Borderline Page 21

  They stared at each other. He tugged at her hair, pulling her forward.

  SEVENTEEN

  Tony Dorsey rested in his office, savoring the moment. Jeanie Hanson had been gone for a half hour. Great sex was about power and control, enhanced by the joy of deception. The bound papers he had waved in front of Jeanie, allegedly about her firm, were actually an auditor’s report on the fire department’s progress at hiring women and minorities.

  While Jeanie serviced him, he called Arlene to tell her he had to work late. She docilely accepted the news, probably suspecting what was going on. Then he called a few bureau chiefs involved with Jeanie’s construction contracts and left voice mail messages that he wanted to talk about the project. He’d turn down the heat to a low simmer to keep her coming in for a while. She was neither an enthusiastic nor an imaginative participant, but that wasn’t what he was looking for.

  Brian Hanson would be neutralized soon enough. After a few weeks of troubles, the discredited and obviously disturbed counselor would take his own life. With a little help. Before he did it, Dorsey would have to give him a call, while Jeanie Hanson was under the deputy mayor’s desk. The thought gave Dorsey a ripple of pleasure.

  Dorsey had grown up an Army brat, the son of a captain who had served in Germany, England, Spain, and a half dozen different postings in the U.S. He’d excelled at political science and geography. Attending Johns Hopkins on a full academic scholarship, he’d been approached by a CIA recruiter.

  His first few years he’d been an analyst, but always intrigued by the ops side. He applied for, and successfully completed, a transfer. He’d had a posting at School of the Americas, working with police departments from several Latin American countries. He’d never forget his first time sitting in on a Peruvian interrogation of a suspected Shining Path supporter. The two cops had violated the woman in ways he hadn’t imagined. By his third interrogation, he was invited to join. He said no. By his sixth, he was an active participant. His fluency in Spanish coupled with an acceptance of “extraordinary measures” during questioning made him popular with local officials. He participated in several grisly interrogations that resulted in valuable information. By the tenth time, he was leading the interrogations.

  He was about to be made station chief in Paraguay when his career plummeted. A young woman whom he had been involved in torturing turned out to be related to a Mexican senator. The senator raised a fuss over his relative’s abuse and only Dorsey’s quick return to the United States kept him from being exposed and arrested.

  But Dorsey couldn’t kick his acquired tastes. Several prostitutes in the District of Columbia metro area were abused before word got back to the CIA. He was ordered to therapy with an Agency-approved counselor. Once the administrators felt he was not an obvious danger to civilians or a potential leak of confidential information, he was discharged.

  Sitting in his office, he brooded over what to do about Brian Hanson. In the hospital, perhaps Wolf could slip in and overdose him with medication. If not, the whole incident with Trixie would just be the first step in the campaign.

  Hanson awoke to bright lights and harsh sounds, which worsened his explosive headache. He was about to ask where he was, when the tired-looking young man with the white coat leaning over him asked, “Do you know where you are?”

  “Hospital.” It hurt to talk. The paging system called for Dr. Druker, and Hanson winced from the sound.

  “Your name?” the intern asked. He looked like he was trying to make up for his youth by being extremely serious.

  “Brian Hanson.” Hanson tried to sit up but fell back on the bed from a dizzying wave of pain. “I know the year and the president.”

  “Good,” the intern said. “Headache?”

  “Mother of all headaches,” Hanson said.

  “There’s swelling, probably tenderness, on the outside.” He produced a flashlight, shined it in Hanson’s eyes. “Yup. You got a concussion. Your left pupil is about twice the size of the right. The nurse got your vitals already and nothing extraordinary. We’ll keep you for observation, give you limited painkillers. Not too much. We won’t want you dozing off.”

  “Tenderness” was an understatement. It felt like a mule had kicked him.

  “I’ll write up my orders. Be back to check on you soon,” the intern said, already halfway out the door.

  Louise Parker had been standing quietly a few feet behind the intern. She stepped forward and patted Hanson’s hand. “How you feel?”

  “Crappy. Did she make it?”

  “Trixie? No.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “No. He fired several shots at me. By the time I could get up and return fire he was gone. Then I was hustling to get you here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No sweat. You saved my life.”

  “You saved my life too.”

  “No sweat,” she repeated with a smile, and he smiled back. “Ballistics will be able to get information out of the holes in the walls.”

  There was more noise from the waiting room, a mentally ill man screaming about the FBI stealing his brain waves. “Think I should go out and offer to give them back?” she asked.

  “If you could close the door, I’d be forever in your debt,” he said, wincing from the ER noise.

  She slid the glass door shut and they were alone in the eight-by-ten-foot room. An infrared monitor hooked up to his finger monitored his pulse and oxygen level. The readout oscillated normally on the small screen above his head. The rest of the wall looked like a kitchen, with sink, long counter, and cabinets. But the cabinets had labels like “Gloves,” “Gauze Pads,” and “Antiseptics.” She leaned against the counter.

  “I want to call my wife.”

  She handed him her cell phone; he dialed home, and got their machine. “Hey, it’s me. I’m going to be home very late. I’m in the ER. Nothing serious but they want to keep an eye on me. I’ll explain when I get home.” He clicked off.

  “You could have given her my cell number.”

  “Didn’t know how long you’d be staying.”

  “For the duration.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  She shrugged.

  It was harder for Wolf to get around the ER than most parts of the hospital. On most wards, an unknown formally dressed middle-aged man with a confident air was assumed to be a visiting doctor, and no one dared question ID.

  Now he moved slowly, police badge pinned to his chest. There were enough cops coming in and out of the ER that no one paid extra attention. It was a good place to silence someone—people did die there on a regular basis. The general hubbub could be an asset or a liability. Lots of people around, but most were distracted.

  Wolf moved toward Hanson’s room.

  The door to Hanson’s room opened and sound flooded in. “You can’t shut this door,” snapped an officious nurse with gray hair pulled back in a severe bun.

  Parker took out her badge. “FBI. This man is a witness to an attempted murder on a federal officer. Shut the door unless you want to be charged with obstructing justice.”

  The nurse hesitated, then said, “I’m going to check with the doctor.” She closed the door behind her.

  “I’m impressed. I’ve never met anyone tougher than an ER nurse.” Hanson settled back into the bed, adjusting it electrically so he could be half reclining. “What do you think happened back there?” he asked.

  “That’s one of my reasons for being here. We need to discuss it.”

  “Should I be getting a Miranda warning?”

  “I don’t think you’re a suspect. If you killed her, calling me was either part of some brilliant scheme or very self-destructive. If you were working with the guy with the silenced gun, it doesn’t seem to be a viable partnership. Though one thing does make me suspicious.”

  “I can guess. It’s clear he didn’t want to kill me. He was masked and only using the blackja
ck on me until you arrived.”

  “For a guy with a swollen brain, you’re thinking pretty clearly.” Even with his pain, he enjoyed her smile. “I’m motivated. I want to find the SOB who did this.” He tapped his head. “My arm where he rapped it doesn’t feel so great either.”

  A nurse came in, set up a stainless-steel IV pole, and hung a bag with morphine solution. He realized for the first time that his clothes were gone and he was in a hospital gown.

  The nurse attached a tube to the port they’d put in while Brian had been unconscious in the ER. The morphine bag began to drip.

  “Busy night?” Parker asked her.

  “Always busy. Tonight’s busier than most,” she said quickly. “Two car wrecks, three psychos, an overdose, a cardiac, a probable stroke, two kids with ear infections, one with an unknown fever, and someone we’re waiting for a translator for because we don’t know what the heck is going on.” She hurried out.

  “Is this thing going to get publicity?” Hanson asked Louise.

  “The Bureau’s not doing a press release. Any attack on an agent is taken seriously. If we don’t get results after a while, they might decide it is in the best interest of the investigation to go public. For now, every agent is offering ‘get out of jail free’ cards to snitches if they have information.” Parker pulled over the small, round rolling stool and sat down near the bed. “You want to tell me your theory?”

  “Trixie called me, either really scared or on orders to get me there. A staked goat. Maybe she was supposed to lure me over, then the guy with the gun kills her with a hot shot, knocks me out, calls 911. I’m found at the sordid scene with the overdosed corpse of a sex-trade roommate of a former sex-trade client, who is also dead. I’d be lucky if I just lost my job and license.”

  “Who would have the motive and access to a professional like the guy with the gun?”

  “I don’t know.” The morphine was kicking over. His thoughts about Dorsey were difficult to put into words. His headache and arm throbbed no longer causing him to wince with every move. There was something about her touch, her attentive expression, the way she held herself and watched over him, that made Hanson feel better than he had in a long time. Even before the attack. He reached over and squeezed her hand. “You don’t need to stay.”

  “You’re a witness. Someone needs to watch you.”

  He began to doze.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that after a concussion,” she said. “Could be signs of a coma. Better stay awake.”

  “Mmm. I know,” he said with a sluggish slur. “Got to stay awake.”

  There was a woman staying in the room with Hanson. Wolf pretended to be talking into the wall phone but had Hanson in clear sight. Could be his wife, but she had a no-nonsense air that smelled like cop to Wolf. Then she moved and he saw the hint of a gun butt under her jacket.

  Not a good time to visit, Wolf thought, and moved briskly toward the exit.

  “Any other thoughts about the attack?” Louise asked.

  “Feel bad. I was in dozens of firefights, shoulda done better.” Brian struggled to keep his eyes open.

  “We’re both alive. You did great.”

  “Shoulda been aware of the blackjack. Coulda had him.”

  “You did good.”

  He was quiet for a long while.

  “Brian. Brian, are you awake?”

  “Hmmm, yeah. Dozens of firefights. Never this out of it. Parrot’s Beak. Pleiku.” He breathed in and out slowly. “By the time I was incountry, there was already the hint that U.S. policy was fucked. This wasn’t World War II, a noble intervention. It was geopolitical power plays by Nixon, Kissinger, and McNamara.”

  He fought the urge to cry, desperate not to let her see. “Hard to admit, but it may have been the best time of my life. No one who has never been in combat can understand. It was like a drug.”

  She waited. “No, I can’t understand it. I’ve had to draw my weapon twice, never used it. One of the times someone else killed the bank robber. Every time I break leather, even if it’s at the shooting range, I think about it. I can’t imagine how it was for you, week after week, month after month.”

  “I wish someone had said that when I first came back. It sucked. The war winding down. No heroes, no welcome. Remember when psycho-Vietnam-vet was one word?”

  “Vaguely.”

  He realized that she was probably about ten years younger than he. A different generation. He felt older and wearier. The drug in his system was roiling bad memories, familiar feelings. “Shouldn’ta taken that morphine. Shouldn’t give drugs to a druggie.”

  “You needed the painkiller.”

  “Painkiller. Babykiller. They called us that. I never killed a baby. I saw them dead though. VC made examples. We’d help a village, they’d punish them. Poor peasant bastards stuck between both sides. Bad things, very bad things. The body is a weak thing. Metal so much harder. Does horrible stuff, horrible. Pieces of arms, legs, a head. Faces peeled off. We knew the rice field was mined. North Viet army coming in, battalion strength. The villagers knew where the mines were, walked around them while working. We forced this family forward. Mama-san made a mistake, stepped on a mine. Her daughter, maybe eight, ran to her, hit another mine. One minute people, the next minute, pieces.” Hanson struggled to focus on the present, clenching and unclenching his fist, breaths coming in deep gasps.

  “Shouldn’ta done it, shouldn’ta taken the drug. Not enough to sedate me. Just enough to remind me. Make ’em disconnect it.” Hanson was panicky, wanting it, fearing it, and that fear making him want more.

  Parker buzzed the nurse, and got the gray-haired one.

  “Take it off,” Hanson said, trying to sound well composed. “No more morphine.”

  “Doctor’s orders,” she said, and turned to leave.

  “He’s a witness,” Parker said, standing up and speaking authoritatively. “I need him to be completely conscious.”

  The nurse was not impressed. “Doctor’s orders. I’ll check with him when he’s available.” The nurse marched out.

  “So much for federal clout,” Parker said.

  Hanson bent the IV tube over and clamped it. The morphine drip stopped. An alarm started beeping. Louise found a switch, flipped it, and the noise stopped.

  Hanson sat up with a slow, painful effort. “Do me a favor. Call my sponsor.” He gave her McFarlane’s cell number; she dialed, then handed him the phone.

  The cop answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, Bob, it’s me.”

  “Are you high?”

  “Only took you four words. I guess. But under a doctor’s stuperdvision,” Hanson said, stumbling over the word “supervision.”

  “What happened?” McFarlane barked.

  Hanson gave a quick recital of what had occurred at Trixie’s apartment.

  “You did what I told you not to do and it got fucked up,” McFarlane said.

  “I appreciate your sympathy.”

  “Are you on the pity pot?”

  “The girl’s dead. I should’ve done more.”

  “Is that your way of saying maybe if I had jumped when you said 'Let’s go over there,’ she’d be alive?”

  “Maybe,” Hanson said.

  “This is where you should be more attuned than most to boundary issues. What do you think a police officer would have done in this situation normally? Should I let our relationship alter my professional judgment?”

  “Well, you know me. That should count for something.”

  “It does. I know you as a human who has holes in his character. As do we all. Could a young damsel in distress drive a bulldozer through them?”

  Hanson looked over at Parker, who was watching and listening to his side of the conversation. “I guess. I’ll think about it.”

  “Want me to come over?”

  “Nah, I think I’ll be okay,” Hanson said.

  “I do too,” McFarlane responded before quick good-byes.

  “Did you g
et the support you needed?” Parker asked when Hanson ended the call.

  “I don’t know if I’d call it support. Not necessarily what I wanted but hopefully what I needed.”

  Jeanie Hanson had heard the phone ring, and hadn’t picked up. The volume on the answering machine was turned down low and she couldn’t hear who it was. Not that she cared. Brian wasn’t home, and that was unusual, but she preferred not to face him anyway. Images of her own degradation dominated her thoughts. She felt trapped, hopeless, victimized.

  She had gargled and then swallowed two large glasses of Grey Goose, then brushed her teeth for several minutes. She thought about how easy it would be to sic Brian on Dorsey. If her husband had any idea of what had happened, she suspected, he would kill Dorsey. The violence under the surface of her do-gooder husband. It helped her feel better, as if she had a Rottweiler on a leash that she could turn loose on the deputy mayor at any time.

  The vodka kicked over and she felt numbed enough to stop pacing. After another large scotch, she threw the tumbler against the fireplace. She sat in the chair, staring at the broken shards of glass.

  EIGHTEEN

  The doctor offered Hanson the chance to stay overnight, but made it clear it was for observation and he would probably be better off at home. It was a little after 2 a.m. when Louise Parker, following hospital procedure, rolled Hanson out the door in a wheelchair.

  As soon as they reached fresh air, Hanson promptly stood up. He failed at trying to conceal how wobbly he was.

  “We can go right back in. You haven’t even cut your beautiful bracelet off yet,” Parker said, pointing to his identifying wristband.

  “I don’t want to be admitted,” Hanson said. “I’m grateful to the gods and goddesses of managed care to keep the docs motivated to discharge me.”