“Or,” Regan added, seeing something else now, “maybe Rachel Mills brought her own thirty-eight. Remember that two were used.”
“But that raises another question: Why would she need two guns?”
Both men frowned, ran a few new theories through their heads, and came up with a solid conclusion. “We’re still missing something,” Regan said.
“Yep.”
“We need to go back and get some answers.”
“Like?”
“Like why did Rachel skate on the murder of her first husband?”
“I can ask around,” Tickner said.
“Do that. And let’s get a man on Seidman. She has four million dollars now. She might want to eliminate the only guy who can still tie her to this.”
Chapter 31
Zia found myclothes in the closet. Bloodstains darkened my jeans, so we decided to go with surgical scrubs. She ran down the hall and found me a pair. Wincing from the cracked ribs, I slipped them on and tied the string waist. It would be a slow go. Zia checked to see if the coast was clear. She had a backup plan in case the feds were still watching. Her friend, Dr. David Beck, had been involved in a major federal case a few years ago. He knew Tickner from that. Beck was on call. If it came to it, he was waiting at the end of the hall and would try to slow them down with some sort of reminiscence.
In the end, we didn’t need Beck. We simply walked out. No one questioned us. We made our way through the Harkness Pavilion and out into the courtyard north of Fort Washington Avenue. Zia’s car was parked in the lot on 165th and Fort Washington. I moved gingerly. I felt sore as hell, but basically all right. Marathon running and heavy lifting would be out, but the pain was controllable and I had full range of motion. Zia had slipped me a bottle of Vioxx, the fifty-milligram big-boys. They’d be good because they worked without making you drowsy.
“If anyone asks,” she said, “I’ll tell them I took public transportation and that my car is home. You should be okay for a while.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Actually, can I also trade cell phones?”
“Sure, why?”
“They might try, I don’t know, to track me down using mine.”
“They can do that?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”
She shrugged and dug out her cell. It was a tiny thing, the size of a compact mirror. “You really think Tara is alive?”
“I don’t know.”
We hurried up the parking garage’s cement steps. The stairwell stank, as always, of urine.
“This is insane,” she said. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I got my pager. You need me, you page me.”
“I will.”
We stopped at the car. Zia handed me the keys.
“What?” I said to her.
“You got a pretty big ego, Marc.”
“This your idea of a pep talk?”
“Just don’t let it get you hurt or anything,” Zia said. “I need you.”
I hugged her and slipped into the driver’s seat. I started north on the Henry Hudson, dialing Rachel’s number. The night was clear and still. The lights from the bridge made the dark water look like a star-filled sky. I heard two rings and then Rachel picked up. She didn’t say anything and then I realized why. She probably had Caller ID and didn’t recognize the number.
“It’s me,” I said. “I’m using Zia’s phone.”
Rachel asked, “Where are you?”
“About to get on the Hudson.”
“Keep going north to the Tappan Zee. Cross it and start heading west.”
“Where are you now?”
“By that huge Palisades Mall.”
“In Nyack,” I said.
“Right. Keep in phone touch. We’ll find a place to hook up.”
“I’m on my way.”
Tickner was on his mobile phone, filling in O’Malley. Regan hurried back into the lounge. “Seidman’s not in his room.”
Tickner looked annoyed. “What do you mean, he’s not in his room?”
“How many different ways are there to interpret that, Lloyd?”
“Did he go down to X ray or something?”
“Not according to the nurse,” Regan said.
“Damn. The hospital has security cameras, right?”
“Not on every room.”
“But they have to cover the exits.”
“They must have a dozen exits here. By the time we get the tapes and review them—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Tickner thought about it. He put the phone back to his ear. “O’Malley?”
“I’m here.”
“You heard?”
“Yup.”
“How long will it take you to get phone logs from both Seidman’s hospital room and cell phone?” Tickner asked.
“Immediate calls?”
“It would have to have been in the past fifteen minutes, yeah.”
“Give me five.”
Tickner pressed the “end” button. “Where’s Seidman’s lawyer?”
“I don’t know. I think he said he was leaving.”
“Maybe we should give him a ring.”
“He didn’t hit me as the helpful type,” Regan said.
“That was before, when we thought his client was a wife-and-baby killer. We’re now theorizing that an innocent man’s life is in danger.” Tickner handed Regan the business card Lenny had given him.
“Worth a shot,” Regan said, and began dialing.
I caught up with Rachel just over the north New Jersey–south New York border town of Ramsey. Using our phones we managed to hook up in the parking lot of the Fair Motel on Route 17 in Ramsey, New Jersey. The motel was a no-tell, complete with a sign proudly readingCOLOR TV ! (as if most motels were still using black and white) where all the letters (and the exclamation point) are a different color, in case you don’t know what the wordcolor means. I always liked the name. The Fair Motel. We’re not great, we’re not terrible. We’re, well, Fair. Honesty in advertising.
I pulled into the lot. I was scared. I had a million questions for Rachel, but in the end, it all boiled down to different variations of the same thing. I wanted to know about her husband’s death, sure, but more than that, I wanted to know about those damn private-eye pictures.
The lot was dark, most of the light coming off the highway. The stolen Parks Department van sat by a Pepsi machine on the far right side. I pulled next to it. I never saw Rachel leave the van, but the next thing I knew she had slid into the passenger seat next to me.