Kennedy picks an unopened envelope out of Riley’s personnel folder. Returned to sender? Who lets their retirement check bounce back to the NYPD? He grabs the phone and dials up human resources. “Detective Kevin Kennedy here. I’m trying to reach retired Detective Connor A. Riley as part of a homicide investigation. You have an up-to-date address, phone number on him?”
“One minute, Detective.” Adele’s ‘Rolling in the Deep’ takes over the line for the next few minutes as the worker follows up on the inquiry. “Deceased. Detective Riley died a month after retiring from the force.”
“Ouch. Any details on his death, like if foul play was suspected?”
The worker scans the file. “I’m afraid not, Detective. That’s all I have. Have a nice—”
“How ’bout his partner, Mitch Goldberg? Got a phone number on him?”
“Just his home. It’s 718-555-1442.”
“Thanks a lot.” Kennedy returns the mouthpiece to the cradle, picking it right back up to dial the number.
“Hey, I can’t get to the phone right now, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I feel like it.” Sounds of the ocean swirl in the background before the message shifts into recording mode.
“Hey Mitch, Kev Kennedy from your old stompin’ grounds at the 1-7. Give me a call at the precinct when you get a minute. Wanted to ask you about a case you worked just before you retired. We’ve got another death to investigate from the same doc’s lab and I could use your help.”
Chapter 10
Climbing the stairs two at a time at the 17th precinct, I do my best to crush the emotions welling up inside. I was Chief of the DMC for less than a year, but what a hellacious year it was, chasing after Durand as the bodies piled up throughout the city and across the country. But the story really began eight months before that. My mother’s brutal attack, the vow I made to leave medicine behind and take up detective work in Ma’s honor.
I glance at my watch: 12:52 p.m. I feel bad about dropping by later than expected, but Kev and I can grab a bite while I catch him up on things. Walking through the door on the third floor, I spot Kennedy at his desk pouring over documents, Detective Simmons seated across from him at my old desk.
“Hey, Chris, how’s it going?” he yells as he pushes the paperwork aside and grabs his coat. “Wanna grab lunch or something?”
I smile. An outsider now, but I still know a few things.
An avalanche of greetings, waves, and slaps on the back overtake me. “How ya doing, Chris?” “Not the same without you.” “When you coming back?” Kennedy plows through the crowd, brings order to the chaos. “Geez, give the guy some air before we gotta do CPR!” He puts an arm around my shoulder and steers me through the crowd, toward the door I came through. “Who knew you were so popular? Most of these pricks couldn’t stand working for you.” He grins. “Now, you’re like Elvis, the Pope, and Babe Ruth all rolled up in one.”
It feels good to hear it, to be here where I’m wanted and did such valuable work. “Ay, what can I say? When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.” I pull back a bit, slipping free of Kennedy’s grasp. “Why don’t we hang here a bit?”
Kennedy’s eyes dart quickly back and forth. “Uh, sure.” He does a one-eighty, motions to Simmons and a few others to clear out, and waves me to my old seat. I pull up, leaning on Kennedy’s desk instead and wave him off. “Naw, I’m good here.”
Kennedy talks just above a whisper. “Sure you want to do this here? You’re not exactly on the NYPD payroll anymore, and lord knows we can’t have anyone finding out Hyslop’s treating you too.”
Simmons circles back to his desk to grab his jacket. Kennedy’s eyes bear down on him, sending him veering off instead.
I nod. “Got to confirm with McGowan, but it looks like Hyslop’s treatment killed her. We just have to figure out how. Was it the formulation itself? Or did someone tamper with the medication by the time Gorelick injected Irina?”
Kennedy looks around nervously, his fingers drumming on the desk. “So how’d the med kill her?”
“Lesions are classic for vasculitis, a kind of inflammation of blood vessels.” No need for more details; I can see I’m losing him already. “In this case caused by a bad reaction to the medication.”
Kennedy shrugs his shoulders. “If you say so.” Lowering his voice further, he says, “But where’s that get us on the case?” Leaning forward, even softer, “and with your situation?”
“Narrows the focus a bit. The stuff Irina’s husband and her brother were into, wouldn’t waste much time on that. You’re looking at someone with scientific expertise who laid hands on the medicine before she took it.”
Kennedy wipes his brow. “So we’re dealing with a homicide?”
“Not sure,” I say with a shake of the head. “Have you spoken to Gorelick or his staff yet? Any of them could be suspects if it’s a homicide.”
I notice Kennedy’s eyes dart again. What the hell’s up with him?
“Made a quick pass with the doc, but I’ll put someone on him, see what he’s up to. Simmons’ll have more background on Hyslop and company by tomorrow.” Kennedy eyes me. “I’m starving, wanna head out?”
“Yeah, whatever.” I jerk my head toward where I came in. Kennedy’s eyes bulge as I continue, “Got all the stuff down in the car for you.”
Somebody yells, “Hey Chief.” Kennedy and I both turn. “You got a call.”
I spin back around, face flushed, anxious to escape my embarrassment. “No worries, I’ll meet you at the car, then off to McGowan’s.”
§
“What do mean, ‘no go on McGowan’s’? How can I help if I can’t confirm my theory?”
Kennedy’s face is contorted with discomfort as he holds his hands up in surrender. “You can’t, Chris.” He waves toward two boxes of files on my back seat. “Petersen would crucify me if he knew I let you look through that stuff. No way in hell we can go to McGowan’s.”
“Aw, c’mon. She’s helped us on the sly before.”
Kennedy’s discomfort deepens. “Yeah, when we were both on the force....”
I’m such an idiot. As much as I want to help and Kev welcomes it, I can’t put him in Petersen’s crosshairs. A sinking feeling replaces all the warm, fuzzy feelings from a few minutes ago.
My back stiffens as I lean away from him. “I get it. Sorry.”
Kev starts to speak, then searches for the words. “If it was up to me...”
“I know. Look, I’m gonna take a raincheck on lunch.” I pat his shoulder. “Good luck with it. I gotta get going.” Solemn and expressionless, Kennedy exits the car, reaching into the back seat for his files.
As he walks off, a box tucked under each arm, I swallow hard and shake my head, screeching the tires a bit as I pull out. Never enjoyed being on the outside looking in, and this time’s no different.
Chapter 11
Kiki scans the document as she finishes typing. Like her, it is a complete mess, littered with errors throughout. Her fingers jab the keys, correcting each mistake one-by-one. If only she could straighten out her life this easily.
Where had she gone wrong? Hyslop and Limerock, two brilliant scientists. Either or both should have cured her by now. Instead, Hyslop’s latest guinea pig is dead, his lab in disarray due to the ongoing police investigation. And the Limerock situation is no better. Intent on using him for her own benefit, Limerock turned the tables on her! And he is hell-bent on using her to steal secrets from the lab while he plots its demise. Kiki shakes her head. Since when did her beauty and guile fail her so miserably?
“Kiki, where is the Jamal Richards file?” Hyslop yells from behind her. “I need it for the reformulation.”
“It’s right here, Doctor. I’m just finishing up with it.”
Hyslop stands before her, tapping his foot on the floor impatiently. “Hurry, please.”
Pain jabbing at her fingers, she puts the finishing touches on the report and hits the print button. Hyslop snatches the pape
rs from the printer and storms off. Of all the overbearing, ungrateful, hot-tempered bosses.... Why can’t he be dead instead of Irina?
Chapter 12
Back at Dad’s, Christine and James jostle on his back as he chugs around the living room on all fours. I look on, vacillating between self-pity, self-loathing, and second guessing. Leaving the force means wracking my brain now for answers I can’t possibly have.
“Sure you don’t want to have a go of it?” Dad arches his eyebrows, his voice filled with sarcasm. “I feel bad hogging all the fun.” Christine bucks her legs against the sides of his chest and urges him onward. “Faster, faster.”
A sad smile fills my face. I should relieve him now but don’t have the energy for it. “In a couple of minutes, okay?” The kids, filled with anticipation, smile back.
“Whoey!” Dad hangs his head with exhaustion as he pants like a dog and presses on.
Hands covering my eyes and forehead, I torture myself with ruminations. Any truth to what Durand said, that Michelle’s alive, that he can help us solve the Malekoviec case? Or am I just desperate, the world’s biggest idiot, for wishing it’s true?
“Look Daddy, look!” James yells as he slides forward, wrapping his hands around Dad’s nape. As he swings back and forth, Dad’s face contorts in pain.
I snap out of my fog and lunge forward, pulling his hands apart as I ease him to the ground. “James, you need to be more careful before you break Grandpa’s neck.”
With downcast eyes, he says, “Sorry, Daddy.”
I lift Christine off Dad’s back as his hand goes to his beet-red, raw neck. Annoyed with myself for letting it get out of hand, I hold back my anger as Dad intervenes with a wink and a smile. “It’s okay, slugger. No harm done.” I pull back, taking a deep breath as I urge myself to keep calm. “You okay, Dad?”
“Yeah, fine.” As he pulls his hand away, my eyes are drawn to his neck, absorbed by a close-up as time slows to a crawl. I shudder, jumbled flashbacks assaulting me.
A dagger, a slashing motion. I shake my head to drive the images away.
A trickle of blood forms on Dad’s neck. It swells and stretches, straining to break free.
Oh God, Michelle! Her body crumbling to the ground as Durand gets away. The hospital, the operating room. No! Don’t die.
The drop of blood on Dad’s neck falls through the air, splashes against the hardwood floor. My heart pounds in my chest.
“Chris, are you okay?”
I stare at Dad, his lips moving, the words not registering. Michelle’s face now. The bandages wrapped around her neck as she lays in the recovery room. I blink once, twice, Dad’s face reappearing before me.
Imploring me now. “Chris, Chris! Snap out of it.”
I mumble, the words making sense only to me. “Holy shit, that’s it! Gotta get back there now! No time to waste.”
§
Back at the 17th Precinct, Kev stares at me dumbfounded as I wave my hands wildly. “...Need to see the tapes, the tapes from Durand’s lab.”
“Whoa, slow down big guy. What tapes, where?”
I catch my breath, try to slow the barrage of images racing through my mind. Gotta make sense of it so he can help me.
I put a hand on Kennedy’s shoulder. “When I went undercover at Durand’s lab in Westchester... paranoid, had cameras everywhere, taped everything.” My eyes beseech Kennedy, please understand.
“Okay, yeah, I remember.”
“I gotta see the tapes, gotta get the answer once and for all.”
§
I fast forward, then stop, then fast forward again. “It’s not here. This all you got?”
Kennedy looks at the DVD’s strewn across the table, at the images whirling by on the monitor before us. “Yeah, that’s it, buddy. You’ve seen all eight discs. What’re you looking for?”
I pause the image, sift frantically through the discs before me. It’s got to be here... six, seven, eight discs. Shit! Where is it? “Where’s the evidence log? Gotta be more than this.”
Kennedy shakes his head. “Down in the cage. But O’Rourke said this is all of it.”
My eyes dart between Kennedy and the discs. I bolt out of the conference room toward the cage. “Gotta be at least one more.”
Kennedy chasing behind me, I hear him say, “What the fuck?”
§
Standing in front of O’Rourke, I wait a second for Kennedy to catch up. “Need to see the full log of Durand’s evidence.”
Kennedy nods to O’Rourke.
“All right. But I already gave you all the recordings we have.”
I grab the list from O’Rourke, scanning down the first page, the second, third. “Says you’ve got four other discs! Where are those?”
O’Rourke grabs the list from me. “Those cover the twenty-four hours before we busted him. I thought you just wanted the stuff from a couple of days be—”
“Get me those discs,” I growl.
“Okay, okay. Gimme a sec.”
Kennedy stares at me, cautious and perplexed. O’Rourke re-emerges with the discs, hands them to me in a clear plastic bag.
§
I burn through the first three discs; nothing of use there.
The room I was in that night was small, dark. My interaction with Michelle was limited to seeing her through closed-circuit television. No wonder I hadn’t picked up on it then.
I hold the last disc up in my latex-gloved hand, turning it from side to side as Kennedy looks on. Gotta be here, I think. I cue it up, fast forwarding it through useless crap after useless crap – Wait, there it is! I rewind a minute or so. There I am, walking down a long hallway, blindfolded, iPod to my ears, Durand’s men guiding me. The view switches over as we enter a small, dark room. They remove the blindfold and iPod. There before me, on CCTV, a woman I believed was Michelle. My thoughts and emotions from those moments surge through me as I study the recording. She wore the dress I gave her from Mother’s Day. She looked like Michelle, but her mannerisms, were they forced, rehearsed? It was hard to tell. Come on, come on turn just a little bit. Give me the view I need. I hit pause as Kennedy looks on.
“Got something?”
I rewind slowly.
Yes! There it is! I study the image. Need to be one-hundred percent sure. The CCTV feed is a bit grainy, but I see what I need to. Relief washes over me. My head tilts back, my closed eyes facing skyward. I catch my breath for the first time in weeks it seems, hope finally and completely back in play.
No fucking way that woman, the woman killed hours later by the FBI, was Michelle. It’s just not possible.
§
I rise from the chair, a huge smile on my face. “Kev, call over to Rikers. We need another crack at Durand.”
“You serious?” he says in disbelief. “What’d you see on the tape?” He shakes his head. “What the hell am I gonna tell them this time?”
“Dunno; you’ll figure something out.” I slide the disc out of the player, secure it in its case and a plastic baggy. “Come on, we’ll take my car. You can call on the way.”
Chapter 13
Tires screeching to a halt, I jump out of the Firebird in front of the Otis Bantum Correctional Center. As we hustle toward the entrance I glance at Kev and feel bad. Tried to fill him in on the drive over, but got way too emotional to continue. I swing open the front door, slamming it into the brick façade as we march across the threshold.
Within minutes Kennedy and I traverse the same dark and dreary corridors and check points we did days earlier.
We nod to the guards poised in front of the small room where Durand is being held.
One of them addresses Kennedy with intensity and begrudging respect. “You got some kind of pull, Detective. Not every day we gotta jump to attention, haul an inmate out of circulation like this.” He looks at me with disgust. “And for a civy, no less.”
Kennedy nods to the guards. “Appreciate it. We owe you one.”
The guard nods back, opens the door, and wave
s his partner, then us, through the opening.
Hands and arms shackled, anchored to the floor, Durand sits across a table, a smug, satisfied look on his face. “So nice to see you again, dear Christopher.” A thin smile stretches across his face. “Finally come to your senses?”
I’m determined to play it cooler this time around, to not let him bait me. “Something like that.” Kennedy and I pull out our chairs, settle in across from The City’s most notorious serial killer. “Tell me more about the genetic marker you placed in all your clones, how we can use it to prove the woman I buried wasn’t Michelle.”
Durand’s smile fills out, transforming into a sneer. “It’s so simple even a surgeon can understand.” Durand licks at his lips. “I attached a small, meaningless strand of DNA to an X chromosome on each of my clones. I’m happy to share the sequence with you, if you’d like.”
Kennedy cuts in, “X chromosome? What if the clone was a guy?”
Durand rolls his eyes toward the ceiling and lets out a pronounced sigh. “Why must I endure such inane ramblings?”
I put my hand on Kennedy’s forearm. “Everyone has an X chromosome. Women have two, guys, one X and one Y.”
Looking surprised Kennedy makes a quick recovery, juts his thumb toward Durand as he laughs. “So, dickhead here has what, three X’s and a Y?”
Durand says, in a mocking tone as he lightly claps his hands, “How very droll, Detective. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll move on to finger painting and potty training.” Then directed at me, as if Kennedy were not even there, “Shall we continue?”
Forbidden Cure Part Three Page 3