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His destination was room 242, a private room on the second floor, one of the more expensive ones available, with guaranteed round-the-clock care from an RN and a doctor always on call.
The occupant of this room was one of seventeen in the New York area who was the right age and required all the appropriate prescription medications. But the woman in room 242 was the only one with a name that matched one of the names on the short list he had made of possible aliases.
Mrs. Sheila Beaumont.
Riley Wolfe’s mother.
Mrs. Beaumont needed the full-time nursing care she got here. She was in what is commonly called a persistent vegetative state, and had been for many years. Only a great deal of expensive care kept her alive—if the unchanging comatose state could be called alive, which Delgado doubted. In his opinion, Sheila Beaumont had moved out a long time ago, leaving nothing behind but the furniture. But it wasn’t Delgado’s business; it wasn’t his money keeping the body technically alive. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t Riley Wolfe’s money, either, since it was all stolen. In any case, since it was leading Delgado right to Riley, he wouldn’t complain.
And it would lead to Riley Wolfe. Delgado had no doubt about it. During Riley’s previous heist, six months ago in Chicago, his mother had been right there nearby, in an Oak Park full-care nursing home. And the day after Wolfe’s robbery, he had taken his mother out of that home, and they had both disappeared.
Delgado knew that if Riley Wolfe had already hit the Eberhardt, there was no point in looking for him there. And he was completely sure that whoever had been captured on the roof, it was not Riley. Riley Wolfe would be coming here, to get his mother. Just like he had before.
And Delgado would be here, waiting.
He entered the nursing home as excited as he had been in years. He felt like a little boy on Christmas, seeing all the presents under the tree and knowing that the really big one had his name on it. This was it. After so many years of disappointment, false hope, dead ends—he was about to come face-to-face with his obsession. Cornered at last.
Feeling a confidence he hadn’t felt yet in anything involving Riley Wolfe, Delgado left the elevator on the second floor and followed the signs to room 242. As he got close, he heard voices from inside the room—not voices, plural. Just one voice.
Delgado jerked to a stop outside the door and listened.
“. . . so we’ll be moving on today, Mom. I found a really nice place for you, and it’s much warmer. There’s a garden—they have roses, Mom. You’re gonna really like it . . .” The voice changed, grew softer, filled with emotion. “It’s a great place, Mom. Just like you always said—you’ll be living the life of Riley, just like you always said.”
There was an almost audible click in Delgado’s brain. The life of Riley. That’s where the name had come from. The life of Riley, a wolf’s reward for successfully preying on the herd. Delgado nearly smiled. He had a full picture now, and—
The voice had stopped. Now, Delgado thought. He drew his gun, swirled around the doorframe and into the room—
The room was empty.
For a moment, Delgado just stood there and blinked. Then he stepped to the closet, opened it—empty. The same with the bathroom. And nobody under the bed. The room was truly and completely empty.
But the voice he’d heard . . . ?
Behind him, he heard music, a ruffle of drums, then an insistent bass line in a minor key. He whirled around. On the small table beside the bed stood an expensive, high-tech digital sound recorder and a small speaker. The music was coming from this—and as Delgado stared at it, still stupidly pointing his gun, the guitar and then the vocals came in.
He listened for a minute, until he recognized the song. It was an Elvis Costello tune, one Frank had listened to often enough when he was young: “Watching the Detectives.” It had never seemed quite so ironically appropriate before. And as a bright, hot flush mounted up his neck and into his face, Delgado put his pistol back in its holster and sank into the bedside chair.
He just sat there and listened until the song ended. It had hit him with a nearly physical pain, no doubt exactly what Riley had intended.
Riley Wolfe, all along, had been watching the detective—Special Agent Frank Delgado.
Somehow, Riley knew he would come. Somehow, he had set up a mocking welcome, designed to let Delgado know he was completely outmatched and had been from the start.
When the song was over, he got up and went to the nurses’ station. “The woman in room 242,” he asked, holding up his badge. “When did she leave?”
The nurse glanced at her computer, clicked the keyboard a few times. “This morning,” she said. “A private ambulance picked her up.” She frowned at the keyboard. “But the room was paid for through tomorrow—we’re not supposed to touch it until then.” She shook her head. “That’s weird . . .”
Delgado just nodded and walked away. It wasn’t weird to him. The room had been left for him. And there was no point in asking any more questions. He already knew the rest. He would check, of course, but he knew what he’d find; the private ambulance would be registered to a company that didn’t exist, going to a destination that was an empty lot, or a pet cemetery, and there would be no clues, no way to track it down, no way to find Riley Wolfe or his mother.
Until next time. And there would be a next time, for him as well as for Riley Wolfe. But in the meantime . . . ?
Delgado stepped into the elevator and rode down. He walked out to his car and got in, putting both hands on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead for several minutes. And then he slammed the wheel with both hands, hard. “God-damn it!” he said. Just once. Then he started the car and began the long trip home.
* * *
—
The sun was just coming up when Katrina got home. It had been a very long night, and the one before—with the ruined gala at the museum—had been nearly as long, and it occurred to her that she had not really slept more than a couple of hours for two days now. She parked her car in the huge garage, noting that Randall’s car was back, neatly parked in the spot next to hers. She was filled with elated relief; she hadn’t really believed he’d had an accident, but the possibility had elbowed its way into her mind and wouldn’t go away. But his car was here, unmarked, and that meant Randall was, too.
