“It’s the text from the nurse,” Billy said, holding up his mobile for Frankie to see. The screen lit up the darkness of her Dodge Charger. “Sharma should be out of surgery in fifteen minutes. He’ll be in the doctor’s lounge, or we’ll catch him in the parking lot at the south employee exit.”
Frankie turned out of the CJC parking lot and hit the Charger’s LED lights. He noticed her fingers squeezing and releasing the steering wheel.
“Stay loose. It’s our game,” he said.
“I’m good.”
She wasn’t good. Her voice sounded tight, which was strange, because she was usually so confident.
At nine o’clock at night the traffic was light, so they made good time to the hospital. The emergency room’s red and blue sign appeared on their right. Frankie cruised through the hospital’s back lanes and slowed at the physician’s parking lot. Sharma’s black Escalade sat in the middle of the lot under the blazing lights.
“Got ’em,” she said, and grinned.
They took an elevator down two floors beneath street level. The doors slid open to the chilled air and overly bright hallways of the surgical area. They went right and then left into a much longer hallway, passing several unmarked metal doors and a bay of vending machines for drinks and snacks. An orderly came around the corner pushing a rattling transport cart. Behind him were four women carrying handbags and wearing their jackets over their scrubs. The hallway ended in heavy-duty automated doors with a sign across the top that read Personnel Only. Behind the doors were the operating and recovery rooms, and the lounge where doctors made calls and cleaned up after surgery.
Frankie forged ahead of him, her earlier nerves having turned to eagerness. She passed the group of off-duty nurses just as the ringtone on one of their phones began shrieking like a parrot. Get the phone! Get the phone! The nurses laughed.
The automatic doors down the hall levered open, and Dr. Sharma walked out. He was easy to recognize from the wedding announcement—tall, with sharp features, deep-set eyes, and skin the color of smoked almonds. He had on dark running pants and a jacket with reflective strips, his arms swinging and his steps surprisingly vital after twelve hours on his feet. Beside him strode a shorter man in a suit, Jerry Vanderman, the highest-priced defense attorney in the city. Vanderman checked his watch and frowned.
Someone must’ve seen the Camaro on TV and called in Vanderman to run interference with law enforcement. Frankie didn’t know Vanderman, but she sure as hell would recognize Sharma.
“Hey Malone,” Billy called. She must not have heard him over the rattle of the transport cart and the nurses’ laughter. Vanderman saw her coming. He touched Sharma’s arm. The taller man stopped and bent to listen.
“Malone!” Billy called again, but he could tell by her walk she was too fired up to listen.
She waved her badge at Sharma, ignoring Vanderman. “Dr. Sharma, I’m Detective Malone. We need a word with you concerning Caroline Lee. Please come with me.”
As Billy approached, Vanderman flashed a surprised look at him then switched back to Frankie. “Dr. Sharma has asked me to represent him. Unless you have a warrant you are to have no further contact with him.”
“This is a murder investigation. We’re not going away,” she said.
Sharma started to answer. Vanderman raised his hand. “Young lady, what don’t you understand about the word ‘no’?” He glared at Billy, who was now standing beside Frankie. “Good evening, Detective. I’m surprised this woman works with you. She needs to be reined in.”
Billy felt Frankie go rigid at his side.
A code of civility existed between defense attorneys and homicide cops who oppose one another year after year. In this case, Vanderman was asserting himself at Frankie’s expense to impress his client.
“Doctor Sharma and Miss Lee were close,” Billy said. “He may have information we need to bring down her killer.”
“You know better than to use this approach,” Vanderman said. “Direct any questions you have to my office.”
Billy gave Sharma a cold stare. “Advise your client my partner and I will be talking with him real soon.”
They left the hospital, Frankie marching beside him with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket.
“Guess we’ll write that one up as ‘failure to properly engage the suspect,’” she said, and gave him a pinched smile.
“Vanderman was posturing. He needs to justify the fifty-thousand-dollar retainer fee he’s about to extract from Sharma.”
She scowled. “I sure made it easy for him.”
“We’ll get him next round.” He put up his hand for a fist bump.
“You know I don’t do that,” she said.
“Come on.”
“Why should I?”
“It’s what successful partners do who support each other. Like Michelle and Obama.”
“I’m a Republican,” she said.
He processed that and decided to drop it. “It’s late. How about some comfort food?”
They were in the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru waiting on their coffee and grilled cheese sandwiches when a security officer working the CJC entrance called.
Billy put him on speaker. “Go ahead.”
“Got a guy here with a shitload of files. He wants to talk about the Lee investigation. Claims to be related to your victim.”
“Did he give his name?”
“Judd Phillips.”
Frankie shrugged.
“Keep him there. We’re twenty minutes out.”