Desperate Measures

2

It took forty minutes. Leaning against the wall in the corridor outside the intensive-care ward, Pittman identified with the forlorn people in the waiting room. His memory of the stress of that kind of waiting increased his own stress. His brow was clammy by the time the door to intensive care was opened. An attractive woman in her late twenties came out, glanced around, then approached him.

She was about five feet five, and her loose white hospital uniform couldn’t hide her athletic figure. She had long, straight blond hair, a beguiling oval face, and cheeks that were so aglow with health that she didn’t need makeup.

“Detective Logan?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Jill Warren.” The nurse shook hands with him. “Dr. Baker said you wanted to ask me some questions.”

“That’s right. I wonder, could we go somewhere that isn’t crowded? There’s a coffee machine on the floor below us, near the elevator. Perhaps I can buy you a…”

“The floor below us? You sound as if you know this hospital fairly well.”

“I used to come here a lot. When my son was in intensive care.” Pittman gestured toward the door to the children’s unit.

“I hope he’s all right now.”

“No.… He died.”

“Oh.” Jill’s voice dropped. “What did-?”

“Bone cancer. Ewing’s sarcoma.”

“Oh.” Her voice dropped lower. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry for…”

“You couldn’t have known. I’m not offended.”

“Do you still want to buy me that cup of coffee?”

“Definitely.”

Pittman walked with her to the elevator. His tension lessened as they got in and the doors closed. The worst risk he’d taken in coming here was that the doctor who had seen him when Millgate was removed from the hospital would be on duty, recognize him, and call the police.

Now Pittman’s brow felt less clammy as he reached the lower floor, which was deserted except for a janitor at the far end of the corridor. Using the last of his change, he put coins in the machine. “How do you like your coffee? With cream? Sugar? Decaffeinated?”

“Actually, I’d like tea.” Jill reached past him, pressing a button.

Pittman couldn’t help noticing the elegant shape of her hand.

The machine made a whirring sound.

Jill turned to him. “What do you need to ask me?”

Steaming liquid poured into a cardboard cup.

“I have to verify some information. Was Mr. Millgate alert before his associates showed up and took him from the hospital?”

“Associates is too kind a word. Thugs would be more like it. Even the doctor who insisted on removing him.”

“Did Millgate object?”

“I guess I’m not making your job easy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I got off the track right away. I didn’t answer your first question. Yes, he was alert. Otherwise-to answer your second question-he wouldn’t have been able to object.” She sipped from the cardboard cup.

“How’s the tea?”

“Scented hot water. These hospital machines. I’m used to it.” Her smile was engaging.

“Why did Millgate object? He didn’t want to be moved?”

“Yes and no. There’s something about that night I still don’t understand.”

“Oh?”

“The men who came to get him insisted that he had to leave because there’d been a story about him on the late news. They told Millgate they had to get him away before reporters showed up.”

“Yes, the story was about a confidential Justice Department report that somehow became public. Millgate was being investigated for being involved in a covert scheme to buy nuclear weapons from the former Soviet Union.”

“Nuclear weapons? But that isn’t what they said in the newspapers.” Jill’s eyes were such a pale blue they seemed almost translucent.

“What who said?”

“The men who came to get Millgate that night. In the newspapers, they said they took him away because they were afraid this obituary reporter-what’s his name?”

“Pittman. Matthew Pittman.”

“Yes, in the newspapers they said they were afraid Pittman would kill Millgate if Millgate stayed in the hospital, where Pittman could get at him. But that night, they never said a word about Pittman. All they seemed to care about was the news report that Millgate was being investigated.”

Pittman felt tense again.

“It’s like they changed their story,” Jill said.

“And Millgate didn’t think the news report about his being investigated was a good-enough reason to take him from the hospital?”

“Not exactly.” Pensive, Jill sipped her tea. Her solemn expression enhanced her features. “He was willing to go. Or to put it another way, he was passive. Melancholy. He didn’t seem to care about leaving. ‘Do whatever you want,’ he kept saying. ‘It doesn’t matter. None of it does. But don’t take me yet.’ That’s what he was upset about. ‘Not yet,’ he kept saying. ‘Wait.’”

“For what?”

“A priest.”

Pittman’s pulse sped as he remembered that at the Scarsdale estate he had overheard two of the grand counselors talking with concern while he crouched on the roof of the garage.

“… priest,” an elderly man’s brittle voice had said.

“Don’t worry,” a second elderly voice had said. “I told you the priest never arrived. Jonathan never spoke to him.”

“Even so.”

“It’s been taken care of,” the second voice had emphasized, reminding Pittman of the rattle of dead leaves. “It’s safe now. Secure.”

“Tell me about him,” Pittman said quickly. “The priest. Do you know his name?”

“Millgate mentioned one priest a lot. His name was Father…” Jill thought a moment. “Dandridge. Father Dandridge. When Millgate was brought to intensive care, he was certain he was going to die. He didn’t have much strength, but the few words he got out were always about this Father Dandridge. Millgate told business associates who were allowed to visit that they had to send for him. Later he accused them of not obeying. In fact, he accused his son of lying to him about sending for the priest. There’s a priest on duty at the hospital, of course. He came around to speak to Millgate. But it seems any priest wasn’t good enough. It had to be Father Dandridge. I was on duty early Thursday morning when Millgate begged the hospital priest to phone Father Dandridge at his parish in Boston. I guess the hospital priest did.”

“What makes you think so?”

“About an hour after Millgate was taken out of here Thursday night, a priest who called himself Father Dandridge came in to see him. He was very upset about not being able to hear Millgate’s confession.”

“He came from a parish in Boston? Do you remember the name?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Pittman’s spirit sank.

“But you don’t have to phone Boston to talk to him,” Jill said.

“What do you mean?”

“Father Dandridge made a point of telling me that he wasn’t returning to Boston. Not until he had a chance to talk to Millgate. If I heard anything, the priest said, I was to call him at a rectory here in Manhattan. St. Joseph’s. The priest said he’d be staying for the weekend.” Jill glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve been off the ward too long. I have a patient who’s due for his meds.”

“I understand. Thank you. You’ve helped me more than you can imagine.”

“If there’s anything else you need to know…”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Jill set down the cardboard cup and walked quickly toward the elevator.

It took about twenty seconds for the doors to open, and as she waited, facing the doors, obviously aware that he watched her, Pittman was impressed that she didn’t act self-conscious. After she got in the elevator, as the doors closed, for a fraction of an instant she smiled at him. Then she was gone, and the excitement that Pittman felt about what he had learned was replaced by exhaustion that weighed so heavily, his legs bent.