‘Big deal. Welcome to American democracy.’
‘If you look at these companies on whose boards he sits, you’ll see he has his hands in a lot of places.’
‘So what? Put it away, Palmer. You’re just getting yourself worked up for nothing. Our part in this is over. Be grateful. I’m sure we have enough waiting for us.’
Palmer shifted the papers and closed the folder. He didn’t hand it back to Lily, however.
‘Thanks,’ he told her and walked on to his desk.
They picked up the report on the homicide assigned to them, the battering of a forty-four-year-old woman which looked like the result of a domestic dispute, and then went out to begin their investigation. Despite his effort to concentrate on it, Palmer found himself continually drifting back to the Bradley Morris case. Tucker was right, of course, he was just getting himself more and more worked up about it. It was that gut instinct thing, that intuitive sight that was telegraphing messages telling him something was very wrong about it, but what was he to do? He felt like a fireman chained to the fire station getting continual four or five alarms.
He stopped thinking about it when they got a lead as to where the husband of the victim might be and headed for a bar on New Scotland Road in the Bronx. It turned out to be an easy apprehension because the man had drunk himself into a stupor. His hands were still stained with his wife’s blood and there were some stains on his shirt as well.
‘I don’t feel like I’m a detective as much as I feel like a garbage collector when we do one of these,’ Tucker told Palmer after they stuffed the man into the back of a black and white and sent him off to be booked.
Palmer nodded but was strangely silent.
‘Hey,’ Tucker said. ‘Why don’t you take the rest of the day off. I’ll do the paperwork on this one. You can do the next human regurgitation that we’re assigned.’
‘OK, thanks,’ Palmer said.
After they parted at the precinct, Palmer decided to drop in on Tracy at her office. It wasn’t something he had done very often. In fact, he could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he had visited her there. Most of the time, she was too busy to entertain him anyway, but he liked watching her work. She was capable of doing two or three things almost simultaneously, holding the phone, working her Internet mail, talking to her secretary.
She had a beautiful office on the East side twenty-five floors up with her windows facing the East River. On the occasions when he appeared, he spent most of his time gazing out, watching the ant-like world below, the streams of traffic, the flow of commerce and industry that made this great city’s heart pound with an energy unmatched anywhere else in the world. One time he smiled and hummed ‘New York, New York’. Tracy had laughed and finally given him her attention then.
He entered her office and as usual found her on the phone. She held up her right forefinger, nodded at whatever was being said to her and then said, ‘It’s almost done. I’ll give you the full report in the morning. No problem. No, thank you, Jeff. Bye,’ she said and hung up.
‘What, no crime today?’ she asked him.
‘Is Grant buried in Grant’s tomb?’
‘You know, I’m not going to swear to it. I’ve only taken their word for it,’ she said, smiled, rose and went around her desk to kiss him. ‘Hey,’ she said pulling back. ‘Something’s not right.’
‘What are you, a lip reader?’
‘No, I’m a kiss reader. C’mon,’ she said taking his hand and leading him over to her black leather settee. ‘You want something to drink, a Perrier, coffee, juice, something hard?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ he said sitting back. After a moment he said, ‘We were pulled off the case. FBI took over,’ he added.
‘What? Wow. Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ He thought a moment. ‘I told you about the missing fingerprints, right?’
‘No. What missing fingerprints?’
He explained the failure to find them and then told her about Jack Temple.
‘Jack Temple, the attorney? On the lower East side?’
‘You know him?’
‘I had a real estate deal that involved him. It involved some parking structures. He’s a tough negotiator.’
‘Was,’ Palmer said.
‘And you’re sure it was the same man who killed him as well as the others?’
‘Proudly announcing himself as Bradley Morris to Temple’s secretary afterward,’ Palmer told her.
‘What was the connection to Jack Temple? I can’t imagine any. He’s so anal about his work, his only hobby is breathing.’
‘I’m not sure how to connect the dots. I tied Temple to Father Martin and then …’ He paused, reached into his inside pocket and took out his notepad, flipping it open with his thumb, ‘To a high roller, power broker named Henry Dover.’
‘Oh, I know who Henry Dover is,’ Tracy said. ‘He’s into enough real estate to fill up any Third World country. He beat us out on a few deals over the past two years. I’m not so sure my boss, Mr Benson, doesn’t have Dover’s face pasted over his dartboard in his office,’ she added. ‘Very interesting. Do you think he’s after Dover, too?’
‘I don’t know. As I said, we were pulled off the case.’ He glanced at his notepad again. ‘I was having one of the secretaries check on a company Dover runs, Classic Industries … turned out to be a shell for a dozen or so LLC’s. It was interesting to me because it’s located upstate, near Woodbourne where that penitentiary Bradley Morris was housed in is located.’
‘Woodbourne. Wait a minute,’ she said and went to her computer. ‘Benson wanted to develop a housing complex near there for second homes. Yes, here it is. Dover was into that one, too. Funny, I never saw Classic Industries on the radar screen and I always research my opposition. Know thy enemy better than yourself. Seems like Chairman Mao said that or should have.’
‘Apparently, Classic Industries doesn’t do anything.’
‘Henry Dover doesn’t own anything that doesn’t do anything, Palmer,’ she said. She studied her computer screen. ‘Did you get into any of these LLC’s?’
‘I told you. We were just pulled off the case.’
‘I have great software for this,’ she said, ‘as you can imagine,’ she added smiling at him. She continued to type and move her mouse about its mouse pad. ‘Interesting. Henry is signed as the organizer of the articles of organization on all these LLC’s.’
‘Yeah, Lily told me that, but—’
‘Except one. Henry never gives anyone anything for nothing, especially positions in his companies.’
‘Which one?’
‘It’s just called Oakland, LLC. That makes sense.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone named Simon Oakland is down as the organizer of the LLC articles.’
‘Is there anything else? What’s its purpose?’
‘Research,’ she said. She looked up. ‘Medical research. And its offices …’ She went back to the keyboard. ‘Its offices are at the same address as Classic Industries.’
‘What can you find out about this Simon Oakland?’ he asked leaning forward.
She went back to the keyboard. ‘I’ve got a few, but there’s one who is a Dr Oakland. He’s published a lot. Two books … Jesus, Palmer.’
‘What?’ he asked practically jumping up at the reaction she was having.
‘He’s considered an expert in geriatrics with some very prominent and respected studies in Progeria.’
‘Progeria? What the hell is that?’
‘Premature aging,’ she said. She returned to her computer and keyboard. ‘In children.’ She sat back. ‘Perhaps a form of which Ceil Morris saw in her son?’ She shrugged. ‘A few more dots connected, but other than that …’
Palmer stood up. She thought he had a strange look on his face, an expression that actually frightened her. He looked like a victim of hypnotism, distant.
‘Thanks,’ he said and turned to leave.
‘Where are you going?
’
He paused at the door. ‘We were taken off the case … as NYC detectives. Not as ordinary citizens. I’m going to visit Classic Industries.’
He started out.
‘Palmer, you’re not an ordinary citizen. Palmer!’
She rose and hurried after him, but he was already out of the main office and into the hallway for the elevators. She went out to catch him and saw the elevator doors closing. He managed to look out at her for a second before they closed.
She had the dreadful feeling she was seeing him for the last time.
Thirteen
Bradley felt himself slipping. It was truly like trying to stay in place while sliding down a hill of glass. He struggled against the urge to sleep and felt the sudden heavier weight of his eyelids. To hide his efforts, he turned away from Henry Dover and tried to keep out of the chauffeur’s line of vision through the rear-view mirror.
Dover was still sulking over the blow to his forehead. Bradley had suspected he was more embarrassed about it than in pain. Here he was a kingmaker, a powerful businessman close to powerful politicians, ordering his servants about every which way he wanted and now, right in front of his driver, he is whipped into submission. Bradley thought the rage inside Dover must be close to exploding.
It would be in me, he thought.
Dover’s cheeks did look puffy and he had squeezed himself into a tight ball against his side of the rear seat for nearly an hour and a half now. It gave Bradley pleasure to see it.
However, a frightening sensation similar to the numbness one felt when one’s leg, arm or hand fell asleep was growing from Bradley’s feet upward. It also resembled stepping into ice cold water. He couldn’t help but shiver and each time he did, he checked to see if either of the other two had noticed. They were too deep into their own protective cocoons apparently. He was grateful for that, but now he seriously wondered if he would be able to move fast enough to keep them there when the time came.
His breathing became more troubled, too.
I feel the way I did just before I escaped, he thought. It heightened his terror.
‘Which entrance should I take, Mr Dover?’ the chauffeur asked.
‘Rear,’ Dover said with his face still turned away. His voice was muffled but audible enough.
Gradually, Dover began to turn around. They were drawing closer and closer to the property. Bradley fingered the pistol trigger. Or what he thought was the trigger. Was he on the trigger? Just that doubt made him sweat.
The limousine swung off the road to a gate and the driver hit a button above the rear-view mirror. The gate started to swing open slowly. Bradley sat up or thought he sat up. Did he sit up? Or did he imagine he sat up?
‘Don’t try anything stupid,’ he said. Or did he think he had said it?
The limousine pulled up to the rear doors of the building. The two security guards, one of whom had shot Louis Williams, and the other who’d helped with the clean-up, stepped out, holding the door open.
‘I’ll kill you,’ Bradley told Dover. ‘Get them to drop their weapons and stand back.’
Dover was staring at him. Why did he ignore what he had just told him?
‘Did you hear me, you bastard?’
Dover opened his door and got out.
‘Not until I tell you,’ Bradley shouted. He brought the pistol around.
‘Tell them to bring the gurney,’ Dover shouted at the security guards. The one who had shot Louis turned and went inside. The other approached the limousine and joined Henry Dover.
‘What happened to you?’ he asked.
Dover dabbed his forehead.
‘You might need stitches,’ the security guard said looking at the gash.
‘What are you, a doctor now?’ Dover said.
The chauffeur stepped out.
‘Keep your eye on things, Michael,’ Dover told him and headed for the rear door as the two attendants who had brought Louis Williams back rushed the gurney out of the building to the car.
Dover paused. ‘Get him upstairs,’ he said nodding at the limousine.
‘Is he alive?’ one of them asked.
‘For now,’ Dover said and walked in.
When they opened the rear door, Bradley almost fell out. One of the attendants caught him in time and scooped him under the arms. The pistol had fallen to the floor in the rear of the car. The second attendant saw it and picked it up, shoving it between his pants and hip. Then he helped load Bradley on to the gurney and they started for the building.
‘It’s amazing,’ the chauffeur said. ‘I mean, he wasn’t a young man by any means when he got into the car, but …’
‘Keep it to yourself,’ the security guard told him. ‘Don’t let Dover hear you say a word.’
‘I know, I know, but it’s amazing,’ he insisted as he watched Bradley roll away.
Maybe I’m dead, Bradley thought, realizing that none of the messages his brain was sending to his muscles were being received and acted upon. Maybe this is what death is … being locked in what you think is still your body, but you have no body anymore, just the eternally lingering memory of one. They put us in coffins, but we’re already in a coffin, ourselves. We’re trapped in ourselves!
He was shouting continually now, demanding, threatening and finally pleading, but no one noticed or paid any attention. Onward they rolled him. At the elevator, the attendants looked at him and at each other.
‘I can’t imagine how he walked out of here,’ the one said to the other.
The doors opened and they wheeled him in, pressed the button for three and stood silently, both showing little interest in him now.
He cursed them.
We’ll meet again, he told them, and we’ll see how smug you bastards are then.
He was wheeled out quickly when the doors opened. Freda Rosen, wearing a neck brace, greeted them. Mrs Randolph quickly joined her.
‘Room four,’ Mrs Randolph ordered and they wheeled him into it and then transferred his body to the bed, dropping him unceremoniously like a load of firewood. He could feel great heat about him and wondered if he was approaching the gates of hell.
‘This is exactly how he looked the last time I saw him,’ Freda told Mrs Randolph.
‘Um,’ she replied, showing little or no interest. ‘Get his clothes off and let’s hook him up quickly. It doesn’t look like Dr Oakland will get much information, but after what’s happened here, we better be on the ball,’ she said with a look that telegraphed the threat.
Freda nodded and quickly started to undress him. She pulled at his expensive suit and didn’t care if she tore off buttons. She tossed his expensive shoes and removed his designer briefs.
‘He stinks,’ she said squinting. ‘He smells like death.’
Mrs Randolph glanced back from the monitor cables.
‘Tell me about it. We’ve had enough of that stench to fill Arlington,’ she quipped.
Freda tried to laugh, but the pain in her neck stopped her instantly. She sucked in her breath and finished what she had to do.
Downstairs in their ER, Larry Hoffman treated and bandaged the gash in Henry Dover’s forehead.
‘You don’t need stitches,’ he said, attempting to make Henry feel better and less angry. His rage was less discriminatory now. He was snapping at everyone. He had called for Simon, but Simon had not yet appeared. He looked at Mrs Pearson.
‘Where the hell is Dr Oakland?’
‘He didn’t pick up when I called his office, Mr Dover, but I left a message. Maybe he was in the shower or bathroom.’
Dover glared at the wall.
‘Mrs Randolph called down a few minutes ago, Mr Dover. She said she didn’t think the patient would last another hour.’
‘Hurry this up,’ Dover told Larry Hoffman. He finished the bandage.
Dover felt it and looked at himself in the mirror. The bandage covered most of his forehead.
‘Damn son of a bitch,’ he said to no one in general and stormed out.
&nb
sp; The security guards had followed him into the ER and awaited orders.
‘What the hell are you standing around here, for? Get back to your posts,’ he told them and went to the elevator.
Upstairs in his office, Simon Oakland had literally fallen into a state of terror and depression. It truly looked like his whole world, his raison d’etre, had come apart. The events following Louis Williams’ escape from his room were devastating on top of Bradley Morris’ escape into society where he had already committed murderous acts. Mr Dover had made it clear that he had to plug up any other possible holes, and Simon had promised to get on it vigorously, a promise he had made in front of Senator Hastings.
Just this morning he had actually rationalized that something good had come from this reversal in Bradley Morris and then Louis Williams. It confirmed forever that aging was indeed to be considered a disease. That meant that the body’s immune system had something to do with how quickly people aged, experienced and suffered the symptoms of age, and if that was true, as it apparently now was and could be proven beyond a doubt, then the possibility of stopping aging and even reversing it realistically loomed on the scientific horizon. He was a chief architect of this new vision, this new world.
I should still be congratulated, he concluded, and until this new incident directly involving Mr Dover, he believed in the end he would be.
Now what would he be?
The answer was obvious. He would be disgraced and discarded, sent with his bags packing back into a world where he would not only never again find any sponsors, but a world in which he would be held up to ridicule. All he had to compensate for his dwarf’s physical stature was his medical, scientific standing, his respect in that community. All those who were afraid to even look at him askance and confined their jokes and remarks to some backroom would now feel emboldened. He would be mocked, satirized and never be respected, not only as a scientist, but also as a human being.
Henry Dover practically burst through the doorway. He stood for a moment staring at Simon who raised his head quickly from his arms folded on the desk. He didn’t know about Mr Dover’s injury and for a moment, he was mesmerized by the sight of the bandage on his forehead.
Life Sentence Page 18