They dragged the doctor to the rear of the Volvo, lifted him into the trunk, and slammed the lid shut. Darian then went back to the Suburban, to its interior, and took the doctor’s briefcase from the passenger seat, making sure to leave no prints for the cops to find. He was back behind the wheel of the Volvo a few seconds later.
“He’s moving around already,” Moises said.
“Don’t matter none.” Darian started the car and backed away from the Suburban, then pulled out onto Montrose and traveled a quarter-mile before there was space to hang a U-turn. They passed the doctor’s car going the other way and were back on the interstate, heading south, a minute after that.
“Knock knock,” Lou Hidalgo said as he rapped on the metal top of the cubicle walls that enclosed Art’s and Frankie’s work area. Art was the only occupant at the moment.
“Morning, Lou.” Art turned his chair and faced the A-SAC.
Hidalgo scratched at one ear. “I just thought I’d let you know that LAPD is scaling back their look for Barrish. There’s no sign of him or his family.”
“I wasn’t even sure they were that interested,” Art commented with mock wonder.
“Well, his lawyer and the guy paying his rent did get offed the day he and his family disappeared. I guess that makes one wonder.”
“It’s more than that, Lou.” Art was feeling left out, amputated from the investigation that had moved to the East Coast with the NALF.
Hidalgo nodded. “I just thought I’d update you before you leave.”
“Leave? Leave where?”
“You and Frankie are going to Washington to help find the NALF guys,” Hidalgo explained. “To provide a hometown outlook in case it’s needed.”
“When?”
“Christmas day,” Hidalgo answered with apology in his tone. “Sorry about the timing.”
“No problem,” Art lied. Anne was going to love this… No, she would understand. He knew better than to think otherwise.
“I’m sorry to pull you away from this end, but—”
“Don’t be,” Art interjected. “Gotta go with the smart money, and that’s on the NALF.”
“That it is,” Hidalgo concurred.
Art smiled to himself as the A-SAC walked away. Smart money, eh? Despite having said it, Art knew he wouldn’t take the bet.
Darian shoved the sock back in the doctor’s mouth and closed the trunk of the Volvo, surveying the empty parking lot and the street beyond. He handed the keys from Conrad’s pants pocket to Moises. “You got it all?”
“Got it,” Moises confirmed. “The key with the blue tab opens the back door. The alarm box is inside the door. I press four-four-four-seven, then ‘off to disarm it.”
“And rearm it when you leave,” Darian reminded him.
“Right. The patient files are in the billing office. Red tab key opens that. I pull the file, flip on the copy machine, and copy the page listing orthopedic implements.”
“Check it first against what he said,” Darian said, hitting the trunk lid with a balled fist and saying loudly, “’CAUSE IF HE WAS LYIN’ WE’RE GONNA FUCK UP HIS FAMILY.”
“Got it. Match it first. Then copy it, turn off the machine, put back the file, lock up, and head out…and rearm the alarm.”
“And wear the gloves,” Darian cautioned. “No prints.”
Moises held up the surgical-type gloves. “Got it.”
“Go.”
Darian watched his young fighter run at a brisk clip to the wall that separated the parking lot from the back of Dr. John Conrad’s suite of medical offices. He checked his watch as the Griggs kid rolled over the fence. Nine minutes later Moises reappeared over the wall with the information they needed.
“He told the truth,” Moises said, handing the paper to Darian.
The NALF leader pocketed the photocopy and opened the trunk. “You did good.” He reached in and pulled Conrad up by the hair, then slammed a fist into the side of his head to stun him. As he fell back Darian swung the edge of his hand hard across the doctor’s throat, crushing his windpipe. He grabbed the neck with a strong hand and pressed as the man struggled in vain for air. In two minutes he had passed out. Two minutes later Darian Brown released his grip.
They drove the body twenty miles west of the city and dumped it in a thicket by the road, then drove straight back to Baltimore. There was still much work ahead and it had been a long day. Sleep was the next order of business.
“Jim,” the president began, hesitating as the secretary of state waited patiently. “Jim, how would you like to be president?”
Secretary of State Jim Coventry smiled at the offer. “When do I start?”
“There’s one little catch, Jim,” Chief of Staff Ellis Gonzales said as his boss took a seat in one of the Oval Office’s wingbacks. “Everybody at the State of the Union has to end up dead.”
Coventry lost interest in the humorous beginning of the conversation. “Wait. Are you… I thought Raleigh McCaw was doing the deed again.”
“We have to make a change,” Gonzales said. “With all the weak knees over these New Africa nuts there’s some concern about Secretary McCaw’s suitability should something happen.”
“You were elected once, Jim,” the president observed. “You’ll put a lot of people at ease come the State of the Union.”
“Of course I’ll do it,” Coventry said. As if there would be any doubt. “But it’s going to raise some questions itself. The press will probably have me resigning by Monday after the address.”
“Let them talk,” the president said. “Besides, you’ll have the best seat in the house.”
“Lay in a bowl of popcorn and make a night of it at home,” Gonzales suggested with a wink.
“Popcorn and a speech,” Coventry commented. “Marie is going to love it.”
“All you have to do is stay alive and run the country, Jim,” the president said. “No big deal.”
The secretary of state nodded and smiled. “This is a good deal easier than campaigning for the job.”
The president snickered. “Tell me about it.”
TWENTY TWO
The Rat Equation
He had come a long, long way, Anne thought, and in a relatively short time. Darren Griggs was strong, and he wanted to be a survivor. But this afternoon, on a day and at a time when 90 percent of the city was lifting glasses of eggnog and similar spirits the Friday before Christmas, the survival instinct in her patient seemed dulled. Sitting in the temporary office some twelve blocks from her normal practice, Anne couldn’t deny that she harbored some melancholy herself.
“A couple minutes left,” Anne said, closing her notebook. “Do you want to tell me?”
“Darren smiled weakly. “I’m not trying to hide anything, Doctor. I’m just not sure it’s important.”
“Whatever it is it’s affecting you. I sense a touch of melancholy? Hmm?”
Darren pulled a postcard from his pocket and handed it to Anne. “It’s from Moises. Addressed to his mother, you can see.” A touch of anger, but that faded quickly. He was coming to understand not only his own emotions and motivations but also those of his absent son.
Anne flipped it over. The front was a picture of the Washington Monument in winter. The back held a simple message: Mom, I’m all right. Don’t worry. Merry Christmas… Moises
“At least we know he’s alive,” Darren said. “The postmark says it was mailed in Baltimore. All the way across the country.” Damn. That was the anger talking again — the anger cursing, Darren corrected himself.