Fritz froze the screen.
Sherlock said, “Okay, three minutes have elapsed and here he comes. And she thought,
“He’s still got the mask and cap on,” Fritz said. “Bummer.”
They watched him until he disappeared.
Chief Hayward said, “Okay, let’s see if he leaves through the front. Roll the other tape, Fritz.” The film sped up, then slowly, Fritz brought it back to real time.
Chief Hayward said, “Stop, Fritz, you got him. I think that’s him—the timing’s about right, five minutes have passed. He looks about the same size, same build, and the loose clothes.”
The manonthefilmwaswearingawatchcappulledlowonhis forehead, touching the rims of dark sunglasses. He was wearing loose blue jeans, a large pale blue shirt that hung outside his pants, a baggy off-white linen jacket, and moccasins. For an instant, they were looking directly at his face, only they couldn’t see him clearly.
Chief Hayward said, “He’s still walking slowly and you can tell he’s favoring his arm. It’s gotta hurt like a bear. One of my men found a couple drops of blood on the floor of Dr. MacLean’s corridor and marked the spot for you. It doesn’t necessarily have to be our guy, but it’s likely.”
Savich said, “His blood will nail him when we catch him. He took a big chance, walking right up to Agent Tomlin, shoving that needle in his neck, knowing the nurses’ station wasn’t more than thirty feet away. I’d say he’s really motivated, determined, maybe really angry.”
They watched him walk out of the front entrance of the hospital. Chief Hayward said, “We didn’t catch the guy coming into the hospital. He must have scoped out the camera locations, learned the hospital layout, all the particulars. He’s not stupid. He came late, the optimum time. Sorry, but we don’t have any outdoor cameras.”
“It’s something,” Sherlock said. “Thank you, Chief. I’d say someone is more than motivated, more than just angry. I’d say they’re obsessed.”
Savich said, “We’ll get you some photos of all the players we know of so your people can show them around. We might get lucky.”
Chief Hayward nodded, but he didn’t look hopeful. “This guy is careful. But maybe someone saw him near the OR. All I can say with any certainty is that he’s about average height, average build, and wears really loose clothes.”
Sherlock nodded. “Fritz, can you rewind it again?”
When he did, she said, “Okay, now watch. I’m thinking he looks young, too. Watch him walk, the way he moves.”
“Freeze that frame, Fritz,” Chief Hayward said. “Look, he’s sort of slouching, bent over. Sure, he’s hurting, his arm must feel like it’s burning off, but I’m not as sure as you are.”
“If he is a young man,” Savich said, “he’s probably hired.”
Sherlock was shaking her head. “That doesn’t sound right. From what Timothy said, it sounded like it was up close and personal to me, not like an impersonal hired gun.”
“You’re right,” Savich said, and plowed his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. “My brain’s on default mode.” He looked down at his Mickey Mouse watch. It was nearly three A.M.
Savich looked at Sherlock and said, “Let’s check on Agent Tomlin, then go home.”
FORTY-FOUR
Pierre Barbeau answered the front door, eyed them with resignation, and stepped back. “Tommy called me from downstairs. What is it you want now?”
“We’d like to speak to you and your wife, Mr. Barbeau,” Savich said, his eyes on Pierre’s right arm. He was wearing a ratty old blue velvet bathrobe, with thick, loose sleeves that could easily cover a bandage. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. He looked tired, defensive—shattered, and just maybe—afraid. But to Savich’s eye, taking all of him in, he simply didn’t look like he’d been shot in the arm.
Pierre said, “I don’t know why. Listen, Estelle and I, we’re—we’re only trying to cope. We’ve told you everything. My wife won’t want to speak to you, either of you. I can tell you that, and believe me, she usually gets what she wants.”
Sherlock wanted to tell him that she usually got what she wanted, as well, but she merely smiled at him as Dillon said, “We checked with your night doorman. He said both of you were out from about ten o’clock until two a.m. Where did you go?”
“Why? Who cares?” He got two hard-as-nails looks and dead silence, and backed up a step. Then he gave them the French cop-out, a shrug that said nothing and everything. “Oh, I see, something else has happened, hasn’t it? You think we’re behind it, whatever it is, and it happened last night. Is that it?”
“Please tell us where you were, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said.
“Very well. I don’t suppose it matters. My wife and I couldn’t stand looking at each other’s pain, and so we went out walking. It was nice, last night, the moon was nearly full, and so we walked in High Banks Park. Maybe an hour, give or take. We went into a gallery that was having a special showing and was open late. We stayed there until nearly midnight, then we stopped at a bar. We drank too much, but it didn’t help. We came back here. I didn’t check the time. We went to bed. I woke up when Tommy rang up a few minutes ago.”
“The name of the gallery, Mr. Barbeau?” Sherlock asked, her pen poised above her small black notebook.
“The Penyon Gallery on Wisconsin.”
“What was the special showing?”
“American artists, modern stuff, you know, all squiggles and blobs of thick paint, something Jean David did with great enthusiasm when he was three, only he didn’t use paints.” He gave a brief ghastly smile, his voice hitching on his son’s name. He raised his left arm to press his fingers briefly to his forehead. No bullet wound in that arm, for sure.
Sherlock waited a beat, then asked, “The name of the bar?”
“Who remembers the name of a bar? I certainly don’t. We’d never been there before. I remember it wasn’t very far from the gallery.”
Sherlock leaned in close. “What did you and your wife talk about, Mr. Barbeau?”
“Nothing, really. Nothing important. We are both too miserable to do anything but exist right now However, to be honest here, because we can’t seem to help ourselves, we occasionally speak about our son, and we did talk about Jean David while we walked in the park last night. We spoke about how much we loved him, how this shouldn’t have happened, how unfair it all is, how because of the threats from people like you, our son is dead.”
Savich’s eyebrow shot up. “Threats?”
Another shrug. “It would have come to threats if the authorities had gotten their hands on Jean David before he died. They would have threatened to deport us, freeze all our bank accounts, and send him to prison if he refused to sign a confession admitting to everything they could think of, even things he knew nothing about.”
“You have quite an imagination, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said easily. “But the fact is, none of that happened. Your son’s misdeeds died with him. I doubt the CIA will ever discover exactly what and how much your son passed on to the terrorists.”
“He didn’t help the terrorists! Maybe some of it got to them, but the point is, he didn’t realize ... It was all that woman’s fault. She seduced him, twisted him up.” He stopped, shook his head. “Jean David was so young, so innocent until she got hold of him.”
Jean David Barbeau was twenty-six when he drowned. Savich and Sherlock remained quiet.
Pierre said, “At least it wasn’t raining last night. Dreadful weather here, simply dreadful.”
“Your English is excellent, Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said.
“It should be. My father was always traveling here to the States with me and my mother in tow. He consulted with Amtrak, you know, and we lived here for long stretches of time. I attended American private schools, attended Harvard for two years before going back to France to finish my education.”
“And your wife?”
