Down Among the Dead Men

53

The woman behind the counter wasn’t having any of it.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t give out patient information.”

She was Burke Memorial Hospital’s custodian of records, a rotund African-American woman with startling brown eyes.

“Look,” Vargas said. “I know you have rules, but maybe you can bend them a little. I don’t care about her medical records. All I need is a name.”

“And all I need are some comfortable slippers, a bottle of wine, and a night with Barack Obama.”

“I’ll buy you the damn wine if you give me that name. The slippers, too.”

The woman frowned. “Is that a bribe? Do I look like somebody who can be bought?”

“I was joking.”

“Well, I’m not laughing, mister. I don’t know where you went to school, but I think you must’ve skipped out on Ethics One-oh-one. That young lady was a patient at this hospital and it’s not only against the law but against my personal sense of responsibility to hand over private information to anyone, especially the likes of you.”

“Can’t you at least tell me whether or not you were able to identify her?”

“No, I cannot,” the woman said. “Both the police and the family have asked us to keep anything involving her case confidential, pending investigation of the incident that put her in here. For all I know, I’ve already breached that confidence just by opening my big fat mouth.”

“So you do know who she is. You just said ‘family.’”

She scowled at him. “See what I mean? I think we’re done here.”

With this, she turned away and disappeared behind her office door.

Vargas knew this had been a long shot. You didn’t often run across medical professionals willing to risk their careers to help make life easier for a reporter, but he’d had to try. And at least he knew that the American woman had been identified.

The logical next step would be to contact the Albuquerque police, but it sounded to Vargas as if they weren’t likely to be cooperative, either.

His only choice, he decided, was to call in another favor and hope he got a better reception this time.

Several years ago, he’d done a story on a grisly string of murders stretching from California to Nevada and struck up a friendship with a Las Vegas homicide cop by the name of Jennings-the guy who had told him about the “itch.” After suffering a devastating loss, Jennings had flamed out and retired, then wound up doing half-assed magic gigs at a local casino to feed his gambling habit.

Jennings had an ex-wife in the LVPD and a lot of connections, and was one of the few people Vargas knew who hadn’t condemned him to his ignore list. In fact, when Vargas’s humiliation went public in a very big way, Jennings had sent him a card with a joker on front and a one-line message scribbled inside:

YOU’LL SOON BE DRAWING ACES.

That hadn’t happened quite yet, but Vargas knew that Jennings would help him if he asked. And a call to the Albuquerque police from one of their Southwest brethren was likely to receive more attention than a visit from Vargas. Short of that, Jennings was bound to have a connection with access to just the right database. He’d always been a master at getting things done.

So Vargas went outside to his car, checked his cell phone’s address book again, and dialed.

After several rings, the line came to life. “Hey, hey, Number Two, it’s been a while.”

Jennings called Vargas Number Two because they shared the same first name and because the first time they met, Vargas was “just another reporter come to take a dump on the cops.”

When that turned out not to be true, a friendship and a nickname were born.

“I need a favor,” Vargas said.

“So what else is new? Give me a minute or two to win this hand and I’ll get back to you. I just went all in.”

“You’re a brave man.”

“Tell that to my ex. In the meantime, I’m putting you on hold.”

Vargas heard the line click and waited.

A minute or two later, it came to life again and Jennings said, “I just won a monster pot, my friend, so you caught me in a good mood. What do you want and who do I have to kill to get it?”

“No killing necessary,” Vargas said, then gave him just enough details to convince him to help.

There was a pause on the line. “You sure this is something you want to get involved in?”

“No choice at this point,” Vargas said. “I’ve gotta know who she is.”

“Sounds to me like you’re developing a crush on the victim.”

“Hardly. I just found out she’s alive.”

“Yeah, and I’d lay odds your hardened little heart skipped a beat or two when you did.”

“Are you gonna help me or give me grief?”

“Both,” Jennings said. “The bad news is, nobody’s all that anxious to talk to a broken-down ex-cop. But the good news is that I know a couple of Albuquerque major-crimes investigators who still owe me a favor. Maybe I can get one of them to pony up.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

“Yeah, that’s me, hombre. Mr. Reliable.”