The Wrong Man (16 page)

Jenna sat down on the nearest stool and tossed her keys onto the dining room table, wondering what it was with men and their
damn egos. Why couldn’t they just leave their pride at the door and accept help when it was offered? How hard could it be?
But no, Bishop could never do anything that obvious. It didn’t fit in with the tight-lipped
loner thing he had going on.

‘Infuriating man,’ she said to the four walls.

Still, she’d proved a point by finding Cortiss’s mailing address for him. Even Bishop couldn’t argue with a result like that.
She just hoped Cortiss was the impatient type who
did
subscribe to a notification system, otherwise Bishop was in for a long wait.

Jenna brushed a hand through her hair and got off the stool. She walked into the living room and saw Bishop’s clothes on one
of the chairs. They were folded and stacked neatly. At least he wasn’t a slob. Then she smiled, picked up the sweatshirt and
went through the front pockets. So she was the curious type. He’d just have to live with it. It wasn’t like he was paying
her any rent.

But there was nothing in them. Same with the black pair of chinos. Although she wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find. Folding
and placing them back on the chair, she came round the coffee table and parked herself on the sofa. And frowned at what sounded
like the crinkling of paper. She pulled up the cushion and found some torn, ragged pieces
of paper lying there.
Well, now
, she thought.
What are these?

She looked them over and realized the six pieces made up three complete pages. She sat down cross-legged on the floor, laid
them out on the coffee table in proper order and read through each sheet slowly.

The first two pages formed a long-winded letter from an Anthony Cartwright of Wald College
in Tribeca, saying how great it
was that Randall Brennan had chosen their institution for his son Philip’s further education. And how, since the college was
always looking for
philanthropic supporters who believed in laying the foundations for future scholarship, Brennan Senior might also be interested
to learn of the new library wing currently under construction.

Jenna shook her head at the presumptuous tone of the letter. It can’t have impressed Brennan much. Especially the part that
mentioned how the more generous sponsors often achieved immortality by having whole wings named after them.

The third sheet was a little more intriguing. It was dated March 19, 1989 and came from a Thomas B. Wheatley, director
of
the Willow Reeves Rest Home in San Francisco. The letter referred to an enquiry Brennan had made about a man called Timothy
R. Ebert, whom he believed to be a resident at Willow Reeves between 1968 and 1969. Wheatley regretted that he was unable
to divulge any information concerning past clients, not even to confirm whether the person in question ever resided there
at all. At the bottom, a line of almost illegible text read.
The Willow Reeves Rest Home is a non-profit organization operating under the aegis of the Kebnekaise Corporation
.

Noticing some bleed-through, Jenna turned both pieces over. On the reverse was a series of letters. Nine consonants and nine
vowels, some repeated more than once. They had been jotted down
haphazardly in pen as though in preparation for an anagram
puzzle. She turned the pieces back again and leaned against the couch. As she tapped the coffee table surface with her fingernails
she wondered where Bishop could have picked the papers up, and why he’d hidden them under her sofa cushion.

All she knew was that he’d neglected to take them with him.
In which case, she thought, there was no actual harm in checking
them out herself, was there?

From the back seat, Bishop studied the back of Cortiss’s head as he drove. His right hand was gripping the Beretta while Cortiss’s
Colt sat in his pocket. They were heading west on the LIE, on their way to Cortiss’s apartment in the Woodside district of
Queens. Assuming the address on his driver’s licence wasn’t as phoney as the name.

After a short search, Bishop had found a camping store and become the owner of a Brunton pocket scope. He’d then entered the
modern-looking public library building on the corner of Northern Boulevard and Marathon Parkway, directly opposite the post
office, pulled a book at random from the shelves and taken a seat at one of the windows. Every time a man approached
the post
office across the street, he used the small scope to zoom in on his face.

At 11.25 he’d been wondering how long he could keep watch when the Lexus with the tinted windows pulled up. The face of the
driver had aged and the hair was different, but even from a distance Bishop could see it was the same man as the one in the
photo. And the jawline
hadn’t changed since he last saw it three years ago.

Once Cortiss was inside, Bishop left the library, crossed the street and checked under the Lexus’s bumpers. A small, magnetized
box was hidden at the rear. Bishop smiled to himself. Even professionals were wary of losing their keys.

After letting himself in with the spare and relocking the doors,
it had simply been a case of hiding in the back and waiting.
He had no idea who the guy in the suit had been, but he was grateful for the temporary confusion he had caused in his target.

Cortiss said, ‘And I always thought lawyers were good at keeping secrets. I’m gonna have to have a private word with that
Stillson asshole when I get a chance.’

‘You only got yourself to blame,’ Bishop said. ‘Here’s a tip: next time you want to disappear, either make a clean break or
don’t bother.’

‘Am I hearing right?’ Cortiss said with a snort. ‘You’re giving
me
advice? Let me write that down.’ Then he went quiet again. Just driving. Exit 20 passed them by. Bishop knew the next exit
would take
them onto Queens Boulevard towards 57th Street and Cortiss’s apartment. He thought for a moment, then pulled the
cell Jenna had given him from his pocket. He scrolled through until he found the application he wanted and activated it.

‘You got any idea how famous you are, brother?’ Cortiss asked. He was watching his passenger in the rear-view. ‘I swear they
got your face plastered all over every channel except QVC, and it’ll only be a matter of time before they stick your face
on a watch so they can get in on the act. Yes sir, looks like I got me a real life celebrity in my back seat.’

‘And you knew me way back when I was still a nobody. You still got that scar I gave you or has it healed over now?’

Cortiss glanced down at his right forearm and said, ‘Screw you, Bishop.’ Then he lapsed back into silence. As they passed
under the sign for exit 19, he looked in his side mirror and began crossing over into the right-hand lane ahead of the turnoff.

‘You know, I read your file.’ Bishop looked out at the traffic ahead of them. ‘Very impressive. The operations you’ve
been
a part of. The exotic locales. Above all, the dead bodies. You could write a book.’

Cortiss joined the traffic on the turnoff and said nothing.

Bishop watched Cortiss’s eyes in the rear-view. ‘Long story short. Three years ago, four heavily armed men storm a protected
house. Only one makes it out again, but not before torturing and killing
a young girl and her father. Then he disappears,
leaving one of the protectors to pay the bills. You’re gonna tell me why.’

‘Sure of yourself, aren’t you?’

‘Nothing’s for sure in this life. You want to put me straight?’

‘What for? You wouldn’t believe me, anyway.’

‘Try me.’

Cortiss’s eyes met Bishop’s in the
mirror. ‘When we get off this I might just ram the next oncoming vehicle. Or take us up
to ninety. See what happens.’

‘In this traffic? Go ahead. I’m always open to new experiences and it’d tell me more than you’ve told me so far.’

Cortiss steered them onto Queens Boulevard. ‘Try this on, Bishop,’
he said as they came to another stop. ‘Could be everything
you think about me is true. Except for one small point.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Wanna know what I saw when I made it to that top floor office?’

Bishop just looked at him.

‘Three dead people,’ Cortiss said. ‘Same as you.’

Jenna sat at the dining room table and took a few sips of her Coke as she took in the Willow Reeves Rest Home website. It
was very well done. Lots of happy residents smiling at their uniformed keepers on the steps of tastefully designed adobe buildings.
And although there weren’t any willow trees, there were lots of photos of serene
grounds with plenty of green.

Under
About Us
, there was a large amount of text that said little but emphasized their reputation for discretion and quality care for those
who needed aid, with lots of testimonials from satisfied family members. The tagline at the bottom read,
Caring for the elderly for over 38 years
. Jenna frowned. That would mean it got its start-up
in the early seventies, yet Brennan seemed sure the place had been going
for some time before that. In his letter, Wheatley hadn’t corrected him on the point, either, which made the tagline even
more puzzling. After all, most businesses would have happily traced their origins back to civil war times if they could get
away with it. Customers trusted a company with history,
so for an establishment to play theirs down was unusual.

Unless their past was something they wanted to keep quiet about.

Curious, Jenna pressed the
Contact
link and was presented with an address in the marina district of the city and three telephone numbers. Further down was a
brief list of management personnel, followed by a much longer one of medical
consultants connected with the home. Each had
a long series of letters after his or her name. She guessed Wheatley must have either retired or died in the last few years
as the managing director was now a woman, Irene Ravenscourt. The name alone put Jenna off and she continued down the list
for someone who sounded more pliable.
Jeffrey Golden, Records Officer
, she thought.
You’ll do
.

She looked at the kitchen clock and saw it was 12.15 p.m., which meant it would be 9.15 a.m. on the west coast. She picked
up her cordless, pressed 67 to block the caller ID, then keyed in the first number
and got a busy signal. She tried the second, and after two rings a young-sounding female voice said, ‘Good morning. Willow
Reeves. May I help you?’

‘My name is Margaret Huntley,’ Jenna said. ‘Could I speak with Jeffrey Golden, please?’

‘Surely,’ the voice said. ‘Please hold.’

After a short wait, a slightly reedy male voice came on the line. ‘Ms Huntley. This is Jeffrey Golden. What can I do for you?’

‘Hello, Mr Golden. I work out of the Illinois office of the IRS and my supervisor
gave me your name as a contact for my current
case file. I was hoping you could help with—’

‘I sent in my return months ago, you know, Ms Huntley. I have video evidence and signed transcripts from witnesses who were
there at the time of mailing. Ha ha.’

Jenna rolled her eyes. Sometimes she had to consciously remind herself California
and New York were part of the same land
mass. ‘Um, Mr Golden . . .’

‘Jeff, please.’

‘Right. Well . . . it’s not about you, actually. My call concerns Willow Reeves, or rather its previous incarnation.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Well, we’re currently putting together a case for evasion of taxes against a man who claims he was a patient
at your facility
during the years . . .’ she noisily crumpled some papers next to her and then said, ‘here we are: 1968 and 1969. Yet, clearly,
Willow Reeves wasn’t established until several years after that.’

‘1971,’ Golden said.

‘Exactly. Can you see our problem? If we charge him with evasion during these years in addition to the others, we’ll
lose
all credibility if he presents the court with papers that prove he was where he claimed to be at that time. We really need
to obtain all the facts and trace his movements for those two years before we start making accusations.’

‘But if he has papers that prove where he was, doesn’t he have to show them to you?’

‘Unfortunately, the full
disclosure rule doesn’t apply to tax-related cases,’ Jenna said. She had no idea whether this was
true or not. ‘But if you could just give me the name of the facility that leased or owned the land before you, and where I
might be able to locate any relevant
records that would prove or disprove the defendant’s explanation for those missing years . . .’ She was greeted with silence
at
the other end. ‘Are you there, Mr Golden?’

‘Yes.’

One-word answers were never a good sign. Her only comfort was that he was unlikely to tell her to go screw herself. When the
taxman asked, you answered. ‘Would you have those details to hand, Mr Golden?’

‘Will this be a high-profile case, Ms Huntley?’

‘Definitely
not. The tax office is rarely well served by the media and always plays down the public angle whenever possible.’

After another pause, Golden said, ‘The thing is, it wouldn’t do our image much good if this got out.’

‘I can only assure you that it won’t.’

‘Okay. Well, the current owners of Willow Reeves bought out the previous owners in 1970, revamped the
place, added a few wings
and reopened a year later as a non-profit enterprise under its present name.’

‘And what was the previous name?’

‘Cavendish Private Hospital.’

‘Sounds pretty innocuous to me.’

Golden sighed. ‘They specialized in treating the mentally disadvantaged.’

‘I see,’ Jenna said. ‘So it was an asylum.’

‘That’s a word we try to avoid when referring to Cavendish, Ms Huntley. It suggests a Gothic building full of axe murderers.
Although before my time, this was a private home with no facilities for housing the more dangerous elements. Many patients
actually came of their own volition. Mental illness takes many forms, as I’m sure you know.’

‘I
didn’t mean to offend.’

Golden gave a nervous laugh. ‘Of course not. I’m just . . . Anyway, like I said, residents are probably better off not knowing
what went on here before. We consider 1971 year zero. Our past isn’t exactly a secret, but we see no reason to advertise it.’

‘I understand. So are you saying I’ve hit a dead end as regards accessing old
records?’

‘Well, obviously we don’t have anything here. Maybe . . . Hold on a second.’

Jenna heard the sound of fingers on a keyboard. Golden came back on and said, ‘Apparently, all the old hospital files are
held in storage in
a warehouse back east. Minus the patients’ actual medical files, of course; they would have all been forwarded on to the patients’
personal physicians. I can give you the address but you’ll probably need a court order to gain access to them.’

She’d brightened up on hearing the words
back east
. ‘An address would be great,’ she said.

He gave her a location in Brooklyn and a warehouse number. She jotted both down on her notepad. ‘You’ve been a big help, Mr
Golden.’

‘No problem, Ms Huntley. Just remember me come audit time.’

Jenna hung up and looked at her notepad, wondering if she’d just wasted an hour of her life on this. It seemed pretty far-fetched
to think a letter written twenty years ago would have anything to do with the bloody events just three years past. But then,
you never knew until you checked.
She looked at the screen and remembered the other letter. The one from the college.
What the hell
, she thought.
When you’re on a roll . .
.

She typed the words
Randall Brennan
and
Wald College
into the same search engine and hit Return. The first link on the results page was for the official Wald College site. She
clicked on it and was taken to a section that extolled the
virtues of the college’s extensive library. Along with its recently
constructed annex.

The Brennan Wing.

So he had taken them up on their offer of immortality, after all. That was interesting, if not particularly useful. Still,
Jenna experienced the same satisfaction she always felt whenever a particular problem reached its conclusion, and noted
down
the web address in her notebook. Then she grabbed the cordless again and dialled a number from memory.

The phone was picked up after five rings and the voice said, ‘Hello?’

‘Hello yourself. You busy?’