“Okay, we’ll meet wherever you want,” he said instead. “But remember, I have to drive in from Baltimore.”
“Should be fun without any traffic for a change. There’s an all-night coffee shop, Mike’s, on South Dakota near Eighteenth. One thirty?”
“Make it two,” Nick said.
Just as he hung up, Junie startled him with a knock on the passenger side door.
“This folder was on the kitchen table with a note from Reggie for you,” she said, passing it over.
“He’s an artiste on the Internet,” Nick replied, “so I asked him to do a little research for me. Thanks.”
“Next time, ask him to do some homework. Good job tonight.”
Junie winked at him and headed to her house. As the quiet closed in, Nick flipped through the articles Reggie had put together, then closed the folder and sat staring through the darkness at nothing in particular. Quickly, his thoughts homed in on Umberto-clear images of the man as he was at FOB Savannah, working in the base clinic during his off-hours, taking vital signs, straightening up the waiting room, smiling and joking with the patients. Always smiling. Always joking.
What in the hell had become of him? Why was Mollender suddenly acting so secretive? What was the connection between Belle and Dr. Nick Fury? Had she really crossed paths with Umberto, or did she hear the name from someone else?
Hopefully the answers to those questions would not remain elusive for much longer.
Finally, with a prolonged stretch and a deep sigh, Nick flipped open his cell phone and called Jillian.
“Hope you can stay awake a little longer,” he said. “We’ve been summoned by the Mole.”
IT SEEMED as if the owners of Mike’s L.A. Diner and Coffee Emporium had tried and failed any number of times to find an identity for the place. There was neon and more neon, framed black-and-white glossies of Bogie, Bacall, and Betty, and a grease-stained menu that was a cross between a railroad car diner’s and Starbucks’. There was also, at almost two in the morning, a decent-sized crowd that included college students from nearby Catholic University, street people, and a few affluent suburbanites, but did not, to this point at least, include Saul Mollender.
While waiting for the man, Nick ordered a black coffee and Jillian an iced tea, fries, and a grilled cheese sandwich. There was no overt discussion about their afternoon lovemaking. Both felt comfortable simply being together, holding hands underneath the table, and proposing Different theories that would fit the bizarre, truncated medical record of Umberto Vasquez, and the absence of any videorecording of the Aleem Syed Mohammad operation.
“Maybe they didn’t record it for security reasons,” Jillian suggested.
“Possibly. But I would think the CIA or whoever was in charge of questioning the dude would have wanted to show the world how enlightened and compassionate we were, even to one of the archenemies of our country.”
“Any idea why Mollender would have said he wanted to meet us out here?”
“I still don’t know him well enough to say. He sounded a little, I don’t know, disconnected on the phone. Sort of squirrelly-sensitive and tuned in one moment, brash and confrontational the next.”
“The keys to everything are the hospital records and the video of that operation, Nick.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what the Mole found.”
“Hopefully we won’t have to wait long.”
She gestured behind Nick. Saul Mollender approached their table with his head down and his gaze shifting from side to side as if he were part of some clandestine operation. He skipped the formality of shaking hands and quickly sat himself down on the empty chair across from them.
“People have been talking,” Mollender said.
Nick thought the man seemed agitated and anxious.
“Talking? Who’s talking? What about?”
“About me,” Mollender said. “One of my two employees noticed I was doing some research for you. He spoke to the other of my employees and they both started asking questions.”
“About our investigation?” Jillian asked.
“Heck no,” Mollender snapped. “My team doesn’t gossip. That’s against my policy. But the two of them are wondering if I’ve turned over a new leaf and decided to become more helpful to people-God forbid, friendly even.”
Nick shook his head in disbelief.
“You made us come all the way out here at two in the morning just so you could protect your reputation of being a grouch?”
Mollender remained tight-lipped and serious.
“Do you know what would happen if word got out that people could just barge into my office and not only demand attention from me, but actually get it? By the way, do you have my plaque?”
Suppressing a smile, Jillian passed the framed calligraphy across, mentally adding the records room head to the list of the most eccentric people she knew.
“So you’re worried that maybe people might actually, I don’t know, use your services?” she asked.
“Funny, very funny. But yes. First of all, our services, such as they are, are dwindling with each record we make electronic. Ever hear of a position whose job it was to make itself obsolete? We’re literally working ourselves out of existence. The only way we three can stay employed is if no one knows we’re there.”
“Easy, Saul. Easy,” Jillian said gently. “You can only do what you can do.”
“I guess.”
“Now, can you tell us what you found out?”
Mollender motioned the waitress over and ordered a tall glass of skim milk, warmed on the stove, not in a microwave.
“And don’t try and trick me,” he said to the girl. “I can tell.” He turned back to Nick and Jillian. “What I found out is that Fred Johnson is even more of a jackass than I originally thought.”
“Fred Johnson?” Nick asked.
“Before I delve into him, can you tell me why somebody would have wanted to steal the DVD of that operation?”
“Did you say steal? I thought you just said it was gone.”
“And that’s the truth. If it ever existed, it’s gone now.”
“Why am I not surprised,” Nick said.
“I personally supervised setting up the video camera system in the ORs over six years ago. For that reason, let alone everything else I’ve done for my unit over the past twenty years, you’d think I’d be the one selected to run the electronic medical records department. But no. Smarmy Fred Johnson gets the position over me, just because he’s the CTO’s nephew or cousin or something.”
“That true?”
“That’s what I heard. The personnel lady told me I was lacking people skills, whatever those are, but I never believed her. Smarmy. I think the word was invented for Fred.”
“Do you have any proof that somebody stole the DVD of Mohammad’s operation?”
“We have three cameras in each of our twenty-four operating rooms on three separate floors-a direct overhead shot into the incision, one up from the foot of the table, and one that continuously pans the room, including the anesthesiologist’s station at the head of the table. Each camera is attached to a DVR machine by cables, like a supercharged TiVo.”
“Amazing,” Nick said, pleased to sense that the Mole had regained much of his equilibrium.
The waitress returned with the stove-warmed milk, and Mollender sampled it like a wine connoisseur before nodding his approval.
“Supervising the recording process,” he went on after a few sips, “is one of the few functions my little department still has, but I’ve heard rumors that it might not be for long. Damn Johnson. Anyhow, as things stand, the OR supervisor tells us which operations they want recorded, and we push the buttons-well, my assistant Annette does, anyway. She has a booth in the operating suite and works from there. At the end of each day, she
