Desperate Measures (17 page)

Pittman looked. A heavy set woman was marching down the hallway toward him. She was in her middle forties, had short gray
hair that emphasized her strong Scandinavian features, and wore white shoes, white pants, and a white hospital top.

Pittman couldn’t tell if she was a doctor or a nurse. But he understood hospital mentality. If this woman was a nurse, she
wouldn’t mind being called a doctor. She would correct him, of course, but she wouldn’t mind the error. On the other hand,
if she was a doctor, she’d be furious to be called a nurse.

“Yes, Doctor, I’m with the team investigating Jonathan Millgate’s death.” Pittman opened a flip-down wallet and flashed fake
police ID that Sean O’Reilly had given him.

The woman barely looked at the ID. “Again? You people were here last night, asking questions, interrupting our schedule.”

Pittman noticed that the woman hadn’t corrected him when he addressed her as doctor. “I apologize, Doctor. But we have some
important new information we have to check. I need to speak with the nurse who was in charge of Mr. Millgate’s care at the
time he was taken from the hospital.”

Pittman tried not to show his tension. Pressured by time, he couldn’t be sure that Millgate’s nurse would be working this
weekend. What he was counting on was that in a hospital, conventional weekends didn’t apply. If each nurse took off Saturday
and Sunday, no one would be available to watch the patients. So schedules were staggered, some of the staff taking off Monday
and Tuesday, others Wednesday and Thursday, et cetera. Conversely, nurses tended to have the same shift for several weeks
in a row: seven to three, three to eleven, eleven to seven. That was why Pittman had waited until after midnight—because he
needed to speak with the nurse who had been present when, at this time two nights ago, Millgate had been whisked away.

“That would be Jill,” the doctor said.

“Is she on duty tonight?”

“Yes.”

Pittman didn’t show his relief.

“But she’s too busy to talk to you right now.”

“I understand, Doctor. The patients come first. But I wouldn’t be troubling you if this wasn’t important. When she takes a
break, do you think you could—?”

“Please, wait outside, Mr.…”

“Detective Logan.”

“When she has a moment, I’ll ask Jill to speak with you.”

It took forty minutes. Leaning against the wall in the corridor outside the intensive-care ward, Pittman identified with the
forlorn people in the waiting room. His memory of the stress of that kind of waiting increased his own stress. His brow was
clammy by the time the door to intensive care was opened. An attractive woman in her late twenties came out, glanced around,
then approached him.

She was about five feet five, and her loose white hospital uniform couldn’t hide her athletic figure. She had long, straight
blond hair, a beguiling oval face, and cheeks that were so aglow with health that she didn’t need makeup.

“Detective Logan?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Jill Warren.” The nurse shook hands with him. “Dr. Baker said you wanted to ask me some questions.”

“That’s right. I wonder, could we go somewhere that isn’t crowded? There’s a coffee machine on the floor below us, near the
elevator. Perhaps I can buy you a…”

“The floor below us? You sound as if you know this hospital fairly well.”

“I used to come here a lot. When my son was in intensive care.” Pittman gestured toward the door to the children’s unit.

“I hope he’s all right now.”

“No.… He died.”

“Oh.” Jill’s voice dropped. “What did—?”

“Bone cancer. Ewing’s sarcoma.”

“Oh.” Her voice dropped lower. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry for…”

“You couldn’t have known. I’m not offended.”

“Do you still want to buy me that cup of coffee?”

“Definitely.”

Pittman walked with her to the elevator. His tension lessened as they got in and the doors closed. The worst risk he’d taken
in coming here was that the doctor who had seen him when Millgate was removed from the hospital would be on duty, recognize
him, and call the police.

Now Pittman’s brow felt less clammy as he reached the lower floor, which was deserted except for a janitor at the far end
of the corridor. Using the last of his change, he put coins in the machine. “How do you like your coffee? With cream? Sugar?
Decaffeinated?”

“Actually, I’d like tea.” Jill reached past him, pressing a button.

Pittman couldn’t help noticing the elegant shape of her hand.

The machine made a whirring sound.

Jill turned to him. “What do you need to ask me?”

Steaming liquid poured into a cardboard cup.

“I have to verify some information. Was Mr. Millgate alert before his associates showed up and took him from the hospital?”

“Associates is too kind a word. Thugs would be more like it. Even the doctor who insisted on removing him.”

“Did Millgate object?”

“I guess I’m not making your job easy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I got off the track right away. I didn’t answer your first question. Yes, he was alert. Otherwise—to answer your second question—he
wouldn’t have been able to object.” She sipped from the cardboard cup.

“How’s the tea?”

“Scented hot water. These hospital machines. I’m used to it.” Her smile was engaging.

“Why did Millgate object? He didn’t want to be moved?”

“Yes and no. There’s something about that night I still don’t understand.”

“Oh?”

“The men who came to get him insisted that he had to leave because there’d been a story about him on the late news. They told
Millgate they had to get him away before reporters showed up.”

“Yes, the story was about a confidential Justice Department report that somehow became public. Millgate was being investigated
for being involved in a covert scheme to buy nuclear weapons from the former Soviet Union.”

“Nuclear weapons? But that isn’t what they said in the newspapers.” Jill’s eyes were such a pale blue they seemed almost translucent.

“What
who
said?”

“The men who came to get Millgate that night. In the newspapers, they said they took him away because they were afraid this
obituary reporter—what’s his name?”

“Pittman. Matthew Pittman.”

“Yes, in the newspapers they said they were afraid Pittman would kill Millgate if Millgate stayed in the hospital, where Pittman
could get at him. But that night, they never said
a word
about Pittman. All they seemed to care about was the news report that Millgate was being investigated.”

Pittman felt tense again.

“It’s like they changed their story,” Jill said.

“And Millgate didn’t think the news report about his being investigated was a good-enough reason to take him from the hospital?”

“Not exactly.” Pensive, Jill sipped her tea. Her solemn expression enhanced her features. “He was willing to go. Or to put
it another way, he was passive. Melancholy. He didn’t seem to care about leaving. ‘Do whatever you want,’ he kept saying.
‘It doesn’t matter. None of it does. But don’t take me yet.’ That’s what he was upset about. ‘Not yet,’ he kept saying. ‘Wait.’”

“For what?”

“A priest.”

Pittman’s pulse sped as he remembered that at the Scarsdale estate he had overheard two of the grand counselors talking with
concern while he crouched on the roof of the garage.

“… priest,” an elderly man’s brittle voice had said
.

“Don’t worry,” a second elderly voice had said. “I told you the priest never arrived. Jonathan never spoke to him.”

“Even so.”

“
It’s been taken care of,” the second voice had emphasized, reminding Pittman of the rattle of dead leaves. “It’s safe now.
Secure.”

“Tell me about him,” Pittman said quickly. “The priest. Do you know his name?”

“Millgate mentioned one priest a lot. His name was Father…” Jill thought a moment. “Dandridge. Father Dandridge. When Millgate
was brought to intensive care, he was certain he was going to die. He didn’t have much strength, but the few words he got
out were always about this Father Dandridge. Millgate told business associates who were allowed to visit that they had to
send for him. Later he accused them of not obeying. In fact, he accused his son of lying to him about sending for the priest.
There’s a priest on duty at the hospital, of course. He came around to speak to Millgate. But it seems any priest wasn’t good
enough. It had to be Father Dandridge. I was on duty early Thursday morning when Millgate begged the hospital priest to phone
Father Dandridge at his parish in Boston. I guess the hospital priest did.”

“What makes you think so?”

“About an hour after Millgate was taken out of here Thursday night, a priest who called himself Father Dandridge came in to
see him. He was very upset about not being able to hear Millgate’s confession.”

“He came from a parish in Boston? Do you remember the name?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Pittman’s spirit sank.

“But you don’t have to phone Boston to talk to him,” Jill said.

“What do you mean?”

“Father Dandridge made a point of telling me that he wasn’t returning to Boston. Not until he had a chance to talk to Millgate.
If I heard anything, the priest said, I was to call him at a rectory here in Manhattan. St. Joseph’s. The priest said he’d
be staying for the weekend.” Jill glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve been off the ward too long. I have a patient
who’s due for his meds.”

“I understand. Thank you. You’ve helped me more than you can imagine.”

“If there’s anything else you need to know…”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Jill set down the cardboard cup and walked quickly toward the elevator.

It took about twenty seconds for the doors to open, and as she waited, facing the doors, obviously aware that he watched her,
Pittman was impressed that she didn’t act self-conscious. After she got in the elevator, as the doors closed, for a fraction
of an instant she smiled at him. Then she was gone, and the excitement that Pittman felt about what he had learned was replaced
by exhaustion that weighed so heavily, his legs bent.

Pittman’s sudden weakness alarmed him. Light-headed, he feared that he would lose his balance. He leaned against the coffee
machine.

What did you expect? he told himself. The past two days, you’ve had more exercise than you’ve had all year. You’ve been running
all over Manhattan. You got a few hours sleep on a park bench. You haven’t had enough to eat. You’ve been strung out from
fear and adrenaline. It’s a wonder you managed to stay on your feet as long as you have.

But I can’t collapse. Not
here
. Not
now
.

Why not? he joked bitterly. A hospital’s a great place to collapse.

Have to get back to Sean. Have to go back to the loft.

But after Pittman concentrated to steady himself and pushed away from the coffee machine, he discovered that he wasn’t steady
at all. His legs wavered more disturbingly. His stomach felt queasy. He gripped the wall, afraid that the janitor at the end
of the corridor would look in his direction, see that he was in trouble, and call for help.

Have to get away from here.

Sure, and how far do you think you’ll get? You’re oozing sweat, pal. You’re seeing gray. If you go outside, you’re liable
to collapse on the street. After the police find you, after they see the name on your credit card and find that .45 in your
coat pocket…

Where
, then?

His bitter joke echoed in his mind. A hospital’s a great place to collapse.

As the elevator rose, Pittman’s light-headedness increased. When the doors opened on the sixth floor, he strained to look
natural and walked toward the intensive-care area. If Jill Warren came out, or the female doctor he’d spoken to earlier, he
doubted that he’d have the strength to explain convincingly why he had returned.

But Pittman didn’t have another option. The intensive-care waiting room was the only refuge he could think of that he knew
he could get to. Its lights had been dimmed. He veered left from the corridor, passed several taut-faced people trying to
doze on the uncomfortable chairs, stepped over a man sleeping on the floor, and came to a metal cabinet in back.

The cabinet contained hospital pillows and blankets, Pittman knew. He had found out the hard way when Jeremy had been rushed
to intensive care and Pittman had spent the first of many nights in the waiting room. A staff member had told him about the
pillows and blankets but had explained that usually the cabinet was kept locked.

“Then why store the pillows and blankets in the cabinet if people can’t get to them?” Pittman had complained.

“Because we don’t want people sleeping here.”

“So you force them to stay awake in those metal chairs all night?”

“It’s a hospital rule. Tonight I’ll make an exception.” The staff member had unlocked the cabinet.

Now Pittman twisted the latch on the cabinet, found that it was locked, and angrily pulled out the tool knife Sean O’Reilly
had given him. His hands trembled. It took him longer than it normally would have. But finally, using the lock picks concealed
in the knife, he opened the cabinet.

Dizzy, nauseous, he lay among others in the most murky corner of the waiting room, a pillow beneath his head, a blanket pulled
over him. Despite the hard floor, sleep had never come quicker or been more welcome. As he drifted into unconsciousness, he
was dimly aware that others in the waiting room groped toward the pillows and blankets in the cabinet that he had deliberately
left open.

He was disturbed only once—an elderly man waking a frail woman. “She’s dead, May. Nothin’ they could do.”

Daylight and voices woke him. Those who’d remained all night in the waiting room were rousing themselves. Others, whose friends
or relatives had evidently just been admitted to intensive care, were trying to acquaint themselves with their new surroundings.