Dead Wrong (12 page)

A thundering crash came from the hall door.

Squinting from the bright light, he stepped onto blacktop and into a maze of crisscrossing ventilation ducts and fan housings.

Another crash thundered from behind. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the hall door fly open.

He started running, cutting around a wall of ductwork. Dead ahead the roof ended in a foot-high parapet.

A loud bang came from the air duct just to his right. He glanced back, saw a man in a two-handed firing crouch aiming a silenced pistol at him.

Shit!

McCarthy dashed straight toward the parapet as another bullet ripped through the ductwork, closer this time. Running flat out, he jumped, clearing the parapet by only inches.

S
IKES WASN’T ANY more impressed with Frank Hansen, head of security at Doctors Hospital, than he had been with Doolittle. Hansen made a more professional first impression, but he lacked confidence and by inference, ability. Tall and angular, freckled, with that innocent boy-next-door appearance of a jock watching his high school glory days disappearing in life’s rearview mirror. Like Doolittle, he’d probably become a rent-a-cop after washing out of a police academy somewhere. Physically he was big enough, maybe even tough enough, at one time. But now it looked like he had a bad case of gelatin brain.

Sikes offered Hansen his ID. “Officer Hansen, Warren Sikes, Department of Defense.” Sure, it was a waste of time playing diplomacy to these walk-ons. And if Hansen had any smarts at all, he’d get on the horn jackrabbit fast, call SPD, stand back, and let the big boys play. But the longer this little charade dragged on, the more time Sikes had to personally deal with the traitor, McCarthy. The downside, of course, was the longer this dragged on, the more time McCarthy had to break through the perimeter. Although very unlikely, the possibility that McCarthy had actually escaped grew more worrisome every minute Womack and Lewis came up empty. They should’ve already nailed McCarthy’s ass by now. Then again, the Seattle cops could be put to good use in sealing the perimeter of the larger medical center complex. Maybe he could persuade them to bring in a SWAT team to sweep the building. Yeah, some SWAT action might not be a bad idea.

Hansen inspected Sikes’s ID, looked back up at him, asked, “Uh, what agency is this?” before handing it back.

“DIA—ah, Defense Intelligence Agency.” Sikes flashed a conspiratorial grin, playing up to Hansen’s law enforcement fantasies. “That’s all I can tell you.” Then, putting it on even thicker: “Your rapid response is impressive, sir.”

“Thanks.” Basking in his moment of glory, Hansen sidestepped to look past Sikes. “What kind of situation we have here?”

Doolittle remained wide-eyed at the hall door, obviously torn between wanting to enter with Hansen and being repulsed by the murder scene.

“A very ugly one, sir. Double homicide. That woman over there and,” moving aside to give Hansen a better view, “that man there,” pointing at Washington. “Don’t know the woman’s name but he was my partner, Sergeant Elroy Washington. Goddamn traitor wasted them both in cold blood.” Sikes didn’t try to contain his anger. It added credibility to his story.

Hansen paled as he stood seemingly transfixed by the sight. “You witnessed this?”

“Hell yes. I’m just lucky he didn’t get me too.”

Hansen nodded, took another tentative step toward the bodies. “Who we talking about? The shooter, I mean?”

“Name’s Thomas McCarthy.”

From the doorway Doolittle added, “You’re standing in his office, Frank. Sikes says the woman might have been an employee here,” and edged one step further into the room.

Hansen paled further. “Jesus!” He stared down at Maria’s body several seconds. “Think we better leave this for the metro boys.” He turned and shooed Sikes and Doolittle toward the hall door before asking, “Tell me again what happened.”

Sikes checked his watch. What in the hell were Womack and Lewis doing? “Our agency believes McCarthy is in possession of classified information obtained illegally. We began an investigation into him several days ago. This morning I made the decision to detain him for questioning. Approximately forty-five minutes ago I positioned two men in the lobby, and Washington and I proceeded directly here. We entered the office through the front door and announced ourselves to him. He immediately became agitated and started shouting. Before I could react, he rushed my partner, took possession of his weapon, and opened fire. One shot killed my partner. Next shot—which he aimed at me—killed her,” jutting his chin at Maria. “Before I could return fire he was out the door. Rather than pursue him, I immediately notified my men and attempted to do what I could for Washington, but he was clearly already gone. My team is covering both first-floor stairs and the elevators, but so far there’s been no indication he’s exited the building, leaving me to assume is he’s still hiding here someplace.”

Sikes continued. “Now, I understand you have a job to do. But, so do I. My friend and longtime partner is lying dead on the floor, shot down like a dog in cold blood. The more time I waste hanging around jawing with you, the more likely it is McCarthy will escape.” Sikes could barely contain his rage now. “I assume your department notified the Seattle police?”

Hansen came to attention, like his manhood had just been challenged. “Yes, sir. SPD was notified immediately after Doolittle called it in. They’re already downstairs. Along with about a hundred vultures from the press. The reason it took me so long to get here is I had to walk up nine damn floors. First thing we do in an emergency situation is disable the elevator to minimize vertical flow.” This was said with a note of pride.

Yeah, and it looked to Sikes like it’d been a task for Hansen to hoof it all the way up here. “Well then, why don’t you stay here and wait for the officer in charge while I assist my team?”

Just then a uniformed SPD officer stepped into the room. Hansen said to the newcomer, “Hold on,” then to Sikes, “No sir, you need to wait here until we sort things out. You’re a material witness.”

Sikes doubted Hansen actually knew what a material witness was. He opened his mouth to tell him to fuck off but thought better of it. Never know, might just need the bozo to substantiate his story once the homicide team arrived.

S
ARAH ENTERED THE psychiatry outpatient reception area, nodded to the woman behind the desk, and picked up her patient list for the afternoon. Ten minutes before her first appointment. Enough time to review a few charts and refresh her memory of the follow-ups before diving in.

“Holy cow! Have you heard what just happened?” the receptionist asked.

List in hand, Sarah glanced at her. “Huh? What?”

“There was a shooting over at Magnuson a couple of minutes ago. Security’s going nutzo. Called the police and Medic One. Right now there’s a channel five chopper up there,” pointing at the ceiling, “shooting pictures of the building. They even got a SWAT team.”

A bolt of fear stabbed her. “Magnuson Pavilion?” Suddenly she realized her earlier anxiety
was
a premonition.

“Yep.”

“You sure?”

The receptionist flashed a gimme-a-break look and nodded at the radio on her desk. “I’m listening to it now.”

Sarah felt weak. Tom’s office was in Magnuson.
Jesus, girl, don’t jump to conclusions
.
It’s a ten-floor building for christ’s sake, seven and a half of it office space. It could be anybody
. But intuition warned that it involved Tom.
Oh God, don’t let him be hurt.

Now she was really scared. She glanced at the list in her hand, then back at the receptionist. “Magnuson Pavilion. You sure?”

“What’d I just tell you? Here, listen.” She turned up the radio.

Sarah tossed the list back on top of the pile of paperwork and started running for the elevators. She called back over her shoulder, “Find someone to cover my first patient. I’ll be back soon as possible.”

She’d known, just
known
something bad was going to happen.

Sarah ran from the hall connecting the main hospital to the marble lobby of Magnuson. A uniformed Seattle police officer raised his hand and stepped into her way. “Sorry, ma’am. No one’s allowed in the building.”

She’d spotted him from down the hall and pretty much suspected his job was to keep people out of the building. Employees included.
Aw crap!
Police didn’t do to this sort of thing except for dire situations. Panic time.

She wracked her mind for another way upstairs. To her right was a small café with all the customers cleared out. To the left, an optometrist shop. Closed.
Crap crap double crap
. The doors to all four elevators stood wide open.

She turned back to the officer. “But I work here. I left my purse in my office.” She waved the hospital photo ID on a lanyard around her neck.

The cop spread his stance, hooked both thumbs behind his wide belt. “Sorry, ma’am. No one’s allowed in or out of the building until further notice.” His expression made it clear there would be no negotiations, that not even God would get past him.

She had to know whether Tom was involved in whatever happened. Not answering the phone now seemed even more ominous. “What happened up there? Anybody hurt?”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

She choked back the urge to scream. “But I
know
people up there. Can’t you at least tell me something?”

His face softened. “Ma’am, I really don’t know anything more than my orders. Sorry.”

Through the glass front doors she could see local TV crews clogging the sidewalk in front of the lobby, making it impossible to even see cars driving past. She figured, at this point, her best source of information would be a news broadcast. She turned and started running back the way she came moments ago.

S
EATTLE POLICE CAPTAIN DeLeon Franklin assimilated Sikes’s story of the events taking place in Suite 920 with little questioning. The evidence seemed to support it as clearly as evidence could. A man and woman lay dead from gunshot wounds. The male was, in a way, law enforcement in spite of being military. The person recounting the story was the victim’s partner. These facts cast an immediate patina of credibility over the story. That the alleged shooter, the doctor who occupied this office, had apparently fled the scene in possession of Washington’s weapon could only be interpreted as an admission of guilt—until proven otherwise.

In Franklin’s thirty-one years on the force, one of the most important lessons he’d learned in conducting manhunts was to supply sufficient force to successfully solve it as quickly as possible. And if that meant sacrificing the prey in order to protect the hunters as well as innocent bystanders, so be it.

Law enforcement was a lonely profession in that the citizens not directly involved could never understand or appreciate the hours and commitment policing required. That solidified a brotherhood among LEOs that, when it came right down to it, transcended agency jealousies and petty turf battles. Before him lay a fallen comrade. Somewhere in this building his cold-blooded murderer, Thomas McCarthy, hid. Franklin vowed to hunt the mad dog down as quickly as possible, and in the process, remove any chance for him to escape Old Testament justice through slick legal maneuvering by an unscrupulous defense lawyer. Whatever it took, McCarthy was now a dead man walking.

M
CCARTHY LANDED FLAT footed on a tar roof three feet below the one he had just jumped from. The bone-jarring impact buckled both his knees, slamming his hands and knees onto the hard surface. Too frightened to appreciate the pain, he sprang back up and glanced frantically around for a hiding place.

Dead ahead a large, corroded aluminum ventilation duct crossed six feet of sweltering tar before entering a brick wall. It would provide good temporary cover. He dove behind it, paused to orient himself, and collect his thoughts. He had a general idea of the roof layout from having peered down countless times from ninth-floor hall window of the elevator alcove. Problem was, he never really paid attention to its details because he never dreamed of actually setting foot here. To his right a rusty steel fire ladder ascended a wall to the roof of an older wing. But where did the roof go? Did it really matter? Any place seemed better than being a sitting duck here.