Fear

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘My name is DeShawn Pitts,’ the tall man said, shaking Groote’s hand. ‘I’m with the U.S. Marshals Service and I need to talk to you regarding a person of interest.’

Groote noticed Pitts wore finger braces on his left hand – two fingers broken – and his bruised face announced he’d been on the losing end of a recent fight.

‘Happy to help.’

‘Where were you with the Bureau?’ Pitts asked.

‘Fifteen years in the Los Angeles office.’

‘Now you’re for hire.’

‘The parent company of the hospital retained me.’ He realized he was talking too much, but he always did when he was around other feds. Old habits. His colleagues had always made him nervous, hyperaware, as though they could see the shadow he’d become after Cathy died and Amanda got sick. He brought Pitts to Hurley’s first-floor office, two doors down from the conference room where Sorenson waited.

‘You said you wanted to talk about a person of interest.’

Pitts took a seat. ‘Yes, and you’ll forgive me if I skimp on details. A person of interest that we’re trying to locate – his name is Michael Raymond – received a call on his cell phone from this hospital two days ago. I need to know who tried to call him.’

Groote kept his face impassive but thought, Oh, hell. When I tried to call MR back again and got no answer. ‘Michael Raymond. The name’s not familiar to me.’ Who is this Michael Raymond and why is he screwing everything up for me? Groote cleared his throat and typed on the computer keyboard in Hurley’s office. ‘Let me check the visitor logs.’ He collected his thoughts while he scanned the log. ‘He hasn’t visited us. I can e-mail the staff, ask if anyone knows him.’

‘Not quite yet. His psychiatrist was Allison Vance. Have you heard about this explosion-’

He’s a patient of hers. Nathan was telling the truth. ‘Of course. It’s a tragedy. And you thought he might seek help from us.’

‘He’s… delusional. He believes that he needs to “right” Doctor Vance’s death.’

Groote raised an eyebrow. ‘Does he believe he bears responsibility?’

DeShawn Pitts pointed to Doctor Hurley’s nameplate on the door. ‘Hurley’s your psychiatric chief? I think I should wait and discuss this man’s mental state with the doctor. You understand.’

‘Of course. I didn’t mean the question in a medical context but in terms of security. If this man is a danger to the hospital, I want to know what kind of threat he is.’

‘I don’t think he’d hurt anyone. But if he shows up, I want you to call me immediately, at this number. Detain him if you can.’

‘Call you and call the police.’

‘No. Just call me. It’s critical that I locate him. Without a lot of public fuss.’

Groote raised an eyebrow again. ‘I could be of much greater help to you, if I knew exactly who this man was.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t go into details.’

Searching for a man but you can’t say that you’re searching for him. Interesting, Groote thought. More than interesting. A situation with very few plausible explanations. ‘Is this man wanted by the Marshals Service? Is he a fugitive?’

‘As I said, he’s a person of interest, and we don’t want to make a big production.’

This man knows the truth about my target, Groote realized, and he measured, on an internal scale, the risk of confrontation with Pitts. ‘Your boy doesn’t believe the fire was caused by a gas leak.’

‘No.’

‘And this investigation, it’s part of his delusion?’

‘Possibly. He’s suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder.’

‘You know, it’s possible that your guy called Doctor Hurley. Hurley knew Doctor Vance; the psychiatric community here’s not that big. Perhaps the call was Hurley returning a call from your guy.’ He tapped fingertips against the table, pretended to think. ‘Hurley mentioned an odd call the other day.’

‘Then I need to speak with Doctor Hurley. You and he could help me bring this guy in.’

Groote seized the opening. ‘I’m not in the business of laying traps for people. Legally, I’m in quicksand if Mr. Raymond shows up, I detain him, and call you and you have no just cause.’

Pitts clicked tongue against teeth. ‘You said you were ex-FBI.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why’d you leave?’

‘Family tragedy.’

DeShawn said, ‘Excuse me, but I need to make a phone call.’

‘Certainly. There’s a private room next door.’ He ushered DeShawn into the room – an interview room, used in consulting with patients.

‘Walls are padded,’ DeShawn said, a hint of distaste in his voice.

‘Yes,’ Groote said without comment, and closed the door. ‘Hit the door twice when you’re done.’ Then he hurried back to the computer in Hurley’s office, activated the hidden camera in the soft fabric of the wall. Every room had these cameras, ready for use when Hurley needed them. A mike paired to the camera and he snapped a window on the computer open, adjusted the sound.

‘Jimmy, I need background on Dennis Groote. Former FBI field agent in Los Angeles,’ Pitts said. The mike wasn’t powerful enough to pick up the response. DeShawn waited on the phone. Groote already knew the answer would be glowing; his record was clean.

Pitts was asking, first, to ensure that Groote was who he said he was, and second, that – please, God, please – Groote could be trusted.

They want to find him but they don’t want the locals to know a manhunt is on. So he’s one of their fugitives, but he slipped the leash. Doesn’t make sense. A fugitive wouldn’t be working at an art gallery, wouldn’t be seeing a psychiatrist regularly. No. Michael’s not a fugitive. So what is he? A marshal hunts fugitives. But why hunt a fugitive and not let the cops know? Why protect the bad guy that way – protect. The word echoed in Groote’s head. Michael Raymond’s not a fugitive – he’s a witness.

‘Uh-huh,’ Pitts said into the phone. He was now wearing the bored expression of someone getting a record read to him.

Meanwhile inspiration struck Groote. He opened another window feed on the room’s camera, jumped back on the digital tape, watched DeShawn hit a speed dial. The number flashed on the phone’s screen. Groote scribbled the number down on a Post-it note and slipped it into his pocket. He killed the second window. On the live camera DeShawn Pitts said, ‘Uh-huh, okay,’ three more times.

Groote picked up the phone and dialed the number. He got routed to another marshal, since DeShawn Pitts was already on Jimmy’s line.

‘U.S. Marshals Service.’

Groote made his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘Jimmy – need Jimmy. Right now. Need help.’

‘Who’s speaking, please?’

‘I’ll only talk to Jimmy. Only to a WITSEC inspector. He’s got to help me.’

‘Hold on, sir,’ and Groote clicked off the phone.

A witness. Michael Raymond was a federal witness. One they had lost, one they needed to find. He’s suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Find him without a lot of publicity.

A witness who had run. But guys who walked away from the program were on their own. Except this one, who must still be of particular value.

On the camera screen DeShawn Pitts closed his phone. He pounded the flat of his hand against the fabric twice.

Groote went to the door, let Pitts out, led him back into the office.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yes. You check out. Outstanding service record. Call Gomez at your old field office, he’ll vouch for me and this operation. You won’t be at legal risk.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Could you give me Doctor Hurley’s number now? I want to arrange a meeting with him,’ Pitts said. ‘If you think he’ll help.’

‘He’s very civic-minded,’ Groote said. ‘I’ll call him for you.’ He flipped open his own phone. Hurley would soil himself, trying to get Celeste Brent back to the hospital sedated and ready to talk, if a federal agent phoned him.

He dialed Hurley’s number, smiling politely.