Chapter 43
Tuesday Morning
Near the chapel door in the hospital, Rosswell and Ollie huddled by a life-sized statue of a white dove, its wings spread, its head pointed upward, about to take flight.
Rosswell rubbed the statue. "Marble? Some kind of stone, hard yet smooth and somehow yielding, sculpted by somebody with talent. Is there a bird cult around here?"
"Yes. Dove Love."
An overhead spotlight shined down pearly white rays on the bird. For a hospital, this part was blessedly quiet and deserted although cold enough to hang beef.
Why are hospitals always five degrees colder than comfortable?
Rosswell peeked in the chapel to find it empty. "Let's duck in here a minute."
Once inside, they settled on the front pew, watching the early morning sun piercing the stained glass windows. The colors of the rainbow spread across the dark red carpeting and, as the sun climbed higher, combined into shades covering the entire spectrum of visible light. Off to one side, against a wall, a bank of prayer candles burned in dark blue glass holders. A faint aroma of incense lingered from a previous service.
"Ollie, do you think the Goddess requires candles to remind her that someone said a prayer? Or incense to nudge her into granting us something?"
"I don't care." Ollie pushed forward in the pew. "Tina and the baby-okay?"
"They're doing great. They'll be released tomorrow."
"They don't keep them long these days." Ollie, posture rigid and breathing shallowly, smoothed the padding of the pew with both hands, as if his palms were sweaty. "No one hurt her or the baby?"
"No. But I'm going to find the son of a bitch doctor who helped Nathaniel kidnap Tina."
Ollie slumped against the back of the pew and relaxed his shoulders. "Thank God. I mean, thank God that Tina's okay. Leave the rest of the stuff to the cops. The..." He coughed. "The good cops."
"Take count." Rosswell ticked off the names on his fingers. "Turk, Susannah, Frankie Joe, Charlie. All of them in jail."
"Gustave Fribeau and Nathaniel Dahlbert belong there, too."
"Philbert already chewed me out for letting the main bad boy get loose." Rosswell plucked a hymnal from the pew rack and thumbed through it. "Like it's my fault. I wasn't after him. I was out to rescue Tina. Nathaniel got in my way. I figured it out. He knew I wouldn't shoot him even if I had a chance. I don't want to kill anyone ever again." When he laid the book down, it fell open to Christmas songs. "For all I know, Nathaniel's waiting for me in the parking lot."
"Where's Gustave?"
Before Rosswell could express his opinion, there was an interruption.
"Gentlemen?"
The voice startled Rosswell, who shifted around in his seat to see who'd spoken to them. Ollie twisted his head to look at the short, dark man, dressed in a three-piece charcoal gray suit, white shirt, black tie. A small leather wallet, which the man flipped open, appeared in his hands, then shut quickly. Rosswell couldn't identify the badge. He studied the man closely. Rosswell noted that the hands were calloused and scratched.
"Nicolas?" Rosswell said.
"Nicolas Rodriguez," he said, offering his hand to Ollie who shook it. "The judge and I met earlier."
"Ollie Groton. I'm Judge Carew's research assistant."
Nicolas's sun-wrinkled face broke out in a grin. "I'll bet you are."
"I met Mr. Rodriguez on my snooping expedition in Farmington." To Nicolas, he said, "I'm guessing that landscape gardening is not your main profession."
"A lot of days I wish it were my main profession and not my occasional passion."
Rosswell noted that the tie Nicolas wore was flat black, not shiny. A certain sign that he was a federal agent of some kind. "The badge there...I couldn't quite tell who issued it."
"This isn't strictly an official visit." Nicolas plopped down in the pew behind Rosswell and Ollie.
Ollie said to Nicolas, "Are we in trouble?"
Nicolas leaned on the back of the pew in front of him. "You'd know more about that than I would." Then he gave them both a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Something you need to know about Gustave. He's loose."
"We already know that. If I see him, I'll dial 9-1-1." Rosswell felt the pat was less than comforting. A guy who implied he was law enforcement was chatting with them. What did he want? Rosswell didn't know, but he felt compelled to keep the conversation going. "Ollie's working on his manners. Let me ask the proper question. To what do we owe this visit?"
"Watch out for bad guys." Nicolas handed each of them a business card. "You won't see me again. Ever. But I'll be searching for Nathaniel Dahlbert. And Gustave Fribeau. Lots of people are interested in their whereabouts." Rosswell read the card.
A telephone number and someone's name he didn't recognize. No agency. No department. No other identification.
None of them spoke. Rosswell convinced himself he could hear one of those white noise machines running. Or maybe it was the air conditioning. "You think Gustave is gunning for me?"
"Sure. And lots of other people, too."
Ollie said, "What's Nathaniel done that makes you so interested in him?"
Rosswell said, "It's not polite to ask questions about things that are none of your business."
"What?" If any hair had been growing on Ollie's body, Rosswell suspected it would've been bristling. "That's what you hired me for."
Nicolas said, "There are reasons that I can't share any info with you. There's a phone number on the card. If you hear anything at all about Nathaniel?or Gustave?let me know immediately."
Rosswell read the card aloud. "Ramon Cortez." He rattled off the phone number. "I thought your name was Nicolas Rodriguez. And the telephone number has an area code that I'm not familiar with. Is this for real?"
Ollie said, "It's not polite to ask questions about things that are none of your business."
Nicolas-or Ramon or whatever his name was-said, "Ollie's right. But I wanted to thank you both. With your help, we've got a couple of bad people off the street. Maybe we'll round up some more when we catch Nathaniel and Gustave."
Rosswell said, "Whatever you did for Tina, thank you."
"Tina's a cop. We don't ever leave cops behind enemy lines. Never ever."
A janitor wearing a hoodie opened the door and trundled in, pushing a bucket full of water with a ratty string mop stuck in it. When he spotted the trio, he bent over his work cart with his face averted. "Won't be long. Sorry for the interruption." The janitor spoke barely above a whisper. It sounded as if he had laryngitis.
A mop?
When the janitor reached for the mop, Rosswell spotted it and yelled, "GUN!" Rosswell's stomach went into overdrive, pumping acid into his esophagus.
At the instant Rosswell yelled, Nicolas had drawn his weapon, then rushed to a spot about fifteen feet behind the janitor. "Drop the weapon. Let me see those hands way up high."
The janitor dropped his pistol and shot his hands into the sky. "I didn't do nothing." The same voice. Low. Raspy.
Nicolas said, "Turn around."
The janitor faced Nicolas. When he did, Rosswell could see that it was Gustave Fribeau.
Nicolas spoke quietly into his radio although Rosswell-even with his superb hearing-couldn't make out what he'd said.
Ollie, obviously unable to contain himself, said, "What a crummy disguise. And even a man knows you don't mop a carpet."
Alessandra flew through the door, the aim of her pistol never leaving Gustave's center mass.
With a movement Rosswell couldn't detect, Nicolas jerked Gustave's arms behind him and snapped handcuffs on him.
Nicolas said to Alessandra, "Do the honors."
"You arrested him."
"But we wouldn't have known about him without you."
Ollie nudged Rosswell, "I knew she was a cop."
Alessandra said to Gustave, "Look at me. Straight in the eye." Gustave complied with her order. "You're under arrest for the murder of Ribs Freshwater. And we have a lot more charges later
on. The feds have a few of their own."
Gustave, his voice normal now, said, "That's the biggest bunch of-"
"Can it. We're not ready to interrogate you." Alessandra twirled him around. She and Nicolas escorted the sheriff out of the chapel.
Ollie hummed for a few moments before he said, "That was different."
Rosswell's stomach calmed. "I wonder if Nathaniel is hiding in here somewhere?"
The pair checked out the chapel and the hallways. No one suspicious.
Rosswell said, "My whole life's been different since my bird watching was spoiled a week ago Sunday."
"Do you believe that fussy little guy is a secret agent? Or Theodore? Or Philbert? Sure seems like a hell of a lot of secret agents running around. They don't smell like secret agents."
"They had guns and badges. They're not secret agents. They're..." Rosswell wasn't sure how to finish the sentence.
"They're what?" Ollie rubbed his arms, as if he grew colder by the second. "Spies?"
"Government law enforcement. Federal government."
"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"
Rosswell focused on the burning candles nearly to the point of hypnosis. "That's the question, isn't it? Who watches the watchmen?"
"All those guys could be working for Nathaniel Dahlbert as far as we know."
"We have to trust someone."
"Do we? What about Karyn Byler and Jill Mabli?"
Rosswell loved it when he trumped Ollie. "The prosecutor and I had a long chat. She said that she'd already run the records on both women. Found nothing stinky. And both are willing to turn informant but the prosecutor insists that each one has her own lawyer. I'm working on that now. Behind the scenes. As long as the ladies sing on key and don't miss any notes, they'll be okay."
"There's one thing I don't understand about this whole deal."
"One thing?"
"Two things. Or, I should say, two people." Ollie rubbed his head, fresh from a Vaseline coating. "I like them. Lazar is a cool dresser. And without Maman, you would've never found Tina. The old lady told you exactly where she was." He stuffed the Kleenex into his pocket. "Tell me their story."
"Maman Fribeau and Lazar Fribeau." Rosswell folded his hands. Ollie cocked his head, probably thinking that Rosswell would break out in prayer. "It's a story that begins hundreds of years ago."