Blood Debt (24 page)

“Unlike most, this coffee shop has parking,” Henry told her when she was back in the passenger seat, glaring out the window. “Somewhere for them to put the cruiser.”

And there was, in fact, a cruiser in the parking lot.

“Go ahead, reinforce stereotypes,” Vicki muttered as Henry parked the car and turned off the engine. “Now what?”

“Now I go and have a word with the two constables, interrupting their break with a story of a body glimpsed from the side of the highway.”

She got out of the car when he did, grateful for the chance to untangle her personal space from his. “I can't believe you're actually going along with this. Hell, I can't believe I'm actually going along with this. We left him back there, Henry.” With the car a barrier between them, she allowed a little of the anger to slip from her grip—although who exactly she was angry with, she couldn't say. “We walked out on him. Left him helpless and alone.”

“It's a minimal risk, Vicki, and a risk he's willing to take in order to finish this once and for all. The police will be there within the hour. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Famous last words.” The night smelled of car exhaust and heated metal, less strongly here on the Coast than in Toronto but still too many people crammed into too small a space. Vicki turned back toward the clinic and tried not to think how things that could go wrong usually did. “I left him there because he asked me to,” she said softly, silvered gaze locked on Henry once again. “I'm doing it for Mike, but you've never cared what he thinks of you.”

Haven't I? Michael Celluci is an honorable man and the opinions of honorable men are sometimes all we have to define ourselves by.
But there was little point in sparking another territorial dispute over Celluci's affections even though her previous reaction had more amused than infuriated him. “I'm no vigilante, Vicki, no matter how it may have seemed in the past. If I can be responsible for a solution within the parameters of the law, then everyone should be happy.”

“A solution within the parameters of the law?” she repeated. Shaking her head, she folded her arms on the roof of the car and rested her chin on their pillow. “Go ahead. And make it good.”

Henry had no doubt he could spin a story that the police would believe, add enough detail that they not only had to check it out but also found everything they needed to. There was, however, no need to tax his imagination. When it came right down to it, it wasn't what he said but how he said it that mattered.

“Excuse me, Officers, may I have a word?”

Resisting the completely inexplicable urge to come to attention, the police constable in the driver's seat put down his coffee and snapped out an efficient, “Yes, sir.”

When the constable in the passenger seat, wondering what the hell was going on with her partner, leaned past him for a better look, she found herself reacting much the same way.

The bastard son of Henry VIII, Duke of Richmond and Somerset, inclined his head in recognition of their deference. “I have some information you might find worthy of investigation.” His father would have approved of the tone.

Tony woke up as Henry came into the condo, sat up on the couch, and rubbed his eyes. “Did you find him?”

“Yes.”

“That must've made Victory happy.”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, man. Henry, you didn't kill her before you got to the clinic?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“And don't try that more-princely-than-thou crap on me either. I'm not in the mood. If you didn't kill Vicki before you got to the clinic and if you found Celluci, why isn't she happy?”

“Because we left him there.”

“You what?”

“It was his idea. He thought if we rescued him, it would alert the people behind this whole organ-legging thing that we're on to them. He told us to inform the police and let them handle it while the evidence is still out in plain view.”

“Yeah, but unless he's missing a kidney, how are they going to connect him with the body in the harbor?”

“Celluci seems to think he knows where the bodies are buried.”

“And Victory just let him stay?”

“Not exactly. He had to appeal to her better nature.”

Tony snorted. “I didn't know she had one where he was concerned. Did you tell the police?”

“I did, and with luck that'll be enough to satisfy my visitors.” Henry glanced down at his watch. “Why aren't you in bed? Don't you have to work tomorrow?”

“I wanted to know if Celluci was safe before I went back to Gerry's and John's.” He scrambled to his feet, folded the blanket haphazardly, and stood staring at the floor.

Henry sighed, wondering when exactly things had gotten so awkward between them. “Tony, it's late. The sun will be up in a few short moments. Why don't you stay here in your own room?”

“I don't . . .”

“I know.”

Tony's head came up, drawn by the understanding in Henry's voice.

“When this is over, as it easily could be by tomorrow evening, we have to talk, but for right now there's no reason for you to leave.”

“I guess not.” He glanced over at the clock on the VCR, and his eyes widened. “Henry, sunrise is in less than five minutes.”

“I'm aware of that.” Starting down the hall, Henry motioned Tony into step beside him. “Can you keep an eye on the news tomorrow—maybe tape the morning broadcast before you go. I'm sure Detective Celluci will keep Vicki and me out of range when it hits the fan, but I'd feel better if I knew for certain.”

“No sweat. I'll set it up to tape the news at noon and the six o'clock report, too.”

“That won't interfere with it taping
Batman
, will it?”

Tony grinned. It was the nonvampire, nonprince parts of Henry that had kept them together for so long. “Chill. You'll get your cartoon.” They were at the door, Henry's hand was on the knob, in another moment he'd lock himself away until sunset. Tony suddenly wanted to prolong that moment. “You, uh, got a question for the ghosts? One that'll cover both of them?”

“Vicki suggests I ask if they were killed by the same person.”

“You figure she knows what she's talking about?”

“It is why I asked her to come here, but, hopefully, it won't be a problem. Hopefully, they'll be resting in peace by sunset.” He opened the door, reached out, and stroked Tony's cheek with two fingers. All he could think of to say was “good-bye,” but he didn't want to say that yet, so he said nothing at all.

“I can't stand it. This bedroom exudes pink even in full dark.” Vicki punched the pillow into another shape and threw herself back down, fully aware that the bedroom had nothing to do with her mood and equally aware that she had nothing else to take it out on.

The ride back to the condo had been easier than the ride to Project Hope. The more time she and Henry spent together, the more they forced the truce to endure, the easier it got. But she still wanted to kill something.

Not Henry.

Mike.

“It was a mistake leaving him there. I know it. I just know it. After all these years,” she asked the night as it fled, “why have I suddenly decided to start listening to . . .”

Eleven

“WHAT is going on here?”

The question cut through the argument at the nurse's station, leaving silence in its wake. The two police constables and the night nurse turned toward the voice, three very different faces wearing identical expressions of relief that said as clearly as if they spoke aloud,
Thank God, here's someone who knows what to do
.

The night nurse took a step forward. “Dr. Mui, these two police officers want to have a look around. Apparently someone reported seeing a body carried in through the back door late this afternoon.”

“Really.” Dr. Mui slowly swept a peremptory gaze from the nurse over to the police. “As there was no one admitted to the hospice this afternoon, I'm afraid your informant was mistaken.”

“This body wasn't on a stretcher, it was allegedly flung over the shoulder of a large man in a red Tshirt. I doubt that's the way your patients usually arrive, Doctor . . .?”

“Mui.” Ebony brows rose into a finely drawn arc. “And you are?”

“Police Constable Potter, ma'am.” She nodded at her partner. “This is Police Constable Kessin. Do you usually come in at this hour, Doctor? It's barely five; a little early to start your day.”

“I am often in at odd hours.”
Not that it's any of your business
, her tone added. “You can ask Nurse Damone if you don't believe me. As it happens, I have a patient who has just moved to status four—he'll be dead within the week unless a match is found. I came in to check on him. You have both signed organ donor cards, I assume?”

She so pointedly awaited an answer, it would have been impossible not to give her one.

After a ragged duet of “Yes, ma'am,” Dr. Mui nodded. “Good. As you'll be dead, you'll certainly have no use for otherwise healthy organs. Hundreds of people die every year for no other reason than the lack of those signatures. Now then, about this, as you say, alleged body. If you intend to search the premises, I assume you have a warrant?”

PC Potter blinked, taken slightly aback by the lecture and the sudden change of subject. “Warrant, Doctor?”

“Warrant, Constable.”

Fighting the feeling that she was back in Catholic School—it helped only a little that none of the nuns had been Asian—Potter cleared her throat and glanced down at her occurrence book for support. “We had hoped we could have a look around without having to get a warrant.”

“Had you. I see.”

“We can get one if we need one.” PC Kessin wished he'd kept his mouth shut as the doctor's level gaze moved over to him. He couldn't help the sudden suspicion she was measuring him and finding him wanting.
We'll take none of his organs. He's an idiot
.

“Of course you can.” Her inflection suggested the exact opposite but before either constable could decide to be insulted, she continued. “Fortunately, since I've arrived, that won't be necessary.” When it appeared that PC Potter was about to speak, she added with some exasperation, “We have a dozen very sick people in this building, Officers. I'm sure you didn't expect Nurse Damone to allow you to wander about on your own or to leave her station and accompany you. Since I'm here, that's no longer a problem. What would you like to see first?”

Just in from the back door, the hall jogs to the left. You'll find a door marked electrical room. Behind it is a short corridor. Off that corridor is a hospital room
 . . .”

“I think we can start at the back door, Doctor.”

“Fine. Nurse . . .”

Hope rose in the breasts of both constables that Nurse Damone would be going with them while the doctor watched her station.

“. . . I won't be long.”

Hope crashed and burned.

“There's no alarm on this door?”

“As I mentioned before, Constable Potter, we have a dozen very sick people in this building. Should anyone need to exit the building, an unnecessary alarm could easily cause enough excitement to kill one or two of them.”

“They're that sick?”

“They come here when their only options remaining are death or transplant—yes, they're that sick.”

PC Kessin frowned at the heavy steel door. “But suppose someone came in from outside the building?”

“This door doesn't open from the outside.”

“There are always people who can get a door open, Doctor.”

Dr. Mui smiled tightly. “And what good would an alarm do against those kind of people?”

“Do you always keep the door to the electrical room locked?”

“Two points, Constable.” Dr. Mui pulled out her keys and slid one into the lock. “First of all, this is not the door to the electrical room. It leads to a short access hall. Secondly, no, we don't always keep it locked.”

“Then why is it locked now?”

“I don't know.”

“
The room you're searching for looks like any other hospital room except that the walls are painted cinder blocks and there's a high, inaccessible window. There'll be a man on the bed
 . . .”

PC Potter stopped just over the threshold and had to be pushed gently ahead by her partner. For some strange reason, she felt as though she were stepping up out of a deep, dark well. It must have been the lights—the room was all hard, high-gloss surfaces with nothing to soften the intensity.

Blinking and grumbling in the sudden glare, the large man on the bed sat up and rubbed at his eyes.

“A hidden room, a man who is obviously not a patient; do you have an explanation for this, Dr. Mui?”

“This room was originally supposed to be the laundry, but we found it much more cost effective to send the laundry out. Since the plumbing was already installed, it took little effort to turn it into a temporary residence room. As for the man on the bed . . .” Her tone changed from weary lecture to distinct pique. “. . . his name is Richard Sullivan, he's one of our orderlies, and he is not supposed to be in here—which explains why that last door was locked.”

“Orderly,” Kessin repeated. “That explains the uniform.” He took half a step back as the doctor shot him another less than complimentary look.

Sullivan, standing now, stared down at the mattress and muttered an inaudible protest.

“Again, Richard. Louder.”

“The cot's uncomfortable.”

“Are you the orderly the nurse told us was asleep in the staff room?” Potter asked, wondering why it felt as though she'd changed channels in mid-program.

“Obviously not. He's the orderly who was supposed to be asleep in the staff room.” Dr. Mui indicated the door with a sharp jerk of her head. “Go to my office, Richard. I'll speak with you later.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Sullivan.” As he turned toward her, Potter saw that he had the longest eyelashes she'd ever seen on a man—long and thick and fringing deep brown eyes so mild they completely mitigated any threat his size might suggest. Her cheeks warmed as she realized he was waiting patiently for her to speak.

“. . . ask him how he came to be in that room.”

Except they already knew that.

“Do you, uh, own a red T-shirt?”

He nodded.

“Did you wear it to work today?”

He nodded again. “I never wear my uniform to work, it gets sweaty. I bring a clean uniform in a bag.”

“A bag.”

Huge hands sketched a rectangle in the air. “Like a garment bag.”

“A garment bag.” Potter looked at her partner and saw he was leaping to the same conclusion. From the highway it was entirely possible that a man in a red T-shirt carrying a garment bag could look like a man in a red T-shirt carrying a body. Especially when there was no body.

“Once you've found the room, and the man, and found out what he's doing there, I have every faith in your ability to deal with the situation.”

She frowned. What situation?

“Hope we didn't get that guy in too much trouble.” PC Kessin turned back onto Mt. Seymour Road heading toward North Vancouver. “That doctor wasn't someone I'd want to cross. Man, I hate that ‘I'm the next best thing to God Almighty' most doctors put on. Make you wait forty-five minutes in their waiting rooms like you've got no life of your own, but just hear them howl if we're more than three seconds getting to a call.” Scratching at his mustache, he shot a glance into the passenger seat. “What's bugging you?” Potter, who'd been silent since radioing in the false alarm, shrugged. “I was just thinking; we never actually saw that garment bag.”

“. . . and you're followed to the disposal site by a police officer from a city half the country away. Tonight, two visitors drop in, leave their captured friend where they find him, and send the local police out to have a look around on no better pretense than they supposedly saw you carry a body in here this afternoon while they were passing.” Dr. Mui steepled her fingers and peered over them at Sullivan. “Now, what does that say to you?”

He sighed. She never asked him a question she didn't already know the answer to. “That we're busted?”

“No. Detective Celluci's friends don't want to become involved with the police.”

“Not very good friends, leaving him tied to a bed.”

“They expected the police to find him, and then we would have been, as you so crudely put it, busted.”

“You told me to lie down on the bed . . .”

“To cover the obvious fact that someone had been lying there. And I told you to put him in the back of your vehicle,” she added caustically, “because we didn't have time to put him anywhere else.”

He
knew
that. “So what now? Do I bring him back in?”

“No. His friends, whoever or whatever they are . . .” She frowned, hating ambiguity. “. . . found him here once, and if they find him again, they won't leave him. You'll have to take him to one of the guest cottages.” Reaching into her drawer, she pulled out a single key on a leather fob and tossed it across the office. “Use the one farthest from the house.”

Sullivan deftly caught the key and shoved it in his pocket. “Mr. Swanson won't like it.”

“I'll deal with Mr. Swanson.”

The soft brown eyes looked no less mild as he suggested, “I could kill him.”

“The detective? Don't be ridiculous, Richard. He has two perfectly healthy, very large kidneys—a perfect match for one of Mr. Swanson's buyers that I'd considered to be unmatchable given his size and that our usual source tends toward the undernourished. Alive, he can do some good.”

“Should I stay with him?”

“Yes, you'd better. Be sure you park your car where it can't be seen from the house. I'll go over and explain things to Mr. Swanson in a couple of hours, as soon as I've finished here.”

Pushing upward through layer after layer of sticky cotton batting, fighting to keep it away from his face, forcing himself to keep moving toward a distant light, Celluci managed to get his eyes open just long enough to catch a brief glimpse of trees and cedar siding before darkness descended again. Vaguely aware of movement, he remembered he'd been captured, knew he should struggle but couldn't seem to make his body obey.

A mattress compacted underneath him, releasing a faint scent of honeysuckle as he flopped back against a pile of pillows.

Obviously, he was no longer in the hospital.

As rough hands secured him to the bed, he reviewed his options and realized he didn't have any. Reluctantly surrendering to the sedatives, he felt almost sorry for the people who'd moved him.

Man, Vicki's going to be pissed.

“Dr. Mui, this is a surprise.” His expression polite but not exactly welcoming, Ronald Swanson stepped back from the door to allow the doctor to enter his front hall.

“I realize this is certainly an unexpected visit,” Dr. Mui acknowledged, stepping by him, “but what I have to tell you needed to be said in person. Since your neighbors are aware of your connection to Project Hope, they should assume the obvious.”

“Very likely, although my neighbors are far enough away I doubt they even noticed you arrive.” His attention caught by the white convertible gleaming in the early morning light, he added, “New car?” as he closed the door.

“I bought it last week.”

“Can you afford such an expensive car right now, Doctor? I'd have thought the condominium you bought recently had taken all your available resources.”

“You assured me a condo in Yaletown was a secure investment, Mr. Swanson.” She followed him to the kitchen. “And as for the car, I've heard you say you get what you pay for. German engineering is built to last. Besides, you pay me very well.”

“And I get what I pay for.” He smiled a little nervously and waved a hand toward the table. “I'm just finishing breakfast. Would you care to join me?” He hadn't had an informal visitor since before Rebecca had died, and he couldn't remember her ever entertaining in the kitchen. Still, abandoning his breakfast now would mean wasting a perfectly good bagel and there was no sense in that.

“Thank you, no.”

“Do you mind if I continue?”

“Not at all.” She took the offered seat and waited for him to circle the table and sit facing her. ‘We have another match.”

His eyes narrowed, and he carefully set the bagel back on his plate. “Already? That's two in little more than a week. Three in two months. Don't you think we're likely to start attracting attention? The more regularly something happens the more likely people are to notice it.”

“True. However, given the size of the organ, this particular match was too good to pass up. The donor is about six feet four, two hundred and sixty pounds. Late thirties and in perfect health for our purposes.” Which was really all her patron either wanted or needed to know. Dr. Mui waited patiently for Swanson to make the connection.