Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter

by Lee Goldberg

  "I have trouble breathing all the time, at rest or with simple walking. And stairs wear me out. I sleep okay, in fact longer than usual, but I wake up tired and feel as if I haven't slept at all."

  "Any swelling of your ankles?"

  "Maybe a little," Mannering said. He hadn't really thought about it before.

  "Do you have any fever, chills, or cough?"

  "I feel cold a lot, but I don't have any real chills," Mannering said. "I thought it was the air conditioning in this place."

  "Have you lost any weight?"

  "Yeah," Mannering said. "I'm down about five pounds in the last two or three weeks. My appetite isn't very good."

  Dr. Ross thought a moment, then asked, "Have you noticed any bleeding, especially from your gums when you're brushing your teeth?"

  "Nope."

  "Have you been bruising easily?"

  "The only serious bruising I've suffered lately was losing that pot to you." Mannering said with a grin, just to keep things light. Dr. Ross grinned, too, but Mannering could tell he was only being sociable. "I ran into the door the other day and bruised my leg. I've done that before, and it didn't bruise any worse than usual."

  He asked Mannering a few more question about his symptoms, then sat down on a tiny stool with a heavy sigh.

  "Here's what I'd like to do, Mr. Mannering," Dr. Ross said. "I'd like to take some blood and give you an EKG and a chest X-ray."

  "What are you looking for?" Mannering asked.

  "It's too early to speculate," Dr. Ross said.

  "You're keeping your cards close to your chest," Mannering said. "You play doctor the same way you play cards."

  "But I'm afraid this isn't a game," Dr. Ross said, a little too grimly for Mannering's comfort.

  Mannering had intended, after his visit to the doctor, to play a little poker to lift his spirits. But after the battery of tests, he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was go home, smoke a cigar, and admire his money.

  So that was what he did.

  He had some Chinese food delivered for dinner, then went to bed early.

  The next morning, Dr. Ross called at ten. The tests results were in, and he wanted to see Mannering to discuss them.

  "Can't you just tell me over the phone?" Mannering asked.

  "I prefer not to," Dr. Ross said. "There's also another test I'd like to perform. Do you have a friend who can give you a ride and take you home afterward?"

  "It's that bad?"

  "It's a simple test, but I'll need to give you a mild sedative," Dr. Ross said. "That's why I don't recommend that you drive."

  "Tell Roger to send a limo for me," Mannering said. "Have him make it quick."

  Mannering hung up and noticed that his hands were trembling. He stared at them as if they'd betrayed him.

  Dr. Ross didn't even attempt to soften the bad news behind a genial smile. This time, the doctor was dead serious as they sat in the exam mom together.

  "Your white blood count was abnormally high, and your platelet count was way off," Dr. Ross said. "And your clotting time was too slow."

  "What does it mean?"

  Dr. Ross took a deep breath. "It could be leukemia."

  The one thing Mannering had never considered was that his body might one day fail him. He'd mastered the rest of his universe, he'd always assumed his body would simply fall into line with everything else. His health was something he'd simply taken for granted.

  Leukemia?

  It wasn't part of his master plan. It couldn't be permitted to happen.

  "How can you be sure?" Mannering asked.

  "I'm not. That's why I need to do a bone marrow exam, which isn't as scary as it sounds," Dr. Ross said. "It's done by taking a large-bore needle and inserting it, using local anesthesia, into the hip bone along the side of your waist. I can do it here, right now."

  "Then what are you waiting for?"

  Dr. Ross nodded, reached behind him, and took a clip board off the counter. "You'll have to sign this."

  He handed the clipboard and pen to Mannering. It was some kind of release form.

  "I thought you said this was a simple procedure," Mannering said. "Do we really need to be so formal?"

  "Yes, we do."

  "If it's for insurance purposes, don't worry. I'll be paying cash."

  "That's not the issue," Dr. Ross said. "It's a legal release. I can't perform the test, and neither can anyone else at this or any other medical facility, without that signed document."

  "I'm a man who guards his privacy," Mannering said.

  "I understand," Dr. Ross said. "As you know, I consider protecting my patients' privacy my foremost obligation. I've made it the keystone of my professional life."

  Mannering felt his hand begin to shake again and signed the document quickly to hide the tremor from Dr. Ross. There was no need for the doctor to know how scared he was.

  Dr. Ross took the clipboard, tossed it on the counter, and put on a pair of rubber gloves. "Let's get to it, shall we? I'm going to bring in a nurse to assist me."

  "Can you do it on your own?"

  "Don't worry, Mr. Mannering," Dr. Ross said. "She's on my personal staff. She flew in early this week to assist me with my current patient, the one I accompanied here to Las Vegas."

  "You never mentioned who that was," Mannering said.

  "No," Dr. Ross said with a tight smile, "I didn't."

  The nurse was an African American woman who introduced herself as Cleo Jones and had an easygoing rapport with Dr. Ross that was obviously the result of a long association. It made Mannering feel much better about her being there.

  He was feeling much better all around, a state of mind he attributed to the Valium that Dr. Ross had given him before injecting the lidocaine into his hip. Once everything was numb, Mannering watched with calm detachment as Dr. Ross made a half-inch incision in his hip, down to the bone.

  The doctor took a short, thick needle and twisted it into the bone, crunching and grinding until he finally broke through to the cavity. He attached a 30 cc syringe to the needle and pulled back the plunger, slowly drawing out the marrow, which was bright red, pulpy, and filled with tiny bone spicules.

  Dr. Ross removed the needle and bagged the ampoule, writing Mannering's name on the label. The nurse covered the wound with an antibiotic ointment and a bandage.

  "Is that it?" Mannering asked.

  "You'll need to hang around for a couple hours to give the sedative a chance to wear off," Dr. Ross said. "You'll have some residual soreness for a few days."

  "When will I get the test results?"

  Dr. Ross glanced at his watch. "If we rush it, we can have them later today."

  Mannering nodded. "You can find me at the blackjack table."

  Dr. Ross reached into his pocket and gave Mannering a hundred-dollar chip. "Play a hand for me."

  "Why don't you play it yourself?"

  "I like your luck," Dr. Ross said.

  So did Mannering. It hadn't failed him yet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mannering went up to his room, changed into a tuxedo, and went down to the casino. Things started out great. He put the doctor's chip on the table and got dealt a blackjack.

  He stuck the doctor's winnings in his pocket, put his own chips on the table, and decided to see what his relationship with Lady Luck was like today.

  He lost every hand, one after the other. But he refused to give up, increasing his wager with each hand. His losses mounted.

  His luck would turn. It had to. It always did.

  But not today. Lady Luck must have found another man to love.

  Before Dr. Ross sat down at the blackjack table beside him, Mannering knew what the test results would be. The doctor hadn't bothered to put on a tuxedo. Probably the only reason he hadn't been dragged out by security was his close relationship with Roger Standiford.

  "How bad is it, Doc?" Mannering asked.

  "Maybe we should go somewhere a little more private," Dr. Ross said, thou
gh they had the table to themselves.

  "Here is fine," Mannering said, motioning the young and amazingly beautiful dealer to hit his fourteen. She had a seven, and an astonishing amount of cleavage, showing. "The cards are hot."

  She slapped a face card down. He busted. She turned her card over. Seventeen.

  "First, I need to explain what the test was and what we were looking for. All our blood cells come from marrow. If the marrow is healthy, we expect to see the normal distribution of red blood cells, platelets, and the major types of white blood cells, myelocytes and lymphocytes," Dr. Ross said. "We didn't find that in your marrow."

  Mannering bet a thousand dollars. "What did you find?"

  The dealer dealt the cards. He had a twelve, she had a king showing.

  "You had too many lymphocytes and immature myelocytes," the doctor said gravely. "You have myelogenous leukemia."

  Mannering motioned for another card. It was an ace, which gave him either twenty-three or thirteen. His throat was dry as sand and he felt light-headed. If he hadn't been sitting, he would have fallen.

  "What's the treatment?" Mannering brushed his cards, signaling the dealer that he wanted another card. She gave him a nine. Twenty-two. He'd busted out. She swept his chips away.

  "Aggressive chemotherapy," Dr. Ross said. "But before we can begin, you're going to need a compatible bone marrow donor."

  "Why?" Mannering bet two thousand dollars. The dealer began dealing the cards.

  "The chemo will completely wipe out your bone marrow. You could easily die from bleeding or from infection."

  She dealt him fourteen and had an ace showing.

  "Insurance." the dealer asked.

  "Where am I supposed to find this donor?" Mannering asked Dr. Ross.

  "It has to be a blood relative."

  Mannering's hands began to tremble again. He put them in his lap. "And if I don't do the chemo?"

  "You'll die."

  He never took the insurance bet. This time he did. He put some chips on the table. The dealer turned over her other card. A queen, giving her blackjack. He won the bet. His insurance paid off.

  And at that moment, he realized he'd made another insurance bet nearly two decades ago for another terrible hand he'd been dealt today.

  He would win that bet, too. Lady Luck was whispering sweet nothings in his ear again. She was unfaithful, but he still loved her.

  "If I find a donor," Mannering asked, "can you handle the transplant?"

  "I'm going to be here only for a few more days," the doctor said. "But it's not that complex. There are many doctors in Las Vegas who can do it. You could contact the local hospital and—"

  "I want you," Mannering said. "And I want to do it here."

  "At the Côte d'Azur?"

  "Is there a reason why I can't?"

  "No," Dr. Ross said, "but it's not really set up for that kind of treatment."

  "I'll pay for whatever equipment is necessary," Mannering said.

  "It's not me you'll have to convince," Dr. Ross said. "I am merely a guest here."

  Mannering got up slowly, his anger and determination overcoming his weakness. "I'll handle Standiford. You just tell him what you need."

  "Wouldn't it be easier for you to go to a fully equipped hospital?"

  "Wouldn't it be easier for your patients to use a doctor here rather than drag you with them all over the world?"

  "That's different," Dr. Ross said.

  "Not to me. I hate hospitals, and as you once told me, they aren't very secure with their information," Mannering said. "There are business rivals who would take advantage of me if they knew I had a potentially terminal illness. I can't afford to have anyone know how sick I am."

  "I would need to bring in medical personnel to assist me," the doctor said.

  "I'm sure that if they're people you've used before with your other patients, I can trust them, too," Mannering said, though he didn't entirely believe it himself. But he had no choice.

  "How soon can you bring in a donor for me to test for compatibility?" Dr. Ross asked.

  "Give me a day," Mannering said. "Maybe two."

  He dug into his pocket for Dr. Ross's winnings and set them on the table in front of the doctor.

  "You're a winner," Mannering said. "Try to stay that way."

  In the elevator up to Standiford's office, Mannering's mind raced through all the possible scenarios and their potential risks. But none of those risks matched the dire consequences he faced if he didn't act fast and decisively.

  There was only one person who could save his life. He hadn't seen or heard about her in five years. But she shouldn't be hard to find. She had no reason to hide.

  The first thing he had to do was convince Standiford to let him do his chemotherapy and his bone marrow transplant at the Côte d'Azur. And more important than that, he had to make sure the facility was locked down and that the donor never knew who was getting her marrow.

  Standiford greeted Mannering outside the elevator, embracing him like they were old, dear friends, and led him into his office.

  "This is the first time you've come up to see me, isn't it?" Standiford said.

  "Usually you come to me," Mannering said.

  "Isn't that the way you like it?" Standiford asked, motiomng Mannering to take a seat.

  "I'm in a delicate situation," Mannering sat down in one of the guest chairs. "Discretion is essential."

  "I'll certainly do my best to help." Standiford sat beside him, putting them on equal footing. It was a gesture Mannering appreciated.

  "I've been in to see your friend Dr. Ross. I haven't been feeling well and I'm afraid the diagnosis isn't good," Mannering said. "I have leukemia."

  "I'm so sorry."

  Mannering waved the sentiment away. He hadn't come here for pity or understanding. "What I need is Dr. Ross and your medical center."

  Standiford cocked an eyebrow. "It's not really a medical center. It's a specialty surgical hospital for coronary and orthopedic surgeries and the occasional nip and tuck. We aren't really set up for chemotherapy and that sort of thing."

  "So I'll set it up and pay for everything," Mannering said. "I'll need a private room, no paperwork, and total isolation from the other patients and staff. We're talking cash on the table—or under it, if you prefer."

  Standiford frowned. "I feel for you, I truly do, but you're asking an awful lot. We could lose our medical license."

  "I built that damn hospital with what I've forked over to this casino," Mannering said. "If I die, you lose a long-term revenue stream. I've been good to you and this hotel and I can continue to be. You're in the business of serving the unique needs of your privileged clientele. This is how you can serve me, and it costs you nothing. I'm paying for every thing and a bit more for your consideration."

  "It's not just about your comfort and security, is it?"

  "I'm going to be bringing in a bone marrow donor who can't know who I am or where I am," Mannering said. "To do so may require extraordinary measures. I'll need Nate Grumbo's assistance once the donor arrives on the property."

  Standiford studied Mannering for a long time. "It will cost you a flat fee of one million in cash."

  Mannering rose from his seat. "Done."

  Henderson is a suburban community outside of Las Vegas, about as far away socially, economically, and geographically as Mannering could get from his house within the hour and not be standing in the middle of the desert.

  He found a strip mall under the McCarran flight path and parked in front of a pay phone.

  This was the first time he'd been to this pay phone, but not the first time he'd made this call. When Mannering had heard that Nick Stryker was asking paper-money collectors about recent auctions he'd been involved with, he'd known the PI was onto him.

  So he called the number he'd been given many years ago by a drunken movie star client who liked to brag about his underworld connections.

  "Jimmy, you ever get in trouble, you call the Do-e
r," the star had said.

  "What's he do?" Jimmy asked.

  "Whoever you want," the star said.

  Mannering called the number and wired the funds where the voice on the other end of the line told him to. Half on commencement, half on completion, the Do-er said, or the next person I do is you.

  The deal went beautifully.

  They both kept their anonymity and they were both satisfied with the transaction. Mannering had hoped he'd never have to use the number again. Certainly not so soon.

  This was much trickier than the other assignment he'd given the Do-er. He would have to arrange this so the Do-er didn't find out who he was doing the job for and why. It wouldn't be too difficult as long as he had Nate Grumbo's assistance.

  For a million bucks, he'd get whatever assistance he needed.

  Mannering got out of the car, went to the phone, and dialed. The Do-er answered on the first ring. He had a voice like milk chocolate.

  "Yes," the Do-er said.

  "I have another job for you," Mannering said.

  "Who dies?"

  "No one," Mannering said.

  "Where's the fun in that?"

  "It pays the same," Mannering said.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "I want you to find and abduct a teenage girl," Mannering said.

  'That's fun," the Do-er said. "Do I get to pick her?"

  "I already have," Mannering said. "Her name is Serena Cale."

  "Is this a kidnapping for ransom?" the Do-er asked. "Because I don't do that."

  "No, it's not. You will have to find her quickly and bring her unharmed to Las Vegas," Mannering said. "I'll get what I need from her and give her back to you."

  "What am I supposed to do with a teenage girl?"

  "Whatever your heart desires," Mannering said.

  There was a long pause. Mannering could almost hear the Do-er's grin.

  "I can do that," the Do-er said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Victor Gischler, known as the Do-er to the underworld of gun monkeys and casual readers of the classifieds in Soldier of Fortune magazine, drove his growling '68 Mercury Cougar up to the Monterey Bay area from his home base in Fontana, California, where he liked to hang out with his fellow members of the John Birch Society, the Aryan Brotherhood, and the Boy Scouts of America.