Fever Dream (25 page)
I could guess what he meant. He had about two hundred guests to call and calm down after tonight’s events. Two hundred potential contributors who’d paid a thousand bucks each for a dinner they never got to eat. Which also meant they’d missed out on the chance—motivated by Sinclair’s after-dinner speech—to cough up even more.
With Fletcher in the lead, we all trooped quietly out of the room. Though, as I glanced back on my way out, I noticed Sinclair wasn’t heading for the phone, but for the wet-bar. Where he again poured a good-sized Dewar’s on ice.
And, again, stared at the wall.
As I’d learned on my previous visit to the Burgoyne, the hotel had a private elevator for VIP guests. The same one that was carrying Fletcher, Parnelli, Eleanor, and me down to the lower parking level. The campaign manager had wanted us to avoid running into the press, or perhaps some lingering fund-raiser guests. Parnelli readily agreed.
Nobody had said much on the way down, but now, as we stepped out onto the sprawling concrete floor of the garage, Brian Fletcher took hold of my hand with both of his. As he’d done with Eleanor upstairs, in the conference hall. His signature gesture of sincerity, apparently.
“I want to thank you again, Doctor, on Lee’s behalf.
And
mine. I got a helluva scare tonight.”
“Me, too.”
Parnelli grunted noisily. “And it isn’t over. Far as I’m concerned, the clock’s started ticking, and it won’t stop until the debate Saturday night. You heard what Jimmy Gordon said. Lee’s in danger from this moment till then.”
Eleanor said, “Unless the next attempt is at the debate itself. Same kind of situation. Big crowd. Lots of distraction. Tough on security.”
“That’s why I want to move the venue,” Fletcher said. “Though I don’t think Lee will go for it. And he’s probably right. He can’t look like he’s scared.”
“C’mon, give the people some credit. Even
you
can’t believe they’re that easily swayed.”
“Doesn’t matter what
I
believe, Detective. It’s what the electorate thinks. Or can be persuaded to think. If you can even
call
it thinking. I’ve been in this game a long time, and I never forget something Churchill said.”
“Which was?” I asked.
He grinned. “‘The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with a registered voter.’”
Scowling, Parnelli dug a short cigar from his tux jacket’s inside pocket. “Well, aren’t you the clever boy? While you and the doc here exchange Bartlett’s-fucking-Quotations, the police and I have work to do. Isn’t that right, Detective?”
“Yes, sir.”
Waving a dismissive hand, Parnelli bit down on his cigar and went off across the low-ceilinged enclosure in search of his car. Muttering to himself as he patted his pockets, obviously looking for a light. Without success.
Fletcher turned then to Eleanor and me. “I better go back upstairs and check in on Lee.
And
get our spin doctors started on drafting an official statement about tonight for the media.”
“I look forward to seeing it,” I said.
“Thanks.” Smiling as he stepped back inside the elevator. “And don’t worry, Doc. I’ll make sure they spell your name right.”
Before I could reply, he’d taken a Blackberry out of his pocket and begun pushing buttons. As the elevator doors closed with a muffled click.
Eleanor gave me a wry look. “I don’t like him.”
“Which one, Parnelli or Fletcher?”
“Do I have to choose?”
“Point taken.”
She gestured toward the multiple rows of parked cars gleaming under the harsh, uneven garage lights.
“My car’s over there. Somewhere.”
“Don’t worry, you’re a detective. You’ll find it.”
She playfully punched my arm, then headed us toward the first line of cars.
I saw her brow furrow.
“Parnelli was right, though. Long night’s work ahead of me. I just have to go home and change, and then it’s back to the precinct.”
It’s what she didn’t say that registered.
“You’re worried about Harry, aren’t you? Wondering if he’ll be there.”
“Even if he
is
there, I’ll bet Biegler’s tearing him a new one. He must be furious about having to tell Sinclair that he was unable to reach Harry tonight. That he couldn’t provide the latest info about the bank case.”
We walked in silence for a few moments, our footsteps echoing hollowly on the concrete. Then she indicated a late model Chevy sedan parked near a massive pillar.
As she searched her small purse for her keys, I found myself putting my hand on her bare shoulder. Then instantly regretted it. I’d meant it to be supportive, reassuring. Yet it seemed suddenly too familiar, too—
But Eleanor just turned her head and smiled. Put her own hand on mine.
“I like you, too, Danny.” Giving my hand the slightest squeeze. Then letting her fingers linger a moment, softly stroking my knuckles.
Before she bent to unlock the driver’s side door, and slipped easily behind the wheel.
And then, giving me another brief smile, she put the car in gear and pulled away.
***
My Mustang was in another section of the lower level. I headed up the ramp to the street, took out my cell, and called Pittsburgh Memorial. And asked for Treva’s room.
I knew it was after visiting hours, and that it was unlikely they’d put me through. But I wanted to at least get a report on her condition.
When the switchboard connected me to the duty nurse, I was pleased to find that it was Ruth. The same one I’d met when Polk and I had questioned Treva earlier that day.
“This is Dr. Rinaldi. I know you probably won’t let me speak to Treva Williams at this hour, but I was wondering how she’s doing?”
Ruth’s raspy chuckle was made tinnier by the cell’s speaker. “Hell, Doctor, I don’t mind bending hospital rules once in a while. Especially since Treva likes you so much. She talked about you a lot.”
“That’s nice of you to say. So I can speak to her? I’ll only take a minute or two.”
“Like I said, I’d be happy to. Thing is, she ain’t here. She checked herself out about an hour ago.”
I let this news sink in.
“And the doctor was okay with this?”
“Sure. Treva’s just tired. Physically and emotionally. The police were fine with it, too. They were here right before, with that obnoxious man from the DA’s office.”
“You mean Dave Parnelli?”
“That’s him. Real charmer. But he signed off on Treva going home.”
This threw me. Why had Parnelli bothered to visit Treva at the hospital? He could’ve given the okay by phone. More importantly, why hadn’t he mentioned it?
“Hello?” Ruth said the word with emphasis.
I got the hint. I quickly thanked her for her time, and for the good care she’d provided Treva. Which merely brought another weary chuckle from the veteran nurse before she hung up.
I sat back against the Mustang’s cool leather. I’d been told that Treva was probably going to be released, but it had happened sooner than I’d expected. Still, no reason she shouldn’t have been.
As I thought this over, I absently checked my office voice mail. No urgent calls. One was from a prospectice new patient. Another was a request from a psych journal I sometimes contribute to for an article on childhood trauma.
The last message, to my surprise, was from Treva Williams. Leaving her home number, and asking that I call her. Regardless of the hour.
I punched in the number, heard the phone ring three times. Then she picked up. Her voice faint, sleepy.
“Thanks for calling, Dr. Rinaldi. I was hoping you would.”
“How are you, Treva? I just heard you checked yourself out of the hospital.”
“Yeah.” She yawned. “The doctors said it was okay, and I wanted to go home. So that’s what I did.”
“You’re home now?”
“In bed. I have an apartment in Monroeville. Near the Mall, on Route 22.”
“I know the area. Listen, Treva…”
“Before you say anything, I just want you to know I’m fine. Really. That’s why I left you a message. I knew you were worried about me, but I’m fine.”
“Physically, perhaps. But earlier today, you…”
“The truth? All I want to do is burrow under these covers and sleep for a week.”
“I understand. You must be exhausted. But I wonder if we could arrange to meet sometime soon. Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“Okay, whatever. Those Victim Services people are coming to see me in the morning, so I’m covered. Unless I don’t answer the door.”
“Now, Treva…”
Her laugh was soft, almost playful. “I just want to shut out the whole world. No more cops and doctors. Except
you
, of course, Dr. Rinaldi.”
Now I was getting concerned.
Like many trauma victims, she was trying to retreat from dealing with what had happened to her. Using sleep, or reasonable-sounding assurances that everything was okay. Or even an amiable, knowing denial. All to keep potential caregivers at a distance. To keep from really looking at the emotional turmoil roiling inside her.
None of which I shared with her. Instead, I merely said, “How about if I call you later tomorrow? Or in the evening.”
“Okay. If you want.” A pause. “Truth is, I guess I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
Wanting help, and not wanting it. Pulling back on the life-line whenever it threatened to go slack.
“Well, the last thing I’d want to do is disappoint you, Treva.”
An awkward beat of silence.
“You mean like with the ambulance?”
I admit, I was a bit taken aback. But I only paused for a moment before responding.
“Yes, Treva. Like with the ambulance.”
Her next words were guarded. “But that other promise you made today…in the hospital room…you’ll keep
that
promise, right?”
“Yes, I will. But I need to know more—”
“Maybe tomorrow, okay, Dr. Rinaldi? I’m so tired.”
Another, heavier yawn. Insistent. “Bye.”
The city’s silhouette glowed dully against the thick summer night as I drove aimlessly through the urban core. It was late, past midnight, but I was too wired to sleep. Too jangly from the past days’ chaotic events.
I headed in the general direction of the Point, the storied juncture of the Three Rivers. Lights spilled from its slim, gleaming buildings onto the new construction site below, threading odd-angled shadows through its erector-set scaffolding. Like the crystals we used to grow as kids in science class, every year brought new facets and planes to the gentrified expanse of downtown Pittsburgh.
I turned down the volume from my dashboard speakers. Since pulling out of the garage beneath the Burgoyne Plaza, I’d been listening to Nina Simone singing about heartbreak and hope in that classic, mournful voice. But now, as though unwilling to allow myself a respite from the thoughts crowding my mind, I dutifully clicked off the CD player and tuned in the all-news radio station.
Dutiful?
I thought. Or just a glutton for punishment.
As I expected, the attempt on Leland Sinclair’s life led the news. I tried another station, where I heard various local pundits weighing in on the political aspects of the event. What would the polls say?
One of these commentators reported mentioning the polls to Sinclair’s campaign manager, Brian Fletcher, who apparently took great offense at the question. According to Fletcher, elections weren’t about polls, weren’t about some media-fueled horse race. Elections were about what was best for the people of Pennsylvania.
“I mean, the guy practically took my head off,” the journalist said, laughing. “On the other hand, Fletcher has been with the Sinclair campaign from its beginning. There’s no question the two men have developed a deep, mutually-supportive bond. Should Lee Sinclair go on to win the governor’s seat, I believe he’s certain to name Brian Fletcher as his chief of staff.”
Which brought another flurry of disagreement from the other commentators, some of whom felt such appointments should only be made from outside the campaign. Perhaps from the business world, or academia. Et cetera, et cetera.
After finding similar stories on other stations, I realized that the hunt for the two bank robbers was barely being covered. Other than a cursory recap of details most people already knew. It reminded me of what Sam Weiss had taught me about news cycles. How, as a result of the Internet and other technologies, they’d essentially morphed into one continuous loop. Which meant that what was now considered newsworthy had a pretty short shelf-life. Unless fresh information became available—new facts suggesting an exciting, unexpected angle—the story itself soon stopped
being
“news.”
