MATT DUGGAN - DETECTIVE SERIES

Part VIII

“Goddamn it,” Morelli shouted, banging his fist on the front door of Duggan Investigations. “I should have known Duggan wouldn’t stand down and wait like I told him. No doubt he and Delia are out looking for Holland … and it’s unlikely either of them know the Barton girl was reported missing an hour ago.”

“She’s not answering her cell phone?” agent Anderson asked.

“Hell no. Their phones are either off or in ignore mode,” Morelli answered in a frustrated tone. “I oughta kick his insubordinate ass smack dab into the middle of the port of Los Angeles.”

“And no luck locating any of the ‘Gang of Three,’” Anderson continued. “Lundsten’s not at the hospital and Shyner’s not in his office, and none of the trio were present at their last confirmed home of record per an update by our field agents just twenty minutes ago.”

Morelli gave a wearied look. “Why do I have the godawful feeling Duggan’s closing in on the whereabouts not only of the ‘gang of three,’ but Holland, and … unknowingly, the Barton girl as well? And here we are standing around with our finger up our ass.”

Anderson turned and faced Morelli. “Sir, why don’t we …”

“Get hold of Blanchard and get here over here. And keep calling Columbo and Nancy Drew,” Morelli interrupted, his voice laden with anger.

***

“That maniac is going to wind-up killing these two,” Lundsten fretted. Standing next to Melissa and Holland, he directed Shyner’s attention to the vials and syringes on the desk. “You’ve heard me tell Sutton repeatedly that using that drug could be dangerous, especially in their condition.”

Shyner threw up his hands. “The problem is he’s the one with the gun and the van, and we’re stuck here with these two with no way out. We’re in this too deep to back out now. Our only alternative is he either kills us, or we contact the authorities and then go to jail for the remainder of our lives, so maybe you should settle down until he returns with whatever he says he has that can counter …”

“Sodium amytal is a barbiturate,” Lundsten interrupted. “There are no effective antidotes for the anesthetic they've been administered, which is also a barbiturate. It has to run its course through the patient's own body metabolism."

“Maybe he has something that will …”

Lundsten grabbed a stapler on the desk and flung it against the wall. “You haven’t heard a damn thing I’ve said.”

***

“Thought you might be interested to know Morelli has tried calling and texting several times,” Delia said, toggling between the GPS, Morelli's calls and text messages.

Matt took in a deep breath. “He’s either called the office, dropped by … or both. He’ll presume correctly we’re out looking for Holland.”

“And he won’t be happy. Are you going to call him?”

Matt nodded. “Now that we’re in a discreet position outside of Sutton’s apartment, we’ll make contact with Morelli as soon as we’ve hooked Sutton and tail him to any place we deem suspicious. If my sixth sense is correct, the big fish will lead us straight to the other fish.”

Delia bobbed her head. “It’s our only saving grace, considering we were told to stay put. If our fishing expedition confirms there’s no Sutton or no fish school in the warehouse, you and I will be sleeping with the fishes … or at least the Morelli version of it.”

“Don’t remind me,” Matt grumbled.

***

A large white van slowed before making contact with a speed bump next to the non-staffed security booth at the entrance into Sutton’s apartment building. Both entry and exit gate arms were fully raised.

“Looks like the apartment complex has some company,” Matt whispered.

“Hmm … that seems odd,” Delia whispered back, her eyes following the unusually large vehicle resembling a mini-bus. “What is that?”

Matt stared at the large caravan. “That’s a non-emergency medical transport and wheelchair van.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I’ve seen them up close. Check out the raised roof and the elongated sliding door on the right side. Notice the gap in the running board underneath the door; that’s where the ramp is located … in a small pocket underneath the chassis,” Matt pointed out. “It extends outward and then down at an angle until it rests on the ground … perfect for gurney and wheelchair bound patients.”

“Okay, so it’s a medical and wheelchair transport, which begs the next question: 'Why would that thing be here at this hour?'”

Matt pressed his lips together and rubbed his chin. "Allow me to answer by asking another question: ‘What does a former Paragon State Hospital employee with a criminal record, a missing concierge with ties to an admitted paragon psychiatric patient, and a medical transport in our primary suspect’s apartment complex at this time in the morning all have in common?’”

Delia took in a deep breath. “If we’re still tuned in to the same pondering channel, the answer is a former Paragon State Hospital employee and felon by the name of Ray Sutton … who just so happens to reside a few miles from an empty warehouse previously owned by the patient’s deceased father.”

“I think we’re about to find out,” Matt said, peering over the steering wheel for a better look at the medical transport vehicle. Watching the van make a right turn after making its way past the empty gatehouse and Matt’s stealthily concealed sedan, the top heavy medical transport veered to the left until the driver stopped and double-parked in a row of unoccupied parking spaces outside a ground level corner apartment. Exiting the van with the parking and side lights illuminated, the operator scurried toward the lighted front door of the unit before fumbling with a key and letting himself inside.

“It’s Sutton ... I’m sure of it,” Delia said with a loud whisper. “Did you get a glimpse of his face?”

“Yep … that’s our boy,” Matt agreed, squinting his eyes for a better look.

Exiting less than two minutes later, the now hooded suspect hopped back inside the van. Switching on the headlights, he drove ahead until the van crossed over and into the next section of sparsely occupied tenant parking spaces. He veered slightly to the right before making a u-turn, then drove back and exited the same way he entered.

“We’ve hooked our fish,” Matt said. “Let’s see where he takes us.” Turning the ignition key, he released the parking brake and placed the shift lever in drive.

“He’s turning left on East Highland Street. Harbor Boulevard is a mile or so east and runs north and south according to the GPS,” she murmured, following the blue dot and watching as the screen continuously updated itself in real time. “He has to turn left on Harbor and drive north another mile and a half to reach the warehouse depot.”

“I’m on him,” Matt said.

Following at a discreet distance, the van made its way to the far left turn lane as the vehicle approached and stopped at a red light. Matt slowed to allow time for the left turn arrow to illuminate, then continued as he followed the van through the T-intersection and onto Harbor Boulevard, which ran parallel to Los Angeles Harbor.

A mile and a half later, Delia said, “We’re approaching the depot,” the van finally turning off of Harbor Boulevard and continuing for another half-mile down a winding gravelly road leading to a chain link fence.

“Yeah, I see the warehouses,” Matt said, turning off the headlights and slowing his vehicle. They watched the van stop at a chain link gate. “The entire facility is surrounded with miles of chain link fencing, topped with barbed wire. It appears that remote gated entry and exit points have been installed in certain sections of the outlying areas; the main entry and exit points more than likely have guardhouses and are staffed around the clock.”

“Look,” Delia pointed. “The gate is sliding open; Sutton’s getting ready to enter the compound.”

“It’s a card or fob system of some kind that he’s privy to,” Matt responded. “He’s swiping or tapping an active access card or fob to a reader which opens the gate.”

“And it will close as soon as he’s gone through,” Delia said. “So what’s the plan?”

Watching the van make its way through the opening gate, Matt uttered a short chuckle, then popped the trunk. “Fetch the bolt cutters.”



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