Hot Pursuit (28 page)

“Unless everyone’s too busy,” Alyssa pointed out, but Pam shook her head.

“With that hair, wearing a hospital gown … ? He’s gonna get noticed,” she said.

“Is it possible he was moved to another location in the hospital, or even to another hospital, but the transfer’s not in your records?”

“Anything’s possible,” the woman said in a tone that was heavy with
no way
, “but our system’s pretty good. I can check with the nurse’s station, see if they know anything—”

But Jules was already coming back, his normally cheerful face a complete thundercloud.

Pam correctly read his expression, too. “Or … we’ll certainly keep an eye out, and let you know if he comes back.”

“We’ll be issuing a BOLO,” Jules said, having overheard her. “And an APB.”

“Good luck finding him,” the woman said, and took the opportunity to escape, rattling her cart away.

“What happened?” Alyssa asked Jules, who was already leading the way back to the lobby.

But he didn’t answer until they’d made their way out of the front doors and into the street.

It was still snowing, so Alyssa pulled her hat back on. Jules had earmuffs. As high-level FBI, he couldn’t risk getting hat hair. Or so he claimed.

“What happened?” she asked again.

“They were delayed getting here—the agents who were assigned to make sure our John Doe didn’t go anywhere,” he reported. “They were coming in from Queens, and a semi jackknifed on 495. They were stuck in traffic, so they called the hospital and spoke to a nurse who told them our man wasn’t going anywhere. Except he did. When they arrived, his bed was empty. They didn’t call me, because they didn’t think he’d go far. They expected to find him. But… they didn’t. And go on. Ask me what I know you’re dying to ask me. Why, dear Jules, didn’t they think he’d go far?”

Alyssa didn’t have to ask, but she made it a question anyway. “Because he left without his clothes?”

“Correct! Ten points to the woman in the funny hat.” Jules was furious about this. “Our man is now wandering Manhattan in a knee-length hospital gown with his ass hanging out, two very thin blankets around his shoulders, and a pair of paper booties on his feet.”

It was cold tonight and getting colder. As if to punctuate her thought, the wind whipped down the city street, rocking a sign.

“Are they still looking for him?” Alyssa asked. It was a relatively stupid question, considering how angry Jules was. In fact, it was likely that every available person in the local Bureau office was getting called in to assist in the search. The real question was, “How can we help?”

“I’m going to hit the local subway stations,” Jules said, heading briskly down the sidewalk. “Although if he got on a train, he could be anywhere.”

“If he got on a train,” Alyssa said, scrambling to keep up, “at least he’s warm.”

“Why do I care?” Jules asked, talking more to himself than her. “If he killed Maggie Thorndyke, freezing to death would be letting him off easy.”

“Because if he
didn’t
kill Maggie,” Alyssa answered anyway, “and I don’t think you believe he did, anymore than I do—then he’s just another wounded vet who sacrificed nearly everything for our country, and you don’t want him to die in the street. What I can’t figure out is why he’d have my picture.”

“Because you’re pretty?” Jules said. “Oh and nice tits, by the way, I’ve been meaning to say that.”

She went to smack him, but he danced, laughing, out of the way.

“Sorry,” he said, “I couldn’t resist. Seriously though, that photo
is
a nice one. Maybe
too
nice. It’s from the TS website, right? Maybe you should ask Tom to pull it down.”

Alyssa nodded. “I’ve already spoken to Tracy about it. She’s going to take all of the personnel photos off the site.”

“Judging from the length of our John Doe’s beard and hair,” Jules said, “I think it’s safe to guess he’s been on the street for a while. Do you agree? That, like, he’s not some wealthy stockbroker or computer programmer who’s recently gone off his meds?”

“I would guess that he’s not, yes,” Alyssa said. “His teeth were in bad shape. And his skin … ? Let’s just say he’s sporting years of harsh weather and neglect.”

“So where does he get anything that he has?” Jules asked. “His winter coat? His collection of beer-bottle tops?”

Not only had Sam found beer tops in his pockets, but Jenn had also said that he’d had quite a few in an old sock he’d left in her car.

Bottle tops, a small pile of military ribbons, some Monopoly game pieces, several shiny stones …

“He gets it from the Salvation Army,” Alyssa said, “or from a freebies box at a shelter.”

“Or he goes through the trash,” Jules pointed out. “Jenn said she’d seen him diving the dumpster outside Maria’s office. We should check with Savannah, see if she had a picture of you, maybe to show to Maria.”

“Back in September?” Alyssa asked.

“Maybe they were talking about hiring additional security,” Jules suggested. “So she had your picture, but they went another route, it got thrown out, and our homeless guy found it and kept it.”

Alyssa shook her head. “Why would he keep it?”

“Because you’re pretty,” Jules said again. “Or maybe because he has a daughter or granddaughter who’s about your age, and he likes pretending that picture is of her.”

“I don’t know,” Alyssa said. “It’s all just so weird.”

“Check with Savannah,” Jules said.

“I don’t know—”

“Another possibility,” Jules pointed out, “is that the whole homeless guy thing is an act, a costume that he puts on. And he’s really some diabolical and insanely wealthy—and insane—killer who’s been tracking you for years. And he didn’t wander off from the hospital. He escaped, and his trusty minion picked him up in his Rolls Royce and took him back to his mansion, where he’s plotting against you as we speak.”

“But of course, you’re really Batman, so you’ll stop him.”

“It has been suggested,” Jules noted, “that I could be Batman.”

“I’m liking the first scenario better and better,” Alyssa admitted.

“Then call Savannah,” he said again.

“I will. Hey! I thought we were searching the subway stations.”

Jules had stepped to the curb and neatly hailed a cab. He opened the door and gestured for her to get in.
“I’m
doing that. You’re going back to the hotel to feed your giant, hungry, adorable baby. Sam made me promise I wouldn’t keep you out past pumpkin-time. He said if I didn’t send you back you’d ruin another shirt, and we can’t have that.” He turned to the driver. “Hilton Hotel, West
Fifty-third and Sixth.” Back to Alyssa. “Go back, make sure Sam’s okay, too. Although if he needs a hospital, we’re not coming back to St. Whatsis. Oh, and tell Robin I’m about two hours behind you. If I’m going to be later than that, I’ll call.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Alyssa said.

“I’m a gay man, trolling subway stations in Manhattan,” he said. “What could go wrong?”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better—”

“It was a joke, oh, humorless one,” he said. “I’m meeting a team from the Transit Police, they’re going to take me to a couple of popular subterranean homeless hangouts. Hey, when you were a kid, you ever watch that show,
Beauty and the Beast
, with Linda Hamilton?”

“The woman from the
Terminator
movies, yeah.
”
Alyssa had. “My sister was
really
into it.”

“If this were an episode,” Jules told her, “I’d be indoctrinated as one of the mutant underground people and given a hobo name, like … Hot Potato Two Shoes, and be forced to choose between my loyalty to my new brethren, and my life up above. FYI, hands down I’m picking my life up above. Unless, of course, I find out that all along, Robin has secretly been a mutant, too. In which case, I’ll communicate with you in the future via whispered messages through the sewer drains.”

“I thought you were Batman,” she said, laughing despite her trepidation.

“Are we getting in or are we talking?” the taxi driver asked petulantly.

“She’s getting in,” Jules said, and Alyssa reluctantly did just that.

“Be careful,” she told him.

He nodded. “I’ll call you if we find him.”

I
t had been a long time since he’d seen them—his
mère et papa
.

It was stupid of them to make him speak French at home Spanish would have served him better. But they’d never known what to do with him. He’d arrived late in his father’s life—an unexpected and unwanted surprise.

His mother was already dying. The cancer that killed her had started before he’d appeared in her womb.

He wondered sometimes if it was that, the death that had already claimed her, that touched him and marked him, an unborn babe, for its own.

He was barely two months old when she’d died.

His nannies, of which there were many, never stayed for long. His father couldn’t keep his pants zipped. He’d heard one of them say as much, as she angrily packed her bag, long before he understood what the words meant.

His father had finally married one of them—his
mère
—but she was more interested in his father’s money than in his child, and she hired more nannies to care for him while she shopped.

As the years passed, he’d learned to move silently about the rambling old house, exploring its basements and attics, but spending
most of his time in the windowless Prohibition Room, built during the 1920s.

He’d learned to speak French, and to avoid the biting and scratching of his
mère’s
angry, spiteful cat, Monsieur Henri, and he’d learned that school was a place to be taunted and abused—unless you were the taunter and abuser.

He’d learned he was very good at both.

When he was twelve, they’d shipped him off to boarding school after they found the box that he’d kept in the crawl space in the basement. It held what was left of Monsieur Henri, gone missing four years earlier, and his replacements, Tinkerbell and Jolie.

Even then, he’d loved their teeth, loved that they would try to bite him as they screamed in pain.

It was his fault for not hiding his box well enough, and he’d learned from it, learned that he must keep his secrets more carefully hidden.

At first he’d gone home for the occasional rare holiday, until Suzette,
Mère’s
new poodle—a vicious little thing that barked and snarled at him incessantly—was hit by a car in the busy street in front of their house.

It wasn’t his fault that she’d raced out the door every chance she could get. Although it
might
have been his fault that he’d held the door open…

They’d sent him to doctors, who recommended they ship him off to a school for troubled youth—where he’d learned, even better, to hide his secrets from the world. And then they’d set up a generous trust fund for him, available upon graduation from college, on the condition that he not come home again.

A condition he’d kept, until last year.

His
mère
didn’t recognize him when she opened the door.

He’d told her he was from the bank, that there was an identity theft problem. There were papers she and her husband would need to sign immediately.

She’d welcomed him in, and together with his father—a stinking old man in a wheelchair, peering at him through cracked and grimy glasses—signed papers that gave him, their only son, power of attorney.

It was only after that, that she recognized him.

He’d made sure of it.

“No
… No!
Listen to me!”

That was Gillman’s voice, low but urgent, from out in the living room.

Izzy was instantly awake and sitting up—and damn near knocking himself out by hitting his head on the bottom of the conference table.
Motherfucker
. And it had seemed like such a good idea to put his sleeping bag under here.

He kicked his legs free as he scrambled toward the door that he’d purposely left open.

It was Lopez who’d asked him to play the selfish asshole and claim this room for his own. It was also Lopez who’d been the mediator for the dispute that followed, and who’d made the decree that Lopez, Tony and Izzy would all share the conference room floor, in between their shifts guarding the suite, while lucky Gillman would get to sleep on the comfort of the couch.

It was, absolutely, a concerted effort to keep the Fishboy from taking sweet Jennilyn by the hand, and locking her in here with him. Lopez thought, and Izzy had to agree, that the two lovebirds might benefit from a night of enforced apart-ness, which really translated into time for Jenn to come to her scattered senses. Assuming she had any.

Also assuming that getting banged by Danny was something she really didn’t want to do—which was a very big assumption Lopez was making here.

It was entirely possible that knocking knobs with Gilligan was
no big thing for her, and that Fleet Week was her mostest favoriteest time of year.

“You get the
fuck
back over here!” Danny said from the sofa as Izzy approached. The lamp on the far end table was on—he’d clearly fallen asleep with it burning. He wasn’t shouting yet, but his mutterings were getting louder and more clear.

Lopez had said that Dan had been having nightmares, and if they were anything like the ones Izzy had had a few years back, dude was going to scream the place awake, and then, when the lights were blazing and everyone was staring, he’d be sitting there, shaking and sweating, with tears icing the cake of the
what planet is this again?
expression that was all over his bewildered face.

“I don’t give a good goddamn!”

“Hey, man,” Izzy said as he got closer, because it seemed like a good idea not to startle him, Dan being a Navy SEAL and all. He wasn’t quite sure the best way to do this—to shake him awake, or to turn on another light, tell him a joke, sing him a song …

Lopez probably knew, but he was out in the hall. Vlachic was no help, since he was making use of his non-watch time by meeting up with Mr. Serious, elsewhere in this very hotel—lucky bastard, gettin’ some.