Critical (31 page)

H
ey, asshole!” Carlo called while giving Brennan's shoulder a sudden forceful shake.

Brennan, who'd fallen asleep and had slowly slipped down in his seat until his knees were pressing against the dash, overreacted to being awakened so roughly by sitting bolt upright. Frantically, he searched the immediate area outside the windshield for a beast or foe. As soon as he heard Carlo begin to chuckle in the darkness of the car's interior, he became oriented to time, place, and person. And just when he was about to say he'd had quite enough of Carlo for one night, Carlo pointed out something beyond the windshield.

“I think our charges are returning to port,” Carlo said. “Front and center!” He'd spent a year and a half in the armed forces before earning a dishonorable discharge. He'd hated the regimented experience, but he still indulged in the phraseology on occasion.

Brennan had to squint into the distance beyond the pier. A sliver of a moon had arisen over the New York City skyline, throwing a limpid line of reflections toward them across the Hudson River. Brennan and Carlo were still in Carlo's Denali parked high on the hill at the very back of the marina's parking lot, waiting for Franco and Angelo's return.

“I don't see them,” Brennan said. Hardly had the words escaped his mouth before a sizable yacht silently slipped through the moon's reflection. “Okay. I see a boat. How do you know it's them?”

“How many boats have we seen go in and out tonight?”

“You still don't know it's them,” Brennan said, as he raised his binoculars. With the magnification, the boat looked ghostly as it slipped through the mist suspended over the water's surface. “Aren't they supposed to have some lights on?”

“How do I know?”

“What are we going to do?”

“We're going to sit here and watch them leave and see if they are still accompanied by the young lady. Then we are going to take a look at their boat.”

It seemed to take forever as the boat backed into its slip and Franco and Angelo made it secure. When it was finally done, the two men walked along the pier toward dry land.

Carlo put down his window. Even from the distance, Carlo and Brennan could hear that Franco and Angelo were carrying on as if they'd been to a party. They were laughing as they climbed into Franco's finned Cadillac, slammed the doors, and drove away.

“It must have been quite a boat ride.”

“At the girl's expense,” Carlo commented as he started the car. “What a couple of pigs.”

“It doesn't make much sense. I wonder who she was. Why all the effort? She certainly didn't look like anything special.”

“It doesn't make sense to us, but maybe Louie can make sense out of it,” Carlo said. Then, turning to Brennan, he asked, “Did you bring your locksmith's tools?”

“I always do.”

“Let's take a quick look around the inside of the
Full Speed Ahead
, if you can manage the door and the alarm system.”

“I'll manage them,” Brennan said confidently. Two of Brennan's skills were lock picking and understanding electronic equipment, including alarms and computers. He'd gone to a technical school for electronics after he'd been kicked out of regular high school.

Carlo reparked in approximately the same place Franco's car had been. He took a flashlight from the dash before he and Brennan walked out the pier. They proceeded in silence, listening to the waves softly lapping against the pilings. When they got to the gangplank of
Full Speed Ahead
, Carlo hesitated. He looked back at his vehicle. “I hope they didn't forget something and come back.”

“Want me to run back and move the car?”

Carlo shook his head. “Let's just keep a sharp eye out for headlights. We'd have a lot of warning. It's not like this is the only boat on the pier.”

They boarded the yacht quickly. “Start on the door,” Carlo said. “I'll keep an eye out.”

“Posh boat,” Brennan said. Then he stopped. “What do you think this stack of cinder blocks is for?”

“Three guesses and the first two don't count, lunkhead.”

Brennan looked back at the cinder blocks and suppressed a shiver at the thought. Proceeding on to the glazed double doors leading into the yacht's interior, he got out his set of tiny locksmith's tools. He didn't have much light, but he didn't need much. Lock picking was a skill done mostly by feel.

“What do you think?” Carlo asked. He was sitting on the gunwale at the very stern where he had a good view of the approach into the marina, as well as the entire parking lot.

“A piece of cake,” Brennan said. Two minutes later he had the lock open but had to deal with the primitive alarm system. With that taken care of, he called to Carlo.

Carlo used his handheld light to quickly scan the interior of the main saloon. He pointed to the glasses on the bar. “So they were drinking. Explains their mood.”

“What if we find the girl? What are we going to do?”

“We'll have to improvise.” His light found the steps and the gangway forward. After taking another look up at the entranceway into the marina, which he could barely see, thanks to the neighboring boat, which was almost as large as the one they were on, Carlo led the way down the stairs and into the galley and dining area. Moving quickly to avoid being out of sight of land, they crossed the galley into the gangway leading forward. Carlo briefly tried each door, but the staterooms were all empty and undisturbed until they came to the last one. In it, the queen-sized bed cover was in disarray, as was a towel on its surface.

“I'd say this was the scene of the crime,” Carlo said. He shone the light around the room, which was otherwise totally shipshape. “The girl's gone. That's what we came here to find out, so now let's blow.”

They rapidly backtracked. Carlo didn't feel comfortable until he had a reasonable view of the marina and the parking area at the boat's stern. All was serene. He turned back to Brennan. “I just had an idea. How easy would it be to hide a tracking device on this yacht?”

“Easy,” Brennan said. “What kind of tracking device are you interested in: one that records exactly where the boat's been or one that tracks in real time and you can watch where the boat goes.”

“The second one,” Carlo said, warming to the idea.

“No sweat. We can put a thing about the size of a deck of cards someplace here on the boat and then set up a situation where we can follow it on the Internet.”

“Good. Let's run it by Louie first.”

 

“AH, COME ON,”
Angelo pleaded. “It's not that much out of the way.”

“But it's going to midnight, and I'm exhausted,” Franco said.

They were in the Lincoln Tunnel heading back to New York City, where Franco was intending to drive directly across Manhattan to connect with the Queens Midtown Tunnel.

“I want to stop at the Neapolitan,” Franco continued. “The party will be breaking up soon, and I'd like a chance to make sure Vinnie understands the secretary is history.”

“It's only twenty blocks out the way. I just want to see if she still lives in the same place, because if she does, the job will be a piece of cake. You can't believe how much I'm looking forward to getting some revenge. I've done two stints in the slammer for that bitch, got coldcocked by her damn boyfriend, and she's the one responsible for my face looking the way it does.”

Franco glanced over at Angelo in the half-light of the car. He'd become accustomed to Angelo's horrific facial scarring. He wondered if it were his own face, would he ever get used to it?

“What would it take?” Angelo said. “Ten minutes, fifteen at most.”

“Okay, okay,” Franco said reluctantly.

Twenty minutes later, Franco's big black car was creeping along 19th Street with Angelo bent down to see the building's façades. The last time he'd been there had been ten years earlier, but the experience had been burned into his memory. He'd been certain he'd remember the building, but it wasn't happening.

“Which one, for chrissake?” Franco demanded. He'd made the decision to sacrifice the time because he'd momentarily felt sorry for Angelo, but the rationale was wearing thin with Angelo taking so freaking long merely to pick out the right building. Earlier, Angelo had assured him there wouldn't be a problem.

“There it is!” Angelo exclaimed suddenly. He pointed.

“Are you sure?” Franco questioned. He looked at the building Angelo was pointing at. It was brick, in a mild state of disrepair, exactly like the buildings on either side. “How can you tell?”

“Trust me! I can tell.”

As Angelo climbed out of the car, Franco called after him to remind him that their visit was only a quick reconnoiter. Angelo waved over his shoulder to indicate he'd heard.

Angelo glanced up at the top of the building. Lights were on in the fifth-floor apartment. Dr. Laurie Montgomery's had been the apartment in the back: 5B. Angelo pulled open the outer door and stepped into the foyer. As soon as he did, he remembered his crazy partner, Tony Ruggerio, blasting away in that particular foyer at a woman who both of them thought was Laurie Montgomery but who turned out to be someone else. Partnering with Tony had been a frustrating handicap for Angelo, but he'd had no choice in the matter until the guy's recklessness got him killed.

Hoping for pay dirt, Angelo checked the names alongside the buzzers and mailboxes. To his great disappointment, the name for 5B was Martin Soloway.

Having keyed himself up to such an extent, Angelo felt a momentarily paralyzing letdown. But then he remembered that he knew where she worked, and his mind-set took a rapid about-face, only to be halted by the very real possibility that after twelve years she might have switched jobs, as well as apartments. In a mood hovering between unbridled anticipation and abject despondency, Angelo returned to the car and climbed in.

Although the retracted scarring of Angelo's face restricted his range of facial expression, Franco had learned to interpret subtle small changes. He knew instantly that Angelo was dejected.

“She's no longer there?” Franco questioned.

“No longer there,” Angelo confirmed. He then told Franco his concerns that she might have left town.

“Hey, buck up! She's got to be here. She wouldn't be causing trouble if she wasn't.”

Although there wasn't a lot of facial movement, Franco could tell that Angelo's mood had changed for the better.

A
ngela had had difficulty falling asleep. She'd tried reading, but after several hours she'd given up. Instead she tried the TV, which usually put her to sleep within ten minutes, but on this occasion was no better than the book. While struggling to pay attention to the late-night talk show, her mind kept reverting to her major worries: the capital shortfall, Paul Yang's apparent binge with a prepared 8-K sitting in his laptop a mere click away from submission to the SEC, and Dr. Laurie Montgomery's potential of turning the MRSA problem into a public-relations disaster, either by discouraging doctors and patients to use the Angels hospitals or by alerting the SEC to a major problem, which had major financial consequences.

Angela finally gave in and took an Ambien. She knew she'd been reverting to the crutch of using a hypnotic drug too frequently over the previous few months, but she felt it was warranted. Of all the people at Angels Healthcare, she was the only one who could be trusted to keep the IPO on track in the current crisis. To do that she needed her wits, which certainly required sleep.

As had been the case in the recent past, the tiny, white, racetrack-shaped tablet worked its wonders, and Angela fell into a deep, albeit drugged, sleep with disturbing dreams. The worst dream was about being forced to move along a narrow ledge on a horrendously high and otherwise perfectly perpendicular cliff. Although not knowing exactly why, she had to get to the other side of the cliff or there would be a catastrophe. The ledge became progressively more and more narrow, and within sight of her goal, her foot slipped off the edge. Although she was able to grasp the edge with her hands, she was unable to haul herself back up onto the narrow ledge. Gradually, her fingers and arms tired, and she slipped off and fell into the abyss.

Angela awoke with her heart racing, relieved to be alive. Although she could understand the origin of the theme of the dream, she wondered where the idea of being on a cliff had come from.

Although not looking forward to the cold marble floor of the bathroom, she had no choice, so she eased out from under the covers to keep her spot as warm as possible. She tried to be quick, just as she tried to keep her mind a blank. What she was worried about was not falling back asleep. She guesstimated she'd only slept for about five hours.

Unfortunately, Angela's fears became a reality. Although she still felt exhausted and even drugged, to a degree she could not quiet her mind, which ignored her orders and quickly went into high gear. It was going to be a busy day. First, she wanted to reassure herself that Michael's fifty thousand had been wired into the company's account. Next, she wanted to hear from Bob if Paul had resurfaced and, more important, if he had filed or not.

By four-thirty, Angela acknowledged that more sleep, no matter how necessary, was out of the question. Reluctantly, she got up, and on her way to the kitchen, she stopped at her daughter's door. After briefly wondering if it was worth waking her, Angela pushed open the child's door. With enough illumination spilling in from the nightlight in the hall, she could see Michelle's familiar form, with her dark, luxurious hair pulled back from her angelic face. In the dim lighting, her flawless skin seemed to radiate supernaturally from within.

For a moment, Angela stood there looking down at her daughter as only a parent can do. She felt a surge of love that eclipsed by a millionfold all the heartache and venom associated with Michael, the ignominy of the bankruptcy, and the anxiety of all the current problems with Angels Healthcare. It was a way for Angela to reorganize her priorities as she considered what was really important. And as she did so, she thought about the previous evening. After the fact far more than during her dinner with Chet McGovern, she'd realized she enjoyed herself in a way she'd not anticipated. Although she'd agreed to go for utilitarian purposes—namely, to find out whether Laurie Montgomery was a real threat—she'd relearned that honest conversation and general interaction with an apparently healthy man could be self-revealing. She'd never had such a frank discussion about her motivations with anyone, including herself.

As quietly as she'd entered Michelle's room, she left, pulling the door shut but not closed, exactly as she had found it. Michelle had always needed a bit of light as a connection to the real world cutting through the darkness of her room.

Advancing into the kitchen, Angela quietly readied the espresso machine. Haydee's bedroom and bath were off the kitchen, and Angela didn't want to disturb her.

As she waited for the light to indicate that the machine temperature and pressure were up to the proper level, Angela went back to her musing about the dinner experience with Chet McGovern. What she had admitted to him about going to medical school partly to get revenge against her father was not particularly flattering. What she failed to tell him was how much she had enjoyed medical school, particularly the clinical years, and, even more so, how much she had loved medical residency. Although most of her contemporaries had found residency training a grind, she truly thought of it as the crowning experience of her life: a perfect combination of service and learning.

The coffeemaker light indicated that it was ready. Angela loaded one of the sealed capsules, tightened the handle into the unit, and turned it on. She grimaced at the noise in the stillness of the apartment.

As the coffee ran into the cup, Angela reminisced about individual episodes she'd had with patients and families during her residency and during the year she'd had her private practice. They ranged from the sublimely joyous to the sublimely sad, but always uniquely human. Then she found herself comparing how she'd felt after a day of practicing medicine to how she felt after a day working at Angels Healthcare and acknowledged how fundamentally different the rewards were. With medicine, it was deeply personal; at the end of the day, she could almost always revel in the fact that she had helped at least a few people in the most direct way possible. With business, it was more vague and had to do with accomplishing something, even if it was difficult to define exactly what it was, although it invariably had something to do with money.

Angela took her coffee back to her study. It was her favorite room in the apartment, with one entire wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, complete with a ladder that was attached to a track across the bookshelves' face. Angela had loved books as a child and was proud that she'd never thrown one away.

At the desk, Angela got out a legal pad and began writing down the problems she was currently facing and what she would try to do about them that day. When she wrote Paul's name down, she thought about the man having an alcohol problem, which she hadn't known about. From the standpoint of a CEO, it made her angry that the information had been kept from her, and she was surprised Bob had done so. But then, thanks to her recent reflections about her medical training, she thought about the problem from a physician's point of view and remembered how difficult all addictions could be. Angela then wondered if the company should pay for inpatient rehab, which might be important if he was truly relapsed. She wrote the idea down. It was an issue that should be considered after the IPO.

When Angela wrote Dr. Laurie Montgomery's name down, she paused. There was little she could do about that problem. It was in Michael's hands, for whatever that was worth. The previous evening, when she'd called him to tell him the disturbing news about Laurie's apparent personality and the fact that she had voiced that she was going to solve the Angels Healthcare problem with MRSA if it killed her, he'd said that he'd do something about it immediately. Knowing him as well as she did, she had no idea whether he was telling her the truth or just placating her for the moment. With her intuition telling her loud and clear that Laurie Montgomery was the biggest threat to keeping their infection problem out of the media since the problem began, there was no time to delay. With all the trouble and effort they were going through with the cash-flow problem, it would be tragic if the IPO stumbled from the work of an overenthusiastic medical examiner.

Angela's eyes strayed over to her telephone and then on to the Tiffany desk clock. It was four-thirty-five in the morning, hardly the time for a personal call. Yet she was so certain of Laurie's threat potential that she seriously debated calling. From sore experience, she knew Michael sometimes partied to such an hour, even five a.m., on numerous occasions when they were married.

Talking herself into making the call, Angela justified it because of the importance of starting some sort of offense against Laurie and because Michael deserved it. All those times he'd stayed out to such an hour he'd return and wake her with his drunkenness, and sometimes even Michelle.

With a certain vengeful glee Angela dialed the number. As the number rang, she fully expected his voice mail, especially since he had caller ID and she had a private line.

To her surprise, he answered, sounding mildly intoxicated.

“This better be important,” he said, slurring his words.

“Michael, it's Angela.”

There was a pause. In the background, Angela could hear a woman's voice with a heavy New Jersey accent complaining and demanding to know who was calling in the middle of the night.

“Did you hear me?” Angela demanded. Now that she'd awakened him, she felt a tad guilty, but she was determined not to show it.

“For chrissake. It's four-thirty in the fucking morning.”

“It's four-thirty-five, to be exact. I'm concerned about the Dr. Laurie Montgomery issue I called you about last night.”

“I said I'd take care of it.”

“Have you?”

“I told you I'd take care of it, and I did. It's over, it's done, so go back to sleep!”

“How are you so sure? As I was told, she has a reputation of being very persistent.”

“It's not going to matter how persistent she is. My client actually knows her personally. He said he'd be happy to talk with her, and he's confident she'll be amenable to his position. What I gathered was that the doctor owes my client big-time.”

Michael's explanation didn't make too much sense, but his assuredness did. Angela thanked him and told him to go back to sleep.