Chapter 6 - ROOM 419
I did not go alone.
I told Nora.
She told Wynn.
Wynn told me the message might be a trap.
I didn't care.
County General had more than six hundred rooms. Room 419 was located in an older wing normally used for long-term neurological patients.
The nurse at the desk looked confused when I asked for Camden Dennis.
“No patient by that name.”
“Room 419.”
“That room is occupied.”
“By who?”
“I can't disclose—”
I walked past her.
She called security.
Nora started explaining.
I reached the room first.
The door was closed.
My hand shook on the handle.
For three years, I had rehearsed seeing my father again.
Never like this.
I opened the door.
An old man lay in the bed.
Not my father.
My disappointment was so sharp I almost couldn't breathe.
The man turned toward me.
“You Finnley?”
I stopped.
“Yes.”
He reached slowly toward the bedside table.
“Camden said you'd come.”
Nora entered behind me.
“Who are you?”
“Samuel Ortega.”
He looked around seventy.
“What does my father have to do with you?”
Samuel smiled weakly.
“He saved my life.”
He told us he'd been a patient at Fairhaven.
So had Dad.
“They called your father Daniel Clark,” Samuel said.
“Fake name?”
“They gave everybody fake names if somebody paid enough.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who paid?”
“Woman came sometimes.”
“Reagan?”
I showed him a photograph.
Samuel nodded immediately.
“That's her.”
Nora asked, “Did she visit Camden?”
“Not to visit.”
Samuel's expression darkened.
“She met with doctors.”
“About what?”
“Medication.”
I gripped the bed rail.
“What medication?”
“Stuff that made him confused.”
Dad's supposedly declining mental condition suddenly made sense.
Drug someone.
Declare him incompetent.
Take his company.
“They kept him sedated,” Samuel continued. “But Camden was smart. Started hiding pills under his tongue.”
“How did he escape?”
Samuel laughed softly.
“He didn't.”
“What does that mean?”
“They moved him.”
“Where?”
Samuel looked at me.
“The night Fairhaven got investigated, staff started destroying records. Your father knew they were going to move certain patients.”
“He told you?”
“He told me if anything happened, remember one word.”
“What word?”
“Bluebird.”
Nora and I exchanged a look.
“Bluebird what?”
“Just Bluebird.”
Samuel reached beneath his blanket and produced a small metal object.
Another key.
“Camden gave me this.”
A tag read:
B-17
“Where?”
Samuel shook his head.
“He said you'd know.”
I didn't.
Then the hospital lights went out.
Only emergency red lights remained.
A nurse shouted from the corridor.
My instincts screamed.
“Stay here.”
Wynn entered.
“Power failure.”
“No.”
I looked toward Samuel.
“This is planned.”
A figure appeared at the end of the hallway.
Dark clothing.
Baseball cap.
He turned when he saw us.
Wynn chased him.
I stayed beside Samuel.
Seconds later, an alarm sounded.
Then Samuel started gasping.
His oxygen machine had stopped.
Nora hit the nurse-call button.
Nothing.
I grabbed the portable oxygen cylinder.
The hose had been cut.
“Someone cut it!”
Nora opened the door and yelled for help.
Nurses rushed in.
Samuel survived.
Again, barely.
Whoever wanted him dead hadn't expected us to arrive early.
Wynn returned twenty minutes later.
The intruder escaped through a stairwell.
Security cameras had conveniently failed during the outage.
“Bluebird,” I said.
Wynn went still.
“You know it?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Samuel.”
Wynn looked toward the nurses, then pulled us into an empty consultation room.
“Bluebird was Hannah's confidential file name.”
“What file?”
“The investigation into Hale.”
My pulse increased.
“What did she discover?”
“I only saw pieces.”
“Tell me.”
Wynn hesitated.
“I was a patrol officer. Hannah trusted me enough to make copies.”
“Copies where?”
“She gave them to somebody.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
I showed him the B-17 key.
Wynn stared.
“Bus station.”
“What?”
“Union Station has old luggage lockers in the basement. Section B.”
We drove there.
Locker B-17 still existed.
The key opened it.
Inside was a backpack.
A woman's.
Nora pulled out an identification card.
DETECTIVE HANNAH COLE.
We found three notebooks, a pistol, two burner phones, and a sealed evidence envelope.
Inside the envelope were photographs.
Judge Hale.
Reagan.
Carter.
Derek Shaw.
And someone I didn't recognize.
A man in an expensive gray suit.
On the back Hannah had written:
GRAHAM VALE — THE MONEY MAN.
Nora searched him.
Graham Vale was the CEO of Vale Equity Partners.
One of the largest private-investment firms on the West Coast.
“Why would he care about Dennis Manufacturing?” I asked.
Nora kept reading.
“Vale Equity tried to buy your father's company six years ago.”
“Dad refused.”
“Repeatedly.”
I remembered.
Dad always said he'd rather die than sell to people who dismantled companies and fired workers for profit.
Nora looked at another page.
“Finnley.”
“What?”
“Vale Equity purchased twelve percent of Dennis Manufacturing while you were in prison.”
“How?”
“From Carter.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“Carter didn't own twelve percent.”
“No.”
Nora turned the document.
“He sold voting proxies belonging to Reagan.”
Which she had obtained after Dad's incompetency declaration.
The pieces were coming together.
Remove me.
Remove Dad.
Gain control.
Sell the company.
But Hannah's notebook had one sentence circled three times:
Reagan thinks she's a partner. She doesn't understand she's disposable.
I looked at Wynn.
“Hale and Vale used her.”
“Possibly.”
Then I noticed the final photograph in the envelope.
It showed Dad walking into a small church.
The timestamp was eight days ago.
He was alive.
And beside him walked Hannah Cole.
Also alive.
On the back:
St. Gabriel's. Sunday. 6:00 p.m.
May you like
Tomorrow was Sunday.
At six o'clock, I would finally find my father.
