“Yeah.” Farber handed the photo back to Lauren. “The police. When a patient presents with a gunshot wound, I’m obligated by law to report it.”
“Because he could’ve been either the victim or instigator of a crime,” Bradley said to Lauren.
“I’d scheduled him for an MRI scan, to evaluate the extent of any brain swelling. But when the techs arrived to take him to radiology, he was gone. The next thing I knew the police were questioning me. Did I know where my patient went, did he say anything to me about where he might go or where he’d come from, that sort of thing. They were really after this guy. The place was swarming with cops. When the FBI arrived, I knew it was pretty serious.”
“The FBI?” Lauren asked.
“Yeah. They closed off all the entrances and exits, except for the ER, but even then everything and everyone coming or going had to be searched. That went on for about three hours. It created a load of logistical problems for us. After we got a call about a multiple car pileup on the interstate, we had to give them the boot out of here. By that point, I got the sense they’d accepted the fact he wasn’t in the hospital.” Just then, Farber’s pager beeped. He looked down at the number and started to back away. “Excuse me—”
Lauren was staring off down the hall, Farber’s voice suddenly off in the distance.
“Hello… Lauren, what’s on your mind?” Bradley moved an open hand in front of her face. “You’re zoning out on me.”
She turned and met his eyes. “Why would the FBI get involved just because someone was brought into an emergency room with a bullet in his thigh?”
Bradley took her by the arm and led her down the corridor. “Could be he fit the description of a fugitive they were tracking.”
Lauren nodded. “Or it could tie in to Michael’s involvement with Scarponi.”
They walked in silence for a moment, dodging the continuous flow of nurses, technicians, and gurneys streaming through the corridor.
“I’m still having a problem with that,” she said. “I can’t see Michael as a cold-blooded killer.”
They turned a corner and headed for the exit. “If Michael’s job was to infiltrate Scarponi’s group, he may’ve needed to do things that proved he was worthy of his boss’s confidence. That could’ve included murder, as repugnant as that may sound. From what I know, that’s against official protocol, no matter what law enforcement agency you’re undercover for. But if the long-term goal was to put a guy like this away for good so no one else would be harmed…” Bradley’s voice tapered off. He shrugged. “As upset as you are about it, if it’s true, think about how Michael must feel. I don’t think anyone can understand what it means to take an assignment like that. He’s had to live with what he’s done.”
“Night before last I lay awake thinking. How well do we know someone, even your lover? You think you know him. But unless you grew up with him and know everything that’s ever happened to that person, how do you know? How do you know who he really is?”
Bradley placed a hand around her shoulder and squeezed. “Sometimes all you have are your instincts. Sometimes that’s all I have to go on. Life is a crapshoot. You have to go where your heart takes you. A lot of times there just aren’t any concrete answers.”
“Go where my heart takes me.”
“Exactly.”
“You sound like my father again.”
“What does your heart say?”
“My heart says that Michael is still my Michael.”
“Okay. Now what?” he asked, talking to her more like a teacher than a private investigator.
Lauren was silent as they stepped through the emergency room’s automatic doors into the parking lot. She stopped walking and threw a hand up to her forehead to deflect the glare of the sun, which was emerging from behind gray thunderclouds. Taking a deep breath of the damp air, she said, “I think we should start with the FBI.”
“Good choice.” He pulled the car keys from his pocket and glanced at Lauren. “When this is all over, maybe you’ll come work for me.”
Lauren forced a smile. She looked up at the cloud that had suddenly blocked the sun, casting a pall of darkness over the ground. Her heart had indeed told her which way to go. First with Bradley, and now with Michael.
But what if she was wrong?
44
Jonathan Waller slammed the phone down and cursed under his breath. He checked his watch, which read 7:05 p.m. “Why does this shit happen to me?” he spat into the still air of his office. “My one night off in a week and I get a call.”
He grabbed the down elevator and within five minutes was approaching Haviland in the parking garage of the Washington Field Office. He was walking fast, the rapidity of his speech matching his stride. “Just got a call from Martinson at the Academy. Aside from a morning session, Agent Thompson didn’t make any of his classes today.”
“And what did Harper have to say about it?” Haviland asked, running to keep up with his partner.
“I can’t find him.”
“As in…”
“As in no one’s seen him, he’s not in his room, and he signed out his Glock from the vault.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
“What about his log-on codes? Has he logged onto the mainframe at all today?”
“Good thought. If he has, it’ll help us pin down his movements during the day.”
“And it may give us a clue as to what’s going on in his head.”
A moment later, they were in their car, headed toward I-95 South and Quantico, Virginia.
It was almost 9 p.m. when Payne walked up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the main entrance to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Orange traffic cones lined the curb encircling the entire city block, and cement planters were placed in front of the wide steps that led to each of the entrances. Although these measures were security precautions taken to combat terrorism against federal buildings, they isolated FBI headquarters from the neighboring structures and government agencies and gave it a sterile appearance.
Payne recalled the Bureau regulations that governed admittance to headquarters: anyone entering the building without an escort had to have a top secret security clearance and a special building pass. Since he had been in and out of the building before to meet with Knox, he already had clearance. And Knox himself had provided the building pass when Payne’s credentials were returned to him, in anticipation of future meetings.
As he pushed on the door to the entrance, he clipped the laminated pass to his jacket and pulled his shield from his pocket. He was immediately approached by Chuck Seamen, the FBI policeman, who recognized him from his prior trips to headquarters.
“How you doing, sir?” Seamen asked.
“Was hoping to turn in early tonight, but Director Knox wanted me to meet him here. I’m exhausted, that’s how I’m doing.” Payne closed his credentials case and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “How’s your evening?”
“Quiet so far, which is fine with me.”
“I hear you,” Payne said with a smile.
“You say you’re here to meet with the Director?” Seamen said to Payne’s back as he placed his gun, keys, and a small box on the conveyor belt.
“Yeah, he said to meet him here in an hour. I’m a little early.”
Seamen thumbed through the logbook and found the next vacant line as Payne walked through the metal detector.
“What’s in the box?” Seamen asked as he examined the innards of the electronic device on the X-ray monitor.
“Descrambler, for the Director. That’s what the meeting’s about.” Payne took the pen, signed in, listed the director’s office as his destination, and wrote in his pass number. He swiped his ID card and passed through the electronic turnstile.