The Last Surgeon

“We have nothing useful at this point. And we don’t want to bag these guys on some money-laundering scheme either. We’re looking for Umberto.”

“And my sister’s killer,” Jillian added.

“So you want me to look up these people by the Social Security number on their medical records to see if I get a hit in our system?”

“You are the police. We’re assuming you have access to more resources than we do. Things that a pedestrian Google search might not turn up.”

“Supposedly, these patients shot themselves in the face with a shotgun,” Jillian said. “You’d figure somebody would have reported the incident to the police.”

Reese rose from his chair, laced his fingers together, and stretched his interlocked hands skyward until his knuckles cracked. Then he groaned and took his seat again.

“I try to remind myself to stretch every couple hours. These days, my bones have more creaks than an old mattress… Okay, you convinced me. I agree there is something going on here. I’ll run these Social Security numbers through our database. But Nick, what you guys have done, up to and including compromising their computer system, isn’t just crossing the line, it’s drawing a damn new one. And stealing medical records seems like a shortcut to both of you losing your licenses.”

“Then call us even,” Nick offered.

Reese just shook him off.

“Nah, I’m famous for my shortcuts. I just don’t want to see you get in trouble.”

Reese keyed in the patient ID from the first record on the pile. His eyes were focused and intense as he typed.

“Damn…”

Reese’s voice trailed off as his fingers continued tapping away on the keyboard, searching.

“What is it?”

“I ran this first Social several ways. No matter what, it keeps coming up classified-restricted.”

“What does that mean?” Jillian asked.

“Ever since nine-eleven, local police departments have been sharing data with federal law enforcement agencies. That cooperation has helped to nab not only a bunch of would-be terrorists, but your run-of-the-mill crooks as well. These days, if you get a speeding ticket in Orlando or a federal gambling charge in Vegas, I’ll see it here.” Reese poked his computer monitor for emphasis. “That’s how conjoined all these data have become.”

Nick thought for a beat before asking, “So, what did that first patient tell you?”

“That you guys are into some deep yogurt, my friend. I’ve never been restricted before.”

“Tough time for a first,” Nick said. “What about the others?”

Reese keyed in the next ID. His intense expression returned. Again he shook his head.

“Same thing. Classified. I’m starting to think we need to bring the captain in on this.”

“I don’t want to put you on the spot, Don, but can you wait? I’m sure you trust the captain not to sit on us, but we’re just not ready to chance it. We don’t know who is involved or what Paresh Singh is really up to. If we jump the gun, we risk exposing ourselves and perhaps losing the only link we have to Umberto and to Belle’s killer. Who do you think could have this sort of clout?”

Reese shook his head in disbelief. “Who do you think? FBI? CIA? NSA? One of those agencies that doesn’t even bother with initials? You’re already in deep, my friend, and I’m not sure when all is said and done, I’ll have enough rope to pull you out.”

“Maybe they’re making new identities. I mean, it is a plastic surgery center,” Jillian suggested.

Nick appreciated her stepping in and breaking the escalating tension between him and Reese.

“Possible. But I’ve been able to access personal information about other people in federal witness protection before. Why not these guys?”

“Maybe they’re just bigger fish,” Nick said. “More difficult to hide.”

Reese continued searching the other IDs. Gauging by his expression, Nick figured something about the fifth patient ID might be different from the preceding four.

“Hey, look, this guy here seems to be a real person.”

“You got an address?”

“Forget the address, I got a name, a name we all know,” Reese exclaimed. “This Social Security number is registered to a Manuel Jimenez Ferris.”

“Manny! We were right, Nick.”

“Well, put away your party hats, folks. I looked up this Social when you asked me to search for the guy, but it was a dead end. I couldn’t track him after his last address in Richmond, Virginia.”

“We met him. He had found his way to his cousin’s place in D.C.”

“Did you see his ID?”

“No, but that wouldn’t have helped much. His face was badly scarred. We had a picture, though, and we’re both sure the man we saw working the men’s room at Billy Pearl’s gentleman’s club was him.”

“Billy Pearl’s,” Reese mused. “I know that place. Know of it, I should say. So why was your Manny Ferris’s face messed up? You think he had plastic surgery?”

“With that result, not by Paresh Singh he didn’t.”

“Unless Singh never finished the job.”

“Or that wasn’t the real Manny Ferris.”

“I don’t know what I think yet. Let’s see what this last record shows.”

Reese keyed in the patient ID of the sixth record in Nick’s stack. A few seconds passed, then Reese’s eyes widened and a look of amazement washed over his face.

“Another restricted file?” Nick asked.

The cop shook his head. “Nope. We got ourselves another hit.”

“Yeah? What’s the patient’s real name?”

“According to this database, that Social Security number is registered to Umberto Vasquez. Your missing friend, Nick.”

“So why didn’t they change his and Ferris’s Social Security numbers like all the others?” Nick said, his jaw now tense.

“I think you know the answer,” Reese said. “These guys don’t leave loose ends. They didn’t change the Socials because they didn’t need to. My bet is that neither of them were slated to survive.”

CHAPTER 34

Nick knew he was shaking and bathed in sweat. His sheets and T-shirt were soaked. Still, his eyes refused to open. As had happened so many times, with so many different nightmares, release would not come. He was the helpless captive of the terrifying sequences of his dream.

Sarah. Once again he is kissing Sarah. He can taste her lips, intoxicating and familiar. Her eyes are the same emerald green that had possessed him the first night they met. With her arms around his neck, her body moves against his in a desperate, pleading rhythm, crying out for what they both desire.

Suddenly, Sarah pushes herself away, but now, it is Jillian who has been kissing him. Her face glows with an angelic light that grows brighter and brighter still, until Nick can no longer discern her features. But the glow is no longer human-it is a truck barreling toward them through the night. Jillian moves first, shoving Nick aside. He falls hard to the ground. Precious seconds are lost-seconds that he needs to reach her before the grille of the truck does. He scrambles to his feet and charges toward her, but it is too late. The sound of the impact as the vehicle slams into Jillian’s body echoes like a thunderclap in Nick’s mind.

Flames erupt all around him, and within them he sees the driver’s sharp silhouette applauding the carnage. Nick’s legs are on fire. The pain of his searing flesh is unlike any he has ever known. The man in the truck laughs at his agony. Through the billowing smoke, with the fire swelling around him, Nick sees the driver’s face and gasps. It is his own.