I found the medical center without any problems. It was a solid, muscular building made out of pale stone. Pride had gone into its construction. That was clear. Real craftspeople had been involved. You could tell from the attention to detail in the doorway and the windows and the lintels. Inside, an ornate rendering of the Staff of Hermes was set into the polished white floor. A large lamp shaped like the globe hung directly above it. The ceiling was domed. It was painted with scenes showing the history of medicine all the way from caves to hospitals, ending sometime pre-WWII. From its style the building could have been a courthouse or a library. But if you closed your eyes you would have no doubt you were in a hospital. The smell was unmistakable.
The reception area was unattended. There was a freestanding desk made out of rich teak. Its surface shone with years of polish. A laptop computer sat to one side, closed, along with a leather binder and a message pad. There was a directory in a frame on the wall. It was the old-fashioned kind with separate white letters pressed into the gaps between rolls of plush burgundy fabric. It made no mention of the morgue. Probably not the kind of place medical people like to advertise.
I went through a doorway to the side of the desk. It led to a corridor that was lined with plain wooden doors. They had numbers, but no names. There was a staircase at the far end. I went down. Partly because the directory had listed all kinds of wards and clinics and examination rooms on the upper floors. And partly out of instinct. It seemed fitting that the dead would be kept belowground.
I came out onto another corridor. It was bright. There were triple fluorescent tubes hanging from the ceiling at close intervals. But only one pair of doors. They were labeled Morgue. As I approached I could hear a voice. A man’s. At first I thought he must have company. I couldn’t make out all the words but when I picked up on the stylized way of speaking I realized it was just one person. He was dictating. Probably medical notes. Probably into a machine. I raised my hand to knock. But I stopped myself. It was time to face facts.
Nothing I could say to the doctor was going to make a difference.
I turned around and went back up the stairs and out into the street.
Chapter 12
I found my way to the Red Roan and walked past it. Just out of curiosity. It had a racing theme. It seemed incongruous, given its neighboring buildings. And unappealing, so I continued to a diner farther down the street. It was smaller. More down to earth. I ordered two black coffees to go and carried them back to the hotel. Fenton snatched the door open the instant I knocked.
“Well?” She let the door swing shut. “Tell me.”
I handed her one of the cups. The bags of fake blood and miniature detonators and material to make imitation wounds were laid out on the bed. Her gun was there, too. There was a glass full of bullets on the nightstand.
“You switched to blanks?”
She nodded. “Yes. But the ME? How did it go?”
Blanks were better than live rounds in a situation like that. But they were still dangerous, close up. Pull the trigger when the muzzle is in contact with your head and the jet of gas it emits can be fatal. I know. I investigated two cases in the army. One turned out to be a jackass playing the fool one time too many. The other was something else altogether.
I put my coffee down on the desk. “Michaela, there’s something we need to talk about. This plan. It’s not going to work. It’s time we thought about a plan B.”
“The ME wouldn’t cooperate?” Fenton slammed her cup down on the nightstand so hard it sent coffee spurting out of the slot in the lid. “Why not? What was the problem? How hard did you lean on him?”
“I’m not going to lie. I didn’t speak to the guy. There was no point. There are too many other holes in the plan. It’s DOA. We need to find an alternative.”
“You said yourself, there are three hurdles. The threat, the death, and the ME. I took care of one and two. I can’t believe you chickened out of three. I knew I should have gone myself. Never send a man to do a woman’s job. I’ll go now. I’ll take care of it.”
Fenton reached for her gun. I stepped in her way.
I said, “It doesn’t matter which of us talks to him. Or if neither of us does. The outcome will be the same. The guy’s either on Dendoncker’s payroll or he’s not. He’s well disposed to us, or he’s not. We may need to persuade him, or threaten him, or bribe him. In any case there’s no guarantee of a result. Even if he agrees to help, can we trust him? What if he changes his mind later? What if he gets cold feet? And say he does stay away, how will Dendoncker behave? Will he poke the body? My body. Prod it? Stab it? Chop part of it off? Shoot it?”