Deadly Promise Read online

  “Don’t sweetie me right know. I want to be mad for a bit first.”

  “You mad at me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. What’s with her stupid smirk? The whole lip quiver thing? Even her body language. I swear she was leaning.”

  “Leaning?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. You’re a human lie detector. You didn’t notice her peculiar, seductive lean?”

  “I told you she likes to play games. I guess I wrote it off as part of her game. Besides, all that was new.”

  “Meaning she did all that for my benefit. Tell me I can tell her off next time.”

  “Jessica, love of my life, you can tell her off next time.”

  Jessica smiled at the fact that I had avoided calling her sweetie. “Alright, I’m not mad at you.” She carried our food into the dining room while motioning for me to grab some silverware. She had ordered from a Chinese restaurant we frequented. The owner understood my love of fresh vegetables and generous portion sizes, along with a desire for authenticity. More than once, the owner invited me to sit down with him and his wife to eat off-menu Chinese delicacies. Halfway through the meal, Jessica had calmed down enough to resume talking.

  “The more and more I keep thinking about things, the more and more questions I have,” she said.

  “You mean Special Agent Marshall’s visit didn’t clear everything up for you,” I said facetiously.

  “Special Agent Marshall is smart.”

  “She’s weird. She was asked to tail me and chose not only to approach me but irritate me. I’ll bet they don’t teach that technique at Quantico.”

  “Maybe not, but you never suspected her to be FBI, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. Yet, I wasn’t surprised when I saw the badge on her belt at the field office. What’s up, Jessica? A few minutes ago you asked me if you could tell her off. Now you sound like you respect her.”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you always say about remembering your goal. If her goal is to make sure we can’t read her, then she’s succeeding.”

  “I don’t know, Jessica. I think she might truly be that weird.”

  “Weird or crafty? I guess we’ll find out because I’m sure we haven’t seen the last of her. The only thing truly baffling me now is how she knows about Boyd.”

  Jessica and I discussed that topic for several minutes, and neither of us had any idea how or where Agent Marshall was getting her information. We eventually gave up talking about the FBI and the fact that we were right about Marino being linked to organized crime, choosing to focus on the context and meaning behind Boyd’s call.

  Neither of us could think of any legitimate reason for Boyd to call LeClair instead of me. Not that Boyd and LeClair weren’t friendly, but LeClair described it best when he said he was surprised Boyd had his number.

  “We’ve been going over this for a half-hour, Legend. I realize we have no definite answers so tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Here’s the best I can come up with. Boyd said his client sent men after him. We need to find the client and have a talk with him. Because if Boyd is worried enough he is laying low, so low he won’t even call me directly and tell me where he is, then he must believe the client is dangerous.”

  “If the client is that dangerous, wouldn’t Boyd be more likely to ask for your help?”

  “I’m not sure, Jessica. Part of me thinks Boyd is trying to protect me now that…you know.”

  “Now that you’re married,” Jessica said, finishing my sentence. “Surely, he knows me well enough to know I wouldn’t stand in your way. In fact, I would insist you help him.”

  “I know that. And he knows that, which is maybe why he didn’t call us directly. He’s happy for me. This could be his way of shielding me, and you, too, for that matter from danger.”

  “Hogwash, but I guess it makes sense,” Jessica said. “Let me work on the client’s identity tomorrow while you’re at work. For now, I want you to concentrate on discovering where I hid my radio earlier. A promise is a promise.”

  ***

  Working in an urgent care setting wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I chose to be an emergency care physician three years ago. Then again, being an emergency care doctor wasn’t what I had in mind when I started my residency in physical medicine and rehabilitation after graduating from medical school. The decision had seemed natural at the time, though. I found I didn’t appreciate the long-term management of patients and much preferred the short-term acute care found in the ER. Even after Memphis Memorial Hospital let me go, I worked short-term positions in hospitals needing someone on a temporary basis, commonly called a locum tenens physician. The urgent care job was a great opportunity for a newlywed husband who no longer wanted to travel all over the state of Tennessee.

  I was darn lucky to have the job. Dr. Thomas Boyett, the clinic owner, was someone I had worked with at Memphis Memorial. An older doctor who had wanted to practice with his brother in family medicine in Memphis. Seven to seven, six days a week. Noon to seven on Sundays. The Boyett brothers primarily worked on the family medicine side of the clinic. They worked by appointment only, while I worked the walk-in patients with two other doctors and two more physician assistants. The job didn’t pay as well as the emergency room, meaning it took me four days to make what I made in two in the ER, but I still had a lot of flexibility in my schedule.

  Monday in the clinic was like any other Monday. Sore throats, upset stomachs, weekend warrior injuries. I was sitting in my office, staring off into space after finishing some dictation when Dr. Boyett walked in and sat down.

  “You look bored, L.T. If you’re planning on heading back into emergency care, you’ll let me know, right?”

  I glanced up, probably looking a little startled. “Sorry, Dr. Boyett. Of course, I’d let you know if my plans changed, but nothing to report here. And I’m distracted not bored.”

  “Does this distraction have anything to do with why you left an hour early on Friday?”

  Suddenly, I felt guilty about leaving early and felt I owed Dr. Boyett an explanation. “Doc, I have to admit I was a little surprised when you called me a few months ago with a job offer. You have to know things didn’t end well at Memphis Memorial.”

  “L.T., let me start by saying Dr. Witmer is a personal friend of mine. She told me how you might have saved her life from that gunmen. And Dr. Lowe is a dick for letting you go. But then he’s a dick for every other reason I can think of.”

  “Thanks. But surely you’ve heard about the other trouble I’ve been in.”

  “You mean the Dixie Mafia coming after you and that small-town sheriff and the ensuing gunfight? Or do you mean the Senate hearings and investigations earlier this year?”

  I wanted to sink into the chair and hide from this wonderful man who probably had to beg his brother to hire me. I could hear it now, “give him a second chance; I’ll get rid of him myself if he screws up.”

  “Hey, wipe that look off your face,” Boyett said. “I hired you because you were a good doctor when we worked together. I still remember the first time you argued with a surgeon when you insisted a shoulder MRI was wrong. Less than six months out of med school, and you took on an orthopedic surgeon with a God complex. Plus, if I remember right, you ended up being correct.”

  I smiled as I recalled the incident. The surgeon had diagnosed the patient with a torn rotator cuff from an MRI, which did not coincide with my examination findings. I had been right. “The patient went under the knife anyway,” I said. “When the surgeon discovered the rotator cuff tendon was intact, he did a surgical debridement and acromioplasty, sewed the patient back up, and sent her on her way. Her shoulder pain completely resolved, so, in the end, I was arguing about nothing.”

  “I knew that already,” Dr. Boyett said. “I was impressed with your desire to make sure the patient got the best treatment possible. Now, will you answer my question?”

  I told him about my missing friend and the obsc
ure phone call while leaving out all references to the FBI and Nick Marino.

  “Dr. McCain, I knew about your past and hired you anyway, so don’t worry about your job here. All I ask in return is you be honest with me. If you need to take off and save the world again, let me know. We’ll work around it. On one condition — when whatever you are doing is all over, you come back and tell me whatever you can.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You don’t know this about me, but I’m an aspiring writer. I’ve got a few short stories published under a pen name. Talking to you, I’m bound to get some great ideas.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  I had no idea if Dr. Boyett was serious or only trying to make me feel at ease. Either way, I felt better and less distracted.

  Jessica was waiting for me when I got home. Impatiently waiting. Wanting to tell me something so bad she opened the garage door and ushered me inside directing me to sit down. “If you can go, I can have you on a plane in the morning to meet Boyd’s client.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Jessica said she would discover the identity of Boyd’s client, and she delivered in less than a day. I remembered Boyd telling me Kent Rutherford lined him up with a client, and Jessica remembered my mother had thought Rutherford sounded charming on the phone. One call from Mom to Kent Rutherford and she had the name — George Mansfield, a wealthy attorney in Washington, D.C. Rutherford wasn’t entirely sure why Mansfield needed a private investigator, but he had his suspicions. Seven years earlier, someone kidnapped and killed Mansfield’s wife. Rutherford assumed Manfield’s interest in Boyd had something to do with the kidnapping. Maybe Mansfield was still looking for justice and had a new lead on the kidnappers. Rutherford couldn’t give us any more than that, other than Mansfield was very concerned about hiring someone who could be discreet. Rutherford immediately thought of Boyd. Rutherford also confirmed Boyd was not working on any other cases at the moment, so if Boyd mentioned his client sent men to kill him and the woman he was hired to find, then the client had to be George Mansfield. I was a little hurt Kent Rutherford seemed to know more about what was going on in Boyd’s life than I did, but I was still thankful for the information.

  George Mansfield hired Boyd to find a woman. Then, he tried to kill Boyd and the woman. I probably should have been surprised, but nothing surprised me anymore when it came to the actions and motivations of people of power and privilege. So, who was the woman Boyd was hired to find? And why did Mansfield want both Boyd and the woman dead? Mansfield must have planned on double-crossing Boyd from the start. No wonder he demanded complete discretion.

  Jessica promised me more details on the kidnapping as soon as she could find them. In the meantime, she had me scheduled to visit with Mansfield shortly after lunch under the guise I needed his firm to help with the patent of a new medical device I had invented.

  Dr. Boyett was surprisingly true to his word when I called him to ask if I could make a last-minute trip to Washington, D.C. He went so far as to make me promise I’d tell him what I could when I returned and wished me luck.

  I was not happy to be back in Washington, D.C., the city of politicians and bureaucrats, neither of which I liked. Last year, the Environmental Protection Agency made Jessica’s life miserable when the organization launched a full-scale, trumped-up investigation aimed at Jessica because they thought she possessed important environmental research data they didn’t want to be released. The data and reports belonged to her favorite college professor, a renowned soil scientist at the University of Illinois who had been hired to give an opinion on acid rain. After he was found dead in his office, the official in charge of the EPA’s Criminal Investigative Division overstepped his bounds when he tried to implicate her in the murder of the professor. Further complicating everything, the same official also turned out to be the ring leader of a violent environmental activist group, the same group that carried out the murder on the professor. And somewhere in the process, a junior New York senator got involved, which launched a Senate investigation and hearing. The senator kept his job, but any future political ambitions he might have had were up in smoke — his Chappaquiddick moment. It was a mess of epic proportions and the reason I hated the city.

  My American Airlines flight left Memphis at 6:05 in the morning, a nonstop flight arriving at Washington National Airport at 9:14, giving me plenty of time to grab a taxi and check in early to my hotel room. As I crossed the Potomac River from Arlington, Virginia into D.C., I couldn’t help but notice for all its history, for all the wonderful architecture and beautiful landmarks and world-class museums, Washington D.C. had arguably the flattest skyline of any U.S. city. The largest city in the United States without skyscrapers. The result of a building act from the early 1900s limiting all buildings to a height of 130 feet, or twelve stories.

  Jessica booked me a hotel three blocks from Dornbracht, Mansfield, and Villeroy, the law firm where George Mansfield was a managing partner. I wondered if the idiot attorneys were aware Dornbracht, Mansfield, and Villeroy were also the names of commode manufacturers in the United States. It made sense — shit head names for shit head attorneys, one of which sent men to kill my best friend. Jessica paid extra for early check-in, so I directed the taxi driver to take me straight to the hotel. I checked in, changed clothes for my visit with Mansfield, and grabbed lunch in the hotel before walking three blocks to the law firm. It was hard not to chuckle when I realized the last time I was on that particular street, I had been running from the D.C. Metro Police.

  I found the right building easily enough. A twelve-story rectangular postmodern commercial office building with ornamental columns running from the second story through the sixth story resulting in an exterior that attempted to distinguish the building from the typical D.C. commercial structure. The inability to build vertically meant the architect had to go ornate. The interior ultimately defined the building. The lobby was an octagonal rotunda with a mezzanine floor and a marble fountain in the center. A twelve-story skylit atrium rose the full height over the lobby. The building was built to impress.

  Dornbracht, Mansfield, and Villeroy was located on the twelfth floor. I checked in with the receptionist, who escorted me to Mansfield’s office two minutes after my appointment time. George Mansfield was standing when the door opened. Jessica had already told me he was 53 years old and a man of considerable wealth. He looked the part. I’m no clothing expert, but his suit was definitely not off the rack and was tailored to perfectly fit his 5’9” frame and average middle-aged male build. The material looked to be high-quality wool. His shirt, his tie, his shoes combined with the suit made for a look that fit right in with the upper crust of D.C.

  He crossed the room and met me with a firmer handshake than expected. The slightest hint of a calloused palm. As if he played a racket sport. His smile seemed genuine.

  I wonder what that stupid smile will look like after I smash his face in. Hold on, Legend. Keep it together.

  Mansfield introduced himself before asking me if I needed anything followed by the usual inquiries into my flight and whether I liked visiting D.C. I lied and told him yes before listening to him go through a brief description of the law firm and their excellent reputation in patent law, trademarks, copyrights, protection of trade secrets, and product licensing.

  “Dr. McCain, I hear you have a potential new product design that would greatly improve endotracheal intubation. Is this something that would greatly reduce some of the complications of intubation, such as laryngeal injury?”

  Mansfield had done a little research in anticipation for my visit.

  Boy, will he be pissed when he realizes he won’t be able to bill me for any of that time. Probably not as mad as when I smash his face in.

  “I’m apologizing in advance, Mr. Mansfield. You’ve been misled. I’m not here to discuss a new medical product. I’m here to talk to you about Boyd Dallas.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t follow.” Mansfield didn’t even blink. He lied to my face w
ithout a single tell.

  “Boyd Dallas, the private investigator you hired recently.”

  “I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else.” He was careful to not sound too indignant.

  “Mr. Mansfield, I know I’ve got the right guy. Not that Boyd told me anything. He was adamant about not revealing your identity or why you hired him.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about, and I do not appreciate this intrusion, Mister...”

  “Dr. McCain. I didn’t lie about my identity, only the purpose of my visit.”

  “I’m a busy man, Dr. McCain. You need to leave.” He stood up putting his hand on his phone. I understood the implication — he would call security if I didn’t leave.

  “We need to have this conversation, Mr. Mansfield. If not now, then later. Something has happened to my friend. He’s been missing for a week, and I know he was in Wisconsin working on a case for you. All I need is information.”

  Mansfield picked up the phone. “If you don’t leave, I will have you escorted out.”

  I stood up and glared at Mansfield, who stared back at me with a level and degree of condescension that seemed wholly reserved for rich people with a strong sense of entitlement. The look that says I’m untouchable, and you know it because I’m better than you. I wonder if he would still feel so entitled if I walked over there and smashed his face in.

  “I wish you had been more cooperative, Mansfield. I truly do. It would have saved us both a lot of trouble and potential headaches. So you know, Boyd isn’t the only one with investigative experience. I think something has happened to my friend. I don’t know what...yet. When I do figure it out, and I will, those responsible will pay dearly for any harm that has come to my friend. It’s how I handle things — up close and very personal.”

  I leaned forward increasing my glare on the last few words. His dilated pupils were a sure-fire indicator my point had been made.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “To you? No. You’ve never heard of Mr. Dallas, remember. Think of it as...an impassioned soliloquy delivered in your presence.”