Political Suicide (28 page)

The heavy mahogany door opened to Gerald Sherwood’s office, and the doctor stepped out for formal greetings. He wore a starched white coat with his name and degree embroidered in blue over the left breast pocket. His stethoscope, a top-of-the-line Littmann, dangled from his neck. He was, as expected, distinguished—sixty or so, with razor-cut graying hair and bright, aquamarine eyes. From the instant of their meeting, Lou sensed for no particular reason that the man suspected the motive for this visit was something other than advertised.

As he walked to the chair across the desk from the director, he took in the dozen artfully matted and framed diplomas and certifications on the walls. One of them caught his eye immediately—a diploma from the University of Virginia, Elias Colston’s alma mater. He strained unsuccessfully to remember Colston’s graduation year, but it would not have mattered. Colston spent time in the marines before going to college. No matter what, it seemed quite possible that the two men were classmates. It was hard to believe the connection was a coincidence.

He decided this was a time for directness.

“So, Mr. Welcome,” Sherwood said in a rich, melodic voice that could have fit behind a radio microphone, “it says here that you have been having trouble with migraine headaches.”

“Actually, Dr. Sherwood, I have never had a disabling headache in my life, and my name is Welcome, but my first name is Lou, not Graham.”

“
Disabling.
What an interesting choice of words. Are you a physician, Lou Welcome?”

Lou tried to grin, but his face felt frozen. The man was sharp. “Emergency medicine. I work at Eisenhower Memorial in D.C.”

“I see. Are you looking for employment here?”

“No. Why do you ask that?”

“Since we are not looking for colleagues, I can’t imagine another reason why you would use a false pretext and pay so much to get in to see me.”

The man’s expressive eyes were truly a window to his thoughts. Lou remained focused on them.

“I need information,” he said.

“About?”

“About a patient of yours. A man named James Styles of Bowie, Maryland.” Lou passed across the envelope with Styles’s name.

The spark in Sherwood’s eyes was transient, but revealing nonetheless. “It appears you have made the long journey here for nothing. As a physician yourself, surely you know that even if this name meant something to me, I would never tell you. Confidentially is more than a word here. It is the way we attract patients and do business.”

Lou slipped a photo of Elias Colston from his briefcase and set it next to the envelope. “Congressman Elias Colston was murdered two weeks ago in Maryland. I found this envelope in his desk while I was searching for clues as to who might have shot him in cold blood.” Lou waited for a reply, but there was none other than a shrug. “I am here because the man who is currently in jail for the murder, also a physician, is a friend of mine. He’s an outdoorsman and pilot, a bit wild and at times unpredictable, but utterly devoted to his patients.…”

Nothing.

“… I see you graduated from Virginia at about the same time as Colston. It seems possible you two were classmates. I wonder if he could have come here for some sort of medical problem because of that connection.”

Nothing again.

“Dr. Welcome,” Sherwood said finally, “I am going to do you a favor and not charge you for this consultation. But I will not answer any questions about any person, real or imagined, living or dead. That’s the way it is. Now, if you’ll gather your things and excuse me.”

Lou stood and slipped the envelope into his briefcase, but he left the eight-by-ten head shot on the desk, facing his host.

“I’m a very principled man and physician,” Lou said before he turned to go, “but I am also pragmatic and proud that I am capable of reasoning out ethical problems for myself. HIPPA laws are what they are. So is the ancient oath we took at med school graduation. But when push comes to shove, the most important voice I must listen to and answer to is the one inside my head that tells me what is right and what is wrong in any given situation. I believe my friend is innocent of murdering Elias Colston. At the moment, he is petrified and living in a filthy cell in a Baltimore jail. The DA is determined to see that he spends the rest of his life there. You hold one of the clues that might help set him free—the clue as to whether the murder victim had any preexisting medical conditions, and whether he came here under the assumed name of James Styles. If it is too difficult for you, you don’t have to say anything. Just slide that picture back to me and I will know.”

Sherwood did not move.

“Dr. Welcome,” he said without emotion, “please don’t force me to call security to remove you.”

Leaving the photo, Lou turned and retreated to where his rental car was parked. It was going to be a hell of a long trip home.

*   *   *

LOU HAD
never felt that comfortable in crowds. Not surprisingly, the Minneapolis–St. Paul Airport was mobbed. He was wedged in line, shuffling toward the TSA screening equipment when his cell phone began ringing.

“Dr. Welcome,” he said.

The voice on the other end was a woman’s with a British accent. “Dr. Welcome,” she said, “you left a photo here today. The doctor says the answer to your question is yes.”

CHAPTER 38

A sprinkle of dirt rained down on Lou’s face. He blinked rapidly, although each blink seemed to push more grains against his eyeballs. He tried to brush them clear, but his wrists and ankles were bound with thick rope. More dirt fell, this time landing in his open mouth, gagging him. Lou heard the scrape of the spade slicing into the mound of damp earth. Another shovelful fell, peppering his face, neck, and arms. Already his legs were completely buried, along with much of his torso. Manolo was saving the head for last.

“You enjoying your little bath, amigo?” he asked.

More soil. The last chunk included a meaty earthworm that landed on Lou’s cheek and wriggled about, searching out an opening in which to hide. It found one just inside his mouth. More dirt. His throat filled up.

I’m sorry, Em. I’m sorry I let you down. I love you more than anything. I’m so sorry.…

Lou forced his eyes open, but the world was black. He drew in a nervous, wet breath, but inhaled only fur. He was crammed on the living room sofa, a vicious kink in his neck. Diversity was nestled on his face. Consciousness returned grudgingly. It was one of the most unpleasant, relentless nightmares he could remember. He dug his fingers into the cat’s thick mane, and was about to hurl him across the room, when he became fully awake.

“Hey, big fella,” he said instead, gently setting him aside, “thanks for helping me to keep from suffocating.”

Through the open blinds, he could see that dawn was just making an appearance. In the hospital, he was known for being able to battle stress and sleep depravation to a standstill. Clearly he had lost this encounter. He felt like a raptor, circling around the mystery of Elias Colston’s death. But soon he would be ready to home in. He shook his head to dislodge the nightmare. With no small effort, he stood and stretched.

Diversity meowed. The gang downstairs at Dimitri’s Pizza had taken charge of his feedings during Lou’s trip to Minneapolis, and he seemed to have gained five pounds.

“How long has Wyatt Brody been hooked up with a Mexican drug cartel?” he asked the cat. “Is there any more information I can try to get from Dr. Sherwood?”

Diversity cocked his head.

“You don’t care how long, because all you care about is tuna. Tuna, and now, pizza.”

Lou was making an attempt at bonding with Diversity when he noticed a brightly colored flyer lying beneath his front door. Another restaurant menu. Clearly the building’s lack of any decent security had become known throughout the neighborhood. Still, he realized, it was strange that someone was out distributing flyers at this hour. Probably it was there when he got home last night, and he had simply stepped over it.

Lou retrieved the flyer, intending to move it to the trash. He had eaten at most every restaurant in the area, but he’d never heard of a place called Al’s All-American Grill. When Lou noted the address, his curiosity grew. The diner was located in Alexandria, Virginia, across the Potomac and eight or so miles south of the city, making this the worst flyer distribution strategy imaginable.

Lou flipped open the menu and was not all that surprised to see a note from Papa Steve written in black marker. The man was a will-o’-the-wisp—resourceful and elusive.

Dear Doc,

Come to the restaurant today between eight and noon. Let’s talk.

Your pal,

Papa

Two hours later, Lou had showered and was parked out front of Al’s All-American Grill. A small brass bell above the door announced his entrance. The diner looked like many Lou had visited before, but the distinct aroma told him the place served some fine greasy spoon food. About half the eight red leather booths were occupied. A well-worn counter with wooden swivel stools separated the patrons from the two cooks serving up eggs and hash browns almost as fast as they were ordered. Lou strolled up and down the narrow passage between the stools and the booths, searching for Papa Steve. No sign. He checked the flyer and the time. It was just quarter to eleven. Finally, he took a seat at a booth to wait.

A stocky, olive-skinned waitress with tousled dark hair took Lou’s coffee order. Despite feeling famished, he figured he’d wait for Papa Steve before ordering something to eat. The waitress returned a moment later with not only Lou’s coffee, but also a plate of steaming scrambled eggs and corn beef hash cooked to perfection—crusty around the edges.

“I’m sorry,” Lou said with an apologetic smile, “I’d love to eat this, but it isn’t my order.”

“Oh, yes, it is, sir. Our chef made it special for you.”

Lou looked beyond the narrow passage between the counter and the kitchen and saw Papa Steve dressed in a cook’s apron and hat, standing behind the grill, waving at him with a spatula.

“So, Doc, how do you like the hash?” he called out.

Lou had grown accustomed to the man’s eccentricities, but this latest move still was a surprise. “You’re a cook?” Lou said.

“Only once or twice a month when I can get away. I love cooking any meal, but especially short-order breakfasts, and especially working for my buddy Alex.” He gestured to the waitress. “Most important meal of the day. She’s been a friend for years.”

“Let me guess. She’s ex-military.”

“When you defuse bombs for a living—”

“You make a lot of friends,” Lou said, finishing Papa Steve’s sentence.

Mark Colston’s godfather removed his apron and announced to his cooking partner that he was going on break. A moment later, he emerged through a set of swinging double doors and took a seat in the booth across from Lou. “You seem like a wheat-toast kind of guy, so I went with that,” Papa Steve said.

“Spot on. Guess you got my message.”

After calling Sarah from the highway in West Virginia, Lou had left a brief message for Papa Steve.

“It’s not safe to talk by phone,” Papa Steve said, scanning the diner, suddenly deadly serious. “I told you that. That’s why I had Paul, our dishwasher, deliver you my message. Fortunately, you didn’t say anything we have to worry about.”

“Yeah, well, from now on, no more phones. I’ve seen firsthand how unsafe dealing with your commanding officer can be.”

“Talk to me,” Papa Steve said.

Lou repeated the same story he had told Sarah.

Papa Steve listened intently, but his expression was grim. “So it’s not just vitamins Brody’s feeding us, eh?” he said.

“Is that what he told you it was? Vitamins?”

“Yup, a special blend, courtesy of Uncle Sam and Brody’s personal research. He’s a doctor, you know.”

“Oh, I know. Not a doc who’s going to win any Nobel Prizes for medicine, either.”

“We were told the juice and the capsules were engineered to boost our strength and our immune systems. I can see now why we all believed the stuff actually improved our outlook, and why the Palace Guards had a little talk with anyone who refused to take them. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really mind doing it, and I couldn’t say it did anything bad to me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of withdrawal syndrome associated with stopping it.”

“You know, following Brody like that was pretty dumb, Lou. You could have gotten yourself killed, or worse.”

“Worse than killed?” Lou asked.

“I’ve seen people who have survived a dog attack before. Yeah, there’s worse than killed.”

“It was worth the risk,” Lou said. “Now we know that somehow Brody is behind Elias’s murder, and we know why. We’ve just got to prove it.”

“If your pal Sarah is as resourceful as you say, then maybe Hogarth will crack and sell out his protégé.”

“That’s what we’re counting on,” Lou said. “This is a great breakfast, by the way.”

“Throw on a little of that hot sauce I mixed up,” Papa Steve suggested, pointing to a small red bottle with a skull and crossbones on the otherwise plain label.

“Maybe I should chug a cup of that ruby juice before I do.”

“For our mission. For valor. For justice. For our country. For God. For Mantis. That’s the oath we swear every day before we down the shit. Well, my friend, you were dumb, but you done good. Real good. Now it’s time we nail the bastard.”

“What do you mean?”

Papa Steve moved closer. “We’re going to get the murder weapon,” he said.

Lou aspirated hot sauce and began gagging.

“Ice water. Drink the ice water.”

It took two minutes before Lou could speak. “Now I understand the label on that stuff,” he said. “So, where do you think we’re going to find the murder weapon?”

“Wyatt Brody’s gun case.”

“Clearly you know something I don’t. What makes you think the murder weapon is there?”

“Because of that ballistics report you faxed me,” Papa Steve said.

“Explain.”

“According to that report, the gun that killed Elias is a .45 ACP that fires slugs which have a six left rifling mark.”