“Cage? Sorry to wake you.” It was Paul’s voice, which wasn’t really a voice he wanted to hear right now. Actually, he didn’t want to hear anyone’s voice. “I’ve got a problem here.”
Here had to be the clinic, which of course was only three floors below him. Which was not always a good thing, being that close.
“You need me to come down there and help out?” He could hardly imagine getting out of bed right now, let alone treating patients. He was exhausted after working two double shifts at the clinic in the past three days while squeezing in a full day of image enhancements at the Pacific Heights Aesthetic Modeling Center.
“Yes,” Paul answered. “But not what you think. You know a guy named Tiger?”
That helped get Cage alert and awake. He pushed himself up into a sitting position.
“Yeah, I know Tiger. Is he there?”
“He’s here, all right. And he’s hysterical, demanding to see you, demanding to be given some pills or a shot, says he’s sick with some deadly disease. He’s scared, Cage. Don’t know what he’s scared of, and he doesn’t seem to actually be sick, but he said you would know.”
Christ. He knew, all right. “Okay, I’ll be right down. Try to calm him down. Tell him I said he’s fine, and I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Calm him down,” Paul said. “Sure thing. He wants a shot, I’ll give him one. Sedate his ass.”
“Just hang on, Paul, and I’ll be right down.”
“All right. But make it quick.” Paul broke the connection.
Cage nodded to himself. Yeah, make it quick. He swung his legs out from under the sheet and over the side of the bed, and sat there for a few moments, trying to will himself awake. But his body and mind kept trying to shut down. If he lay back right now, he’d go out, he knew it.
He took a brief, cold shower and got dressed. He thought about making a quick cup of coffee, but decided he’d better get downstairs right away and see Tiger. Coffee probably wouldn’t do him much good anyway; he was beyond the help of caffeine.
Outside it was still fairly dark, but already warm. The day was going to be hot, and he wondered if they were heading into their first big heat wave of the year. The first one was always a killer; people would be dropping in the streets.
The clinic entrance was just ten feet down from the apartment lobby. There were only three people in the waiting room—two older men sitting together, and a young pregnant woman. Mike Wilkerson looked up as Cage approached the desk and nodded toward the left hallway. “Cardenas is with someone in Exam Two,” he said. “Your man Tiger is in Four.”
“We got any fresh coffee?” Cage asked.
Mike nodded. “Just made a pot five minutes ago. Want me to get you some?”
Cage shook his head. “I’ll get it myself. Exam Four, you said?”
“That’s it.”
He started back toward the staff room, but pulled up when someone began banging on one of the exam room doors and yelling. From the inside. He turned back to Mike.
“Is that my guy?”
Mike nodded, laughing. “Paul locked him in. He kept jumping out into the hall and shouting for help.”
“Christ. I guess the coffee’ll wait.” He reversed direction, came around the counter, then headed up the left hallway and down toward Exam Four. Tiger was still pounding on the door when he reached it.
“Hey!” Cage shouted. “Jam it in there, will you?”
Silence for a moment. Then, “Dr. Cage?”
“Yeah.” He took the chart and clipboard off the wall hook, glanced at it. Paul had started the chart, but hadn’t written anything except: Tiger. Diagnosis: MADMAN! Cage unlocked the door and opened it. Tiger stepped back and let Cage inside.
Tiger immediately began pacing and talking at the same time. “Oh, man, you gotta help me. He’s dead…goddamn, he’s dead…and you gotta…” Tiger was flushed and sweating, rubbing at his head with one hand while wiping the other hand up and down on his thigh. “I think I’m sick…I must be sick…he’s fucking dead!”
“Tiger!” Cage barked it at him.
Tiger stopped pacing and blinked stupidly at Cage. “What?”
“Sit down, for Christ’s sake. Just calm down a minute, and sit.”
Tiger didn’t move for a few moments, still staring at Cage as if he didn’t know where the hell he was. Then he looked around and sat in the chair by the tiny window that opened out into the alley. Cage remained standing.
“Okay,” Cage said. “Who’s dead? Stinger?”
“Yeah, fucking Stinger. And he died a mess. He was vomiting blood everywhere and screaming and his skin was peeling off, and then he just died.”
“You saw this?”
Tiger shook his head. “No, I told you. They were keeping him away from everyone, in some kind of isolation room, in some building somewhere, I don’t know. But a woman I know, one of the people I was helping carry him that time, she’s got better connections than I do. She knows someone who was there, who saw him die. She says everyone’s really worried. She said Stinger’s not the first one to die like that.”
Great, Cage thought, that’s fucking great. Just what he wanted to hear.
Tiger stood up, holding out his hands. “I got his blood all over me!” he wailed. “You gotta do something, I’m getting sick, and you have to give me a shot or some pills or something so I don’t die like that. You told me to come here. You gotta do something, you fucking boneman!”
“Okay, Tiger, okay. Sit back down, and I’ll check you out. I’ll give you a full workup, okay?”
Tiger sat down again and rubbed both hands through his short hair, face twisting into a grimace. He muttered to himself, eyes blinking spasmodically. Cage put on a pair of disposable gloves, and Tiger lost it again.
“I am sick!” he cried out, jumping to his feet and pointing at the gloves. “See? You don’t even want to touch me!”
“Jesus, Tiger, calm down, will you? I put gloves on for everyone, for every exam I do. Standard precautions. It doesn’t mean anything.” Cage felt like he was trying to talk a potential suicide off a rooftop, except he didn’t know what Tiger would do if he completely lost control. He didn’t want to find out.
He spent the next fifteen minutes running Tiger through a general physical, talking to him all the while, trying to keep him settled. He talked about anything that came to his mind, as long as there was no connection to Stinger—random babble about the clinic, the possibility of a heat wave, the message streamers he’d seen the night before about some religious wack who was trying to recruit people for a pilgrimage to the North Pole. Tiger seemed to gradually loosen up a little. The tension eased out of his neck muscles, the flush left his skin, the sweating slowed, and the panicky jumping around of his gaze dwindled away.
Tiger seemed healthy enough. His heart rate was elevated, but Cage would have been surprised if it wasn’t. Blood pressure, too, was elevated the first time he took it, but pretty much normal when he took it a second time as he was about to finish up. Temp was just over ninety-nine, but that wasn’t much of a fever. Nothing else of much significance showed itself. All in all, Tiger seemed to be healthier than most of the people Cage saw at the clinic, and Cage told him as much.
“You sure?” Tiger asked. “I haven’t been feeling any too good.”
“Like what?”
“Feverish, for one thing. All hot, like I’m burning up.”
“You don’t have a fever, Tiger.”
“I’ve been breaking out in rashes.”
Cage’s heart jumped a little at that, but he hadn’t seen any during the exam. “I didn’t find any signs of rash anywhere,” he said to Tiger.
“They’re gone now. But I’ve also been getting headaches, and I’m not sleeping so good, and sometimes I’ve been sweating a lot, and sometimes I feel like I can’t catch my breath.”
“Classic symptoms of anxiety attacks,” Cage told him.
“What do you mean?”
“Stinger’s
dead, and you had that blood splashed on you, and you’re so worried about getting the same thing that you’re getting anxiety attacks about it.”
“You mean I’m making myself sick?”
“Probably.”
“Probably. But maybe not.”
Cage sighed. “That’s right, maybe not. I can’t be sure. But I think you’re fine.”
“Can’t you give me something to keep me from getting what Stinger had?”
Cage shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Tiger. I don’t know what Stinger had. Even if I did, I probably couldn’t do anything. What he had might not even have been contagious.” He was trying to convince himself as much as he was Tiger; he was still really worried about Nikki, and this sure as hell wasn’t helping. The last time he’d talked to her she was still sick, maybe even feeling worse.
Tiger rolled his head from side to side, popping his neck. “Rashida’s friends sure are worried that it’s contagious. It’s making them crazy.”
Okay, Cage thought. Here was his chance to try to push things with Tiger. “Who’s Rashida?” he asked.
Tiger continued rolling his head around, and the neck bones kept making loud popping sounds; it made Cage a little queasy. “She’s a friend,” Tiger said. “I told you. But she’s got better connections to the big stoners.”
“Tiger. Who do you work for?”
“I work for Stinger, and Rashida. And Birgitta.” Tiger grinned. “You remember, the woman who wouldn’t help us load up? That was Birgitta. She’s a scary one, isn’t she? Imagine what she’d do to a guy in bed.”
“But who are they?” Cage pressed him. “Is there a name?”
Tiger shrugged. “I don’t know, and I don’t really give a shit. I just work for them. I do the work and they pay me. That’s all that matters.”
“Do you ever work in the Core?”
Tiger stopped rolling his neck and stared at Cage. “Are you out of your suffocating mind? We get close to the Core, sometimes, sure, but hell, look at where this place is. No, I don’t work in that goddamn place. Shit, I’m not a genius, but I’m not a fucking moron, either. The Core.” He shook his head and grinned at Cage.
Cage decided not to push it any farther. Tiger didn’t know. It was quite possible he’d never even heard of Cancer Cell.
“So you really think I’m okay?” Tiger asked.
Cage nodded.
“And I can keep on working?”
“Sure. It wouldn’t hurt to take a few days off, rest up a little. Tell them you are sick, even though you aren’t.”
“Shit, I don’t know about that. I need the work. I need the money. And I take too much time off, they might give the job to someone else.”
“Okay. Whatever you want. But before you go, you want to give me your number and address? So I can check in on you.”
Tiger nodded. “Sure.” He breathed in deeply once, then slowly let it out. “Maybe you’re right, about the anxiety. I’m feeling a lot better now.”
I’m glad you are, Cage thought.
An hour later he stood outside Nikki’s door, hesitating. It was still way too early, only seven in the morning, and the chances of Nikki being awake were slim, but after his encounter with Tiger, Cage needed to see her. He needed reassurance. He’d been so busy he hadn’t seen her in three days, just talked briefly with her a few times. He was afraid of what he would find.
He knocked softly. Nothing at first, and he was about to knock again when he thought he heard movement from inside. Then Nikki’s muffled voice came through the door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Nikki.”
“Who’s ‘me’?” she asked as she opened the door. She looked tired, but she was smiling. She was wearing green sweatpants and a gray T-shirt, and she was barefoot. “Come on in. I was just going to make coffee. Want some?”
“I’d kill for some,” Cage said. He followed her into the apartment.
The windows were open, letting in the warm, fresh early-morning air—as fresh as the city ever got, anyway. Nikki went to the stove, where water was heating, and added extra coffee to the filter cone set on her glass pot.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
She turned to face him, smile broadening. “Wiped. But great. By great I mean the fever’s broken, the headache’s gone, no more sore throat, no more crunching bone aches. I’m bloody exhausted, but just great. On the mend.”
Cage felt tremendous relief. He stepped toward her, put his hands on her shoulders, rose up on his toes, and kissed her forehead. “Believe me, I’m glad to hear it. I was starting to worry.”
“Some bloody awful flu,” Nikki said. “The worst I’ve ever had, I think. But…it…is…over.”
The water began to boil, and she took the kettle off the burner and poured the steaming water into the cone. Cage crossed the room to one of the windows and looked outside. The air coming in was continuing to warm, and he realized that it was going to be a burner by midafternoon. Activity on the street below was still fairly sedate, though it was starting to pick up a bit. It would probably remain a slow day until things began to cool down as the sun dropped. No one would be quite used to the heat yet.
Nikki handed him a cup of coffee, and they sat together by the window. They spent a few minutes in silence, drinking their coffee.
“You’ve been busy,” Nikki said. “You haven’t been mother-henning me the past couple of days.”
Cage nodded. “Double shifts at the clinic, and then I had to do a stint yesterday performing image enhancements.”
“Oh, right, for that shipment we got. You must be as tired as I am.”
“Probably.” He shrugged. “You remember Tiger, the guy who met us with that shipment?”
“Sure.”
“He showed up at the clinic today. A couple hours ago. Paul called me down.”
“Was he sick?”
“No, just worried. He thought he was sick.” He paused, almost wishing he hadn’t brought it up. But she had a right to know. Besides, she was getting over the flu or whatever it was she’d had. She obviously hadn’t picked up whatever it was that had killed Stinger. “Stinger’s dead.”
“Yeah?” It was all she said. But her gaze never left him.
“Yeah. He got pretty sick, and then he died.”
“What from?”
Cage shook his head. “Tiger has no idea. He’s not a part of the ‘inner circle.’ He wasn’t around, he hadn’t seen Stinger in days. He just heard from a friend of his that Stinger had died.”
Nikki’s expression didn’t change. “So why did he go to the clinic?”
“He’d been working with Stinger. He’s worried he’s getting sick, that’s he’s got whatever Stinger had. But he seems okay.”
She nodded slowly and gave him a rueful smile. “That’s why you showed up here at this ungodly hour. Afraid you were going to find me on my deathbed?”
Cage smiled back. “Maybe a little.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You never disappoint me, Nikki.”
Nikki stopped smiling. “Except in love. I always disappoint you in love.”
What could he say to that? Nothing. The two of them returned to silence, gazing out the window, drinking their coffee, and watching the day arrive.
14
IN A WEEK and a half, no real progress had been made in the Naomi Katsuda case, and now the whole thing seemed to be going to shit on them. The strange thing was, Carlucci wasn’t getting any extra pressure to solve the case, not from Vaughn, and not from Yoshi Katsuda, Naomi’s father, and that bothered him. He would have expected pressure from both. Even Morgan seemed to have dropped out of the picture; Carlucci hadn’t heard from him even once since the day Naomi Katsuda’s body had been found in the Sutro Bath ruins. When Santos and Weathers asked for a meeting with him away from the office, he felt certain he wasn’t going to get good news. And he was right.
The three of them met in C
hina Basin at eight o’clock in the morning. When Carlucci arrived, Santos and Weathers were standing at a wooden railing, drinking coffee and watching a freighter being unloaded on the docks below them.
Ruben Santos and Toni Weathers had been partners for seven years. Ruben was Toni’s first assignment when she transferred into Homicide, and most people in the department had predicted the partnership wouldn’t last a year. Ruben was a small, wiry redheaded Latino, a short-tempered man whose emotions regularly got the better of him, while Toni was a tall, big-boned blonde, an even-mannered woman with a sharp, analytical mind. And they had fooled everyone. They complemented each other, were fiercely loyal to one another, and they had become one of the best Homicide teams in the entire city.
As Carlucci approached, he noticed there was an extra cup of coffee for him on the rail between them, steam rising through a tiny opening in its lid. They turned away from the ship and looked at him. Santos handed him the coffee and said, “I hate this fucking case.”
Weathers gave Carlucci the faintest touch of a smile and one quick nod—her way of agreeing.
“You want to give it to Morgan?” Carlucci asked. “He’s wanted it from the beginning.” He knew what the answer would be.
“Hah,” Santos replied. “Not a fucking chance. Besides, I’m not so sure Morgan would want it anymore.” Santos had his coffee in his left hand, cigarette in his right; he took a long drink from the paper cup and a deep drag from the cigarette. “I’m going to kill myself with this shit,” he said. Then, shaking his head, “That goddamn Katsuda. Yoshi, the father.”
“What’s the problem, Ruben?”
“What’s not the problem?” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “The arrogant bastard won’t talk to us, that’s the biggest problem. More than a week since his daughter was killed, and he still won’t talk to us. First, it’s the grief thing, he’s too upset over the death of his daughter. Then there was the funeral, more grieving, family members from out of town, family and friends down from New Hong Kong. Then he’s too busy at the office, making up for time lost and trying to find a replacement for his daughter. We never get to talk to him directly, of course, it’s always through one of his assistants. And we get messages from him, about how much he appreciates our efforts, and he’ll talk with us as soon as he can, but he doesn’t know anything about his daughter’s death, or he would have talked to us sooner. Blah, blah, blah.” He paused, hit on the coffee and cigarette again.
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