You must come with me for questioning.”

For two long seconds he sized up Park’s face: hard, determined, prematurely sun wrinkled and brown, as accusatory as his tone. He glanced at the ID filled with meaningless Korean characters and a picture. Official looking. For whatever that was worth. “Questioning? For what?”

“The deaths of your patients.” Park’s breath reeked of garlic and tobacco.

Those five words carried alarming incrimination. No fucking way would he go anywhere with Park. Then again, what options did he have? Couldn’t run. Could he call Fisher and have him talk to Park? And say what, exactly?

Try to bluff? By doing what? Besides, Park saw him pass the room moments ago, so how could he explain that? Figured his best bet was getting a shot at the airport, so said, “I just heard about that. But you’re mistaken. They’re not my patients. They’re Dr. Lee Jin-Woo’s. In fact, he just called, wants me there immediately. That’s why I’m in such a hurry. So, if you’ll excuse me I’ll be happy to talk with you later.”

Park’s eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “You just heard about their deaths?”

Two uniformed police materialized from nowhere to close ranks with Park.

Heart pounding, Jon swallowed his next words. Park seemed to know he just lied. How? An icy cloud blew through his intestines. What did Park know that he didn’t?

They stood looking at each other, Jon trying to appear as calm as he possible could. Park narrowed his eyes, said, “I don’t believe you. You come for further questioning.”

“Sure. Glad to. But first, how about one hour at the hospital? Dr. Lee wants me there. As I said, once I finish there, I’ll gladly come in for questioning.” One hour and he’d be on the next flight to fucking Botswana if that was the first one out of Korea.

Park nodded, as if affirming an impression rather than agreeing. “Then I have no choice but to forcibly hold you on suspicion of two counts of murder.”

“Murder?”

“We do not know this for certain. Not yet. When our medical examiner finishes we will. Okay, so you come now.” Park grabbed Jon’s arm, jerked him toward the hotel entrance with surprising force for a man his size.

Jon dug in and tried to pry Park’s hand away, but his iron grip tightened. Jon was finally able to wrench free, but the two uniformed officers were on him, pulling both arms behind him. Jon glanced around them to see who was watching, thinking if he raised a fuss, maybe . . . “Get your hands off, goddamnit,” he yelled. “I’m a United States citizen. I demand to speak with the embassy.”

Park and the uniforms shoved him toward the door, throwing him off balance, only the officers’ grip keeping him from falling.

Park said, “No. We talk. You call no one.” Two additional police rushed through the revolving door to help. Park barked a word and the officers stopped dragging Jon. Park stepped in front of Jon, held a hand out. “Your passport.”

By now a small crowd of guests and employees were glued to the scene, but from a safe distance, no one willing to interfere.

Ignoring Park, Jon turned to the onlookers. “I’m a US citizen. Someone please call the embassy for me.” Then, to the desk clerk: “Give them my name. Have someone come to help me. Please.”

Park said something to the newly arrived officers. One reached into Jon’s blazer pocket, then came away with his passport and airline ticket. Park dramatically patted him down, clearly playing for the audience.

Again Jon frantically scanned the crowd for someone willing to help him, but no one moved. A few hotel employees looked away. Jon called, “Someone help me. Please.”

Park tauntingly waved the passport in front of Jon’s face. “You have no choice.” He nodded for the cops to continue dragging him toward the door.

31

T
HE CAR’S AC
either didn’t work or was purposely switched off with the windows closed, turning the interior hot and muggy, making the black vinyl upholstery stick to Jon’s skin with every move. The back seat reeked of garlic, body sweat, and old vomit. Jon hunched forward, elbows on knees, to keep his back off the seat. He asked Park several times to tell him the grounds for being held on suspicion of murder, but Park remained impassive in the passenger seat, saying only an occasional Korean word or two to the driver. An attitude, Jon suspected, that was deliberately orchestrated to piss him off. Well, it was working.

He figured any show of the intense anger boiling inside would only feed into whatever mind game Park was playing. What bothered him most was the gnawing suspicion that Feist somehow set him up, and that he’d fallen for the trap. If Park only intended to ask him a few questions, why take the passport? Why treat him like a common criminal? Thankfully, he hadn’t been restrained with flex ties or metal handcuffs. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate that without going batshit.

He flashed on the TV series
Locked Up Abroad
. He had seen trailers for it but never the actual show, yet even the trailers were sufficient to leave little doubt that huge problems could arise from being arrested in a foreign country. Although he’d been deceptive about the intent of the surgeries, he hadn’t murdered the patients. Sure, it would be a bit awkward explaining the deception part, and the other . . . well, Park could talk cop-to-cop with Fisher to resolve whatever mis-understanding there might be. He almost talked himself into relaxing. Almost. Still . . .