by Robin Cook
"So we're going to get him the pest control truck? "
"I don't see where we have much choice, " Curt said as he pulled out onto Oceanview Avenue. "We'll get him the truck, but we'll also keep the pressure on him to come up with the eight or so pounds of anthrax powder as soon as possible. The sooner we can launch Operation Wolverine the better."
MONDAY, OGTOBER 18
6:45 P.M.
Jack scooted across First Avenue at Thirtieth Street just before the light turned green for the traffic heading uptown. He coasted to the medical examiner's office loading dock and nodded to security as he carried his bike into the building. He waved to Marvin Fletcher, the evening mortuary tech, who was busy in the mortuary office getting ready for the evening's body pickups.
After locking his bike in its usual spot, Jack got on the elevator and headed up to the second floor toxicology lab. It was later than he'd planned on getting back to the office. Going through all the Corinthian Rug Company's records had taken much more time than he'd expected.
John Devries, the chief toxicologist, had already left for the day.
Jack was reduced to asking a night tech if the deputy chief had called about putting a rush on David Jefferson's specimens. David Jefferson was the prisoner-in-custody death Calvin was pressuring Jack about.
Unfortunately, the night tech had no idea about the case.
Back in the elevator, Jack went up to the DNA lab on the sixth floor.
Ted Lynch, the director, wasn't available, so Jack left his collection of culture tubes from the Corinthian Rug office with a technician. In the morning he wanted Ted to search for anthrax spores with the PCR.
Taking the stairs to the fifth floor, Jack ducked into the histology lab in hopes of encouraging Maureen O'Conner, the supervisor, to speed up processing Jefferson's microscopic sections. Jack had a good working relationship with Maureen, one he didn't share with John Devries, but it made no difference.
Maureen had also left for the day.
En route to his own office, Jack looked into Laurie's, expecting at the very least to find out the "when and where" for the evening's longawaited dinner party. But Laurie's office was dark and deserted.
To make matters worse, her door was locked. Jack knew that was incontrovertible evidence that she, too, had gone home.
"For crissake! " Jack said out loud. Feeling thwarted in all directions, he grumbled under his breath as he walked the rest of the way down the corridor. For a brief moment he entertained the idea of being unavailable for the rest of the evening so that Laurie would not be able to get ahold of him. But he quickly gave up the idea. It wasn't his style, and besides, he was genuinely curious.
Jack turned into his own office. At least Chet was still there, busily writing on a yellow legal tablet.
"Ah, the adventurer has returned, " Chet commented as he caught sight of Jack. He put down his pencil.
"I guess I can cancel the missing persons report I filed."
"Very funny, " Jack commented as he hung up his bomber jacket.
"At least you arrived back in one piece, " Chet said. "How was it out there in the field? Any attempts on your life? How many fellow civil service workers did you manage to enrage? "
"I'm in no mood to be teased, " Jack stated. He plopped himself down heavily in his desk chair as if his legs had suddenly given out from under him.
"It doesn't sound like you enjoyed yourself, " Chet remarked.
"It was a bust, " Jack admitted. "Except for the bike ride."
"I'm not surprised, " Chet said. "It was a doomed mission from the start.
Did you learn anything at all? "
"I learned that it takes a long time to go through a company's records, " Jack said. "Even a small company.
And after all the effort, there was no payoff. In a perverted way I was hoping to find that some of the rug company's latest shipment of Turkish hides had been sent out so I could rub the information in flinty old Clint Abelard's face. But no soap. The whole shipment is locked up tight in the Queens ware , , house.
"At least you meant well, " Chet said with a self-satisfied chuckle.
"If you so much as whisper I told you so, I'm taking you out of my will, " Jack warned.
"I wouldn't stoop so low as to say I told you so, " Chet laughed.
"Yeah, but I could hear you thinking it, " Jack said.
"I do have to say you were missed. But not to worry. I covered for you.
I used your old quip about that group of nuns you've been expecting. I said they'd come to town for a bowling convention, and you'd stepped out to welcome them."
"Who was asking for me? "
"Laurie for one, " Chet said. "In fact, I was just writing you a note."
Chet tore off the top page of his tablet and balled up the paper.
Holding the ball between thumb and index finger, he arced it cleanly into the communal wastebasket.
"What was the message? " Jack demanded.
"I was to tell you that tonight's dinner is at Elio's on Second Avenue at eight-thirty."
"Eight-thirty! " Jack commented irritably. "Why so late? "
"She didn't say. But eight-thirty doesn't sound late to me."
"It's later than she likes to eat, " Jack commented. He shook his head.
The mystery kept deepening. He remembered her making the comment that morning about whether she'd be still on her feet that evening, suggesting she anticipated being tired. Why then would she make plans to meet late?
"Well, she didn't seem at all concerned, " Chet said. "In fact, she was in a rare, spunky mood if you ask me."
"Really? " Jack asked.
"I'd even have to say ebullient."
"She was the same way this morning."
"She was so up' I mentioned the possible plan for Thursday evening, " !g Chet said.
"You mean about the four of us going to the Monet exhibit? " Chet nodded. "I hope you don't mind."
"What was her response? "
"She said she was very appreciative of our thinking of her, but she said she already had plans."
"She actually used the word appreciative'? "
"A direct quote, " Chet said. "I questioned it, too. It seemed so uncharacteristically formal."
"Who else was looking for me? " Jack asked. He wanted to get away from talking about Laurie. It was making him even more curiousand anxious.
"Calvin stopped in, " Chet said. "I think he'd been to histology and just stopped in because he was on the floor."
"What did he say? "
"He wanted to remind you that Jefferson's case has to be signed out by Thursday." Jack made a gesture of dismissal with his hand. "That's going to be up to the lab, not me."
"Well, I'm on my way, " Chet said. He stood up, stretched, and then retrieved his coat from behind the door.
"Let me ask you a question, " Jack said. "You've lived in New York longer than I. What's the story with yellow cabs vis-a-vis radio calls?"
"Yellow cabs thrive on people hailing them, " Chet explained. "They generally don't do radio calls.
Among the drivers the expression is, you cruise or you lose. They don't want to sit around and wait or drive someplace empty. They have to hustle or they lose money."
"Why do a lot of them have radios? " Jack asked.
"They can do radio calls if they want, " Chet said. "But it doesn't pay.
Generally the radios just keep them informed of where there's the greatest need, like uptown or downtown or out at the airport. And what areas to stay out of because of traffic congestion, that sort of thing.
" Jack nodded. "That's what I thought."
"Why do you ask? " Chet questioned.
"A cab driver came by the Corinthian Rug Company to pick up Jason Papparis while I was there, "
Jack said with a wry smile.
Chet laughed. "That's the first time I've heard of a dead man calling for a cab. It makes you wonder from where he placed the call."
"Or where he wanted the cab to tak
e him." Chet laughed again in an equally hollow manner.
"The driver gave me the number of the dispatcher, " Jack said. "I called them to see if Jason was a frequent customer. I thought that if he was, then maybe the cab company might be a source of information about the last time the man went to his Oueens warehouse."
"What did they say? "
"They were not helpful, " Jack said. "They wouldn't even tell me when Jason Papparis had called to set up the pickup. They just said they don't give out any information on their drivers or their clients."
"That's being nice and helpful, " Chet said. "It could be subpoenaed, suppose."
"I can't imagine it would be worth it, " Jack said.
"It's still curious, " Chet said. "If someone calls for a cab in New York City, it's generally not a yellow cab that responds."
"I'll tell you something even more curious, " Jack said. "The taxi driver was Russian and he'd grown up in Sverdlovsk."
"Sverdlovsk! " Chet exclaimed. "That's the Soviet town that had the anthrax bio-weapons accident you pointed out to me in Harrison's textbook of medicine! "
"Can you believe it? " Jack asked. "I mean that's a coincidence."
"Only in New York, " Chet said. "I suppose we shouldn't be surprised, because anything and everything happens here."
"This guy even knew about anthrax, " Jack said.
"No kidding? "
"Well, he didn't know much, " Jack added. "He just knew it was a disease mainly of cattle. He mentioned cows and sheep."
"I'd venture to guess that's more than the average New Yorker knows, " Chet said.
After a bit more small talk about activities over the immediately preceding weekend, Chet said his goodbyes and left. Jack turned to his desk. Without enthusiasm he eyed his ever-burgeoning pile of uncompleted cases Lying next to a stack of waiting histology slides.
He thought briefly about getting out his microscope until he glanced at his watch.
It was after seven. Knowing he had to pedal home, shower and dress, and then pedal back across town all before eight-thirty, Jack decided he didn't have time for more work.
The traffic on First Avenue had abated somewhat from a half hour earlier, and Jack ran with it beyond the United Nations building.
Taking Forty-ninth Street, he crossed to Madison Avenue and then again turned north. He rarely used the same route home until he got to the Grand Army Plaza at the southeastern corner of Central Park. It was there that he took his nightly turn around the Pulitzer fountain to admire the gilded nude statue of Abundance atop it. Then he entered the park and his favorite part of the trip. Over the years he'd figured out the best and most scenic route and used it most nights.
With an eye peeled for other cyclists, joggers, and in-line skaters, Jack cranked up his pace. Although the trees still had most of their leaves, a lot had already fallen, and they swirled in his wake and filled him with the unmistakable scent of fall.
Although Jack immensely enjoyed his rapid transit through the park, it also made him feel edgy. Finding himself paradoxically isolated in the lonely expanse within the confines of the otherwise teeming city never failed to remind him of the night he'd almost been shot and killed here by a hired gang member. There was no doubt danger lurked in the park's silent shadows.
Jack burst out of the tranquil darkness onto the bustling avenue, Central Park West. It was like returning to civilization. Slowing his speed considerably, he wound his way north among the darting, honking clutch of yellow cabs. At 106thStreet he turned west.
Knowing he didn't have a lot of time to spare, Jack had fully intended on heading directly to his tenement. Instead, he couldn't resist the siren song of the basketball court. Even though he was unable to play that evening, he couldn't pass by without at least stopping to check out the action.
The court was part of a larger, mostly cement park featuring swings, monkey bars, and sandboxes for the younger children, as well as benches for the doting mothers. Jack loved to play B-ball. He'd played at Amherst, which had never had a very competitive team. Years later, when he'd first moved to New York City, he'd ventured one day onto the court merely to shoot baskets by himself as a diversion, but by chance the locals had had only nine players. So they'd lowered their standards and asked Jack to play. He'd been immediately hooked by the lively and often rough urban games. Now, weather permitting, it was almost a nightly ritual.
For almost a year, Jack had been the only Caucasian player among the horde of local and considerably younger African-American players. But over the next few years two other white players had ventured into the fray, as well as a number of African-Americans closer to Jack's age of forty-four.
As a regular and a fanatic, Jack financed new backboards, new outdoor balls, and mercury vapor lighting. He accomplished this combination philanthropic and self-serving gesture through negotiations with the local community leadership. The final deal stipulated that Jack had to pay to refurbish the other park amenities as well. Jack had not minded in the slightest and considered it a small price to pay to be welcomed into the neighborhood.
Jack pedaled his bike up to the massive chain-link fence that separated the B-ball court from the sidewalk. Without taking his feet from his toe clips, he grabbed onto the fence to support himself. As he'd expected, there was a game in progress, with the players sweeping up and down the court.
"Hey, Doc! " a voice called out. "Doc" was Jack's neighborhood sobriquet. "Where you been? Get your ass out here. You going to run or what?"
" Jack glanced to the sidelines to see the heavily muscled Warren Wilson dribbling a ball in and out between his legs. His shaved head gleamed in the glare of the overhead lights. He was standing with a pack of other fellows waiting to get into the game.
"I don't have time, " Jack called back.
Warren detached himself from the others and started toward Jack. He was joined by Flash, one of the taller players whose level of ability was about on a par with Jack's. Warren was a quantum leap above both of them.
Jack nodded a greeting to Flash, who returned the gesture. Since their B-ball talent was roughly equivalent, they frequently covered each other when they were on opposing teams. Flash had the irritating knack of scoring on Jack when games were close, often winning the game. The situation had spawned a friendly rivalry.
"What do you mean you ain't got time? " Warren questioned as he leaned up against the fence. "You weren't out here much last week. Seems to me you're getting your priorities screwed up. What are you doing, letting work interfere? " He loved to tease Jack about their differing philosophies as to what was important in life.
"I have to meet Laurie across town at eight-thirty, " Jack said.
"We've got winners, " Flash said. He had a particularly deep, rich baritone voice. "It's going to be me, Warren, Spit, and Ron. We got room for one more if you could get your ass down here in record time.
It'd be a killer matchup."
"You're tempting me, " Jack admitted.
"We're going to sweep this team that's winning at the moment, " Warren said. "It's going to be a new dynasty. But, hey, we shouldn't keep you from your shortie." Jack glanced at his watch and then over at the game in progress. He was tempted, but there was no way he could do it without arriving late at Elio's, even if he played only one game.
Ultimately he had to shake his head. "Sorry, not tonight."
"Natalie's been ragging me about getting together with you and Laurie, " Warren said. "You guys have been making yourselves scarce."
"I'll say something to Laurie, " Jack promised, although he couldn't be Optimistic, not without knowing her current secret, especially if she was moving to someplace like the West Coast. The thought of Laurie leaving made him wince.
"Hey, man, you okay? " Warren asked. He leaned forward and regarded Jack through the fence.
O "Yeah, sure, " Jack said, yanking himself out of his momentary worry.
"Are you and Laurie cool? " Warren questioned. "I mean, you people aren't having w
ords, are you? "
"No, we're cool, " Jack fibbed. The truth of the matter was that he and Laurie had not spent much time together over the last month or so.
"I think you'd better get yourself out here for a run as soon as you can, " Warren said. "You look all wound up to me."
"You're right! I need a run, " Jack agreed. "Tomorrow night for sure." Jack said his goodbyes and then rode diagonally across the street to his building.
Knowing he would be going right back out, he locked his bike to the railing on the building's front steps.
Then he went up to his apartment and climbed into the shower.
After the shower Jack scanned his limited wardrobe for something to wear, only to get mad at himself for such stupid indecision. He couldn't remember the last time he had trouble deciding about clothes.
Ultimately he donned his usual jeans, blue chambray shirt, darker blue knitted tie, and tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows.
After a quick brush of his short hair to encourage it all to go in the direction it preferred, Jack went back down to the street and retrieved his bicycle.
The ride across the park was uneventful. He went south on Fifth Avenue until Eighty-fourth Street, which he took over to Second. The restaurant was just a few doors up from the corner. With slightly tremulous fingers Jack secured his bike with the requisite number of locks. As he entered the restaurant, he wondered why he was as anxious as he was.
Elio's was crowded. To Jack's left the small bar was five people deep.
To his right were a group of tables with the usual complement of TV personalities having their dinners.
Pushing his way deeper into the restaurant, Jack scanned the other diners for Laurie's familiar face and burnished auburn hair. He didn't see her.
"Can I help you? " a voice asked over the din. There was the slightest guttural hint of a German accent.
Jack turned to face the smiling maitre d'.
"We've a reservation, I assume, " Jack said.
"And the name? "
"Montgomery, I suppose, " Jack said.
The host consulted his list. "Ah, yes, of course. Miss Montgomery is not here yet, but one of the other members of your party is. He's at the bar. I'll have your table in a moment." Jack worked his way among the standing clientele, heading in the general direction of the bar.