by Mike Brogan
Merryweather had assured Smythe again that the ComGlobe money was coming!
The office door opened and Finley Weaver walked in and sat down. Merryweather pushed a desk button and his office door swung shut.
“Well...?” Merryweather said, adjusting his velvet eyepatch.
“He’s ready.”
“He has the IBM service uniform?”
Weaver nodded.
“And a Turner work order?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the McDonald’s Happy Meal?”
Weaver grinned. “He’s got that, too.”
“Excellent.”
“And once he’s here, he’ll steal some stuff, including my laptop and Madison’s.”
Merryweather nodded his approval.
“Then, in Madison’s office, he’ll place the contents of the Happy Meal box in her credenza.”
“You’ll report the stolen laptops to the cops?”
“Yeah. They’ll come, check my office and Madison’s. They’ll look in her credenza and be shocked at what they find there.”
“Shocked enough to remove her as CEO of Turner Advertising.”
Fifty Five
Madison watched Kevin present a television commercial concept to their agency executives. The commercial was for DietRxx, MedPharms’ new weight loss product. According to research, DietRxx’s target audience was the average American woman.
There’s no such woman, Madison knew. Today, the average American woman is a stay-at-home mom, a businesswoman, brain surgeon, fork-lift operator, poet, tank commander....
“The good news,” Alison Whitaker said, “is that DietRxx gives dieters ephedrine-like weight loss without ephedrine’s potentially deadly side effects.”
“Says who?” Karla Rasmussen challenged.
“Says MedPharms’ research.”
“That’s totally biased research,” Rasmussen said. “What does the FDA say?”
“The FDA says DietRxx is so safe they won’t even require a medical review.”
Rasmussen seemed surprised by the news.
“Well, DietRxx must have some negative complications!”
Whitaker nodded. “Less than one percent of users experience diarrhea.”
“More weight loss,” Kevin said.
The group laughed.
Rasmussen did not. “You won’t be laughing when angry DietRxx customers sue us for false or misleading advertising. And what will ComGlobe think? Don’t forget, our merger vote is in three days.”
How could I forget? Madison thought.
She’d been increasingly worried that the Turner-ComGlobe merger would pass, especially since Alison Whitaker found an anonymous note saying someone presently against the merger was now planning to vote for it. Yesterday, Madison had again polled each director individually, and based on that poll, the merger would not pass, but only by a margin of one vote.
But what if a director had lied to her about their voting intentions? Or what if Rasmussen had blackmailed a director to lie? Or what if someone at ComGlobe bribed a director to switch their vote? Madison would never know who voted how, since the votes would be unsigned.
Minutes later, the meeting broke up. As Madison and Kevin stepped into the hall, Kevin’s cell phone buzzed. He answered, listened, then led her away from the group.
“Dean Dryden is zeroing in on the location of the computer that received the Caribe National Bank’s e-mail statements. He might know where the computer’s located by the time we get there.”
Madison watched Officer Emmett Vincent speed her and Kevin toward the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin. Detective Loomis had assigned Vincent to guard her after finally persuading his captain that three attempts on her life warranted protection.
Minutes later, Vincent, a tall, muscular, red-haired man, parked beside the pier.
“You two go on in,” he said, “I’ll watch the dock area.”
Madison and Kevin got out and hurried toward the pier. Despite Officer Vincent’s presence, she moved away from a tall thin man on the dock. Even now, she imagined Eugene P. Smith hunched over Dean’s body in the yacht.
“Hey, Dean,” Kevin shouted as they neared the boat.
She relaxed when Dean stepped onto his deck and waved them aboard. Inside, he led them over to a large-screen computer, flanked by an empty Domino’s Pizza box and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
“So,” Kevin said, “any idea yet where the receiving computer is located?”
“Not yet, but we’ll know soon,” Dean said, tapping away on the keyboard.
“How do you locate the address?”
“With new FBI software.”
“How’d you get their software?” Madison asked.
“I designed it.”
Dean typed at warp speed, filling the screen with words and symbols that only he seemed to grasp. Then he typed in another command and the screen filled with a map.
“Gotcha!” Dean said, putting his finger on the screen.
“Where?” Kevin asked.
“Fifth Avenue and Forty Second.”
“That’s near the Mid Manhattan Library,” Kevin said.
“It’s in the library,” Dean said. “Probably someone’s using a public-access computer to pick up the bank’s e-mails.”
Madison slumped down in a chair. “Which narrows our search down to only eight million people....”
Everyone stared at the screen.
Another dead end, she realized. Frustrated, she looked out at the Hudson River where a barge stacked with garbage slid by. Seagulls circled above the garbage. One large bird flew over to a pole on the dock. Halfway down the pole, Madison noticed a tiny camera aimed at the yachts.
“Security cameras!” she said, standing up.
Kevin nodded. “The library’s gotta have them. Keep people from stealing keyboards and mouses.”
* * *
Minutes later, Officer Vincent parked his blue and white NYPD sedan in the “No Parking” space near the Fifth Avenue entrance of the Mid-Manhattan Library. As Madison and Kevin started to get out, Vincent’s car phone rang. He grabbed it and signaled for them to wait.
Madison watched Vincent’s eyes grow serious. Something was wrong.
“Yeah, OK, I’m on it!” Vincent said. He hung up and looked at them. “We’ve got some nut case walking around with a suitcase full of explosives over near Seventy-First and Amsterdam. Sergeant Webber wants me over there now. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Please stay inside the library until then.”
Madison nodded, suddenly more worried about an explosion on a crowded Manhattan street than being left unguarded.
* * *
Nine blocks away, behind a large dumpster in an alley, Harry Burkett took the police phone that Sergeant Webber had used to call Officer Vincent.
“Well done, Sergeant Webber,” Harry said, keeping his Glock 9mm on the back of Webber’s head. “Just enough quiver in your voice to be authentic. You could be on Law & Order.”
Webber said nothing.
Burkett swung a large blackjack down hard against the base of Webber’s neck. The policeman froze, wobbled a bit, then slumped to the ground. Burkett tied the unconscious man’s hands and legs and taped his mouth.
“Pleasant dreams,” Burkett whispered, removing his beard and sunglasses as he walked from behind the dumpster.
* * *
Madison and Kevin hurried through the revolving door of the Mid-Manhattan Library, then zig-zagged through a class of school kids, past the catalogs counter to the information desk in the middle of the room. A thirtyish librarian with large brown eyes framed by straight, brown, shoulder-length hair looked up from her computer and smiled.
“May I help you?” she asked. Her nameplate read “Emily Seaborne.”
“Do you have public-use computers?” Madison asked.
“Yes. On the fourth floor. For library card holders.”
“Actually, we’re wondering if you have video surveillance of the computers?”<
br />
Emily Seaborne stared back.
Madison explained. “One of your library computers has been used to access e-mails connected to some assaults and possible murders. The NYPD is investigating.”
Emily Seaborne’s eyes widened. “Yes, we do have video surveillance, but any request to view the tapes must come from the police.”
“I’ll phone Detective Loomis now.”
“Well, normally, the Detective should be here asking, but just have him fax or e-mail me the request on official NYPD letterhead.” Emily Seaborne gave her the fax and e-mail information, then handed her a desk phone to use.
Madison dialed Detective Loomis’s direct line at the precinct. The phone rang three times and she feared she’d be bounced into his voicemail, when suddenly someone picked up.
“Homicide,” a woman said.
“Is Detective Loomis there?”
Long pause. “No.”
“I need to reach him fast.”
Another long pause. “Detective Loomis was just involved in a car accident.”
Madison felt her blood go cold as she slumped against the information desk. No . . . not another person. . . .
“How is he?”
“The initial report doesn’t sound good.”
Fifty Six
What about Detective Loomis’s partner?” Kevin said, “He can fax the request here. What’s his name, Donley, Devlin?”
“Doolin!” Madison said. “Archie Doolin!”
The librarian, Emily, gestured for Madison to use her desk phone again. Madison dialed Loomis’s number, heard four rings, feared voicemail, then. . . .
“Homicide. . . .”
“Is Detective Doolin there?”
“Hang on.”
Moments later, she heard...
“Doolin speakin’.”
“Detective, it’s Madison McKean. I just heard about Detective Loomis. . . .”
Archie Doolin wheezed long and hard.
“How’s he doing?”
“No word yet, ma’am.”
“Detective, I’m at the Mid-Manhattan Library trying to view some surveillance videos that might show us who’s behind the $8.7 million account. But the librarian needs NYPD authorization before she can let us see the videos.”
“Lemme speak to her.”
Madison handed the phone to the librarian.
Emily talked with Doolin a few moments, then said, “Fine, Detective. I’ll wait for your fax.” She hung up and nodded at Madison.
Kevin suddenly reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out his cell phone. Madison saw it vibrating in his palm.
“May I answer this?”
The librarian smiled and nodded.
“Thanks.”
He took the call and Madison watched his eyes grow serious fast. He slumped against the information desk for a moment, then began pacing back and forth in front of it, his eyes wide with concern.
What now? Madison wondered.
“OK,” he whispered, hanging up.
“What is it?”
“My mother.”
“What hap -?”
“The doctor suspects a stroke.”
“Oh, Kevin. . . .” She placed her hand on his.
“The left side of her face was numb and she had difficulty speaking. They’re rushing her to Mount Sinai.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, Madison, please stay and view the videos. The sooner we know who’s behind this, the safer you’ll be. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything more.” He hurried toward the exit.
As she watched him go, she remembered how alone she felt when Detective Loomis told her that her father had drowned. If Kevin phoned and said his mother’s condition was worsening or critical, Madison would hurry to the hospital. The videos could damn well wait.
Behind her, the fax machine sputtered out a sheet. The librarian read it and signaled for Madison to follow her.
They walked down a hall to a narrow stairwell that descended to a labyrinthian basement with hallways leading in many directions. They passed a book cart filled with large, dusty medical textbooks. One book, entitled Tropical Eye Diseases, was opened to a photo of a man whose eyeballs had been eaten by tapeworm larvae. Madison shuddered and hurried ahead.
The librarian led her into a small room.
“Over here,” Emily pointed to a wall of videotapes and DVDs stacked in floor-to-ceiling shelves beside a desk with two VCR and DVD players.
Emily took out two DVDs.
“These are the two most recent dates you requested.”
“Thank you.”
“The Panasonic works better,” Emily said, pushing a DVD in the slot and turning it on.
Madison hit PLAY and the screen turned snowy, then flickered into a good view of the computers upstairs. In the lower right-hand corner of the screen Madison saw the date and the time, 9:01:08 AM, one minute after the library opened. A ponytailed teenage girl in a green plaid school uniform hurried over to a computer and began tapping away on the keyboard. The camera showed a side view of the computers, not what was on the screen.
“If you need me,” Emily said, “I’ll be at my desk.”
“Thanks, Emily.”
“Happy to help.”
As Emily headed upstairs, Madison watched a heavyset man with suspenders and a polka dot bowtie waddle into view. He plopped down at a computer and began typing something. She didn’t recognize him, nor the next seven people who sat at the computers.
She knew she might not recognize anyone.
Whoever was behind this might have sent someone else to pick up the e-mail. Someone she had never seen.
* * *
Eugene P. Smith peered over a leather-bound St. James Bible, watching the cute young librarian emerge from the hall where she’d led Madison minutes ago.
Earlier, he’d lip-read the librarian tell McKean that police authorization by fax was all that was required to view the videos. No police needed to be present. A lucky break for Smith.
After all, he wanted Madison alone.
Like she was now. . . .
He adjusted his gray beard and hairpiece. Then he put on rose-tinted glasses and flicked a piece of lint from his charcoal gray suit. Carefully, he adjusted the heavily starched white minister’s collar around his neck. The collar was tight, and he stretched it until it felt better. Then he took out a shiny gold crucifix on a gold necklace and put it on.
He checked his reflection in a glass-enclosed bookcase and flashed his best smile. Damned if he didn’t feel born-again, downright evangelical. . . .
“The Reverend Eugene P. Smith at your service,” he whispered aloud.
Fifty Seven
Central Park was a green blur as Kevin’s taxi raced up Park Avenue toward Mount Sinai Hospital. He prayed that his mother was receiving treatment within the golden hour when the chance to limit her stroke damage was so much better.
But her stroke made no sense. Just last month, she passed her annual physical with flying colors. She’d never smoked, always stayed thin, walked a lot, and drank a half-glass of Polish vodka every night. Her doctor said she had the blood pressure of a woman fifteen years younger.
On the other hand, her father had dropped dead of a stroke at seventy on a Warsaw trolley.
Kevin realized he should have persuaded her to get a second physical examination just to make sure nothing was missed. And now that he thought about it, he should have done a lot of other things. Like spend more time with her, and phone her more often.
And, he should have introduced her to Madison.
Madison had asked to meet her, even though he’d explained about her broken English and weird old world babushkas and cabbage rolls that sometimes smelled like burnt Firestones. Still, he sensed they would have liked each other.
Now, they might never even meet.
The driver swerved around a parked ambulance and skidded to a stop at Mount Sinai’s emergency entrance.
Inside the ER, Kevin
walked past a construction worker holding his hand in a blood-soaked towel and a teenage girl with pinpoint pupils staring at the ceiling and a nurse pushing a gurney with an elderly man spitting up blood. Down the hall, a woman screamed.
Kevin approached a round-faced receptionist whose hair was swirled up in some sort of orange beehive.
She looked up at Kevin. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes. My mother, Anna Jordan, was rushed here a short time ago. The doctor said she was suffering a stroke.”
“Let me check.” Louise turned back to the screen and tapped on her keyboard. “Is that J-O-R-D-A-N?”
“Yes.”
More tapping, waiting, then more tapping. Then she switched to another computer and typed in something. Moments later, she turned and looked up at him.
“Sorry, but I don’t find her name here or in our main hospital admissions. Also, ER has received no call that she’s being brought in.”
Kevin was stunned by the news.
“Who told you she was being brought in?”
“Dr. Arthur Telvin.”
She frowned at him. “I spoke with Dr. Telvin an hour ago. He’s in his London hotel room.”
Kevin slumped against the counter. His mind was spinning as he walked over and sat down in a chair. What the hell was going on? Did he get the doctor’s name wrong? Was EMS performing a procedure at her home?
Quickly, he dialed his mother’s apartment.
She answered on the first ring and the air drained from his lungs.
“Mom, you OK?”
“Sure, OK. With Ester I play canasta. Why you ask?”
“Oh, just wondered, Mom. Listen, I’ll explain later, OK? I’ve gotta run. Bye.”
As he hung up, reality hit him like a rock. Eugene P. Smith had suckered him away from the library.
Madison was in danger.
Kevin dialed Madison’s cell phone. It rang twice, then bounced into voicemail. He left a message for her to get out of the library fast.