The Client (Page 84)

By seven, Brenner, Latchee, and Durston were in hioffice gulping coffee and speculating wildly. Ord arrived next without the food, then two uniformed Memphis policemen knocked on the door to the outer office. Ray Trimble, Deputy Chief of Police and a legend in Memphis law enforcement, was with them.

They assembled in McThune’s office, and Trimble, in fluent coptalk, got right to the point. "Subject was transported from the detention center by ambulance to St. Peter’s around ten-thirtylast night. Subject was signed in by the paramedics at St. Peter’s ER, at which time the paramedics left. Subject was not accompanied by Memphis police or jail personnel. Paramedics are certain a nurse, one Gloria Watts, female •white, signed subject in, but no paperwork can be found. Ms. Watts has stated she had subject in ER intake room, and was called out of room for an undetermined reason. She was absent for no more than ten minutes, and upon her return, subject was gone. The paperwork was gone too, and Ms. Watts assumed subject had been taken to ER for examination and treatment." Trimble slowed a bit and cleared his throat as if this were somehow unpleasant. "At approximately five this morning, Ms. Watts was evidently preparing to leave her shift, and she checked the intake records. She thought of the subject, and began asking questions. Subject could not be found in ER, and Admissions had no record of his arrival. Hospital Security was called, then the Memphis PD. At this time, a thorough search of the hospital is under way." "Six hours," McThune said in disbelief.

"I beg your pardon," Trimble said.

"It took six hours to realize the kid was missing." "Yes sir, but we don’t run the hospital, you see." "Why was the kid transported to the hospital •without security?" "I can’t answer that. An investigation will be undertaken. It looks like an oversight." "Why was the kid taken to the hospital?" Trimble took a file from a briefcase, and handed McThune a copy of Telda’s report. He read it carefully. "Says he went into shock after the U. S. marshals left. What the hell were the marshals doing there?" Trimble opened the file again, and handed McThune the subpoena. He read it carefully, then handed it to George Ord.

"Anything else, Chief?" he said to Trimble, who had never taken a seat and had never stopped pacing slightly. He was eager to leave.

"No sir. We’ll complete the search, and call you immediately if we find anything. We’ve got about four dozen men there right now, and we’ve been checking for a little over an hour." "Have you talked to the kid’s mother?" "No sir. Not yet. She’s still asleep. We’re watching the room in case he tries to get to her." "I’ll talk to her first, Chief. I’ll be over in about an hour. Make sure no one sees her before I do." "No problem." "Thank you, Chief." Trimble clicked his heels together, and for an instant looked as though he wanted to salute. He was gone, along with his officers.

McThune looked at Brenner and Latchee. "You guys call every available agent. Get them here right now. Immediately." They bolted from the room.

"What about the subpoena?" he asked Ord, who was still holding it.

"I can’t believe it. Foltrigg’s lost his mind." "You knew nothing about it?" "Of course not. This kid is under the jurisdiction of the Juvenile Court. I wouldn’t think of trying to reach him. Would you want to piss off Harry Roosevelt?" "I don’t think so. We need to call him. I’ll do it, and you call Reggie Love. I’d rather not talk to her." Ord left the room to find a phone. "Call the U. S. marshal," McThune snapped at Durston. "Get the scoop on this subpoena. I want to know everything about it." Durston left, and suddenly McThune was alone. He raced through a phone book until he found the Roosevelts. But there was no Harry. It tie nad a. number, it was unlisted, and that was perfectly understandable with no less than fifty thousand single mothers trying to collect unpaid child support. McThune made three quick calls to lawyers he knew, and the third one said that Harry lived on Kensington Street. He would send an agent when he could spare one.

Ord returned shaking his head. "I talked to Reggie Love’s mother, but she asked more questions than I did. I don’t think she’s there." "I’ll send two men as soon as possible. I guess you’d better call Foltrigg, the dumbass." "Yeah, I guess you’re right." Ord turned and left the office again.

AT EIGHT, MCTHUNE LEFT THE ELEVATOR ON THE NINTH floor of St. Peter’s with Brenner and Durston following close behind. Three more agents, decked out in a splendid variety of hospital garb, met him at the elevator and walked with him to Room 943. Three massive security guards stood near the door. McThune knocked gently, and motioned for his small squadron to back away. He didn’t want to scare the poor woman.

The door opened slightly. "Yes," came a weak voice from the darkness.

"Ms. Sway, I’m Jason McThune, Special Agent, FBI. I saw you in court yesterday." The door opened wider, and Dianne stepped into the crack. She said nothing, just waited for his next words.

"Can I talk to you in private?" She glanced to her left-three security guards, two agents, and three men in scrubs and lab jackets. "In private?" she said.

"We can walk this way," he said, nodding toward the end of the hall.

"Is something the matter?" she asked as if nothing else could possibly go wrong.

"Yes ma’am." She took a deep breath, and disappeared. Seconds later, she eased through the door with her cigarettes, and closed it gendy behind her. They walked slowly in the center of the empty hall.

"I don’t suppose you’ve talked to Mark," Mc-Thune said.

"He called me yesterday afternoon from the jail," she-said, sticking a cigarette between her lips. It was not a lie; Mark had indeed called her from the jail.

"Since then?" "No," she lied. "Why?" "He’s missing." She hesitated for a step, then continued. "What do you mean, he’s missing?" She was surprisingly calm. She’s probably just numb to all this, McThune thought. He gave her a quick version of Mark’s disappearance. They stopped at the window and looked at downtown.

"My God, do you think the Mafia’s got him?" she asked, and her eyes watered immediately. She held the cigarette with a trembling hand, unable to light it.

McThune shook his head confidently. "No. They don’t even know. We’re keeping a lid on it. I think he just "walked away. Right here, in the hospital. We figured he might have tried to contact you." "Have you searched this place? He knows it really well, you know." "They’ve been searching for three hours, but it looks doubtful. Where would he go?" She finally lit the cigarette and took a long drag, then exhaled a small cloud. "I have no idea." "Well, let me ask you something. What do you know about Reggie Love? Is she in town this weekend? Was she planning a trip?" "Why?" "We can’t find her either. She’s not at home. Her mother ain’t saying much. You received a subpoena last night, right?" "That’s right." "Well, Mark got one, and they tried to serve one on Reggie Love, but they haven’t found her yet. Is it possible Mark’s with her?" I hope so, Dianne thought. She hadn’t thought about this. In spite of the pills she hadn’t slept fifteen minutes since he’d called. But Mark on the loose with Reggie was a new idea. A much more pleasant idea.

"I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess." "Where would they be, you know, the two of them together?" "How the hell am I supposed to know? You’re the FBI. I hadn’t thought about that until five seconds ago, and now you’re asking me where they are. Give me a break." McThune felt stupid. It was not a bright question, and she was not as frail as he thought.