Goddamn whoever did this to me! Damn you!
The ER used narrower beds than the ICU, each with a wire holder underneath for a patient’s belongings. Under normal circumstances, there was no way a clothing bag could remain unnoticed for long. But with a major emergency such as Will’s, and a roomful of technicians, nurses, and physicians, it was possible, albeit remotely so, that someone could have shoved the bag aside or even into the closet. At the moment, the accordion door of the closet was pulled shut, but during a code it was often left open to make supplies more accessible.
Micelli and Barbara Cardigan agreed to inspect the closet together. Will gave passing thought to waiting in the hall but instead stood off to one side, feeling somewhat foolish for having gotten so excited about Micelli’s theory in the first place.
The lawyer and nurse entered the supply closet, which Will knew was perhaps twelve feet by eight and filled with both medical and janitorial supplies. A minute passed, then another. The four remaining in the Crash Room could hear snatches of an animated conversation coming from within. Finally, Micelli appeared at the doorway, his expression neutral.
“Dr. Grant,” he said, “why don’t you come on in here?”
Will did as he was asked.
The bag was there-heavy, bright blue plastic, somewhat larger than a shopping bag, with white plastic handles. It was on the floor, wedged in a corner behind two mops, a broom, and a bucket. DR. W. GRANT was printed in black Magic Marker across the front.
Will stared at the clothing bag in utter disbelief, as if the numbers on his lottery ticket had just matched the ones shown on TV.
“We haven’t opened it,” Micelli said, “but we each felt it. There are two shoes in there-sneakers, from what we can tell.”
He pulled a small digital camera from his jacket pocket and took half a dozen shots. Then he turned, put his hands on Will’s arms, and squeezed.
“I don’t believe this,” Will muttered.
“We’ll get this bag sealed up, initialed by all of us, and off to the station evidence room with Bob McGowen. As soon as tomorrow, I might be able to have the state lab examining those shoes. One of the women who works there had her renal artery accidentally tied off during a tubal ligation and lost a kidney. Lucky for us, she’s still working at the lab.”
“But with the Law Doctor on her side,” Will said, imagining a six- or even seven-figure settlement, “not for much longer, I’ll bet.”
“You’ve got that right, brother,” Micelli said, beaming. “You’ve got that right.”
CHAPTER 26
With the Camaro’s windshield wipers throbbing against what had become a steady downpour, Patty slashed through the night toward Camp Sunshine. Several miles back, she had passed the white H on a purple background indicating that there was a hospital somewhere off to her right. Will’s hospital. He would be there right now with Augie Micelli, searching the emergency ward and intensive care unit for a bag of clothing that had been taken from him two weeks ago. It felt strange knowing that she was so near to him and that she couldn’t simply swing a right and be there, but at the moment she had a more pressing matter to deal with.
Wayne Brasco, operating with zero insight and no feel for the case, and probably with Lieutenant Court’s cooperation, had concocted a plan that was either going to fail utterly and without a whimper, or fail utterly and get people killed-quite possibly Brasco himself. Unless she was greatly overestimating the skill and cunning of Brasco’s quarry, and she seriously doubted that she was, they would know that the classified ad and phone conversation were bogus and would take Brasco’s attempt to trap them as a challenge.
Putting Will in danger by pirating his voice without his knowing was as irresponsible as any police action she had ever encountered. After this night was over, providing Brasco survived, she was going to find a way to make him and their CO answer for what they had done, even if it meant going to her father.
At least Will was safe for the moment. Calling Micelli when she couldn’t get through to him had been inspired. It was clear he really cared for Will and would do whatever was needed to ensure that he was out of harm’s way until Brasco’s grandstanding stunt played itself out.
One very legitimate concern she had was that while Brasco was trying to lure the killer into the open at Camp Sunshine, the killer was poised somewhere within range of Will’s apartment, waiting. Now, at least, she could shove that worry to the back of her mind.
There were still unanswered questions about the serial killings of four managed-care executives, but one by one, pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Misdirection and mayhem. Smoke and mirrors. Boyd Halliday and his killers had been operating that way from the very beginning, and Patty was ready to bet her career that it was going to be that way tonight. Misdirection and mayhem.
Brasco, you jerk!
It was quarter to nine when she skidded onto the narrow two-lane that the map on the passenger seat said would lead to the entrance of Camp Sunshine. Three to four miles to go. She had five or six minutes to cover that distance, but she knew it wasn’t going to happen even if she made it to the camp entrance on time. There was no way she would be allowed simply to drive right up to the rendezvous area and make an impassioned plea for Brasco and Court to forget about their grand scheme and pull everyone back to safety.
The streetlights became more widely spaced, then disappeared altogether. The trim little houses gave way to dense woods, making it even more difficult for the headlight beams of the Camaro to slice through the rain and heavy darkness. Patty switched on her brights, then just as quickly cut them off and actually slowed down. She wasn’t going to make it on time anyway, and the last thing she wanted was to be wrong about Brasco’s plan, then to compound her stupidity and arrogance by alerting the killer.
This was parkland, she remembered-maybe a state forest. Not too far ahead on the left would be a long, serpentine dirt drive ending at a narrow rectangular parking area demarcated by a ragged border of large, decaying logs. Camp Sunshine. Ten years ago, she and a bunch of classmates had celebrated their fifth high-school reunion at the place. Not that it mattered to their softball, swimming, drinking, flirting, and cookout, but even then, the camp was in a state of impressive disrepair. Of the former sleeping quarters-canvas tents set on wooden platforms-only rotting sheets of flooring remained. The outbuildings were in a similar state of decay and overgrowth.
In addition to the minuscule rent, which was by far the cheapest they could find, the features of Camp Sunshine that had led Patty’s reunion committee to choose the site were the natural beauty of the woods, the ball field, and the waterfront. In addition, there were acres of dense, hilly woodland, crisscrossed by narrow dirt trails. The ball field was as well-maintained as the rest of the camp was ignored-a vast, grassy space with a rusting wire backstop in one corner, and a barbecue pit. The waterfront, on a lake that was perhaps a mile long and half a mile or less across, featured a sandy beach and a two-story rec hall that, at least at the time of the reunion, was intact and used for outings when the weather made softball impractical.
As Patty turned onto the narrow, winding access road, she wondered about the person or people who owned the decaying camp, which, even nearly a decade ago, was simply begging to be turned into condominiums or some other kind of profitable development. Perhaps there were zoning constraints, perhaps a clause in a will, or perhaps the owners were sentimental eccentrics. No matter. Tonight, serial killers had selected their camp to humiliate the state police and Wayne Brasco. It was never about a vendetta against managed care. It was never about a mother tragically dead. It was never about principle. It was never about Will Grant. It was always about business.