Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fix

“Do you have that information or is there someone else we can—?”

She lifted her head and without looking at him said, “My daughter, Jules, she... she’ll know that.” She pulled a phone from her pocket, tapped some keys, and passed it to him. Bogart wrote the phone number down, handed Ellie her phone back, and walked out of the room.

Jamison put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder and said, “I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Dabney.”

“Did he... did Walt really h-hurt someone? The FBI... they... they said...”

“We don’t have to talk about that now.”

Ellie turned her tearstained face to Jamison. “He couldn’t have. Are you sure someone didn’t shoot him? You see, Walt wouldn’t hurt anything. H-he...” Her voice trailed off and she placed her forehead back on the rail.

The monitor started to beep and they both glanced at it, but the device quieted down.

“We are sure, Mrs. Dabney. I wish I could tell you otherwise. There were a lot of witnesses.”

Ellie blew her nose on a tissue and said in a firmer voice, “He’s not going to recover, is he?”

“The doctors aren’t hopeful, no.”

“I... I didn’t even know he owned a gun.”

After studying the woman for a few seconds, Jamison asked, “Did you notice a change in your husband recently?”

“In what way?” Ellie said absently.

“Mood? Concerns at work? Appetite changed? Maybe he drank more than normal? Any signs of depression?”

Ellie sat back in her chair, wadded the tissue up in her hand, and stared down at her lap.

Outside the door footsteps could be heard, along with occasional running feet, the sounds of a monitor alarm, voices over a PA, and equipment and patients being rolled up and down the corridor. The air smelled like hospitals always did: antiseptic. And the air was perpetually chilly. There was also an ominous tenseness present in the CCU, as though only a monitor’s sudden warning screech separated the living from the dead.

“Walt didn’t talk about business at home. He didn’t really drink at home either, although I know that he did at business dinners and industry events, that sort of thing. I attended some with him. But he only drank enough to socialize, to get deals done, build contacts, you know, that sort of thing.”

“I understand. Were there any financial worries?”

“Not that I knew of. But Walter handled all that. We never had any bill collectors show up at the house, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did his mood change?”

She dabbed at her eyes and shot a glance at her husband before quickly looking away, as though she was uncomfortable conveying information about him to a stranger. “He had a variety of moods. He worked very hard and when business was good he was happy, when it was down, he got depressed, just like anybody would.”

“So nothing out of the ordinary?”

Ellie balled up the tissue even more and then tossed it into the trash can.

With finality.

She turned to Jamison, who waited patiently. If being around Amos Decker had taught her anything, it was patience, for both positive and negative reasons.

“He went on a trip recently.”

“Where?”

“That was the unusual thing. He didn’t tell me where. He had never done that before.”

“How long was he gone?” Jamison asked.

“I think about four days. It could have been longer. He was on another trip in New York and left from there. He called me and said something unexpected had come up and that he had to attend to it and wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone.”

“Plane, train? Another country?”

“I don’t know. He did tell me it had to do with a potential client. He had to smooth over something. The way he described it the matter didn’t seem too significant. I suppose his office would have handled the travel arrangements.”

“Okay, and he mentioned nothing to you about it when he got home?”

“Nothing. I just assumed it was business. But from that day on, there was something, I don’t know, off.”

“And when was this?”

“About a month ago.”

“And your husband has his own government contracting firm?”

Ellie nodded. “Walter Dabney and Associates. It’s located in Reston. Everything they work on is pretty much classified. It started out with just my husband, but now about seventy people work there. He has partners at the firm, but Walter is president and owns a controlling interest.” Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, I guess I’ll own it now.” She looked in alarm at Jamison. “Does that mean I’ll have to run it? I don’t know anything about his business. I don’t even have a security clearance.”

Jamison gripped her hand. “I don’t think you need to worry about those details right now, Mrs. Dabney.”

Ellie relaxed and looked back at her husband. “What was the person’s name again? That Walter...? They told me, but I can’t remember. Everything is just a blur right now.”

“Anne Berkshire. She was a substitute teacher at a Catholic high school in Fairfax. Do you know her?”

Ellie shook her head. “I never heard of her. And I don’t know why Walt would know her either. High school teacher? Walt and I had our children fairly early. Jules, our oldest, is thirty-seven. And our oldest grandkid is only in first grade. And they don’t even live in Virginia anyway. And we’re not Catholic. We’re Presbyterian.”

“Right. Well, thank you for the information. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Will I need to get a lawyer?” Ellie blurted out.

Jamison looked uncomfortable. “I’m really not the one to advise you about that. If you or your husband used a lawyer or know one, you should check with that person.”

Ellie nodded dumbly and then reached through the rails and gripped her husband’s hand once more.

A minute later Bogart came back in. “It’s all taken care of, Mrs. Dabney,” he said. “According to your daughter, everyone except Natalie will be in by tonight.”

“Natalie lives in Paris. I tried to phone her but no one answered. And it wasn’t... it wasn’t something I could leave on a voicemail or tell her by email.”

“Your daughter Jules reached her and told her the situation. She’s trying to get a flight here as soon as possible.”

“I really can’t believe this is happening,” said Ellie. “When Walt left this morning everything was... perfect. And now?” She looked up at them. “It’s all gone. Just like that.”

Just like that , thought Jamison.

They had traveled from a place filled with dead bodies to a place filled with dying people.

After making inquiries at the front desk, Decker and Milligan had been given over to the director of Dominion Hospice, Sally Palmer. The woman was shocked to hear of Anne Berkshire’s death.

“She was just here this morning,” she said as she faced them from across the desk in her small, cramped office.

“That’s what we understand,” said Decker. “And it’s why we’re here. We saw that her hand was stamped with the name of the hospice.”

“Yes, we do that as part of our security procedure.”

“Does this place need much security?” asked Milligan.

Palmer looked at him sternly. “Our patients are weak and on heavy medications. They can hardly protect themselves. It falls to us to do that, and we take that matter very seriously. All visitors are checked in through the front entrance. The hand stamp is easily seen and we change the color every day. That way at a glance our staff knows if a visitor has been properly cleared through or not.”

Decker asked, “Did Berkshire have a family member who’s a patient here? Is that why she was here this morning?”