Heartbreaker

by Laurie Paige

  “Let me put you on the waiting list,” he said, suddenly needing her whole and well. He wanted to make love to her without having to withhold a part of him in order to check her condition.

  “What?” Susan couldn’t make sense of anything. She didn’t want to. The magic, she wanted only that.

  “The sooner we get you on the list, the sooner your chances of getting a heart. Before it’s too late.”

  Shock speared through her. He was talking about heart transplant surgery!

  Tearing herself out of his arms, she demanded, “Is this how you get your patients to do as you want? You seduce them into agreeing with you?”

  He gave her a slow, burning appraisal. “Not usually, but I’m willing to consider whatever works.”

  Pain—she wasn’t sure of its cause—seared her insides. It was a lesson in humility. She’d been thinking only of making love; he’d been thinking of a damned operation.

  “No, thanks, Dr. O’Day. I don’t mix pleasure with business. Not ever.”

  Grabbing her clothing, she turned her back and struggled into the bra and shirt, her fingers turning to all thumbs. Finished, she stalked off without once looking back.

  Six

  After leaving the Wainwright ranch, Michael returned home, did his workout in the pool, then drove to town and picked up an order of barbecue ribs for dinner.

  Back at his place, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, intending to sit on the patio with its view of Lake Maria to the north and Mission Creek to the south and enjoy his meal.

  No such luck.

  “Hello, Doc,” a gravelly voice said as soon as he stepped outside.

  Michael turned to see the same two henchmen of Carmine Mercado’s who had visited him once before. “Hey,” he said quite jovially, but with an inward grimace. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have ordered more ribs. Care for a beer?”

  “No,” the older mobster spoke before the younger one could open his mouth.

  Michael had to give the man credit—he was all business. “What’s on your mind?” He settled at the patio table and indicated they were welcome to take a seat.

  They remained standing. “I have a new proposition for you,” Carmine’s spokesman told him.

  Michael took a swig of beer, ignoring the tantalizing aroma coming from the container of ribs, slaw, jalapeño peppers and corn bread. “What’s that?”

  For the first time, the man looked a bit uncomfortable. “We supply the heart. You get the hospital to agree to let you do the surgery.”

  “On Carmine Mercado,” Michael said, not bothering to hide the sardonic tone.

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s volunteered to supply the heart?”

  The younger man grinned. The older one didn’t. “You don’t have to concern yourself with that part.”

  “You recall there has to be a match—”

  “There will be.”

  The black market, Michael concluded. There was a huge international black market in human organs as well as those of animals, all used for everything that one could imagine. And quite a few that a person probably wouldn’t think of. People were a strange and macabre lot, taken as a whole.

  However, this was no time to wax philosophical, he reminded himself. His guests awaited an answer.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Please pass the word that six blood factors have to match before there’s a prayer of success. Six. Got that?”

  Both men nodded.

  “Have your boss’s health records sent to my office in Houston. I’ll look them over next week. Then he’ll have to come in for blood work and a thorough examination. After that, I’ll let him know what his chances are.”

  The older man frowned, then nodded again.

  Without another word, they walked off the patio, around his house and disappeared. He heard an engine start up a few seconds later from farther down the street.

  With a sigh of part exasperation, part amusement, part worry, he wondered what the hell he should do now. Call the police? The FBI? The CIA? Who the devil handled a case like this?

  And what was he to report?

  That some thugs might bring a heart to him to be inserted in their boss, assuming they found one that matched Mercado’s need?

  Man, what a farce this was turning out to be. He gave a snort of laughter. His peaceful existence in the middle of Texas’s ranching belt had ceased, hmm, when?

  Ah, the day he’d nearly run down Susan Wainwright, prima ballerina, stubborn hellion and all woman.

  Hunger attacked him, in the stomach and lower. He opened the styrene box. His stomach he could accommodate. The other hunger would have to wait.

  Sunday, after the usual golf game in which Tyler whipped them all again, Michael went to the temporary structure housing the Men’s Grill. He ordered a cheeseburger and fries for lunch, then added a salad as a bow to good nutrition to appease his conscience.

  Spence Harrison, the D.A. and their usual golfing partner, joined him while Flynt raced home to be with his wife. He ordered the same.

  Michael noticed their waitress was Daisy again. The gal seemed to work all the time.

  “Spence, old man, I got a slight problem,” Michael said as soon as they were alone.

  “Speak, son. I’ll give you the benefit of my vast wisdom and experience.”

  “There’re these two guys who have visited me twice now. They, uh, seem to be able to enter my home at will.”

  The humor left Spence’s eyes. “You don’t say. What do they want?”

  “That’s the odd thing. At first I assumed it was a robbery, but no such luck. They want me to operate on Carmine Mercado.”

  Spence straightened from his relaxed, somewhat indolent posture. “What?”

  “Yeah, it kinda surprised me, too. I told them it wasn’t up to me, but to the hospital board.”

  “Of which you’re a part.”

  “I didn’t mention that.” Michael glanced around to make sure no one seemed to be listening. He’d chosen a table a little apart from the others in the grill. Fortunately, it was early for the usual lunch crowd to arrive, and, except for two elderly men, they had the place to themselves.

  “They’re bound to find out,” Spence said.

  “Probably. Last night they told me they could supply the heart. All I have to do is take care of convincing the hospital to allow the surgery.”

  Spence’s eyebrows shot up. “I see.”

  “What do I do now, O great wise one?”

  “I was afraid you were going to ask.” Spence propped his chin in his hand and thought. “We can’t arrest anyone for a possible crime. Unless we can catch them red-handed with the victim, we don’t have much of a chance at establishing a case.”

  “I suspect they’ve put out feelers on the black market for an organ donor.”

  “It’s a big market and growing,” Spence muttered. “With every advance in science, police work gets both tougher and easier—tougher because the crooks use it to their advantage, easier because we do, too, with DNA testing and all that.”

  “I don’t want to hear about your problems. I want a solution to mine,” Michael reminded his friend.

  “String him along. Tell him you’re talking to the other members of the hospital board to see how they feel before making a formal request.”

  “Right. I already said Mercado would have to come in for an extensive exam and blood work before I could even consider his chances.”

  Spence stretched and yawned. “Okay then, we got your problem solved.”

  “Temporarily. I don’t think the Texas Mafia don is an easy man to put off for very long.”

  “Maybe we’ll nail him for Carl Bridges’s murder before you have to act.”

  Michael was at once interested. “You think so?”

  “Hell, no. I’m just daydreaming aloud. The bosses keep their hands clean, so the Feds will have to nail Mercado for income tax evasion or some crap like that. Keep me informed of your dealings with him, though
. Just in case.”

  “Will do.” Michael exchanged rueful glances with his friend and wondered what had drawn Spence into his line of work. After their salads arrived and the blonde was gone, he asked the attorney about it.

  “Funny you should ask. I was thinking of that very thing last night,” Spence admitted, his brown eyes taking on an introspective light.

  The D.A. was around Michael’s age. At six feet, he was a couple of inches shorter, but was as lean and hard muscled.

  Spence kept himself in shape, Michael noted with his doctor’s eye. That was good. He needed physical outlets to handle the stress of his job, dealing with criminals and courts and the extremely slow wheels of justice.

  “I don’t recall if I told you, but Flynt, Luke, Tyler and I were charged with manslaughter years ago.”

  “I’ve heard the story.”

  “Carl Bridges was the attorney who defended us. That was a life-changing experience for me. I decided, if we made it, I was going to go into law and help people.” Spence clenched one fist and banged it on the table. “I’d give my right arm to put away the goons who killed Carl.”

  A tray landed on their table with a crash that reverberated through the room. Daisy, their waitress, turned her back to them and put her hands over her face.

  Michael jumped to his feet. “Hey, you okay?”

  Pulling her hands down, he quickly examined her face but saw no signs of an imminent fainting spell.

  “I’m fine.” She pulled away and rubbed one eye. “It was just…I got something in my eye.”

  “Something in my eye” sounded like “somethin’ in mah ahh,” when spoken in her twang.

  “Let me see,” he offered, picking up a napkin from the table.

  “No. It’s fine now.” She blinked several times to show him. “Please, Dr. O’Day, be seated. Your food is getting cold. The manager will have my hide if it’s sent back.”

  Michael consented to take his seat and let her serve the meal. She topped off their iced tea glasses, checked that they had everything and left. He watched her hurried stride as she disappeared toward the kitchen.

  Spence studied Michael. “What?” he finally asked after taking a bite of his cheeseburger.

  “She had tears in both eyes,” Michael said. “Usually, when you get something in your eye, only the one waters, not both, at least, not copiously. Daisy was about to burst into a storm of weeping.”

  “Probably a fight with her boyfriend,” Spence suggested, shrugging the woman’s worries aside.

  Michael resumed the previous conversation. “Any info you can share on Carl’s death?”

  Spence shook his head. He sighed. “Last night I dreamed of Haley Mercado.”

  “The girl whose drowning you four were charged with?”

  “Yes. I was in love with her all through school. I think we all were. At the time of her death, she was engaged to Frank Del Brio.”

  Michael knew Del Brio was a big man with the mob and that the drowned girl’s uncle was Carmine Mercado. Her father and brother were also involved in racketeering.

  “Who will take Carmine’s place when he goes?” Michael asked, curious about the workings of the Mafia.

  Spence grimaced. “Whoever carries the biggest stick. Some are betting on Del Brio, but Ricky is the logical heir. He’s tougher than his old man, Johnny, and sharper.”

  Michael caught the disheartened note in his friend’s tone. “Ricky Mercado was a school chum?”

  “Yeah. We were all real friends at one time—me, Flynt, Tyler, Luke and Ricky. We did everything together, including the Gulf War.” Spence sighed. “It was the celebration upon making it home that led to Haley’s death. Ricky and his family hated us after that.”

  “A tough break,” Michael said in sincere sympathy.

  “The irony is that Ricky and his family wanted me behind bars then. Now I want to see them there.” He muttered a curse, his eyes dark and filled with painful memories.

  Michael saw Frank Del Brio come out of the main lobby and stand on the sidewalk, gazing toward the golf course. A chill, like a cold hand from a grave, crept along his neck. There was something about the don’s right-hand man that he didn’t like.

  “The police didn’t find a body at first,” Spence continued. “They dragged the lake and finally found it near the base of the dam a couple of weeks later. It was Haley, they decided. Who else could it be? But the odd thing was that her dental records had been lost, so they couldn’t compare them for a positive identification.”

  When Spence lapsed into silence, Michael ate without speaking, too, giving the other man time to get over the past before turning to a lighter subject. “I hope somebody beats Tyler soon. He’s getting a big head from winning all the time.”

  “Not to mention wiping out my lunch money every week,” Spence said with a wry laugh.

  Across the way, Michael spied Frank Del Brio watching them. There was something unnerving about the guy. He studied a person with the impassive expression of a snake looking over a handy supply of eggs in a robin’s nest. For a second, his eyes met Michael’s before moving on.

  Frank Del Brio viewed the D.A. and his doctor friend through an icy rage. The little scene with the blonde had been touching. Just what, he wondered, had upset her.

  Something Spence Harrison and the hotshot surgeon who was going to operate on Carmine had been saying? How much gossip and speculation did she overhear as she worked silently and efficiently in the grill and café? How much truth and how many secrets were disclosed within her hearing? Enough that he should worry?

  “Hey, Frank, you think that snooty doc will fix Carmine up?” the younger man of the two with him asked.

  Not if he had anything to say about it.

  Frank didn’t voice that opinion to the two enforcers. “Sure. Why not? Carmine’s insurance is paid up,” he said, drawing a grin from the younger man and a wary eye from the older one.

  Frank shifted uneasily under that gaze. These men reported directly to Carmine. The older of the two had been around a long time and was loyal to the don.

  So was he. For now.

  But he wasn’t going to wait around forever for the old man to die. Carmine had already had a long and useful life. It was time to turn the reins over to a younger man. He meant to see that younger man was himself and not the old man’s nephew, Ricky Mercado.

  Eyeing Spence and the doctor, he wondered about progress in the Bridges murder. Also the case involving the baby found here at the country club.

  He’d seen the passport of the baby while he was cleaning up evidence left by Alex Black at the home of Carl Bridges. The photo had disclosed dark hair and eyes with golden flecks in the brown. Johnny Mercado and his son, Ricky, had eyes like those. Also their daughter, who’d been his fiancée.

  Haley was supposed to have drowned years ago. He’d believed that until a mysterious nun had showed up at Isadora Mercado’s hospital bedside. The guard Carmine had placed at the door said he’d overheard the nun tell Isadora that she was her daughter.

  A touching family reunion, no doubt.

  He wanted another one. Just him and Haley. He had a few questions that needed answers from the woman who would rather have staged her own death than marry him.

  Had she gone to another man? It hadn’t been Flynt, Tyler, Luke or Spence, the four bosom buddies of his rival, Ricky Mercado. However, someone had helped her escape him and their coming marriage. Carl Bridges? Most likely.

  Ah. An idea dawned as bright as a summer morning. If the foundling were in his care instead of Flynt Carson’s, would the elusive Haley come out of hiding?

  The fury rose. He soothed it until he could once again think in the frigid clarity of total logic, without emotion.

  A few minutes later, smiling slyly, he decided it was time the whole Mercado clan learned a lesson about thwarting Frank Del Brio. They thought he was ruthless, but they didn’t yet know what ruthless meant. They would learn.

  “I’m off,” Spence s
aid. “Sunday isn’t a rest day for me like for the rest of you bums. I have reports to read.”

  “See ya,” Michael said as his friend left the restaurant. Suppressing a yawn, he thought about his afternoon—he’d go home, take a nap, get his laps in, then…

  He tried to think of something exciting, but only Susan came to mind. Yeah, he knew what he’d like to do in that department. She’d got under his skin, way under. In more ways than he could count.

  Thinking about her conjured up an image. No, not just an image. She was here in person, walking toward the diving pool with the jock he’d seen at her table last weekend. Inside, something hot and jealous arose.

  Hey, she isn’t yours, he reminded the stubborn streak that thought she was, or should be.

  While he watched, Susan and her friend entered the gate to the pool. Laughing at some no doubt lame joke, she tossed a robe and towel onto a chair, then headed for the high dive. Michael’s heart thundered. Leaping to his feet, he ran across the lawn and garden toward the diving area at a dead run. No use in yelling at her. There wasn’t a prayer she could hear him above the shrieks from the children’s pool, which was close by.

  She did a neat swan dive into the cool waters just as he reached the gate.

  He raced inside, kicked off his shoes, tossed his wallet onto the concrete and did a running dive from the side.

  “Hey!” the lifeguard yelled.

  Michael dove to the center bottom where the suction from the pool filtering pump was pulling at Susan’s feebly struggling body. Slipping an arm around her waist, he kicked toward the surface.

  Their heads broke the water just as the lifeguard shouted into a bullhorn, “You, sir, remove yourself from the pool immediately!”

  Michael refrained from telling the young man where he could go. He hauled Susan over to the side. “Here, take her. She’s in a faint.”

  “I’m not,” she denied, but so breathlessly weak his heart contracted in pity.

  The lifeguard, fear suddenly on his face, lifted Susan from the water while Michael hauled himself onto the side.