Mad Dog Justice (4 page)

Roddy thinks the guy at the rear of the Navigator switches to English, but he can’t make out the words in the cavernous expanse of the garage. The man’s back is toward him. His voice is muffled. Roddy strains to hear. The guy behind the wheel doesn’t look Italian, doesn’t look like he’s from Brooklyn or Northern Jersey. Looks like a thug from some depressed Eastern European shithole, a place where they traffic in women, drugs, and guns. And the guy speaking on the phone … it sounds like Russian or some Slavic language. Or is Roddy jumping to panic-riddled conclusions, latching on to virtually anything after what happened to Danny?

Roddy’s knees feel like rubber. He’s suddenly aware his breathing is rapid and shallow. He moves back very, very slowly. On watery legs, he turns and treads slowly down the ramp, heading back to level three. His heart beats an insane tattoo in his chest.

On the downhill ramp of level three, Roddy glances to his right through the angled space between concrete support pillars.
There’s the undercarriage of the Navigator. At the far side, he sees the guy standing behind it from his right knee down. The man’s left foot is still propped on the Navigator’s rear bumper.

Crouching, Roddy slinks to level three. At the elevator, he presses the “Down” button.

Waiting, he hears the sudden hum from inside the shaft. The elevator is slow; it seems to take forever to get to level three. Maybe he should make a quick retreat on foot and get back to the lobby. Just then, the elevator doors slide open. He steps in and presses “Lobby.” The doors close. The fluorescent-lit compartment descends. Despite the garage’s chilled air, Roddy is soaked in sweat. His armpits are drenched and his shirt sticks to his back.

He’s deposited on the ground floor and walks quickly down the corridor to the hospital lobby. The place is busy as nurses, aides, doctors, and porters traverse the expanse. A few visitors stop at the reception desk asking for directions.

Roddy heads for the Emergency Department as thoughts of Russian mobsters blitz through his mind. It’s a rush of images from McLaughlin’s: barrel-chested goons with thick, heavily tattooed necks and Slavic accents, sipping vodka, chomping prime steaks as Kenny Egan rushed from table to table, whispering God-knows-what into their ears. There were also the mafia types from Brooklyn and Jersey. The whole mobbed-up, gangster-loaded scene had made him want to puke when he, Tracy, Danny, and Angela had gone there for dinner. And being in business with Kenny meant, ultimately, he and Danny were in bed with the mob. And now this: either Russian honchos or mafia mobsters invading their lives.

John M. Grange and Associates was what the bastard’s card had said.

And just who are Grange’s associates?

Maybe it’s best to notify hospital security, tell them a couple of creepy-looking guys are hanging around the garage. Is he
jumping to conclusions? They could just be two guys waiting for a visitor to come back from a ward. Why go into a panic?

In a nearby corridor, Roddy grabs the cell phone from his coat pocket. His thoughts jumble. He’s not sure if he wants to call the hospital operator and ask for security or if he’ll call Tracy and have her come to pick him up. His hand shakes violently. The phone nearly slips from his grasp. He clutches it tightly and realizes he can’t really dial any number.

Right there, with the phone in his hand, the device trills its marimba sound. It’s Tracy, the readout says.

Tracy … home … the kids. Is it all over now? Is the life I’ve been leading about to disappear?

Fumbling with the phone, he nearly drops it. He finally presses the button. “Honey, I’m at the hospital. What’s up?”

“Oh, Roddy. I just called because … I don’t know … I’m nervous.”

“About what?”

Christ, my voice is warbling. And I feel like I’m gonna puke
.

“I can’t stop thinking about Danny. Will he be okay?”

“Absolutely, honey. I called Ketchman today. He said Danny’s doing fine … better than he expected. He’s awake and alert.” He wonders if Tracy hears how shaky he sounds. His voice—the great betrayer—sounds an octave higher in his ears.

“Roddy, you sound upset.”

“Of course I am. After what happened to Danny, how could I not be?”

“You’re sure he’ll be all right?”

“Ketchman says he’ll be out of the hospital in a few days.”

“And you?”

“It’s just that … I don’t know, Trace. I’ve had a long day and I feel lousy. On top of that, my car won’t start. Can you pick me up? I’ll be at the ER entrance.”

“I’ll be right over.” She pauses and then sighs deeply into the
phone. “Roddy, you sound … I don’t know. Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“I’m just stressed out, honey, like you. But everything’s gonna be fine. Don’t worry.”

Jesus. I’m such a lying bastard
.

S
tepping out of the elevator at level four, Roddy thinks about last night’s incident, right here in the hospital garage. Were those guys at the Navigator waiting for him? Can’t be sure, but he’ll move cautiously, see if anyone’s lurking. If he sees a single soul, he’ll turn back. It would be better to park somewhere on the street from now on, or maybe use that privately owned parking lot two blocks away.

It’s just after eight thirty, and while plenty of cars are still parked here, there are no people in the garage. It’s the middle of the three-to-eleven-p.m. shift, and visiting hours are over. So far, so good—nobody seems to be around. And there’s no smell of fumes, just the odor of damp cement.

Were those guys last night just killing time?
Killing
could be the right word. Is he just seizing on some coincidence and interpreting it as something ominous? Since Danny got shot, Roddy’s cued into everything, anywhere—big or small. When Tracy drove him to the hospital this morning, he kept looking through the passenger’s side-view mirror to see if they were being tailed. Each time he spotted a dark SUV behind them—any model, no matter how far back—his heart nearly jumped out of his chest.

Up ahead, he spots Walt McKay, the surgical team’s anesthesiologist. Walt was in a rush to get home after they finished the last surgery—an emergency appendectomy on a ten-year-old kid.
He said it was his daughter Alice’s eighth birthday, and he didn’t want to keep the family waiting. When the patient was out of the OR and in recovery, Walt tossed his coat over his surgical greens and beat it out of the hospital. He made it to the elevator about thirty seconds before Roddy, so Roddy took the next one down to level four. Walt’s wearing his surgical clogs, just as Roddy does when leaving the hospital after a long day. Walt joked that when he gets home wearing his scrubs and clogs, he’ll say he thought it was a costume party.

Roddy’s eyes swerve left and right; he peers into each car parked on level four as he walks toward the Rogue. He’s hungry as a bear, having eaten nothing since breakfast. Tracy will be waiting for him, and they’ll have a simple dinner together.

His eyes sweep up and down the ramp, and he reaches into his overcoat pocket for the car keys.

Walt’s about thirty feet from his Honda, which is parked next to Roddy’s car. He reaches into his overcoat pocket and extracts a set of keys. He presses the unlock mechanism and the Honda chirps, as its lights flash on.

Roddy hears a car engine’s rumble behind him. He can tell from the approaching sound that the vehicle is moving slowly. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. If the car comes abreast of him, he can duck into a space between parked vehicles.

And then what?

Jesus
,
I’m getting paranoid
.

The vehicle pulls alongside Roddy. From the corner of his eye, he sees it’s an old-model Chevy sedan—an Impala at least ten years old.

Roddy feels every nerve in his body firing. He’s in neural overload—totally juiced and ready to bolt between the cars to his right.

But the Chevy passes him, moving forward slowly. Roddy
doesn’t have a good view of the driver or passenger, but from behind, they look like a couple of casual guys simply cruising around, looking for a parking spot in a still-crowded hospital garage.

As the Chevy slowly nears Walt, it angles slightly to the left and closer to him. Walt glances back, raises his right arm, and jiggles his keys, a signal he’s vacating the spot—a common courtesy. The Chevy slows and its blinkers start flashing. The driver will take Walt’s space.

Strange though—despite slowing, the Chevy keeps moving forward. Roddy sees a space only three cars beyond Walt’s. The guy’s going to maneuver the Chevy into that space.

Walt’s only a few feet from his Honda. Roddy has stopped in his tracks; he’s standing motionless on the ramp, watching Walt approach his car. The Chevy pulls alongside just as Walt turns to open the driver-side door. The other vehicle partly obscures Walt, but at that moment, Roddy hears a muffled pop—or maybe it’s a soft
pfft
, echoing in the concrete expanse.

Walt’s knees buckle. He crumples to the cement floor between cars.

The Chevy peels rubber and races toward the exit ramp. It fishtails and turns sharply as its tires squeal. A second later, it’s gone. A pall of grayish fumes fills the air. Roddy hears the Chevy’s tires shrieking on level three and the sound diminishes as it descends.

Roddy lunges forward and runs to Walt. The anesthesiologist lies face down on the cement floor. His dark blue overcoat is spread over the pavement. Protruding from beneath the coat, Walt’s legs—clad in green scrub pants—are splayed.

A sharp pang shoots through Roddy as though electricity courses through his skin. He kneels beside Walt and sees a blood-rimmed hole in the back of his skull. It’s no bigger than the tip of Roddy’s pinky finger. Walt’s blondish brown hair is matted with
blood seeping around the hole. There’s no sign of an exit wound. A bullet has lodged deep in his brain. Walt’s face is milky white, has gone slack, lost its muscle tone.

Roddy grasps Walt’s wrist and feels for a radial pulse. None. His fingertips shoot to Walt’s neck, but there’s no carotid pulse either.

Roddy feels chilled to his core.
That bullet was meant for me
.

It’s unbelievable. Walt McKay’s dead.

Only minutes ago, they were joking in the surgical suite’s locker area. But his life is gone and Walt’s now a corpse. How can that be? He’s known Walt for eight years; they’ve worked together through hundreds of surgeries, shared plenty of cafeteria lunches, gone out together with their wives, and played four-wall squash a few times. Walt McKay—always ready with a joke to relieve OR tension. Walt—a guy who’d give you the shirt off his back, a married man with three kids. Jesus, how can this be?

Roddy’s hands tremble as he reaches into his coat pocket, and in a hazy fog, grabs his cell phone. He’s not even thinking as he dials 911. He’s not sure his tongue will form the words he’ll need to talk to the police.

With Walt McKay lying in a limp heap and Roddy kneeling over him, it all coalesces and hits him like a sledgehammer: my life is over.

R
oddy slumps into a leather chair in the doctors’ lounge. His mind reels from the bleak reality of what’s happened.

Walt McKay is dead, a guy I worked with for eight years, a great guy, a family man who never spoke an unkind word about anyone. He died from a bullet meant for me. And what happens now? What about Tracy and the kids? And Danny, Angela, and their kids. Are any of us safe?

He closes his eyes and tries to erase the image of Walt lying on the concrete. The sound of those squealing tires reverberates in Roddy’s ears. He knows Walt’s rush to get home was the reason he was mistaken for Roddy. He got to the garage less than a minute ahead of Roddy.

It should have been me, not poor Walt
.

Roddy glances up at the wall clock: ten thirty. He called Tracy and told her what happened.

“Oh my God. How terrible,” she cried. “And so soon after what happened to Danny. What’s going on?”

Roddy hears a commotion in the hallway. Bronxville detectives are still questioning people: nurses, doctors, Walt’s colleagues and friends. Roddy was questioned by two different detectives for more than an hour. One detective said the hospital would be in lockdown for at least another hour. Roddy feels exhausted; he must have answered a hundred questions, and there
will be more tomorrow from the hospital administration. And, no doubt, from more detectives. Roddy wonders if Walt’s death could have been prevented if he’d told someone, anyone—hospital security, the Bronxville PD—he’d seen some unsavory-looking characters loitering in the garage on level four. Right there, near his car. Exactly where Walt was killed.

Suddenly, Roddy’s thoughts drift back to that night in McLaughlin’s back office, when Grange showed up and demanded money. With the juice running, Kenny’s debt had blossomed to half a million dollars.

He hears Grange’s basso voice rumble.
“Yeah, keep noddin’, Mr. Fuckin’ Tough Guy. ’Cause you got plenty of dough. Even your wife works, like you need the money.”

When Danny protested, saying neither he nor Roddy borrowed money from Grange, the loan shark laughed. He turned to Roddy and said,
“Everyone pays the doctor … and the undertaker. You ain’t cryin’ poverty, are you?”

After Roddy shook his head, Grange looked right into his eyes and said,
“Don’t cry poverty to me, Mr. Fuckin’ MD, with your house in Bronxville, right on a golf course. Whose pretty little wife with the blond ponytail works at Sarah Lawrence. Shit, if all librarians looked like her, I’da spent more time with the books. Don’t tell me you can’t rustle up the money.”

“Hey, Doc, you look terrible … like you just lost your best friend.”

Voltage shoots through Roddy, and he nearly jumps at the sound. And there’s that cologne again; the fragrance crawls up Roddy’s nostrils.

“Pretty jumpy, aren’t you, Doc?” says Detective Morgan. He stands there, looming above Roddy. The guy must be a solid six four, wide at the shoulders and maybe two hundred twenty pounds.

“What’re
you
doing here?” Roddy asks. His nerves thrum like
taut wires strung through his body.