Groote found Nathan heavily sedated; he steered Hurley to Nathan’s bedside.
‘I need him talking,’ Groote said.
Hurley pulled his arm away from Groote’s grip. ‘I need him not screaming his throat raw. The other patients can hear him.’
‘Who gives a crap? Tell them he’s having a nervous breakdown.’
‘We’ve got another avenue to pursue,’ Hurley said with an irritating level of confidence back in his voice. ‘I got a phone call from one of Allison’s patients – Celeste Brent. She used to be famous, she won a reality TV show.’
‘A PTSD patient?’
‘I think so, given her recent past.’ He gave Groote a brief background on Celeste Brent. ‘The news accounts after she moved here say she’s agoraphobic, has made her house a fortress. She said Allison visited her Tuesday afternoon, acted oddly.’
Groote considered. ‘Presume she took the research Tuesday when she left. Allison either hands off the research to someone else or hides it; she wouldn’t leave it in her office, because there and her home are the first places you’d search. Say she hid it, and Michael Raymond knows she hid it but he hasn’t found it,’ Groote said, ‘then it’s the best explanation for why he hadn’t left town yesterday.’
Hurley nodded. ‘So where would she stash it?’
‘Put yourself in her shoes. She had the research. She didn’t take it straight to the FDA or to the press, so she had a reason to keep Frost secret, at least for a few hours. Best if she could hide it in a place where she could get access to it but others couldn’t, at least not easily. Perhaps Mr. Raymond’s problem is one of access.’
Hurley saw where his idea was going. ‘She wouldn’t leave it at a patient’s house.’
‘But hiding something at a recluse’s house – where only you and a couple of others have regular access – is an interesting idea. You said she lives in her house like it’s a fortress. We need to talk to her.’
‘This is all speculation.’
‘I used to work in speculation all the time.’ Groote didn’t add that it had been part of his job at the FBI, trying to figure out connections between players to build the bigger case.
Hurley blanched. ‘You can’t go over there and bully her. She called me – I can find out what she knows.’
‘All right. Go.’
Hurley left.
Groote checked his watch. California time was close to four, Amanda would be in her room. He dialed the number; the nurse got Amanda and brought her to the phone.
‘Hey, Daddy.’
‘Hey, sunshine. How’s your day?’
‘I’m not sunshine today.’
‘What’s the matter, Amanda Banana?’ He realized he talked to her as if she were a small child, but he couldn’t help himself. The undamaged child was the daughter he saw in his mind’s eye, not this broken, sad teenager who needed more than he could give her.
‘I miss you.’
His heart tightened. ‘I miss you, too, angel, but this is an important trip for Daddy.’ Dare he raise her hopes? Hope was the greatest medicine of all, if it wasn’t dead in her heart. ‘Daddy’s working with nice folks that have a new way to help you.’
‘What way?’ She sounded suspicious.
‘It’s a pill, honey. A magic pill.’
‘Magic pill,’ she said dully. ‘Oh, please, Dad.’
‘It kills all the bad memories in your brain. But a very, very bad man stole the magic pills, and Daddy’s going to catch him.’
‘You’re making this up,’ she said.
‘No. I got to go slay dragons now and get that magic pill back. I think he hid it under a hundred mattresses a princess sleeps on.’
Now she laughed, indulging him, the sweetest music in his world. ‘You’re such a geek, Dad.’
‘I love you, Amanda Banana.’
‘I love you, Dad,’ she said after a pause, as though she had to find the words, recognize the emotions. ‘Go slay a dragon for me.’
‘I will, baby, I will.’ He clicked off the phone, pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath. He couldn’t fail her, he couldn’t let her rot in that hospital. Not when she could be fixed.
Groote went back down to the soundproofed room where Nathan Ruiz lay handcuffed to the bed. He wore a bloodied scrubs shirt and underwear. Four vicious gouges dotted his leg, where Groote had made his cuts and twisted his screwdriver. Groote closed the door behind him. Nathan opened his eyes and cringed.
He leaned over to Nathan’s face. ‘You’re gonna tell me the truth now, you’re gonna tell me everything you know about Michael Raymond. You tried to protect him, you went all those hours without giving me his name, which suggests to me that you know more than you’ve told me so far.’
Nathan spat at him, but the glob just landed on his own nose and lip.
Groote gently wiped the spittle from Nathan’s face. ‘Nice defiance. Piss me off and we’re moving on to power tools.’
‘I’m – I’m not afraid of you,’ Nathan said.
‘I know fear. You’re drowning in it, son. But you’re about to be drowning in pain instead.’ He lowered his mouth close to Nathan’s ear. ‘Where did Allison hide Frost?’
‘I told you, I don’t know anything about her taking your stuff.’
Groote didn’t want to go through hours more of torture; he wondered if the boy’s relatively strong courage was proof that Frost worked on him. So change tactics. ‘I don’t have to hurt you if you help me. Celeste Brent. Tell me about her.’
‘Who?’
‘She was one of the last people to see Allison alive.’
Nathan closed his eyes. ‘Don’t know her.’
A knock on the door announced Hurley; Groote noticed he didn’t look at Nathan. ‘What am I supposed to do if Allison did leave Frost with Ms. Brent?’
‘Call me. I’ll deal with her. People commit suicide when they lose their therapist sometimes,’ Groote said. ‘Unfortunate, but it happens.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Miles heard six soft clicks: dead bolts unlocking. Then the door opened. ‘Put the note down,’ a voice whispered. ‘Step back ten steps from the door. Count the steps aloud.’
He did as he was told.
The door creaked open another few inches, a hand reached out, swept the note inside. The door slammed closed. He heard the locks turn.
Three more minutes. He peered up at the moon showing its face from behind a heavy cloud, its light silvering the wildflowers that graced the beds. The dead bolts, all six of them, clicked and the door opened again. Now the hand held a gun, a sleek Glock. He could see her, only part of her face visible, standing there in a T-shirt with a Batman logo, faded jeans, her hair pulled into a thick ponytail.
‘You can come in,’ she said.
‘Guns make me nervous.’ He’d left his own in the car.
‘Everything makes me nervous,’ Celeste said. ‘Explain why she wrote you a note. Why not just ask for your help?’
He saw no reason to lie; she might slam the door in his face, but she might equally decide to trust him. ‘She didn’t want another person in the room to know she was asking for help.’
