by Neil Mcmahon
While his wife, addicted by him to prescription narcotics, slumbered in the same house. So far, it was no surprise that Walker Ostrand did not seem to have left much grief behind him.
“Let’s go back to the office and do some thinking about how to hit Gloria Sharpe,” Larrabee said. “This one’s going to have to be a better class of lie.”
11
Larrabee’s computer scan and some phone calls yielded a sketch of information on Gloria Sharpe: vehicle registrations, employment at a couple of secretarial temp agencies, several overdue bills listed on credit reports—and most recently, an application for a city business license. She had moved out of her last known address, an apartment in Millbrae, three months earlier—a time that coincided with Walker Ostrand’s death. There were no marriages and no indication that she ever had been associated with Ostrand.
It was possible—especially since she appeared to have no medical training—that she was, if not exactly an innocent, unaware of what Ostrand had been doing: that she had been simply a secretary or bookkeeper having an affair with her older employer.
But it was a strong assumption that she had been involved, and she knew that if the research were made public, she was looking at prison.
One bit of information, Monks kept thinking, was all it would take to lead them to that group of research subjects. Even a single individual’s name might be enough. Gloria Sharpe might have it, and might let it drop without realizing its importance.
But Larrabee was probably right. Getting it was going to require a better class of lie.
Gloria Sharpe’s shop was located in a warren of small byways off Fifteenth Street just east of the 101 skyway, an old industrial area in the borderland between South of Market and the Mission. Tendrils of upscaling in the neighborhood were evident; several of the old stone and brick buildings had been sandblasted, with freshly painted signs advertising antiques and art galleries. The front window of Gloria’s shop was papered over; a glimpse into the open doorway showed that the place was in the process of being redecorated.
Monks and Larrabee picked their way inside through ladders, buckets, a tangle of extension cords and tools, and several men in worn jeans and T-shirts moving purposefully. The main room was a good twenty feet wide by thirty deep, with twelve-foot ceilings and brick walls that had been exposed and sandblasted. The old hardwood floor was in the process of being repaired and finished too. It was evidence of good taste—
And money. A lot more than most secretaries made. It appeared that Walker Ostrand had paid her well for her services.
“She just left,” an electrician told them through a hefty chew of tobacco. “Goes to walk her dogs. Sometimes she comes back. Sometimes she doesn’t.” He shrugged and spat in a trash can. That was the way life was.
Larrabee grimaced. “Any way to find her?”
The electrician pointed eastward down the street. “This dead-ends in a couple blocks, at the SP tracks. If she’s there, you’ll see her car. It’s a new Chevy SUV, arrest-me red.”
“What kind of dogs?” Larrabee said.
“Dobermans.” The electrician spat again. “They take up some space.”
Monks got into the Bronco, leaving Larrabee at the shop in case she came back.
He drove through fog dampening to mist until he came to the dead end at the Southern Pacific tracks. There were no dwellings or shops here, and the red SUV was easy to spot, parked alone at the curb. He parked behind it and got out.
A chain-link fence separated the street from the tracks and the stretch of vacant turf beyond, but it was torn and battered. He had no trouble finding a hole to step through. He walked with hands in pockets and head bowed into the wet wind that stung his eyes, the smell of the sea, as always, touching his memory.
A few hundred yards east, he could see the narrow channel of the Mission Creek Marina coming in from China Basin, with its small fleet of sailboats anchored against the bank. But the area in between was deserted, a blighted no-man’s-land of old concrete and rusty iron and weeds, the kind of place where a woman alone might not have felt safe.
Unless, like the woman who was walking down by the channel’s end, she was flanked by two rangy, whip-lean Dobermans.
“Ms. Sharpe?” he called. “Gloria?”
She turned to watch him approach. She was thin, even from a distance, giving an impression of wiry hardness, like the dogs. They were watching him too. He saw with relief that they were on leashes.
Monks raised a hand and worked on looking friendly.
He filled in details as he got closer. She was neither pretty nor not. Her dark curly hair had highlights of henna; her face was suntanned over an unclear complexion. She had either been on vacation or had worked on the tan under a lamp. The dogs fidgeted, pulling at their leashes, but not to nose up to Monks the way that most dogs would. They were restless because of him, and yet ignoring him. It made them more unnerving.
“The guys working at your shop said you came here,” Monks said. “I thought I might get lucky and catch you.” He handed her one of the phony business cards. “Jim Gallagher, Commonwealth Insurance.”
She accepted the card dubiously. “What’s this about?”
“It’s good news, Gloria. You’re the beneficiary of an insurance policy. It just showed up on our quarterly audit.”
“Really?” she said, very much more friendly. “Who from?”
“Dr. Walker Ostrand.”
Monks thought he saw her draw back slightly.
“Walker’s death was a terrible shock,” she said. The line sounded like she had learned it from a soap opera.
“I’m sure,” Monks said consolingly.
“How much money?”
“What’s left could come to about eleven thousand dollars, if everything works out all right.”
Larrabee and he had sweated over deciding the sum—enough to entice, not so much as to cause suspicion; an odd dollar amount, to disarm.
Apparently, it hit. Gloria’s lips parted slightly, the tip of her tongue appearing for a second before they closed again.
“What do you mean, ‘if everything works out all right’?” she said.
Monks almost smiled.
“This is a medical reinsurance policy,” he said. “It’s an investment, it earns interest at a high rate. But it also insures us, the insurers, against any outstanding claims.”
“O—kay,” she said slowly.
“Look, it’s complicated and boring,” he said. “But it’s how insurance companies work. Other companies come to us with claims: insurance, unpaid bills, that sort of thing. We verify them or deny them. With Dr. Ostrand, there’s only a couple of minor ones, but we have to settle anything outstanding before we can pass the money on to you.”
Abruptly, he pulled a small leather address book from his pocket, opened it, stared, and snapped it shut again.
“Sorry, I just realized I’m going to be late for another appointment,” he said wearily. “It’s already been a long day.”
“So?” she said. “Is there a problem?”
Monks lifted his outspread palms. “We can’t verify the claims because we don’t have Dr. Ostrand’s records. Do you know what happened to them?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I was just a secretary. When he died, I got my personal things from the office. That was it.”
Monks exhaled. “I’m afraid that’s going to hang this up.”
“Can’t you just go ahead and pay the bills, if I tell you to?” she said, anxious now. “I mean, it’s my money.”
“It’s not that simple,” Monks said. “You’re only paying the insurance premiums. We’re paying the actual claims. I’m sorry, Gloria, but we just can’t do that unless we’re sure they’re valid.”
“There has to be a way around this.” She was starting to get angry.
Monks thrust his hands into his pants pockets and spent ten seconds gazing out to sea, as if making a decision.
“Okay,” he said. “I’d like
to get it off the books. Give me a quick rundown of where he worked, who he dealt with. If it checks out, I’ll try to punch it through.”
“He was a consultant,” she said. “He worked out of his office.”
Monks had the sense of walking along a narrowing trail cut into a sheer cliffside, with an abyss on the other side. He decided to take a chance.
“I think there was at least one bill from a laboratory,” he said. “For blood sample analyses.”
She was looking at him hard now. He had the sudden unsettling sense that her pupils had actually contracted.
She spoke a single quiet word: “Baron.”
The larger of the dogs fixed on Monks. There was no more fidgeting; it was motionless as a statue. The other whined, looking nervously at its mistress. Monks’s testicles tightened. There were hundreds of cars roaring by overhead on the freeways in plain sight, but in that lonely twilight, those dogs could reduce him to butcher’s meat within seconds. There were times when he carried a pistol, but he had not dreamed that this situation might call for it.
“Look, I’m just a claims adjustor,” he said. He stepped carefully back. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m trying to get you some money. What’s the problem?”
She did not answer. Her mouth was a tight, thin line.
“Okay,” Monks said. “Sorry.”
He walked away with less careful steps, stomach in a queasy knot and shoulders hunched against a sudden rush of motion behind him, teeth ripping into him and dragging him down.
But he made it to the fence and scrambled clumsily through, panting, armpits wet. He risked a wary glance back, expecting that she had fallen behind. He saw with unpleasant shock that she had kept pace with him and was coming through the fence too, the dogs tugging eagerly at their leashes. He hurried on to the Bronco.
She surprised him again by calling, “I’ll try to remember, okay?”
Monks paused with one foot inside the big sturdy vehicle’s door, feeling much better.
“My number’s on the card,” he called back. He backed the Bronco around in a quick three-point, aware of an absurd fear that the dogs might chew the tires off. A glance in the rearview mirror showed her still standing there, watching him.
Monks drove grimly back to pick up Larrabee, with mist smearing his windshield, blurring the oncoming headlights. Whether Gloria Sharpe would contact them, and what she might tell them if she did, was going to come down to some unguessable trade-off between caution and avarice.
12
Monks had started carrying a cell phone of his own for investigation work. He disapproved of them in principle, but in practice they were damned convenient. He was sitting in Larrabee’s office, refining his tarot deck of information, when it rang.
“Dr. Monks? This is Martine Rostanov. We met last night?”
Monks was surprised by the formality, but then realized that she might not be alone.
“Of course, I remember,” he said.
“I’m awfully sorry to bother you. We have someone injured up here at Aesir Corporation offices. I’d like to get an emergency physician’s opinion.”
Monks was surprised again. “You don’t think you should get them to a hospital?”
“I don’t think it’s that serious, and he’d rather not go to a hospital if he doesn’t have to, with all the hubbub right now. It’s Pete Hazeldon. You met him last night too.”
Monks remembered him: the boyish-looking research and development head.
“What kind of injury?” Monks said.
“He got his hand caught in some sort of machinery. I dressed it and gave him a tetanus shot. I don’t think there’s anything broken, but I’m worried about infection.”
“Any red streaks on his forearm?”
“Not that I can see. But I’m not completely sure of myself.”
“Do you have penicillin?” Monks said.
“Yes, I’ve got a full set of standard medical supplies.”
Monks looked over to where Larrabee was slumped in front of his computer monitor, trying to cast a wider net around Walker Ostrand.
“Any problem if I take off for an hour?” he said to Larrabee.
Larrabee signified no with a headshake and grunt.
“All right,” Monks said into the phone. “It shouldn’t take me long to get there.”
“I’ll wait for you at the front desk,” she said.
Larrabee’s gaze was a shade acerbic. “Seems like those Aesir people are getting to like you.”
Monks walked out to the Bronco just after dusk. The late rush hour traffic was winding down. He could see the top of the brightly lit, towering citadel of the Bank of America Building: an impregnable fortress where the tapestry of the world’s destiny was being embroidered on, high above the ken of common people.
It was going to feel pretty strange walking in there—like an ant that was trying to chew the feet out from under a giant, paying him a visit and hoping he wouldn’t figure it out.
Martine was waiting at the desk, as promised. This time the security guards allowed her to be Monk’s escort.
Walking across the lobby to the elevators, she said very quietly, “There’s bugs and cameras all over this place.”
“Call me later from a safe phone,” Monks said. In a normal tone, he said, “How did Pete Hazeldon get injured?”
“He’s been working on the company boat. The one in the press conference?”
“I saw it on TV,” Monks said.
“Wiring it for a communications system, something like that.”
“They can’t afford to hire an electrician?”
“Pete says it relaxes him. But I don’t think he’ll be doing any more of it for a while.”
The Aesir offices seemed even busier than they had been last night. Martine led him down the main hall to a room that was outfitted as a physician’s examination room, with adjustable bed, sink, scale, blood pressure cuff, and all the other standard appurtenances. Aesir executives did not have to wait in doctors’ offices for minor medical attention.
“I know it must seem extravagant,” she said apologetically, catching Monk’s wry expression. “Please wait, I’ll get Pete.”
Monks stood inside the doorway, unobtrusively watching the bustle up and down the hall, with the steady background noise of ringing phones and office machinery. The IPO was only about forty hours away now.
Then he realized that a woman walking toward him was Audrey Cabot. Today she was wearing slim black flannel slacks with an ivory silk blouse, and a single strand of lustrous opalescent pearls. The ensemble was tastefully casual, and probably would have put a down payment on Monks’s house. He expected that Audrey would pass by without recognizing him, but she paused, turning to him with a poise that suggested a model on a runway.
“I see some doctors still make house calls,” she said.
“Under special circumstances.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if I feel special.” She smiled faintly and walked on.
Martine and Pete Hazeldon were coming down the hall from the other direction. Audrey Cabot ignored them, perhaps pointedly, as she passed by.
“This had to happen now, of all times,” Hazeldon muttered. His left hand was bandaged from the wrist to the first joints of the fingers. His frizzy hair and skin were damp with sweat, and he looked shaken, perhaps feverish. “I can’t believe how goddamned stupid I was. I was fishing a wire through the anchor cable housing. I must have tripped something. All of a sudden, whammo. I could hardly pull my hand out.”
There was probably a product liability lawsuit in it, Monks thought.
He sat Hazeldon on the bed and pulled up his sleeve. “How long ago did it happen?”
“An hour. I came straight here.”
An hour was too early for the red streaking of blood poisoning to show. Monks unpeeled the bandage. The inside layers were soaked through with blood that had started to crust. He worked the gauze free carefully, but felt Hazeldon’s winces.
&n
bsp; “He won’t take anything stronger than ibuprofen for the pain,” Martine explained.
“I’ve got to stay clearheaded,” Hazeldon said stubbornly.
Monks dropped the clump of bloody gauze in the trash and turned the hand, examining it. It was swollen to almost twice its normal size, and deep purple with bruises. There were several bloody ragged tears on both palm and back. It looked like it had been stuck into a big electric pencil sharpener.
“Can you move those fingers?” Monks said.
Hazeldon waggled them feebly.
“Okay,” Monks said. “Watch the forearm closely for red streaking. Start penicillin immediately if it shows. Get the hand examined tomorrow by an orthopedic surgeon. You need to make sure there’s no damage to tendon and nerve functions.”
“I want the penicillin now,” Hazeldon said. The stubborn tone was more pronounced. Monks was mildly surprised. Most people were relieved to avoid shots, at least the kind that did not provide any pleasurable payoff.
“You probably don’t need it,” Monks said. “The wound’s been well cleaned. Machinery’s not the sort of thing that’s likely to cause infection.”
“I can’t afford to take any chances.”
Monks started to point out that there were no chances involved, as long as precautions were duly observed. But it was not his emergency room, and not worth arguing about.
“Ever had any allergic reactions, anything like that?” Monks said.
“Nothing.”
Monks looked at Martine. “Doctor? Any objections?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t given one of these in a while.”
“One point two million units, ProPen G,” Monks said.
She opened a cabinet and got out the penicillin and syringe. Pete Hazeldon, with his good hand, started rolling his other sleeve up to his shoulder.
“I’m afraid this one has to go in the rump, Pete,” Martine said.
Hazeldon glanced swiftly at her. His face was flushed and startled.
“You think that’s funny, making me drop my pants?” he said. The words rushed out in an angry burst.