Читать книгу Confluence - Stephen J. Gordon - Страница 9

3

My phone rang – buzzed really – two hours later, but it didn’t wake me up. In fact, once Katie’s breathing had become deep and regular I got out of bed. The vibrating, lit up phone caught me practicing some internal chi gung exercises off to the side. I scooped up the cell from the night stand and stepped into the hallway. It was Nate.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Something to show you. You know Pimlico Race Course?”

“Of course.”

“Come up Northern Parkway toward the race course. Turn onto Preakness Way. You’ll see us.”

“Be there in fifteen minutes.”

I quickly showered and put on a pair of jeans and a lightweight black sweatshirt that had some Chinese characters on it. They were part of a random collection of clothes that seemed to have ended up here. Six feet from where I stood, Katie was still sleeping. I went over and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Gotta go out for a little while,” I whispered. “Nate has something for me.”

She opened her eyes halfway. “What time is it?”

“About 3:30. Go back to sleep.” I kissed her again and headed out.

S

Pimlico Race Course was in an area that was a mix of residential housing, a convalescent home, and the Sinai Hospital complex. There was a perpetual fight by the City not to let the vicinity adjacent to the Race Course spiral down into an economically depressed area. This year they seemed to be winning.

I turned onto Preakness Way, which was a short street sandwiched between a parking lot to my right and a wooded area to the left. Beyond the woods, and not far in, was the property of a convalescent home. Normally at this time of night, the street would be all but abandoned. Not tonight. About fifty feet in from the corner were four cop cars, two blocking both sides of the street, and all with their red and blue lights flashing. Beyond them were more cruisers, an EMS vehicle, and a shitload of police personnel. Somewhere above me was the sound of a helicopter circling. I pulled to the curb and got out.

As I approached the two police cars blocking the road, a woman officer stepped forward from the inner perimeter. Before she could turn me away, I said, “I’m with Captain D’Allesandro. Gidon Aronson.” She nodded and waved me through.

The EMS vehicle was the center of all the excitement. Its rear doors were open, a plainclothed officer was inside, standing over a stretcher, while more detectives were over near the left side of the cab. The driver’s door was open. The vehicle’s headlights were still on, and I saw Nate and Medrano standing near the front left bumper in the wash of the lights. Nate was dressed just as he had been earlier but without his jacket. Medrano looked the same. I wondered if he even had made it home. I would soon find out that no matter what time of day, Medrano always looked sharp and fresh.

Nate spotted me. “Over here.”

As I passed the open driver’s door, I saw a scrub attired man slumped away from me. There were blotches of blood on the seatback and the windshield had two bullet holes in it.

“This was the ambulance that was taking Mazhar to the hospital,” Nate said.

Sinai was literally around the corner. It never made it.

“The driver took two gunshots to the chest,” Medrano added. “Based on some of the tire marks, it looks as if someone swerved in front of the ambulance, cutting it off. He – or she – stepped out and shot from about here.” Medrano stepped in front of the vehicle and raised his right hand like a gun. “We found two shell casings.” There were some chalk circles on the ground.

Nate began walking to the rear of the ambulance. I followed.

The two back doors were swung open. Inside the brightly lit work space was the stretcher I had seen when I had walked past. I couldn’t tell who was lying supine. My guess was Mazhar. The detective I had seen inside was now climbing down. He was about forty, all gray, and like Nate, in a polo shirt, but his was black to Nate’s navy. The detective’s sidearm was holstered near his right side pocket, and a Baltimore City Police badge was clipped next to it. Once on the ground he saw Nate, nodded to him, and moved off, looking at some notes.

Nate picked up where Medrano had left off: “The shooter opened the back doors, shot the second EMT” – I saw another scrub clad body on the vehicle floor on the left side – “then climbed up and shot Mazhar. Twice in the head.”

“No loose ends,” I offered.

“I’m thinking the guy in the Buick.” This from Medrano.

“What could the rabbi have done?” I asked, thinking aloud.

“Or his wife,” Medrano posited.

I shook my head to myself.

Nate wasn’t saying much of anything, but he was looking at me.

“You’re thinking the shooter’s thinking I saw him,” I said.

Nate nodded. “Or is wondering if you spoke to his men.”

I looked at Nate again.

“Where’s that Glock I bought you?”

“In my desk in a lockbox.”

He just looked at me, as if to say, “Well??” but he knew I wouldn’t go for that option yet.

“Okay,” I said, “I’m going home.” I began to move off, but called back, “Thanks for inviting me to the scene. Much better imagery than a phone call.”

“Remember, you’re coming to dinner this week.”

I waved to him, and headed around the police vehicles blocking the road. As I walked to my Jeep parked on the side, the night still felt pretty quiet. Baltimore would be getting up soon – maybe a little later than usual, for it was now Saturday morning – but the air was still calm.

I climbed into the Grand Cherokee and headed back to Katie’s.