by Mike Brogan
“He went toward –”
Suddenly, they heard two gunshots, followed by glass crashing onto the floor. The night guard, gun in hand, hurried toward the sound, Madison close behind. They ran around the information desk, and headed toward the entrance. When they got there, she saw the shattered window through which Smith had escaped.
A minute later, a taxi screeched to a stop. Kevin jumped out and ran toward the door.
“He’s with me,” she said.
The guard unlocked the door. She hurried outside and ran into Kevin’s arms.
“What happened?” he asked, looking down at the blood on her forearm.
“Smith may have injected me with poison.”
Sixty One
Harry Burkett brushed lint from his green orderly’s shirt as he pushed the supply cart down the hall in St. Anthony’s Hospital. He checked his fake ID badge. It looked genuine. He’d created it on his office Mac.
He felt juiced. Just like he was back in his Special Ops unit, back in Desert Storm, whacking Iraqis. He loved clear-cut missions like the one he was on now. A mission always snapped his brain to attention, focused it like a laser, reminded him of something that he learned very early in life.
Eliminate anything that can harm you.
Like his drunken, abusive father.
And Linda Langstrom.
One very lucky broad, he thought. With all that blood pouring from the bullet wound he’d put in her back, she should have bled out and died right on her apartment floor.
But no, her busybody sister showed up and rushed her to St. Anthony’s. And even worse, Langstrom was slowly coming out of her coma and expected to make a full recovery. Which meant she could finger him as her assailant.
No way he’d let that happen.
He saw her room number down at the end of the hall.
Behind him, he heard hushed female voices. Looking back, he saw a short, fiftyish nun in a white habit at the nurses’ station talking to an older nun behind the counter. The short nun glanced at him. He nodded, but kept walking, just an orderly on his rounds.
A few feet further, he pushed his cart into Langstrom’s room and closed the door halfway. She lay in bed, partly hidden in shadows, IV tubes feeding into her arms. He walked over and looked down at her face. It was bruised, swollen and bandaged from where she’d bashed it against her coffee table.
He took out the small glass vial that he’d bought from his buddy at the U.S. Army’s chemical weapons facility at Fort Detrick. His buddy bought several vials from a laid-off worker at a Russian chemical weapons plant. They were worth every ruble.
Burkett pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He rechecked them for tiny holes, but found none.
His heart pounding, he looked back at Langstrom. He wondered where on her body he should apply the clear, slightly viscous liquid in the vial?
Then he noticed the shoulder of her hospital gown was pulled down.
* * *
“Who’s our new orderly?” Sister Rose Angela, the head floor nurse, asked.
Sister Bernadine peered up from behind mountains of insurance forms. “What new orderly?”
“Muscular man. Five-seven. Tinted glasses. Weird tennis shoes with black springs in the heels. He just went into Miss Langstrom’s room.”
“That’s odd.”
“Why?”
“Dr. Lyons said everything was fine in there ten minutes ago.”
Sister Rose Angela’s radar went on alert. Neither she nor Sister Bernadine had been informed a new orderly was substituting for DeVon Washington tonight. Although turnover among orderlies was high, substitutes were still required to check in at the floor desk. “I’ll go find out.”
Sister Rose Angela headed toward Langstrom’s room at the end of the hall. Halfway down, Sister Bernadine called out to her, “Sister Rose?”
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Miele just pushed her medical alarm button. Could you check her?”
“Certainly,” Sister Rose Angela said, hurrying back two rooms. As she entered, she saw that ninety-four-year-old Elena Miele had somehow slid down between the guard rail and the mattress, entangling her arm and shoulder in several IV lines and monitor cables.
The two women smiled at each other.
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?
“Out for some vino! Wanna go?”
“Later.” Chuckling, Sister Rose Angela lifted the silver-haired woman back onto the bed, untangled her lines, fluffed her pillow and promised to sneak some linguini to her tomorrow, if her doctor agreed.
Back in the hall, Sister Rose Angela hurried down to Linda Langstrom’s room and entered. She was shocked to see the new orderly, his back to her, bent over Langstrom.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, growing concerned as his hand eased back from Langstrom’s upper body.
The man spun around, clearly surprised.
“Oh . . . the patient . . . she started breathing real funny, making noises, you know? So I hurried over to check her out. I was just gonna ring for a nurse.”
Sister Rose Angela stared at him, her instincts telling her the man was lying. She felt a shiver of fear run down her spine.
Was he a mercy killer? Twenty years ago, she’d unknowingly worked alongside a friendly young doctor who quietly murdered seven patients by giving them 20 percent Lidocaine injection instead of 2 percent. Since then, she rechecked every suspicious death on her floor.
Sister Rose Angela walked over and read Linda Langstrom’s monitors. “Well, her vital signs look normal and she seems to be breathing fine now. I’ll watch her for a while. And I’m sure you have other work before your shift ends.”
He seemed frustrated that she’d interrupted him.
“You’re new at St. Anthony’s, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, started yesterday. Still learning my way around, you know?”
“Of course. What’s your name?”
He hesitated a second. “Joe . . . Joe Richardson.”
“Where’s DeVon tonight?”
“Oh . . . I heard DeVon was tied up.”
“Will you be on this floor a lot, Joe?”
He paused. “Uh, yeah, they said mostly the fourth floor and maybe this one.”
Again, she sensed he was lying. She’d check him out when Human Resources opened in the morning.
“Very well then, Joe. I’ll monitor Ms. Langstrom now. So get along with you . . . and in the future please check in with the nurses’ desk first. That’s hospital policy.”
“OK,” he said, pushing his cart from the room.
* * *
Burkett could feel the nun’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head as he rolled his cart toward the elevator.
Just rubbing the VX nerve agent onto Langstrom’s skin would have killed her within six minutes. But no, the nosy nun showed up before he could apply the VX.
Next time, Langstrom wouldn’t be so lucky.
And he knew exactly when the next time would be. . . .
Meanwhile, the night was still young.
Like Jennifer, who was meeting him at the Westwind Mall in forty minutes.
Sixty Two
You were attacked in the library?”
Madison spun around at her desk and saw Karla Rasmussen standing a few feet away. How long had the woman been standing there?
“Oh, it’s just a minor scratch. Nothing serious,” Madison said, again relieved that the ER doctor found no poison in her blood last night.
“That’s good. By the way, did Linda Langstrom over at National Media ever get back to you on whether we’re paying too much for our MedPharms TV advertising?”
“Yes,” Madison said, picturing her friend lying semicomatose in a hospital bed. “She told me our MedPharms rates are two percent less than what comparable clients pay for the same TV shows.”
“That’s good news.”
Yes, Madison thought, but not as good as the fact that Linda should fully recover. Or is that bad news for yo
u, Karla?
“Well, I’m glad you’re OK, Madison, but right now I’m off to a client meeting.”
As Karla hurried away, Madison noticed that her straight-back stride was quite similar to the stiff gait of the woman Madison had seen in the video at the library last night. Was that you in the video, Karla? Sadly, they might never know, since Eugene P. Smith had taken both DVDs last night.
Madison’s cell phone rang. The Caller ID window read, Craig Borden. Why was Kevin’s banker friend calling?
“Hi, Craig.”
“Hey, Madison. I tried to reach Kevin, but he’s out.”
“He’s at a client conference and dinner until late tonight.”
“I just got some new information.”
“What?”
“Remember ‘Blanchectar,’ the word my colleague, Philip Carter, wrote down in the Barbados bar. . .?”
Madison closed her eyes at the mention of the deceased man. “Yes, I remember.”
“Well, Philip’s secretary just told me that right before he went to the bar, he’d traced the $8.7 million bank account back sixteen years to the original depositor’s name.”
“Blanchectar?”
“Yes.”
“That’s great!”
“So is Blanchectar’s address from sixteen years ago.”
“You have the address?” Her heart was pounding.
“3907 Brunsman Street, apartment B5. Over in Newark.” Madison jotted down the address, which she knew was just across the Hudson River. “Maybe someone in the area remembers Blanchectar.”
“Someone should. It’s an apartment building.”
She thanked him, hung up and immediately phoned Detective Loomis.
“Homicide.”
“Is Detective Loomis there?”
“No. Loomis and Doolin are taking depositions up in Attica. They’re back in here late tomorrow afternoon.”
“Do you have Detective Loomis’s cell phone number?”
The man hesitated. “Why you gotta call Loomis?”
She explained everything. He gave her Loomis’s cell number and she dialed it. After four rings, she was bounced into voicemail.
She left him a message telling him about Blanchectar’s Newark address. She then buzzed her secretary. “Christine, could you please ask Officer Vincent to come in.”
Christine paused. “Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“He’s attending his daughter’s grade school graduation.”
She’d totally forgotten. “Oh. . . .”
“Want me to phone him to come back now?”
“No, no. That’s an important family event.”
Frustrated, Madison leaned back in her chair and considered what she should do next. Identifying Blanchectar was the key to everything: Blanchectar was behind the $8.7 million ... and maybe her father’s death ... and maybe the effort to ram through the ComGlobe merger. Surely someone near the Newark address would remember what Blanchectar looked like. Madison knew she should wait for Detective Loomis and Officer Vincent and Kevin, but they were not around. And time was critical.
The ComGlobe vote was tomorrow.
Opening her purse, she looked at the Beretta .25 pocket pistol Kevin had given her after last night’s attack in the library. He’d shown her how to use it – and she would use it, if Smith attacked her again.
But how could she visit the Newark address without Smith knowing it? The man seemed to know every move she made. And her earlier disguise had failed miserably. She stood and paced back and forth near her window. As she turned back to her desk, she noticed a copy of Business Week. It was opened to an ad for office copiers. She stared at the ad, then quickly grabbed the phone and called a producer in her broadcast department.
“Ginny, do you still have the stuff we used for the office copier ads yesterday?”
“Sure. It’s in Wardrobe.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ginny led Madison over to a large three-way mirror. Madison smiled at the person smiling back at her. Curly black wig, black slacks, black windbreaker with red logo on the pocket – and chestnut brown skin, thanks to Ben Nye theatrical makeup. She was a Hispanic Xerox service technician. Her ID badge read Angela Martinez.
Service people came and left the building every few minutes. Smith would barely notice them. And he certainly wouldn’t pay attention to a dark-complected one.
Ginny handed her a Xerox tool bag. Into it, Madison placed her purse with the Beretta.
She left the agency through the delivery entrance in the rear of the building. The security guard didn’t recognize her as she walked past him. She headed down two blocks to Fifth Avenue, making sure no tall, thin men were following her. She saw none. To be certain, she entered a fashionable Manolo Blahnik shoe store and watched out the window for a few minutes. A saleswoman kept frowning at her Xerox uniform as though Madison was befouling her store’s image. Madison felt like asking if she had anything under 20 bucks?
Satisfied that Smith had not followed her, Madison went outside, got into a taxi and handed the Newark address to the driver, a chubby, round-faced man with a Haitian accent.
Twenty minutes later, the taxi pulled over to the curb at 3907 Brunsman. She was in a ghetto, not what you’d expect of someone with $8.7 million in a bank.
Many stores and buildings appeared abandoned. On the corner stood the burnt-out shell of an old Baptist church. In a nearby alley, street dogs ripped open a garbage bag. Overhead, thick clouds darkened the street. She opened the black tool bag, reached into her purse, and flipped the safety off her small Beretta.
“Can you wait for me?”
“Sorry, I gotta a pickup over at Rutgers.”
Madison checked the street again. “Could you please wait until I get inside?”
“Sure. . . .”
She paid him, then made sure no cars had followed her. Seeing none, she got out and found herself alone on the shadowy street, except for a rusted-out Honda Civic up on cinder blocks.
Beyond the Honda was a skinny, hunched-over derelict sitting on the curb, sipping from a wine bottle.
She looked at 3907 Brunsman. The gray, five-story apartment building had seen better decades. Bricks had crumbled at the corners, downspouts had slipped off the gutter and some windows had been covered with black garbage bags snapping in the wind. A scrawny cat hobbled past on three legs.
She checked the derelict. Still sipping wine. She walked toward the building, took off the wig, Xerox jacket and ID badge and put them in the service tool bag. She climbed the concrete steps and pushed a button marked “Super.”
Moments later she heard an elderly woman clear her throat and cough. The woman’s larynx sounded damaged. “Whuuuut?”
“Can I please talk to you about a person named Blanchectar who lived in apartment B5 about sixteen years ago?”
“No.”
“It’ll just take a second, ma’am.”
“I wuzzn’t here.”
“Is there anyone in the building who lived here sixteen years ago?”
The woman hacked herself into a loud coughing fit that could have registered on the Richter Scale. “Maynard....”
“Could I talk to Maynard?”
“No.”
“I’ll be very brief.”
“Maynard don’t talk to no strangers. Probably shit-faced anyways.”
“Would you accept twenty dollars to let me try?”
The door buzzed open.
Madison waved the taxi off, stepped into a dark hallway and almost passed out from the stench of cat urine. Beside her, a door creaked open and two tan kittens shot out and disappeared down the hall. Then a liver-spotted hand with gnarled fingers opened the door a few inches and an old woman’s deeply wrinkled face appeared like a death mask in the darkness. Strands of straggly white hair hung down over rheumy eyes that were locked on the twenty dollar bill like it was the Hope Diamond.
Madison’s heart went ou
t to the poor woman.
“No guarantees Maynard’ll talk,” she wheezed.
“I understand.”
“He’s in A3, second door on left.”
“Is he there now?”
“Yeah. Maynard don’t go nowheres ‘cept to Safeways on Wednesdays.”
Madison held out the twenty dollar bill and the woman’s arthritic fingers swooped it up faster than a Hoover vacuum cleaner.
Madison thanked her and stepped down the dark hall, trying not to let the cat urine or the gooey stuff sticking to the soles of her shoes nauseate her. She knocked on the door marked A3. Nothing. She knocked harder. Still nothing.
“Mr. Maynard...?”
“Don’t want any.”
“I’m not selling anything, sir.”
“Still don’t want any.”
“May I give you forty dollars to ask about someone who lived upstairs in B5 sixteen years ago?”
Silence.
“Please, Mr. Maynard. It will only take a minute.”
She heard shoes shuffling and several door chains rattling. Slowly, the door creaked open and she saw a thin-faced man in his early fifties with red-rimmed but intelligent eyes peering at her over unframed half-glasses. He was slim and pale and stood about five-ten. His neatly trimmed red beard covered most of a nasty scar that zig-zagged up to his forehead
“Watch your step,” he said, opening the door. “It’s the maid’s day off.”
Smiling, she walked in and was rewarded with the sweet scent of lavender incense. She was surprised by the neat shelves of history books, novels, and an equally neat shelf of empty Jim Beam bottles. Maynard plopped down in a leather executive chair behind his desk and closed a leather bound book entitled Herodotus, The Persian Wars. Beside it was the same book in Greek.
“Fancy a libation?” he asked, tapping a Jim Beam bottle on his desk.
“No, thanks.”
As he poured himself three inches, she looked at the wall and saw a Rutgers University diploma for Thomas J. Maynard, PhD, American History. Beside it was an old newspaper article headlined, Two Die in Private Airplane Crash, Pilot Survives Wife and Daughter. In the article was the photo of a young woman, a five-year-old girl and the pilot, Tom Maynard.