Джеймс Паттерсон - The Inn

“Burner phone,” she said. “It’s untraceable. Registered to no one.”

“Can we find out where it was purchased?” I asked, taking a seat beside her.

“Bill, I’m not your federal connection,” Susan said. “I don’t work for the Bureau anymore. If you want to go down a rabbit hole, you’ll have to do it on your own.”

“But you still seem in league with them somehow,” Nick said, gesturing to the laptop.

“Just call up your old friends and get them to help us out,” I said.

“I can’t call up my old friends and ask them for favors any more than you can,” she said, looking at me. I felt a chill run up the back of my neck. I wasn’t sure if Susan knew what I had done in Boston, what had gotten me severed like a gangrenous limb from the job I loved. Her comment suggested she knew something.

“Look,” she said. “A drug dealer using burner phones and giving out free product is probably part of an outfit. Junkies don’t have the cash to keep buying devices—they use public phones, and they sure don’t give anything away for free. The guy on the end of this number? He’s probably just a soldier delivering the goods.”

“So what are you saying?” I asked. “This could be a gang or something?”

“What I’m saying is you need to decide whether you want to get involved,” Susan said. “You might end up with a whole pack of them on your tail. If you target the wrong guy, you could be in a world of trouble.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE APPOINTMENT WAS for one Mitchell Antoine Cline, but when Dr. Raymond Locke looked up from his desk, he saw three men entering his small office. From the information in his files, he figured that Cline was the smallest of them, a man with a well-toned body filling out his Hugo Boss shirt and long, narrow feet in patent-leather shoes. He sat in a chair while the two men with him—a thickly built Asian guy with an enormous silver watch and a much bigger black guy with a neat goatee—stood against the wall and looked bored. Locke noted that he hadn’t clicked the alert button on the computer screen to tell the front desk to send the next patient in.

“Mr. Cline, is it?” Locke leaned back in his chair. “Uh, this is awkward, but I actually don’t take group appointments. I thought you were here to talk about your”—he looked at the computer screen again—“laryngitis. Could your friends perhaps wait outside?”

“My health is fine.” Cline smiled. “I’m not here for a medical consultation. I’m here with a business proposal, Dr. Locke. I’m told you’re in charge of the pharmacy at this hospital

“I … excuse me?”

“You’re a multitalented guy, Doctor.” Cline clasped his long hands on his knee. “You juggle many responsibilities. Mondays you’re here at the hospital as an internist. Tuesdays to Thursdays, you put in time in the ER. On Fridays, you review the pharmacy inventory and order what’s needed, and Saturdays you play squash with two other doctors. Sundays you drive your teenage son, Adam, to acting classes. He dreams of Broadway. Very refreshing in a TV-driven world, you ask me.”

The big black man in the corner of the room heard his cue, strode forward, and placed a Polaroid on the desk in front of Locke. It was a profile shot of Locke and Adam walking to the family car in the Fresh Stars parking lot. Locke eased air through his lips.

“I think you’re ripe for more responsibility,” Cline said. “Our partnership could be very profitable for you.”

“This is … ” Locke shook his head, tried to find the words. “This is … ”

The big guy unfolded a piece of paper and put it next to the photograph of Locke and his son. Locke took it and looked at the items on this list. A part of his brain knew exactly what was happening and what would come next. He’d heard stories like this from friends he’d known in med school, although always second- and thirdhand and always unbelievable. Even as Cline continued speaking, part of Locke’s brain could almost say the words along with the stranger in the chair before him. Another part of his brain was experiencing pure panic. Deep, gut-wrenching, red, raw panic, a siren that wailed uselessly as he gripped the paper for dear life. Though he’d always feared this, he’d never made a plan. He tried to tuck himself deeper into his chair.

“You’ll have the items on that list shipped here monthly,” Cline said. “I’ll assign you a liaison, one of my business associates, who will collect the items and adjust the order as necessary. You’ll be compensated for your assistance.”

“I can’t—”

“You’re afraid,” Cline said. His handsome features were warm, almost kind, and he nodded with compassion. “I understand. You’ve heard stories about this sort of thing. You think that if you’re late or light on a shipment or if you involve the police in our arrangement, my men will come around here with ice picks and baseball bats and teach you a lesson. That’s not true, Dr. Locke. Nothing’s going to happen to you. We will take our business elsewhere, and you’ll go back to your normal, happy life.”

Locke felt his legs trembling beneath his desk. Cline took a moment to examine the certificates on Locke’s wall almost dreamily before he continued.

“Then one day you’ll get a phone call,” Cline said. “It might be a couple of months from now, or a year. The caller will be from your son’s high school. He’ll be wondering where your son is, why you didn’t call to say that your son would be out sick. You’ll tell them you dropped him at the school gates. He should be there. You’ll call 911. There will be an Amber alert. A media appeal. A prayer vigil. People will put flowers and teddy bears and candles on the lawn outside your house.”

“Listen. Some of this stuff, I … I can’t justify ordering it,” Locke stammered. “You … you’ve got embalming fluid on here. How do I explain that? We’re not a funeral parlor. Mescaline I can’t get unless I submit for special approval. The Duragesic, the morphine … it’s too much!”

“It’ll take some time for police to find your son.” Cline brushed an invisible piece of lint from the shoulder of his shirt, talking softly, ignoring Locke. “They’ll have to access his dental records to confirm his identity. Your wife will want to see him. The medical examiner will advise against it.”

“Okay.” Locke put his hands up. “Okay. Okay. Please stop. Just stop.”

“I’ll leave Simbo and Russ here to sort out the details.” Cline smoothed the front of his shirt as he stood. “It was such a pleasure doing business with you.”

Cline put out his hand. Locke shook it, but he was so numb, he hardly felt the icy contact against his skin.

CHAPTER NINE

I LEFT SUSAN to her work at her laptop and went into the kitchen. Nick followed me. He was jittery, edgy. I’d seen him this way sometimes, bored and searching for conflict, his nerves shot from his time in Iraq and his brain always looking for danger. Just the whiff of trouble could send Nick into a fever. He was like a junkyard dog rehomed to a senior-care facility. Nothing to do. Nothing to guard against.

He stood rubbing his hands together and looking to me as I poured myself a glass of water.

“So what are we gonna do?” he asked.

“Find the loser who gave Winley the junk and cram his head somewhere narrow and dark.”

“But Susan said this could be a whole gang. A sophisticated outfit.”

“Nothin’ gets past you.”

“So we’ve gotta take ’em all out, man. We’ve got to put a stop to this.”

“We,” I said, pointing to his chest and then mine, “don’t have to do anything. We can go knock some heads together to ease Mrs. Minnow’s mind. But we don’t want to get in too deep. If there’s a whole posse of these pricks, it’s Clay’s job to move them on.”