Chapter LXXIII
CHAPTER LXXIII
On my second morning at the hospital, I woke to find Angel and Louis standing over me.
“Is this where you tell us we should see the other guy?” asked Angel.
“I am the other guy,” I said.
I made some tentative movements to test my ribs. Breathing in was like having someone bang nails into my side.
“I picked up some fresh clothes from your house,” said Angel. “Also, a detective is waiting in the lobby to take your statement.”
I’d told the officers at the scene that it was Wyatt Riggins who had attacked me, but I wasn’t in a position to go into more detail. I’d have to be careful about what I shared with the law until I’d had a chance to confront Zetta Nadeau, who had used up any remaining quota of goodwill.
“I’ll talk to the detective,” I said. “In the meantime, one of you could look for a doctor to give me the all-clear to leave. After that, I’ll need some help getting dressed.”
“Be still, my beating heart,” said Angel.
“I meant find a nurse.”
“Thank God.”
They both left. A minute later, a Somerset County detective named Porter Hammond, known in law enforcement circles as Portly Hammond, arrived to take my statement. I told him I’d been hired by Zetta Nadeau to locate her boyfriend, Wyatt Riggins. When she dispensed with my services, I kept looking for Riggins because I’d never managed to overcome my adolescent OCD. Unfortunately, Riggins didn’t want to be found, or certainly not by me. Ammon and Jerusha Nadeau had done nothing wrong beyond providing refuge for a man who preferred to do his talking with a big stick. Hammond dutifully recorded everything I said, but was too experienced not to spot when he was being fed scraps from the table.
“There are gaps in this story I could fall through and hurt myself,” he said, which was quite the claim, given his girth.
“I won’t be filing for assault,” I said. “Not yet.”
“Come again?”
“It may have been a misunderstanding.”
“That’s quite the misunderstanding. Have you looked in a mirror?”
“I’m saving the pleasure.”
“Well, have someone take a video when you cave in, and be sure to send it to me. I can make money selling it as a misery meme.” He tapped his pen on his thigh. “I’m reluctant to let this slide. If Riggins had hit you any harder, you’d be in a coma—or dead. I don’t want him developing a taste for violent discouragement. Not everyone out there has a skull as hard as yours.”
“I intend to speak with him again,” I said, “and I don’t want to compete with the police for the privilege.”
“Just speak?”
“I may be forced to use strong language.”
Hammond scratched his belly. He looked like he’d struggle to chase a suspect for more than half a block, which was probably the case, except he wouldn’t let a suspect get away to begin with. The list of people who’d underestimated Porter Hammond and lived to regret it was long, and most could compare notes in prison.
“How much of a pickle is Riggins in?” Hammond asked.
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re looking for him, either he’s done something bad or someone wants to do something bad to him—and that was before he whaled on you, which means you and your buddies will be happy to whale right back on him.”
“I don’t think he’s killed anyone, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s aiming low,” said Hammond. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Nine.”
“And that’s without killing someone? Christ. What would we get from his girlfriend if we talked to her?”
“The bum’s rush.”
Hammond put away his notebook and pen.
“This is making me very unhappy,” he said, “and when I’m unhappy, I feel the urge to spread the load. I’d accuse you of having wasted police time, but you weren’t the one who called nine-one-one so it wouldn’t be fair. Regardless of your reluctance to press charges, I’d prefer not to have ex-soldiers taking it into their heads to deliver rough justice in our jurisdiction. If we stumble across Riggins, I’ll let you know—eventually.”
“You may struggle to find him,” I said. “I’m surprised he broke cover to attack me. He panicked.”
“He must have rated your investigative skills more highly than you rate ours,” said Hammond, easing himself from his chair and heading for the door. “Should you ever consider relocating to a different state, I’ll be available to help you move your stuff.”
ANGEL RETURNED WITH A doctor in tow. She did what doctors do in these situations, which was poke, prod, and shine lights.
“Any blurring of eyesight?” she asked.
“No more than usual.”
“Double vision.”
“Likewise.”
“And it’s probably pointless to ask about pain, since I’ve seen your scars.” She put away her flashlight. “The CT scan showed no signs of hemorrhaging or hematoma, so you got away with a concussion and a busted nose. The reset on your nose went okay—we were able to manually realign—and it should be healed after three weeks. You have a pair of fractured ribs, but there’s not much that can be done with them. I’m advising you to take it easy, especially for the next day or two—though I’ve been told all about you by Detective Hammond, so I doubt you’ll listen. Use Tylenol for pain relief, but not ibuprofen or aspirin. If you live alone, you should have someone stay with you for the next twenty-four hours.”
I pointed at Angel and Louis.
“I’m sure my friends will oblige.”
“Will he need to be bathed?” asked Angel. “Because there are limits.”
“I won’t do anything that requires the wearing of rubber gloves,” added Louis.
The doctor stared at them before returning her attention to me.
“Do you have any other friends?” she asked. “Any at all?”
I was left alone to freshen up. I took the opportunity to examine my face. Both my eyes were blackened, my nostrils were packed with gauze, and a dressing covered my nose. I was sure I’d looked worse. I just couldn’t remember when.
My phone rang. I was tempted not to answer until I saw the caller ID: SAC Edgar Ross of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“I heard you took a beating,” he said when I picked up. “Another one, I mean.”
“Good news travels fast. If you’re calling to commiserate, I’ll have to work hard to pick up on the sincerity.”
“How bad is it?”
“A busted nose, a sore head, a couple of fractured ribs. I’ll live.”
“I never doubted it.”
“What do you want? I already have a headache. Don’t add to it.”
“You were mentioned in dispatches.”
“Whose dispatches?”
“Devin Vaughn’s. An overheard conversation.”
“Careless of him.”
“Hardly, not with all the eyes and ears we had on him. He was heard to suggest that if some harm befell you, it would be no more than you deserved. It sounds as though his wish came true. He also mentioned someone named Wyatt who, unless there’s a sale on coincidences this week, is the same Wyatt responsible for putting you in the hospital.”
“That’s him.”
“We were interested in Devin Vaughn. Now it seems that you were interested in him too, and look what’s happened as a consequence.”
“Riggins worked for one of Vaughn’s companies up here, a cannabis farm and dispensary called BrightBlown. That’s as far as my interest in Devin Vaughn’s business activities goes. Wait a minute: Why do you keep referring to Vaughn in the past tense?”
“Because,” said Ross, “someone broke into his house last night, under the eyes of any number of federal agents, and killed him, his girlfriend, and four of his men. Oh, and they cut out Vaughn’s heart for good measure, probably with the same blade that was recently used to eviscerate a Virginia narcotics dealer named Donnie Ray Dolfe and two collectors of ancient artifacts in Loudoun County—and perhaps an antiquities smuggler called Roland Bilas in Los Angeles a while before that, not to mention an ex-soldier named Emmett Lucas who also ended up with his balls in his mouth. I’m just a lowly government employee, but even I can discern a pattern. We’re now of the opinion that Vaughn, Dolfe, Bilas, Hul and Harriet Swisher, Emmett Lucas, and your target Wyatt Riggins were involved in some mischief involving one Blas Urrea, a Mexican cartel boss. You wouldn’t know what mischief that might be, would you?”
“I’m still piecing it together.”
“And there I was, trying to look after your welfare. This may be why misfortune keeps befalling you. You can’t accept a helping hand.”
“Are we done?” I asked.
“For now.”
“Good, because talking hurts. I just want another day. After that, I’ll share what I have with anyone who cares to listen.”
“Share?” said Ross. “Without being forced? That is out of character.”
“Now who can’t accept a helping hand?”
“Call it justifiable skepticism. But as an advance gesture of goodwill, here’s a name for you: Seeley. Eugene Seeley.”
I gave no indication that I’d heard the name before.
“And who is Eugene Seeley?”
“The man who had Devin Vaughn so unnerved before he died. Also, by extension, the man who may be looking for Riggins, and should, therefore, be of interest to you. Be wary of this one, any skill with a blade aside.”
“Because you know who he is?”
“No,” said Ross, “because we don’t.”
WITH SOME EFFORT, I managed to pull on my underwear and trousers unaided. Angel helped with the shirt. He’d bought me a pair of slip-on sneakers, meaning I didn’t have to bend down to tie laces or pull on boots.
“So,” said Angel, when we were done, “home to put your feet up, like the doctor ordered? If we hurry, you can still catch The Young and the Restless .”
Behind him, Louis was amusing himself by leaning against the door and making passing strangers nervous.
“Let’s pay a call on Zetta Nadeau,” I said.
Louis gave up on intimidating patients and staff alike.
“I already did,” he said.
“Was she forthcoming?”
“Eventually.”
“And?”
“I have good news and bad.”
“I’ll take the bad news first.”
“Those children Riggins stole from Mexico are already dead,” said Louis.
I felt like crawling back under the sheets and never coming out again.
“And the good news?”
“They’ve been dead for a long, long time.”